Meridian

Arriving

2004-12-28T15:53:00.001-05:00

American Airlines Flight 68 Miami to Madrid

Flying into the sunrise on flight 68. The clouds look like a landmass and confuse my eyes. Is this continental Europe? Portugal? The mountain ranges appear, black and blanketed with mist. Beloved Spain, I am close to you now. I am awakening.

La Ochava, Calle Bustamante 27

As a fearful flyer, crossing the Atlantic is not easy. Those who share this fear understand the apprehension of setting foot on an aircraft: your fear is your freedom.

I’m sitting at the bar La Ochava, just outside Atocha. I have no idea how to move around in this city. In Madrid, at this moment, I am in completely unknown, unfamiliar territory. But two universal constants comfort me: one, a bar where you can have a caña and two, that unequivocal feeling of being at home.

The flight was not the greatest of my worries. This is precisely what I was afraid of, that I would come here, and fall in love again, fall in love with this place, with the accents words jumping playfully about me, tempting me to speak my truth, my life on these pages.

The bartender has just refilled my caña, although I had only taken one little sip, emptying just half an inch from the rim of the glass. Another set of constants: one, the power of cleavage, and two, woman sitting at a bar, writing, alone.

The relationship to wholeness is already here, a priori, as it should be. The sadness that enveloped me two days ago like an impenetrable fog disperses from my body and I feel that even though I am literally lost in this city, I am not lost at all.

A Sea Change

2004-12-26T22:19:00.008-05:00

Fishing in Galicia was Belén’s notion of my ideal blind date. “You’re perfect for each other,” she told him during a long distance phone call, while I stood by daydreaming about my first trip to Spain. Standing next to Belén in her tiny Miami Beach apartment during a particularly muggy summer, the thought of north Atlantic winds buffeting my cheeks and a fishing rod in my hands put a smile on my face. I tilted my head to better hear what Juan Manuel blurted through the receiver: “A woman who likes to fish? That’s not possible! Pack her up and send her over! I don’t believe she can catch a damn thing!”

The air conditioning unit drowned his voice and perhaps I misheard the “don’t believe” of “catch” and misconstrued the “pack her up” of “fish.” Great, I thought. This would-be love of my life thinks I’m a salted cod, ready for export!

Juan Manuel and I spent a couple of months engaged in electronic correspondence, exchanging occasional letters about fishing, photographs of our most memorable catches and glimpses into each other’s personalities. He promised that during my visit in September he would take me to Galicia, where he was born, to fish for sea bass. Belén had cautioned me, gallegos like Juan Manuel are quiet, reserved and rugged in character, not exactly adept at the art of seduction. Indeed, Juan Manuel did not woo me with romantic lyrics, but lured me with hastily drafted notes about lines and hooks as well as pedantic descriptions of the fish known as lubina in Spain: “The romans knew her as lupus because of her voracity and the greeks as labrax. That’s why her scientific name is lupus labrax. The lubina indubitably reigns the sea and that’s why the English call her THE VERY FISH.”

The fact that the voracious European sea bass was known as “wolf” in Latin and was a feminine noun in Spanish only increased my resolve to prove that a woman could not only catch a fish, but also soften a man’s heart.

I tried not to lose sight of my original objective for this trip. My grandparents and great grandparents were born in Spain but emigrated to Cuba in the early twentieth century. One of my great grandfathers was from Galicia, an inventor who eventually settled in Mexico. I simply wanted to set foot on the motherland, to become familiar with the geography of my bloodlines. But now my trip had transformed, in part, into a sporting challenge. Was I THE VERY WOMAN? Would I “catch” the wily lubina? Would I “catch” the heart of this legendary macho Iberico?

My itinerary for Spain was rather slack. I planned to stay a week or so in Madrid with Belén and her family. If Juan Manuel and I could tolerate each other’s company, I would go to Galicia. In September, Belén and I departed for Madrid on the same day, but on different flights, so Juan Manuel offered to greet me at the airport and to spend the day with me until evening, while we waited for Belén to arrive. My blind date’s first impression of me must have been most conventional, not at all like some fish in a cargo crate, but as a tired coach passenger just arriving off flight 68 in Barajas, lugging a heavy bag. Belén hadn’t warned me about those deep, honey-colored eyes, which were not dripping with sweetness, but heavy with the weight of some sadness.

Our initial meetings were not unlike the challenges of fishing: one fool at one end of the line waiting for another fool at the other end of the line. My challenge was complicated because this gallant Spaniard, while a little rough around the edges, was generous. With straightforward hospitality he refused to let me carry any of my luggage or pay for even a beer; yet he couldn’t help lording his mastery of line and tackle over me: “I won’t believe it until I see you catch that fish.” Juan Manuel had a way of averting his gaze that punctuated a conversation with a final and absolute “period,” followed by a silence that lasted for as long as he dragged on a cigarette. His silence was charged like a cloud ready to thunder and would have intimidated most women, but not me. I couldn’t refuse this challenge and so I formally accepted his invitation to Galicia.

I would unnerve him slowly, steadily. In the car on the way to Galicia, during many of these silent moments, I would smile as the landscape transformed before my eyes -- from the broad, yellow expanse of Castilla-León, a plateau covered with endless fields of dried hay and sunflowers -- to the rising mountain passes that lead to Galicia’s green, sloping hills. Occasionally, we passed pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago, walking canes in their hands and backpacks on their backs. Lost in reverie before the sheer beauty of northwest Spain, I often felt compelled to record my first impressions of this landscape in my journal, and, invariably, after a few minutes, Juan Manuel would laugh, take one hand off the steering wheel and reach over to me, closing the cover of my book with a teasing but firm pat. He would say: “You’re so unusual for a woman. You think. You write.”

This was no longer about fishing. This was a battle of the sexes, of a Spaniard’s masculine pride versus an American woman’s pluck. Even though my bloodlines were Spanish, I inwardly scoffed his old-fashioned, old-world machismo. His heart was hard, uncertain, faced with a different challenge: he couldn’t catch me.

Juan Manuel was a well-heeled engineer living in Madrid, but his birthplace was Canduas, a tiny coastal village in the county of Cabana de Bergantiños. Canduas is near the tranquil, marshy cove of A Ensanada, facing the long, winding ría where the fresh waters of the river Anllons mix with the turbulent Atlantic. To the south, the rocky and unforgiving Costa da Morte harbors countless wrecks. The Romans had named this region finisterrae, thinking they had reached land’s end.

Juan Manuel was known as the second best fisherman in Cabana; his father was the first. As a child, my fishing guide had learned everything about the sport from this local legend. His relationship to the ría was intimate, as if he had been raised on seawater instead of mother’s milk. In Cabana, he was living, breathing, eating the sea; the sea was coursing through his blood.

The sea was coursing through my blood too, but I was born in the tropics. Unlike Juan Manuel, I was accustomed to the more delicate art of casting for bonefish or tarpon in the shallow waters of Florida’s bays, waters so tranquil and warm, you could wade for your prey in knee-deep, clear water. I had cast gingerly for snook off the bow of a flatsboat, winding lazily through the endless maze of mangroves in the Everglades. The fish still fought fiercely, to be sure, but the art was subtle and the inshore bodies of water flowed gently. The northern Atlantic, by comparison, was untamable and fierce. I had fished once for striped bass off the windward side of Martha’s Vineyard, with heavy, tall rods and live eels for bait. My only acquaintance with fishing in these latitudes had been a true test of my stomach and sea legs. Now fishing was testing my heart.

My father had also taught me about fishing, but the line and reel were eventually replaced by piano and ballet lessons. As an adult, I rediscovered my passion for the sport thanks to a relationship with a transplanted New Yorker. After my relationship ended, I stopped fishing. He kept the boat and the fishing gear; I kept the furniture. I met a couple of men who fished, but they never wanted to share their outings with a woman. For them, fishing was a way to bond with other men. The logistics of fishing alone without companion or a boat defeated me, and before I knew it, three years had passed and I was still taking ballet lessons, but no longer fishing. I missed the sea.

Once in Galicia, I was in Juan Manuel’s territory. To the west, the seemingly endless Atlantic, and to the east, fertile farmland, covered with pine and eucalyptus trees that swirled in the constant flush of wind from the sea. Further up the hills surrounding Cabana, ruins of pre-Christian settlements dotted the forests. Here my imagination went wild. Surely the witches of Celtic folklore roamed about these pastoral hills; somewhere a beneficent meiga was casting spells.

When we arrived in Canduas, I saw an old man sitting by himself on a chair on the sidewalk, holding a cane. He squinted in the bright sun, which was making a welcome appearance in September, a usually rainy month. Through tiny slits, he peered into the sky as if his gaze were seeking the light, not avoiding it. His cloudy pupils seemed fixed, staring blankly at the sky. The smile on his face was cheerful, acknowledging me with child-like innocence. For as long as I could witness, the expression on that face never wavered. I knew that in the gleaming sunlight, some old man smiled and I was, however briefly, a blurry silhouette in his vision.

After settling in, Juan Manuel showed me the family garden. Almond, pear, peach and apple trees grew down the slight slope that caressed the strand where the ría met the land. Closer to the kitchen, rows of tomatoes, cabbage, beans and other legumes and vegetables thrived. In the kitchen, a livewell held bogavantes, lobsters as large as my torso, their enormous claws taped shut.

I noticed a small, wooden boat lying abandoned in the family orchard, as if a storm surge had once pushed it beyond the reach of the shore. The grass grew tall through its bleached, splintered planks. How odd, I thought. Juan Manuel loved repairing old boats. Why would he let this one deteriorate? “Oh, that’s just an old boat,” he said. “Been in the family for years.”

“Speaking of boats,” he continued, “I’ve got to check the motor. Change into some sweatpants and meet me at the beach.” When I arrived at the beach, Juan Manuel was waist-deep in the water, dragging the boat behind him toward the shore with the anchor line. In the distance, little white crests danced haphazardly in the wind. Fine sand blew into my face and pricked my skin. I took off my shoes, rolled up my sweatpants and stepped into the foam. “Wait!” he hollered while I felt the blood vessels in my legs shriveling in the frigid water.

The outboard motor was gasping and spewing fumes. “I think we’re going to have to dry dock the boat,” he explained. While helping me in, he told me that he had ordered a part for the engine several weeks before and that with true Galician timing, the part had not arrived. Without that part, the outboard motor worked unpredictably. He noticed the disappointment on my face. “Don’t worry,” he reassured me. He had to dry dock the boat for the winter season anyway. Tomorrow we could cast from shore instead of trolling. “Conditions aren’t right for trolling anyway,” he admitted. “The lubina won’t bite.”

He sat aft and grabbed the rudder, guiding the 16-foot long wooden boat toward the dancing crests. “We don’t have far to go,” he said. The motor churned steadily with an occasional hacking cough, struggling against a strong current. As we rounded the shoreline, the wind shifted against us, forcefully pushing the bow. Gradually the beach transformed into a rocky elevation where the wind had carved the earth. We drifted between rocks and a sandbank, tossed in every direction by the waves, the boat keeling clumsily from port to starboard at the whim of some invisible mechanics. The Atlantic tide was sweeping in too rapidly around the sandbank to subside, and as it gathered energy, the water roiled.

I remembered a road sign I had seen at the entrance of Canduas that announced a place called A Revoltas – revolt, agitation, restlessness. I sat quietly while my heart stood still, hardly comforted by that memory. I gripped the side planks of the boat tightly. If the boat tipped, I would not have the strength to swim through this pass. The waves would engulf me.

Suddenly Juan Manuel put his hand on my shoulder. “Move. Motor’s dead.” I leaned to one side so he could step to the bow, where he grabbed two oars. I watched him row hastily toward the coastline, but the boat seemed to stand still. He looked glassy-eyed, determined to reach terra firma. I simply held my breath.

We reached the boat ramp where a friend of his had already backed a trailer into the water. “You’re strong, Juan Manuel,” I said as he took my hand and I stepped out of the boat. “I’m not what I used to be, Maria, not what I used to be,” he replied, disavowing the present, leaving me removed from his past.

Later that evening Juan Manuel insisted I sample percebes. He pointed out wooden crosses along the curb where percebeiros had perished on the cliffs below, engaged in the highly dangerous occupation of handpicking edible goose barnacles off of rocks that are partly exposed during the ebbing of crashing waves. At the restaurant Juan Manuel asked the owner to bring him a handful of the day’s catch. After a few, studious sniffs, his brows knotted in disapproval.

We continued driving south to Laxe, where we stopped for a moment at the jetty to observe the locals who were braving the brisk evening air to fish for squid. Then we walked toward a restaurant where Juan Manual assured me the catch would be extremely fresh. The restaurant was tiny, crowded and warm with boisterous conversations in gallego. We shared a platter of steamed percebes and washed it down with a bottle of alvarinho. I ate them with my hands, pulling out their smoky, rubbery flesh from the hard shell casing. As ugly as they were, their taste of the sea was so strong, headier than the golden wine. I wondered if a perceibero had lost his life to the merciless waves so that I could enjoy this delicacy.

Later at the house I opened a window to hear the sound of the ría in the distance. The waves seemed less menacing from afar. I expanded my lungs to receive the intoxicating, medicinal air. “It’s cold,” he said as he gently shut the window.

We made love for the first and only time. My mouth had kissed the sea and I was drunk with its revelation: this was no longer about fishing. A meiga had a cast a spell.

The next morning we hardly spoke, except for some humorous remarks about the fact that we had not done any fishing and that we had finally arrived at the much-anticipated day. Juan Manuel stopped to buy some thread and frozen bait at a small shop before we headed to what he called his private fishing spot. The morning mist was receding as we turned onto a dirt road that wound through a forest of pine and eucalyptus, its ground densely covered with ferns. At the bottom of the cliff we stopped and I asked if this place had a name. “No name. Come on.”

With two long shore-casting rods and a tackle box in tow, he walked ahead of me toward the west end of the beach, where he climbed onto some rocks and walked lithely above them with great confidence, as if barefoot on a soft carpet. I stopped in my tracks. The rocks were half my height and covered, at low tide, with thousands of mollusks, their pearly, fuchsia-colored shells gleaming in the morning sun. Silky green sea grasses were still moist from the receding waters, covering the rocks like extravagant hair. I climbed onto the first rock. Juan Manuel was nowhere in sight.

I took a deep breath and proceeded carefully after stuffing my camera into the oversized jacket Juan Manuel let me borrow. I inched my way slowly toward the water, crawling like a baby when the grass was too slippery or treading like a tightrope walker when the shells were razor-sharp. Little pockets of water swirled beneath me between gaps in the rocks, which I had to negotiate with the legs of a petite woman. After a few minutes I noticed Juan Manuel below, preparing the leaders.

“Where the hell were you?” he asked flatly when I finally reached him. “Here, hold this thread.” I watched him wrap the bit of thread he had broken off the bobbin around a piece of white navaja flesh, turning it into a little ball at the curve of the hook. “This will keep the bait from falling apart in the water.” His movements were precise and unconscious, just as he had moved when he walked on the rocks. I wondered if by “private fishing spot” he meant that it was interior, tucked away in the seclusion of his past, when he learned to walk over these rocks with the help of his father’s hand, or when, as a young adult, he would leave some sleepy lover in bed while he spent long, lonely mornings fishing alone.

Feeling totally useless, I pressed two fingers on the metal leader at the end of the line, which was swaying side to side from the weight of the sinker, so he could wrap the bait with greater ease. “In Florida I always press down the barb on the hook,” I remarked “so as not to hurt the fish if I release it.” He didn’t miss a beat. “That kind of foolishness won’t work here, Maria.”

“Ok we’re done. Stand here. Let me cast for you.” He stretched the rod back, handing it to me once the sinker dunked into the water. To prevent our lines from tangling, he stepped a few feet away to cast at a safe distance from me. Once both lines were in the water we were finally fishing. Patience settled in.

My rod was very top-heavy and much taller than me. I knew that if I had tried to cast the rod, the line would have landed too close to shore and I probably would have slipped clumsily into the water along with the bait. I sighed quietly and just resigned myself to the “foolishness” of the only fishing I had known, which felt relatively dainty, feminine and completely out of place in these surroundings, completely unknown to this rugged stranger standing nearby who was undoubtedly physically stronger than me, but incapable, I admitted to myself, of acknowledging any of my own strengths. Belén had been wrong. We were not perfect for each other.

As the minutes passed, so did my frustration. The beauty of the ría melted my resentment and my grip on the reel softened. In the pensive yet nervous moments before the anticipated strike, I let the sound of the waves lull me into a reverie and I forgot about Juan Manuel. Each of us loved this moment intensely, but not because we were fishing together. Fishing is a solitary activity. You, the line, the sea and the creature whose life you are about to sacrifice. I was alone in this sacred relationship between woman and beast, woman and the sea.

Suddenly the tip of the rod bent and I wound the reel back to set the hook. The line squealed and my heart raced as I tried to follow and resist the frantic movement of the fish in the foam. I remembered one of Juan Manuel’s letters, in which he described the gritty, toothless mouth of the lubina, which could easily sheer the monofilament. Before I knew it, Juan Manuel yanked the rod out of my hands. I looked at him incredulously. “What are you doing?” I demanded. “Hold on, hold on,” he answered and started to reel the fish in toward the rocks.

After a minute or so, he handed the rod back to me. “All right, hold it tight and follow me.” Without losing the fish, I had to manage the slippery sea grasses as well as the shells that cracked under my feet. If the fish fought too far from land, it would be more difficult to tame its energy; if it fought too close to the rocks, the line might snap. When I had finally subdued the fish, we were still far from the sandy beach where it would have been easier to land. Juan Manuel squatted at the edge of one of the rocks and pulled a 2-foot lubina out of the water.

I swallowed my pride as quickly as it had swallowed the bait. Juan Manuel and I caught the lubina together.

Later that evening, Juan Manuel took me to watch the sunset at Montebranco, a bird sanctuary just north of Cabana. We sat next to each other on an enormous boulder that was shaped like an armchair at the top of the cliff.

The Atlantic stretched taut to the west, as if a blanket lying softly against some mythical, breathing giant about to yawn. To the east, the winding ría found its way to the tranquil marsh that Cabana’s people called their backyard, the resting place for the toes and fingers of the sea. The tides were shifting in the distance below, the ever-moving waters of the ría exposing the temporary canvases of the sandbank called A Barra. A few horses galloped on the bank’s shore, their riders taunting not only the come and go of the sea’s fickle tides, but the unequivocal beat and pace of nature.

Tomorrow we would return to Madrid. Juan Manuel lit a cigarette and after a few long, thoughtful drags broke his silence unexpectedly. “Maria,” he said softly, “did I tell you my father suffered a stroke? He’s paralyzed, dumb.”

“No, Juan Manuel, I didn’t know,” I managed to respond, not knowing what to say. He continued smoking, as if conversing with the embers at the end of his cigarette.

And at dusk, sitting quietly at land’s end, I realized that it was my heart that needed to soften, not his. Part of Juan Manuel was dying. The old man I had seen in Canduas was Juan Manuel’s father. He had once rowed the abandoned boat I had inquired about in the family orchard. He had battled the roiling waves of A Revoltas. A little moment of history from this place was coming to an end, which I witnessed, just before it would disappear into the dark eternal night, just before it would vanish into that vast blue ether of sea and sky.

The setting sun reflected its warm, amber light into Juan Manuel’s cold, distant gaze. I finally understood the sadness he so carefully shielded behind those brown eyes, just as I had first seen it in Madrid. He carried the fading light of this place within him.

Night was falling, but love wasn’t. The sea was breathing at its usual pace. The sea would never die. But with each exhale of the sea and every inhalation of my lungs, love was also disappearing into the night, fading softly into the memory of this encounter.

I knew then I didn’t love him, but loved him for what he taught me. My acquaintance with Spain had become as rich as this sea and this land, which for the first time, was no longer a stranger to me. I finally felt this sea and this land coursing in my blood. I had fallen in love with Spain and I would never be the same, because of him, because of Galicia.

Author’s note: These events took place in September 2001. As I was finishing my first full draft of this narrative in the fall of 2002, the oil tanker Prestige spilled thousands of tons of oil just west of Galicia, forever changing the landscape I have just described. As a writer, I am perplexed by the irony of the oil spill occurring just as I was trying to tell this tale, preserving my memories of Galicia and Juan Manuel in writing. It became difficult to edit this story as I saw photographs of birds covered in oil and read reports of devastated ecosystems and economies. Had I been writing a memorial before an unanticipated death?

People die; places don’t. The sea and land are surely weeping. My love for this place has since deepened, with the sad realization that nothing – not even my writing -- can ever replace what has been lost.

Siesta Interruptus

2004-12-26T19:07:00.010-05:00

WHILE IN MADRID, Marián and I spent an entire day in the elegant neighborhood of Salamanca ransacking every chic boutique for shoes and a flower broach to match the lilac organza dress she would wear at the wedding. During the eight-hour shopping marathon, she also picked up a custom-ordered, hand-made monogrammed shirt for her boyfriend Miguel to wear under his tuxedo. Back in Miami, she had informed me of the dress code that was issued like a warning along with the invitation: no one was allowed to wear black or white, lest the bride, groom, maids and groomsmen be upstaged; no one was allowed to wear perfume, lest the bride’s allergic mother should sneeze.

On the much-anticipated day in which Miguel’s brother would tie the knot with a woman from Asturias, such matters hardly concerned me. After all, it wasn’t my wedding. I was truly grateful for the opportunity to be part of such a special occasion, with only one reservation: I refused to buy a new dress. Since I couldn’t bring my favorite black number, I had packed a dark gray sleeveless dress made of a silk polyester blend that was practically wrinkle-free and easy to transport in a suitcase. A short black evening jacket with feathery frill on the collar would keep me warm. I could get away with the jacket because I’d only wear it traveling to and from the wedding and because it also served as accessory to matching clutch purse and shoes. The gray dress, however, was dangerously close to black. I couldn’t play dumb after Marián’s debriefing; I was deliberately taking the risk of being snubbed a wardrobe subversive.

Miguel chauffeured his mother, grandmother, Marián and I from Madrid to Gijón. One hour into the six-hour drive, my ears were already buzzing from all the high-pitched cackling of voices and incessant ringing of mobile phones. Miguel and his mother had to run the family business from the car because we were traveling on a Thursday. Hearing the groom’s mother complain about the wedding date, which was set for a Friday, I worried even more that my choice of dress would cause a scandal in such proper society; the bride’s father had won a hunting lottery that began on Saturday and which the patriarch wouldn’t miss under any circumstances, not even for his daughter’s wedding. Learning that the bride had forbidden everyone from shouting the traditional “que viva los novios!” at the reception and also from showering the newlyweds with the traditional rice and dried garbanzo beans – I imagined the hunting party to be of the genteel variety.

“Pity about the rice and beans,” I told Marián, “throw in a piece of ham and you’d have a tasty cocido madrileño.” Instead, the bride had promised guests rose petals after the ceremony, but as the laws of physics and gravity dictate, a flimsy petal would not be nearly as ballistic as a handful of rice or a few hard garbanzos and would therefore lack the enthusiasm of an earnest congratulatory pelt.

Adding to my concern was the careful planning of the wedding’s fashion police. Some diligent lieutenant of fine grooming had coordinated hairdresser appointments for all the women in the entourage. Back in Miami, Marián had extended the courtesy to me, and at 5 euros for a wash and blow, I happily accepted, even though I knew that I wouldn’t – not even for my own wedding – give up the therapeutic routine of an afternoon nap, which along with yoga is part of my daily practice at home. Plopping my head on a pillow would make a mess of any hairdresser’s meticulous touch, but the effort wouldn’t be in vain; I’d simply repair any damage with a quick mousse and fluff and dash off to the ceremony.

I HAD PLANNED TO SPEND THE WEDDING DAY RATHER LEISURELY, exploring the city by myself, stopping for a light nibble and ending at the hairdresser’s, with just enough time, I calculated, for that compulsory afternoon nap. But Marián caught up with me early in the morning when I was just about to walk out of the hotel lobby. “Por favor,” she begged me, “get me out of here!” She needed to spend the day as far away as possible from the frazzled mother-in-law and tense atmosphere of the hotel, which was riddled with relatives.

Wandering aimlessly near the beach and the wharf, we spent the morning with no greater stress than seeking shelter from the many brief, intense cold spurts of rain that fell on Gijón that day. During one of those spells of rain, we took cover in the Sidrería Ca Pachu. Hungry and soaked, we decided to stay for refreshment and a bite to eat.

Sidra is fermented apple cider, a specialty of this region in Northern Spain, which is covered in green, rolling hills and blessed with fertile soil. The drink must be poured from a distance of about two to three feet from above the glass to encourage natural carbonation. A good cider server is trained in the art, pouring only two or three ounces without spilling a drop. Served any other way, the cider would go flat immediately. A good cider drinker enjoys a few sips at a time while the light brown liquid remains slightly frothy in its temporary effervescence. Soft and dry, pleasant on the palate and redolent of the most earthy, delicious apples, sidra is not only delicious, but also doubles as a soporific.

Marián and I ordered half a platter of artisanal cheeses and cured meats, which was accompanied with a complimentary tapa of fresh, crusty bread smothered in the local queso de cabrales, a rich, creamy cross between goat and blue cheese. The so-called half-portion was so generous, however, that we called Miguel to help us finish the meal. Before we knew it, ten men from the wedding party had walked over from the hotel, except for the groom. They had neither hairdresser appointments nor the need to fuss over clothes. Their eyelids were hanging in boredom, but their mood soon lightened, as each one took turns practicing the art of pouring cider over an empty wooden barrel that was designed specifically for amateurs who invariably miss the edge of the glass tumbler. Whatever wasn’t spilled into the barrel was consumed quickly so that the next self-proclaimed expert could start a new round.

I looked at my watch. We were late for our appointment! Marián ran over to the hairdresser’s, which was located just a few storefronts down the road. “Not to worry,” she told me upon her return. The hairdressers had taken more than two hours to fit the groom’s mother with the traditional flat comb of the madrina. Grandmother was running late, her coiffing a works in progress. Not to worry? Really? The clock was ticking, eating away at the afternoon. I thought about the quiet sanctuary of my hotel room, the soft pillows and the fresh sheets. Damn! What with my gray dress and the black jacket, if I finagled my way out of the appointment, I’d be one step closer to earning the title of a discourteous American.

AS THE HAIRDRESSER WASHED MY HAIR, I questioned why fate was tempting me with everything needed to relax into slumber – a good soaking in rainy weather, a hefty snack, sidra and now this, a scalp massage – when I would, in all likelihood, have to skip my siesta. But I still had hope for a contingency plan. Marían had short hair and even though her hairdresser was in the process of putting a few threads of it in large, wide curlers, I estimated that we would be done at about the same time. In spite of its length, my hair could be swiftly styled in a twenty-minute wash and blow.

But just like fast food, which was a relatively new phenomenon in Spain, a quick wash and blow seemed like another American invention and would simply not do for a stately wedding. How naïve of me to think otherwise! The hairdresser patted my hair with a towel, combed out an unruly knot and then opened a drawer full of medium-sized rollers. I gripped the armrest. My pale, weary face stared back at me from the mirror, begging for help. I was trapped!

With slow, painstaking gestures, she took one roller out of the drawer, then another and yet another, until my all my tresses were wound up, my entire head full of the bright green plastic cylinders. Like a prisoner trudging to the scaffold, shoulders hunched in surrender, I walked over to the heating lamp and sat next to Marián, who was hiding behind a tabloid, breezing through its pages. Plunk went the lamp over my head and soon a steady stream of warm, sleep-inducing air surrounded me. For a moment, I counted my blessings. Finally! An opportunity to snooze!

But I soon discovered that being stuck in an upright, perpendicular position with the lamp pressing on my head like a tight helmet made it impossible for me to dip my neck and nod. And in spite of the lulling heat, the noise produced by the airflow overtook my sense of hearing. Marían, whom I could barely see out of the corner of my eye, addressed me a few times during the eternal spell of my coiffure, but since I couldn’t turn my head or hear a word she was saying, I only managed to reply with a frozen smile.

THE CHURCH WAS SMALL, in spite of the great sartorial anxiety associated with the wedding. As the guests gathered in front of its humble stone façade, the groom’s mother approached me, her madrina comb sticking straight up, forcing her to walk a bit stiffly but with excellent posture. “Please take some photographs of our side of the family,” she begged, “they hired a professional photographer for the ceremony, but no one to shoot the reception!” This request was a blessing in disguise, because it gave me an opportunity to reconnoiter the crowd without being too obvious. I could rate each and every hairdo sported by guests through my camera’s viewfinder.

The fashion police must surely have been pleased. Everyone was groomed to a T. Grandmother looked stunning; the hairdresser had done a great job, even though she didn’t have very much hair. Marián’s style however, was lovely as always, but exactly the same, and as for me – I had never felt so publicly self-conscious of having a bad hair day. Not only was my hair exactly the same, it looked worse than usual.

Scanning for newly arriving guests, I spotted one of the secretaries from the family business. “Brilliant,” I thought, “Why didn’t I think of that?” She was wearing her hair brushed away from the forehead, tied in a bun just behind the crown of her head. The bun, of course! So simple, elegant and low-maintenance; the all-occasion, anti-frivolous, rescue-from-disaster sophisticated up-do! Click went the shutter in admiration of the practical mind behind the pretty brow.

I followed the other guests into the church, meekly resigned to my botched hair, but content at the final possibility of a stolen moment of bliss during the ceremony – a catnap somewhere between the sermon and communion. I tried to sit in one of the pews close to the entrance, but Marián gestured me pleadingly over to a spot near the altar. Then Cayetana put her arm around mine and we walked toward Marián.

I had met Cayetana the night before at dinner and was instantly attracted to her thick castizo accent and self-confident style of conversation, as if every word she spoke was gospel, the world according to Cayetana. She seemed younger than her sixty-something years, in spite of laugh lines banking eyes that had seen more than enough to justify her zest for life. And even though she was impeccably dressed, when she opened her mouth a liberated, worldly spirit spoke through the trappings of appearance. “I’ve never been married,” she admitted, extending her arm out and flicking a cigarette held between two fingers. “I lived in Madrid and my boyfriend lived in Barcelona. We were together for 35 years until he had a heart attack. It was the perfect relationship!”

Soon the priest’s monotone drone, punctuated with interludes of a soprano’s angelic voice, began to affect me. But I couldn’t doze off until that part of the service where we would have at least 15 minutes to warm up the pews with our backsides; the first part of the ceremony required standing and kneeling at intervals. After the first kneeling, Cayetana leaned over and whispered in my ear: “We’re in for it! God damn it, a full catholic service! I’m not kneeling. You know, arthritis. Besides, it’ll wrinkle my outfit.” Unfortunately the polyester threads in my dress and my younger skeletal frame prevented me from using the same excuse. Looking straight ahead at the altar, my eyes widened in the sudden realization that Cayetana’s amusing irreverence would actually prevent me from sleeping. I prayed sincerely that God would not only bless the couple, but also keep Cayetana’s mouth shut until after the ceremony. Otherwise, yes, I’d definitely be in for it.

Finally the priest started his sermon on the virtues of married life. I placed my palms upright on my lap in meditation position and sought some point on which to focus my attention in the sparsely decorated nave -- a statue of a saint or a candle perhaps -- until my eyes finally rested on a plaster cherub winking at me from above. Lulled by the priest’s monotone, I started to fade into the delicious realm of half-sleep, eyelids closing discreetly.

Suddenly a sharp thwack on my right ribcage jolted me out of my reverie. “Maria!” exclaimed Marián as her elbow retracted under her shawl. “What?” I whispered, “I’m doing yoga!” Turning my head, I could see she was biting her lips, withholding a smile. “Oh no,” I thought silently, “please, please don’t start laughing.” Then Cayetana leaned over and congratulated me. “Cariño, you really pulled it off, you looked enthralled. I can’t blame you, I’m also bored to high heaven.” I bowed my head and chuckled softly. Then a stern “shh!” came out of Marián’s mouth, which was enough to turn my chuckling into an uncontrollable desire to laugh out loud, a desire heightened because it was all the more contained. Before I could burst, my shoulders started to jitter, making my personal comedy hour visibly evident to the guests sitting behind me. I considered leaving the premises, but the exit was too distant and even the slightest stirring during the most solemn part of the mass would’ve been truly disgraceful. I foresaw the headline in the paper: hysterical American storms out of socialite’s wedding.

I questioned Marián, my eyebrows knotted in vexation. “You see? Now I really have to practice yoga,” I managed to whisper in between giggles. Marián fixed her gaze on the altar, not daring even for a moment to look at me. Cayetana was avoiding my eyes as well, smiling ear to ear. I was trapped in this provincial church, alone in what had the potential to be the ceremony’s finest moment of public embarrassment. Leaning my face into the palm of my hand, I started inhaling deeply and silently repeating the mantra “breathe, breathe, breathe.” Gradually, the spasms of this much-needed comic relief subsided and the last tears of joy flowed down my cheeks.

NO SOONER DID I ARRIVE AT THE RECEPTION, one of Miguel's aunts walked up to me with an enormous platter of thinly-sliced jamón serrano, imploring me to try this Spanish staple as if I had just stepped off the airplane. “But, this afternoon …” I tried to say while a rolled up piece of cured ham went into my mouth. Then the madrina pulled me over to the elegant staircase of the grand plantation house. “How about a group shot?” And there they all stood – each member of the wedding party still neatly put together. Blooming pink and blue hydrangeas framed the shot; tall French windows and the superbly decorated ballroom served as background.

After cake and cava, the madrina ripped off her comb and everyone’s hair was beginning to look human. Even grandmother looked slightly disheveled after a few minutes of dancing. Not only did guests holler “long live the newlyweds,” the bride herself burst into traditional Asturian songs with many of the older guests in a heartwarming show of camaraderie among three generations. So joyful was their singing, that I borrowed Miguel’s cell phone to share the inspired moment with my parents, who were just finishing breakfast across the Atlantic.

My long yearned-for sleep would have to wait. This was part of the wedding I wouldn’t miss, not even for a siesta.

Eating with Innuendo

2004-12-26T19:07:00.002-05:00

On my first trip to Spain, my friend Marián and her father, Carlos, promised to take me to their summer home in Miraflores de la Sierra. Marián had spent much of her childhood in this quiet village, which is tucked away in the mountain range just north of Madrid.

The first morning in Miraflores, we drove north through pine tree-studded hills to the medieval town of Pedraza. The summer feria was winding down, with drunken revelers still stumbling through the cobblestoned streets.

Marián and I were hungry but we had to save our appetites for a delicious lunch of roasted suckling pig, the local specialty. So to stave off our hunger, we stopped at the only open bakery in town, a tiny storefront where she ordered a few bollos to go.

My eyes widened in astonishment but I said nothing. She ordered what? In Miami, my hometown, Cubans use the word bollo (pronounced bo-yo) to refer to a section of the female reproductive system that Americans would usually identify with the “p” word. As with its American counterpart, the Cuban “b” word is used only when the speaker wishes to be deliberately vulgar, most certainly never in polite company!

To tell you the truth, I really didn’t care what this bread roll was called. It was my first morning in Spain. I was still recovering from jet lag, a mild hangover and I felt light-headed under the hot August sun. I had to take a bite out of this bollo immediately just to keep my blood sugar from dropping. There simply wasn’t time to discuss the finer points of variations in the Spanish lexicon.

As I chewed on the soft, sweet roll and surveyed the stone exterior of Pedraza’s castle, I mulled over another mundane metaphor. The night before we had dined on conejo al ajillo (rabbit stewed with garlic sauce). This was a messy meal with bits of tender meat chewed right off the bone and sauce slopped up from the plate with crusty bread. No sooner had the waiter filled our glasses with the second bottle of Rioja the jokes were flying. Marián’s friend, Manuel -- who had as much delicacy at the table as a rutting bull -- was kind of enough to explain that the word for rabbit also referred to a “highly prized” part of a woman’s body. So I was beginning to get the hang of it: when in Spain, you eat with innuendo, my friends, not just with gusto!

By the time we left Pedraza, my stomach had stopped growling and I relaxed into the passenger’s seat to enjoy the ride. Imagine my amusement when we passed one town called Rebollo (which translates as “not just a simple bollo, but a really impressive one!”) and another called Sacabollos (which can be interpreted as “get those bollos out, ladies!”). I chuckled quietly under my breath and when asked what was funny I simply sighed and exclaimed, "ah, this is such a sensual country!"

Even though Marián and her father treated me like I was a member of the family, I didn’t think it was appropriate to bring up the subject of bollo with Carlos in the car. As the day wore on, I became distracted by the landscaped gardens of La Granja and completely forgot about the matter.

The next morning, Carlos woke us up by knocking hard on the door and telling us how much we snored, when in fact, he had snored most impressively throughout the night, echoing through the cool green pastures of the Sierra and keeping the cows, I was sure of it, from peaceful slumber.

Playing the stern father, pretending that we were still young girls and not grown women, he chided us for sleeping late. To prove how late it was he boasted loudly that it was 9:30 AM and that he already had enough time to eat three bollos! I shoved a pillow on my face to contain my laughter. That a sixty-something man could be so busy was impressive!

Later that morning I discreetly explained the story to Marián, who eventually repeated it to everyone she knew in Madrid. And so now there are a handful of Madrileños who smile every morning when they enjoy their café con leche with a warm, fresh-baked bollo.

Night of the Meiga

2004-12-26T19:03:00.001-05:00

in the moonlit whirlpool
my green tresses swirl at the whim of the tides
the juice of mussels drips down my arms
as I lick their opal purple shells

after the incantation
the spell is cast in the goblet of orujo
the chorus of voices soars on Atlantic wind
bonfires sparkle on the sand
but I turn west to face eternity

dancing in the dark blue ether
perfumes of pine and eucalyptus
lift my body surrendered to the sky
I sway to the murmur of leaves
and the soft drumming of waves

then my mouth kisses the sea
the taste intoxicates me
and I plunge into fathoms of darkness

in the silence of the lair
his body soothes my ancient longing
until the tide recedes

reluctantly I return to my throne on Montebranco
and wrap the salty mist around my shoulders
tracing the memory of my lover's face
lazy fingers caress
a thousand stars in the sky

sweetly I succumb to dreaming
soon the sun will rise
and the grapes will glisten with morning dew

-- Finisterre, Galicia 2001

Night Train

2004-12-26T18:56:00.001-05:00

Atocha to Azuquequa de Henares

The C1 on the Guadalajara track doesn’t offer much in the way of a panoramic view: the endless hills of dried hay of Castilla La Mancha, the brick apartment buildings and graffiti painted on walls surrounding industrial parks and warehouses. But when it rains, the smell of wet earth permeates the air, infused with the lavender, rosemary that grows wild everywhere -- not just from the rich siena-colored soil -- but also from cracks in sidewalks, bridges and concrete walls.

Lights shine through apartment windows of this brick and wire monotony that surrounds Madrid. Each light represents a life, someone sitting still, someone already home, while the train takes others to the same stillness. As the train approaches Guadalajara, its final destination, the carriage becomes emptier and emptier, my soul more drained. The light inside the train is too bright, the darkness outside inviting. I see the edge of my reflection on the window and that of the empty seats around me. I think of the many silent conversations I’ve had with empty chairs, at restaurants, in trains, of all the souls that have traveled on this very same path. I am going into the night and so are they, the dwellers of brick buildings. The last train home.

In Memoriam March 11, 2004 Victims of Terrorism

Old Lovers, Unseen Islands

2004-12-26T18:54:00.001-05:00

La Gamella, Alfonso XII 4, near El Retiro

I'm having lunch rather late, even for Spain. The room is empty except for two American women from Chicago sitting behind my table. The waiter and maitre d’ are both Cuban and when they learn I’m Cuban-American, their eyes brighten with familiarity, as they always do, when Cubans find each other around the world.

Soon I’m alone, completely alone in the little, beautifully decorated room. These two well-educated, well-spoken gentleman, who gave up important posts in Cuba, but would rather work here for less money and one hundred percent inviolable freedom, make my afternoon an unexpected pleasure.

While in Spain I caught different glimpses of Cuba from across the Atlantic.

Last week I had dined with a man from northern Spain who loved to dance salsa and had traveled to Cuba more than a dozen times. He told me that conditions in Cuba had deteriorated and that he would never return. Statistically speaking, he informed me, men from Northern Spain formed the greatest percentage of tourists on the island.

And only last night, I caught the end of a hidden camera investigation on television called Infiltrados about prostitution and drug rings in Cuba. A Spanish friend once told me that while in Spain, I should never say I’m Cuban, because Spanish men identify Cuban women with the starving prostitutes of Havana. If only it were so simple to get rid of that other side of hyphen, the other side of American.

I’m so relieved to be a casual observer of words, of gestures, of intentions. Writing in my velvet book about conversations I’ve shared with different men in Spain about Cuba, I am sheltered from the rhetorical storm. There is no need to prove if anything I’m told is true. What’s important here is the fact that someone wants me to see Cuba through their eyes. The living, breathing interpretations of a history so complex that it might as well be part of some fiction.

My waiter’s parents pay the government of Cuba a monthly stipend to stay out of the island, but they are free to return whenever they like. How times have changed. My parents went through a teeth-clenching, bureaucratic hell to leave Cuba legally and can never return.

Enough. I finish my delicious meal. Memories of my family's history taken with broader sweeps on the canvas, with a new flavor.

The waiter treats me to a chupito. I close my book, savor the tart liquor on my tongue and I immediately recall pear schnapps, the Black Forest, the scent of his dark blonde hair. I think I had a dream about him last night. Yes, I definitely did.

In this city that I am only just discovering, in this city of lovers, I dream about men I have loved. They creep into the foggy labyrinth of night, blending into archetypes and architectural structures, surrounded as I am by buildings that I’ve never seen until now. This quiet refuge, this solitary meal at La Gamella, just like my solitary bed, that’s all it is, a sanctuary, a place of respite from the torrent of memories that might accost me around every corner of Madrid. I walk among unfamiliar buildings but there you are: old lovers, unseen islands, what are you doing here?

Arriving

2004-12-26T18:51:00.000-05:00

Kafka on the Train

2004-12-26T18:36:00.001-05:00

Cercanías Train, Villanueva to Atocha

One morning on the C1 train to Atocha, a good looking man sat next to me and wrote frantically, beginning at the first page of a fresh, white virginal notebook. He never stopped, as if he were racing against time. He never once looked away from his notebook, as if he were committing a shameful misdemeanor, writing in flagrante delicto. By the time we reached Atocha, he still had not come up for air. I would have loved to talk to him, but I had to respect his desire to write. How odd, I thought, he could have sat somewhere else, the train was practically empty. But I understood. Even though writing is a solitary activity, it would be unbearable in an unpopulated universe.

In Memoriam March 11, 2004 Victims of Terrorism

Napkin Scribbles

2004-12-26T17:25:00.001-05:00

La Platería, Plaza de la Platería, near el Prado

Eating alone in Madrid. It's a handicap in this city of lovers. Refusal to serve only half a ración; these hearty appetizers are always meant for two or more. Fideuas and paellas at the ChampagnerÌa Gala are always for two, never for one. The host won't seat me, even if I'm willing to pay full price.

One evening I eyed a platter of ripe-green pimientos de padrón under at the bar and I decided to return the next night to savor this Galician specialty. Faithful to my craving, I returned, sitting at the bar of this modern, busy wine bar and restaurant, sipping a glass of crisp white alvarinho, I patiently waited for my table.

The waiter and I exchanged glances. I knew this meant table for one lady, assured. But when I stood to follow him, the couple next to me, a man and a woman who had been completely oblivious of their surroundings until that moment, leered at me and demanded a table because they had arrived before me. Yes, of course, before me, how appropriate, the world before ME. Single me out, yes, I'm a single woman, eating alone, and my only purpose in life is to keep this seemingly happy couple from the additional pleasure of filling their bellies. Well, I thought, perhaps they did arrive first, but I didn't have some handsome man fondle me while I waited for a table. Yes, yes, now that I think about it, they were before me, literally, flaunting their love, companionship, shared meals, conversations before me, in my face, as if nothing matter but themselves and their gurgling stomachs.

In the love-busy eateries of Madrid, you've got to wait for that, that unique request, table for 1, why, no one ever asks to be seated alone, unless you're an eccentric American writer.

The manager pours me a second glass of wine. Consolation prize. On the house. Sorry to make you wait, señorita.

And so I envision a rare restaurant where everyone dines alone, silently, blank gaze staring at the distance, looking into nothing or perhaps the memory of forgotten eyes, listen to the half-words of half-remembered conversations. What an odd, mechanical, lifeless restaurant that would be: only the clank, clink of silverware, the occasional slurp and the nearly silent wipe of a neatly folded cloth napkin against a hardly soiled mouth.

Yes, eating is social, isn't it? Eating alone is an anomaly here, but still, I'm human and I've got to eat. So I swallow my pride and wait.

The waiter who seats me is terribly busy. Service that is so slow by American standards, and which I normally enjoy, seems unbearable tonight, as if I had marked this evening with a musical direction of lentissimo, symphony of the reluctant diner and her humiliation.

The waiter seats me in the middle of the crowded plaza. The antisocial writer scribbles frantically on her napkin. I miss my book terribly. The menu arrives. Relief. They serve half raciones. I order dinner and when it finally arrives half an hour later, the pimentos de padrón are missing. I politely note the omission. But my heart silently demands, oh yes demands -- after all that, after feeling invisible, ignored, neglected, treated as a lonely diner -- those little green peppers mean the world to me. Twenty minutes later my waiter appears with a saucer full of the fresh peppers, tossed in exquisitely flavored olive oil and covered in coarse sea salt. One bite. Ah. I'm redeemed.

River Tajo

2004-12-26T17:19:00.000-05:00

Palacio Real de Aranjuez

Bajo los árboles antiguos
El viento calido acariciaba
Mi cuello y el Río Tajo susurraba:
no te olvides de mi.

Under the ancient trees
The warm wind caressed my neck
And the River Tajo whispered:
do not forget me.

In Praise of Folly

2004-12-26T17:13:00.001-05:00

La Fontanilla, Plaza de Puerta Cerrada

I lost my way to the church of San Francisco El Grande, although, as with most locations in old Madrid, I was never as far as I thought I was from my destination. But in order to avoid behaving as a tourist, I developed the habit of walking into an establishment and perusing my book-bound map indoors. Sometimes in the wc, sometimes while quenching my thirst.

I walk into this colorful Irish pub, drink a caña and stand at a corner to look at a map. Miguel from Córdoba and Carlos from Ávila walk in, stand right next to me and order two oxsanitas from the bartender. Antonio is loud, chubby, with a beard, and Juan is quiet, reserved and thin. He frequently and demurely lowers the lids of his big blue eyes. I gather they are socios from work who regularly stop by this quaint, little watering hole mid-afternoons.

Antonio asks me what I’m doing and I explain I’m an American writer looking for San Francisco el Grande. He raises his eyebrow and I see the spark in his eye. He doesn’t believe I’m an American writer lost in Madrid, but I show him the map, he points to a spot and of course I see that the Calle de Segovia, then left at Bailen, would have been the easier route. Another round of oxsanitas is ordered, but this time it’s three. An oxsanita, named after the lovely redheaded bartender from Roumania, is just a gin and tonic served in a squat table-wine tumbler.

I tell Antonio that I’m writing a book for single women travelers in Spain. “Soltera,” he says, “I have a brother, forty-one years old, never been married, a farmer in Avila, why don’t you marry him?” But I’m a writer. I don’t know how to milk cows. Antonio makes some remark about feeling nauseated. It’s my cleavage, he admits. It’s making him dizzy and it would make his brother dizzy too. Juan doesn’t dare to look. What a trio, I think. The lusty milkmaid drinks gin and tonics with Folly and Prudence, in the allegorical theater of Madrid.

Before I know it, Antonio and I are engaged in an unexpected, somewhat highbrow conversation about Don Quixote, its place in literary history, its characters and how it gave La Mancha such much-needed publicity in the middle ages. I’ve never read the epic, so I’m full of questions. A couple of oxsanas later, the brazen Sancho Panza and his melancholy companion Don Quixote return to work. By then it’s too late to see San Francisco el Grande on the inside. But outside, the sun is setting. Wandering aimlessly and free now, I come upon the Plaza Mayor. The center of Madrid is suffused in wide amber rays that deepen the terracotta hues of tiles and bricks. The city is awakening, just before night falls.

Cloisonné

2004-12-26T17:08:00.002-05:00

Guadalajara to Azuquequa de Henares, Cercanías Train

On the train a young punk girl sits across me. Her presence is anachronistic because punk “belonged” to the 1970s. Her presence is also common, all too common and not anachronistic at all, because the statement she’s making -- of not fitting into the Spanish mainstream -- well that’s as old as the first gypsy that set foot in Spain.

Her dark, short black hair and overly-done eyes don’t distract me. It’s the cheap cloisonné pendant with the image of Che Guevara that makes this ordinary train ride seem like a colossal tear in the fabric of time: if she only knew what my parents went through to flee communist Cuba. She’s wearing an emblem of a history she never lived.

How easily teenagers adopt the struggles of others, when they’ve got no struggles of their own. Some day she’ll wipe that make-up off with cold cream. Yes, I see it clearly: some day she’ll wipe that make-up off for the very last time and she’ll see her own face for the very first time. She’ll have her own struggles, with her own beautiful, tired face as its symbol.

In Memoriam March 11, 2004 Victims of Terrorism

Expatriate Writer

2004-12-26T17:04:00.001-05:00

Bar El Brillante, Atocha 122

The famous bocata de calamares is simple yet delicious: large, tender fried calamari rings, lightly breaded and stuffed between two halves of a fresh, foot-long baguette. No condiments necessary.

After having read so many praises sung to the bocata on MadridMan’s message board, I literally stepped into this café without even realizing I was there!

I sit under the canopy of trees just off the street facing the Atocha station. The floor is strewn with cigarette butts and napkins. Cleverly avoiding the hurried footsteps of busy waiters, pigeons and finches pick scraps off the floor. You can have a 40 euro lunch at the Ritz just 10 minutes away, but it doesn’t get better than this -- a bocata and a caña one August afternoon in Madrid.

People stare at me: the men lustily; the women suspiciously. Yes, I’m a woman and I'm writing at this table, alone, sitting here quietly satisfying my hunger and my need to write all at once. I realize this afternoon that I am profoundly bored I where I permanently reside, that my soul must travel in order to feed itself, that the words I jot down in my journal will sustain me once I return home: anything eaten in a state of freedom and happiness tastes much better and the memory of this meal is just as satisfying.

Do the little finches consider themselves Madrileños? These magisterial pigeons who lord it over the sidewalks of the world, do they have a sense of nationality?

The City to Myself

2004-12-26T17:01:00.001-05:00

Café Gijón, Paseo de Recoletos 21, est. 1888

There’s a lovely English couple sitting by the window overlooking the Paseo de Recoletos. They both wear beautiful grey hair: she, long and luxurious tresses and he, cropped short. The seem frozen in time, for in spite of their age, they are impossibly elegant, poised, youthful, smiles full of wisdom. He looks into her eyes gently and smiles knowingly as he pours another glass of white wine, as if they’ve had the same conversation a thousand times, and as if he would hear her speak again and again.

The waiter interrupts me with my first course, a Crema Bretona. Sitting here, a single woman, ‘singled out’ from the crowd, I write in my book in this café famous for its literary past.

I am a single woman always walking alone, eating alone, writing alone in this city of lovers. I feed on the lives of others, spy on their gestures of affection, observe the nuances of their body language.

I finish my meal of Trucha a la Navarra with a coffee and a slice of melon. I wondered what the lovers would do at 3 PM on a hot summer day in Madrid. Eat, make love and sleep, or simply linger in half-sleep with a belly full of pleasure.

I will walk instead. I will walk alone in the deserted streets of mid-afternoon and have the city to myself. I will walk alone, waiting for the city to awaken once more, for its pulse to quicken and carry me into the night.

Room 63A

2004-12-26T16:55:00.001-05:00

Museo del Prado, Paseo del Prado

He told me that I looked like her, Catalina Micaela, the daughter of the Spanish king Felipe II, in the 16th century portrait by Sánchez Coello. I failed to see a resemblance when I found her portait online. She was just an image on my computer monitor.

Months later when I found myself strolling through the rooms of the Prado, I had forgotten Catalina. But after a while, after my gaze poured over Velazquez and Goya, took in Ribero and Zurbarán, she slowly emerged, invisibly, out of many canvases. Where was she? In the Prado? Thyssen? Did I even know? It’s as if I began to miss her, to call out to her.

Around 5 PM I wandered into a room, my sight saturated with so much exposure to beauty, my feet tired, my mind groggy. A bell rang. Visitors rushed past me, bumping into my bag. I stood fixed at the threshold, staring at Catalina.

She didn’t look like me, but I recognized her. She was on the other side of the room, but she was real, almost in the flesh. Her presence was imposing, larger-than-life, coming out of the blackness of an oil canvas, begging to be three-dimensional, to be alive once again. I took her in all at once, with uncanny familiarity: the details of her ornate dress, the stiffness of her collar, the austerity of her life, the fatigue in the eyes of this woman, who died giving birth at 33.

The bell rang again. The room was empty. I took one step toward the painting and the guard told me to leave. I pleaded with an urgency that surprised me. “You don’t understand, I’ve come all the way from America to see this one painting.” She showed no sympathy. “Pues no,” she replied, pointing her finger to the Puerta de Murillo exit.

The next day, on my way to Atocha to take the train to Toledo, I stopped just past the Prado and turned around. Toledo can wait, I thought. But Catalina can’t. I was drawn to the Prado, to her. This time we would not have a chance encounter. I found her deliberately, looking at the museum map: Room 63 A, by way of Bosch’s room, just around the corner from The Garden of Earthly Delights.

Bitter Almonds

2004-12-26T16:51:00.001-05:00

Taberna La Venencia, Calle Echegaray 7

He taught me how to drink the fino manzanilla properly: place the rim of the glass at the edge of your pursed lips, tilt your head back and let it pass directly to your throat. I wanted it to linger on my tongue, as with most other wines, and failed miserably to keep the sherry from missing the upper and lower clefts of my palate.

Our table was at back of the cramped bar, surrounded by posters of bullfights and enormous wooden barrels that held the dry, golden liquid from Andalucía. I sat across the writer while nibbling almonds and slowly taking in his tired expression. Life had dealt him a sore slap on both cheeks with the death of loved ones and later his own illness – all within a span of three years. His sense of time was different than mine. He had passed beyond death and returned. On this evening, I counted the minutes almond by almond, sip by sip of the fino, carried away by his lyrical cadences on the relative absurdity of our situation.

He tried to seduce me with words, this verbal Don Juan, but I could not play the role of transient muse, for I am also a writer and see through the veil of my circumstances -- two lonely souls sharing half a bottle of fino manzanilla and the bitter taste of unrequited love. We would never be lovers.

We walked arm in arm down the deserted Calle Echegaray, silent and floating. At the corner of the Calle Atocha I realized that my watch, a beautiful, handmade silver timepiece, had unclasped from my wrist.

I wasn’t surprised. I always lose my watch at the beginning of a trip. Usually it makes its way to the bottom of a suitcase somehow, to be rediscovered when I return home. But I knew this watch was lost to me for good, because I had recovered time, his time, the time that neither of us, in transit to death, could measure with the mechanics of a clock.

I kissed him quickly on the cheek just before crossing the stile. The last train to Villanueva was waiting below on the track. He said I was cruel. We smiled knowingly at each other as I passed into the darkness of the night. His muse had become eternal and the taste of almonds had become sweet.

There Are No Accidental Tourists

2004-12-26T16:50:00.001-05:00

Café La Pecera, Círculo de Bellas Artes, Calle del Marqués de Riera 2

I like this Café. On the other side of enormous picture windows cars on the Calle Alcalá hurry to their destination. But inside the "fishbowl," calm and quiet reign. Two tasteful black and white male nude lithographs flank the entrance. After a while I notice there are framed nudes on every wall, tastefully balancing the world of art and sex, body and representation. I drink coffee among bodies that are two dimensional, without forgetting that this very afternoon I denied the pleasures of my own.

The relationship to place: my heart swells, the backdrop of this day comes into full view. I feel so grounded, hot in the sun and cool in the shade. Leaving La Pecera, these bricks, these old granite slabs, support me as I turn the corner into the unknown of the immediate future.

There are no accidental tourists. I'm a stranger, sometimes, in my own backyard, but not here.

The Writer and the Transient Muse

2004-12-26T16:45:00.002-05:00

Cine Doré, Calle Santa Isabel 3

He opened the door for me and I stepped out of the heat on the Calle de Santa Isabel into the art nouveau lobby of the cinema, where lunch was served. Quiet and uncrowded, the restaurant would have been the perfect prelude to a casual encounter, but the gaudy blue velvet upholstery and bleach-white miniature columns made me feel like I was playing a part in an old black and white silent movie.

Over the first course, he confessed that he was convalescing from illness. I forgave the desperate hands that constantly wandered under the table or caressed my face, the fingers I had to push away so that I could finish my meal. His gestures and my rejection – the comical and pathetic replaying of an old scene.

Then I understood his desire to be love freely, to keep our acquaintance in the realm of dreams, fiction and sex, and not the mundane world of illness, work and death … but I couldn’t give him that.

Madrid: City of Lovers (2002)

2004-12-26T15:12:00.005-05:00

Dancing alone.

I remember being at a milonga waiting for someone to ask me to dance the next tango. Couples swirled about me. And until I got to dance, I felt the absence of a partner deeply, intensely, no matter how discreetly poised I might sit at the end of my chair, enchanted by the dances unfolding before me.

Traveling alone in Madrid one August, I would see lovers sitting at benches, lovers holding hands, kissing, as if their pleasure was public, a story told only outdoors, as if their pain, arguments, separations, bereavements, were reserved for private occasions, behind closed doors. They say Paris is the city of lovers … but I’m not convinced. Paris cannot claim possession of something so universal.

Paris only adopted, but didn’t invent, the tango.

Someone once told me that in Buenos Aires couples always displayed their affection publicly, but not because of some cultural tendency toward exhibitionism. No. The explanation is quite simple really. They don’t have the luxury of privacy. Young adults live with their parents and aging parents live with their children.

El dia que me quieras … the day that you might love me. That day of possibility was born in Buenos Aires, in the throat of Carlos Gardel, but that day has never come. It can’t.

You see, tango takes place in this space of waiting, this space of possibility. Love is no different. And so is writing.

Writing takes place in the space of loneliness, where I see more keenly, my vision clear, not muddied by passion. I walk, write, eat, drink alone, a witness to life that seems much more real than the blank page. And when you finally ask me to dance, the plenitude of your embrace is blinding. I forget my words.

These lovers unwittingly tell me their stories. They are dancers embracing on the theater of the street, repeating that ageless ritual, a tango that takes place in public parks, sidewalks, restaurants, alleys, taxicabs. Lovers strolling, lovers saying goodbye at the train station, coming and going, lovers defying unto death the loneliness of the individual in the big city.

I still dance the tango, it carries me into the night, accidentally, unconsciously, and before I know it, I am shoved by the city’s pulse into the arms of the night, dancing this tango, the dance of drinks, of furtive kisses in a smoke-filled bar, of groping, of syncopated push and pull, of escorted walks to the hotel, of steps resonating in the alley, slowing down around the dark corner, the tango of begging, refusal, the tango of her cruelty and his banality, of his urgency and nothing more, that late-night dance of the American writer and the Spanish man who thinks she’s easy because she’s a tourist.

I think of that painting in the Thyssen B Museum, Hopper’s Hotel Room (1931). I imagine my body as a hotel room for transient happiness, an impermanent residence for would-be lovers. But I am so in love, deeply, irrevocably in love with this place, this freedom, this freedom to write, this freedom to dance, so in love with so much more than the image of that woman sitting at the edge of a bed in a hotel room, and for this reason alone, I refuse them. I refuse them all.

And so I claim that Madrid is a city of lovers. And that the day for all of us to love has finally arrived.

And I dedicate this tango to all lovers, to all lovers everywhere, to lovers of bodies, souls and cities, lovers of past, present and future, lovers who hold hands and lovers who dance alone.