Mapping the Gap

I just had a beautiful siesta.  It took me back in time.  Madrid.  18 years ago.  There were all these incredible sensations wandering around my body.  Sensations of memory and relish.  Sensations of an age forgotten, of a me I had lost.  A thigh bone had just the perfect pressure of pillow to discharge some long held twinge.  A smooth tugging of the sheet pulled pleasure from my shoulder in a clean ache of diffusion.  There was a slow throb exuding heat along the bends of my ribs.  A stretch of the calf called out a creak that was felt deep and sounded old.  There was a gentle burning of the eyelids that seemed to answer the call of a thousand rejected invitations to hit the sheets of an afternoon sun.  It was a groan of deep release.  Intoxicating and detoxifying in the same gesture, this siesta was the unfolding of a castaway bliss.  It was glorious, and it took me back to where it all began.

In February of 2007, I took a one-way ticket to Madrid from Kansas City, armed with a fresh master’s degree in TESOL from New York University that wasn’t likely to do me much good as an illegal American immigrant with a plan to overstay my 90 days in the Schengen. I was hoping to learn some Spanish while I taught English, but instead, I met an Australian with whom I spoke a lot of English.  And, poor ol’ Spanish played second fiddle to all the fabulous siesta days that followed. 

Eighteen years later, here we are, all five of us, where our family began.  Here we are in a place we all know and love.  There are so many reasons to adore Spain.  The welcoming Spanish energy is delivered in the manner of common sense… almost to the point of being gruff.  There is a tone of, “Of course, you are welcome.  Don’t expect me to be overly polite about it.”  Or something.  On seemingly serious faces, there is usually a smile just under the surface, ready and waiting to be unveiled- a smile more beautiful for its prior disguise, the glow of a lantern thought to be dead.  People offer you guidance and suggestions even when you don’t need it, sort of a grandmother display of affection, a moment of annoyance neutralised by well-meaning intentions. The people here seem to be friends just waiting for their entrance.  It’s a beautiful world to navigate, one that feels spontaneous and promising, one that is guided by a carpe-diem spirit.

The language is direct and well-acquainted too.  Instead of “Can I help you?,” most attendants at shops or restaurants say, “Dime.” “Tell me.” They answer the phone this way too.  No cheerful greetings.  No fluff.  All the goodness is implied.  All the goodwill is a given.  “We’re good.  No question. Get to the point,” is the vibe.  I told the boys of how my English students from Spain would find it frustrating to decipher what someone wanted in English. All the “Would you mind… when you get a chance… if it’s not too much trouble… could we please get another couple of beers?” It’s just confusing. Too many words.  A Spaniard just says, “Two beers, please.”  Done. This easy energy is something the boys picked up on when we came last year, and this authentic warmth has made us all eager to return.  The word “welcome” whispers on the wind here. Of course, hospitality is never as simple as one thing though, is it?

There is a lot that contributes to the warm Spanish vibe. Much more than I’ll touch on here. The culture is playful, and yet it takes certain, very charming things seriously, like at what hour one should shutter the house to block out the heat for the day or which dishes are appropriate for lunch but certainly not for dinner.  It’s also hard-working.  It’s often 9am to 9pm working hours, but that’s with a prioritised 3-hour siesta in the middle.  The culture is so very much of its land in a way that seems more obvious than many places.  The siesta business hours, the olive oil, the wine, the pottery, the herbs, the goat cheese, the orange juice, the honey are all from the natural offerings of the land and sun.  You get a sense of ingesting and inhaling the country itself. You can feel a cultural pulse that beats at a different rhythm than most. There is something really comforting in the flavours and pace of life here.  The boys, like us, love it.  Sleeping in, hitting the pool at noon, staying up past midnight, playing in the plazas, eating cheese and jamon and almost forgetting dinner is a thing until its 9pm and the wine has been flowing for a couple hours. 

It’s happy days here.  We are all riding the chill breeze of these Spanish days with native ease.  Summer is becoming autumn, and we spin on as if we belong.  Here’s a peek at our first couple weeks in this Spanish rhythm.  It’s the beginning of the end of our Gap Year, and yet it is also where it all began.  The concentric circles of our lives spread, ripple, and cross, and Spain will somehow always be an origin point for us… and perhaps a final destination, some day.  We will see.  My partner has certainly persistently entertained the notion. Regardless, you’ll see. We wear it well, this Spanish life.  It comes more easily than anywhere else we have roamed. 

So, that’s the first instalment of our time here. Córdoba, Granada, Toledo and more to come. Won’t be long, and we’ll be on a Sydney-bound flight. Must savour this bittersweet countdown and all the delicious dishes and moments along the way.