byJ.C.White – 2025

Data in isolation is meaningless.

Only data partnered with context and a halfway sensible idea can pretend it knows what it is doing. I’m fairly sure I learned that from Mr. Rogers when I was five years old.

And while it’s an idea that’s been percolating in my brain for a long time, it is something I now understand on a spiritual level, because today I gathered an entire armload of data in Salamanca, Spain, and not a lick of it helped me when it mattered.

We had been wandering through the old town, the golden sandstone buildings shining with that ancient confidence that tells you you are not as important as you thought upon arrival. We had just completed a tour of the University of Salamanca, a place so dignified in its age that even I, sore back and all, stood up straighter. This is where Cervantes studied, they said. This is where he learned to write. I nodded along, hoping some literary dust would leap off the walls and cling to my shirt for later inspiration.

We stepped outside into the golden light of the afternoon, and I felt a tug in my chest. A calling. A summons. There, across the way, rested a small bookstore. Not a fancy one or a chain store or a place that sold keychains shaped like Columbus’ noggin. No, this was a legit bookstore, the Librería Nueva Plaza Universitaria, that looked as though it had kept its doors open simply so I might one day stroll past and feel my soul rise an inch.

I walked toward it with the slow reverence of a man approaching his destiny. My companions lagged behind while I claimed my moment. In the window, arranged with careful affection, were books both modern and ancient. And right there among them, displayed in a manner I took personally, was an English special edition of Don Quixote. Not a normal one, but a Salamanca Don Quixote. A book directly tied to the very building where we had just stood.

I stopped breathing for a second.

Not on purpose.

My body just decided this was a pivotal moment and oxygen was a distraction.

It hit me that I must own this book. Fate had brought it to me. Providence arranged the meeting. My private little library back in Tennessee had been waiting for this addition for years. I could already see myself guiding houseguests across my living room, hand over heart, saying things like, Look here, friend, this one followed me home from Salamanca. Nobody asked for the story, but I planned to tell it so often they would learn not to stand too close to that bookshelf.

My vision expanded. The book would be my prized possession. I would speak of it when unprovoked. I would treasure it like a relic. I would likely mention it in my obituary. Yes, I’ve already written my obituary. 

So with hope swelling, I touched the door. Behind the glass stood the shopkeeper, a woman who looked like she had mastered the secret art of knowing all the books worth knowing. She had the posture of someone who could guide a lost pilgrim toward the perfect Spanish author and the perfect edition in the perfect format. I sensed she would be the kind of person to know the exact location of the English Don Quixote and place it into my palms with the solemnity of passing an Olympic torch.

My nerves jumped. My heart rate went up. My imagination grew legs and began sprinting. I could already feel the weight of the book in my hands. I could feel the pride of the purchase. I could feel the envy of my friends.

Everything was going beautifully.

I opened the door.

A small bell rang.

The shopkeeper lifted her head and looked right at me, eyebrows raised, as though she recognized me instantly as a fellow literary traveler, a man on a mission.

She held up one finger.

Just one.

The universal sign that all good things require a moment of patience.

I froze with the obedience of a man who has learned that bookshop etiquette is sacred. She rearranged a few books behind a display island filled with bright Spanish titles I could not pronounce, each one promising untold literary wonders. I imagined myself reading them one day once I became fluent, which should happen at some point, possibly around age ninety.

She finished her task and stepped toward me. Then she spoke. It was beautiful Castilian Spanish, smooth as water. Her voice had that warm professional tone of someone greeting another person who clearly belonged in a bookstore. I felt honored. I felt seen. I felt like Hemingway for about two seconds.

Then it came time for me to respond.

What emerged from my mouth was a mixture of English, broken Spanish, stray vowels, hand gestures, and the kind of frantic smile you use when you want people to believe you are serious but also harmless. It was not Spanish. It was not English. It was not anything found on Earth. I performed a kind of interpretive dance of desperation in which my hands attempted to explain my desire for Don Quixote while my mouth tried to communicate yes, no, please, thank you, book, English, and friend all at once.

She stared at me with polite interest.

I interpreted this as her recognizing my deep need for attention and guidance.

I assumed we were bonding.

I tried again. I tapped the fist of one hand, where the inner knuckles form a type of hole, with my pointer finger on the other, hoping it conveyed something meaningful, though what exactly I could not say. Maybe it meant book. Maybe it meant help me, I’ll be empty without your Don Quixote. 

Maybe it meant I am not well.

She nodded.

I thought we had reached an understanding.

I stood taller, ready to be led to the sacred shelf.

Then she unleashed a long string of Spanish that came toward me with such enthusiasm that I wondered if I had accidentally agreed to something. She spoke with confidence, and I nodded along with the confidence of a man who understands nothing and hopes no one notices.

And then she moved.

Not toward the shelves.

Not toward the special edition.

Not toward the glory that awaited me.

She walked to the door.

The same door I had entered with the optimism of a newborn fawn.

She pointed at a sign.

The sign was printed clearly.

It contained letters.

Possibly a word I had seen before.

I think it said siesta.

It might have said closed.

It might have said get the hell out.

I cannot be certain. My brain at that moment was busy collapsing.

She gave me a gesture that crossed all cultural barriers. A gentle nod. A small apologetic smile. A slow, regretful hand toward the outside.

Then she shut the door behind my battered soul.

I stood there staring at the sign.

Staring at the book in the window.

Staring at the cruel turn in my own destiny.

So now I do not own the Don Quixote of Salamanca. I do not have the sacred edition to show my friends. I do not have the literary treasure meant to elevate my library.

What I have instead is this very long story.

Data in perfect isolation.

Useless.

Meaningless.

And destined to be told forever anyway.