The Palm in Carnival

The Palm in Carnival

The palm tree outside my window is a tall reminder of nature on a street paved with tourists. A motorcycle rumbles and then roars down the road, cars grumbling behind it. The white noise of people chattering provides a background for the sharp slap of a dog's bark.

But the tree is silent, or maybe her sound is muted by the bright pink carnival goers below. She is patient, crossing her lower limbs demurely in front of her as she faces me. She is rather slumped from the weight of her many fans drooping or dangling in the slight breeze. Out of her crown, proud palms protect her and bask in the sunlight. In the chunkiest part of the tree strings of peas make a decorative addition to her headress. One side is green as one would expect, but the other streams gold...

As the window clicks shut, I exhale in relief. How can the palm stand it out there with all the confusion and commotion?

The tree is striped–layers of growth or time spiralling up from the base. Yes, the tree is a spiral from the earth exploding into a power house of stems.

But the most interesting part of the trunk is the rusty line that stains the left side (from my perspective). It shoots up, up, up from the bottom and comes to an abrupt stop somewhere around its middle. Where did it come from? Is it a water stain? And in that case, did it dribble down from the top–maybe from a wayward polluted palm? Do all palm trees have this mark and I never noticed?

And how old is she? Should I count all the bark rungs, or must she be cut in half to see her tell-tale inner rings? I wouldn't want that to happen.

How much has she seen?

I thought she was a loner because my vantage point is so narrow from my window, but leaning out and truly looking, I can see a long line of trees. Some are sisters, like the first to the left of the one in front of me. I imagine they were planted at the same time because they have grown to a similar height. But they have been joined by two sprouts shooting out of the concrete. They must be babies judging from the difference in height. 

 Leaning out even farther, I can see the palm lines continue until the end of the street, and the sisters are marked by the same strange strain traveling up their sides.

A waft of fried air tickles my nose. Have the trees gotten used to it after years of Canarian cooking? If they could choose the smells what would they choose?

Photo and text: Kristen Mastromarchi