Drinking in Spain

For much of the past month in Spain, we have rented apartments.   I would forget about the inconvenience of not being able to simply order tap water in a restaurant. The days and evenings have been busy with sight seeing ... and often by night, I would be exhausted ... a little bottle of water not on my mind at all.  Truly, I did not give it a thought until the next time we went out to eat.  Last night, I was dinning out in Madrid and noticed that the family next to me had a carafe of water and this vessel was refilled upon request.This morning, my final day in Spain, I took the time to clarify that I should have been asking for agua del grifo.  Without that amplification, ¿Puedo tomar un vaso de agua del grifo, I was asking for a sealed glass bottle and adding a couple of Euros to our bill. 

Another small inconvenience has been coffee ... if in a cafe, I would ask for black coffee - cafe solo, and I received a demi-cup of espresso.  Again, in the rentals coffee pots were provided so, most often, I happily had my leisurely western fare of caffeine.  If I would have requested café Americano, my order would have produced a full sized mug of coffee - much weaker than the espresso - but more like what I am used to. 

There has been no language barrier in asking for vino.  Although, I have not figured out how to order a half of bottle (nor have I taken the time to learn).   What is that saying?  Man cannot live on wine alone ... so sometimes I need water and coffee.  Oops, I guess I misspoke,  the noun is bread, isn't it?  Let me quote Henry David Thoreau instead:  " A man may acquire a taste for wine and so lose his love of water."  I will miss Spain.  (Thank you Robert.)

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Welcome (But, Please Take Your Shoes Off First)

I received a letter from a past friend, the final line read:  you will never be happy.  After reading, deflated, hurt, defensive … all of these emotions clamored for attention within me.  Believing that friends will understand or at the very least, listen to my reasoning, I am surprised when declarations such as this example are bestowed to me.  I have not asked for approval; I answer questions asked knowing that others have an opinion.  Still, when wounding comments are made, I am taken by surprise.

I consider my friend; does she really accept that she knows the journey to happiness?  When entering a home, often there is a mat for wiping off the debris collected on the bottom of a visitor’s footwear.  Inviting understanding is not a request for advice. I sincerely shared with faith that my truth would be paid attention to.  I had opened a personal door, trusting that I could reveal authentic ideas, philosophy … values.  She made a judgment. 

I know that in the past, I have not always been a focused listener … I will do better in this regard.  Thoughtless remarks can be harmful.  This edict declaring my inability to be fulfilled soiled the beautiful welcome mat that I am weaving.   I did not respond to the letter.  A door within me has closed; I will intertwine colorful threads to restore the damage because I have the conviction that I am creating an honest tapestry - strands of experience that are worthy.   For now, I am rolling this mat up.

‘All the World is a Stage’ but I am no longer a Marionette

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Since childhood, I have been apprehensive when exposed to different cultures.  Traveling in Europe (currently in Spain) has pulled the curtain; I am no longer afraid of the mystery.  I acknowledge that it was fear … fear of diversity.  I was born in the 1950’s; my education was completed in white rural America.   I can recall discussions of bomb threats (we had water and food supplies in our underground well house), fright of the Soviet Union was a constant, throbbing message perpetuated in geography classes and at home.  Vietnam was a fight to stop the evil communist from taking over the world.  The maps used in the classroom were spatially incorrect – the United States was huge.  There was no other America – South America did not count and Canada was a stranger to the north.  Europe was a distant and small speck far across the Atlantic next to the monster Soviet Block.  Nothing was taught in the 50’s about the Middle East, people starving in Africa really did not matter, and China was a nothing space of land surrounded by a great wall.  I was naïve and badly informed.    Couple the embedded societal threats with a home life that was also insecure and it was easy for me to become a marionette on the American Nationalism stage.   I was taught that my large, isolated country held the superior rank in the eyes of the world. 

Well, I am now traveling in the 'speck' called Spain - the home country to Columbus who discovered and then obliterated a people to the west.  We "Americans" later managed to kill off most of the rest - or you can visit a reservation to visit the survivors.  

What  I am learning is that contemporary Europeans seem to be more open to language difference.  They can travel freely between each other and listen to other tongues.    In America, I can travel (sometimes within a distance of 20 minutes) and hear street talk, a twang, a drawl, a jersey inflection but within these accents are words that I understand.  I can communicate; and when I can exchange words, I feel safe.  There are segregated populations in Michigan (my home state) that speak other tongues, examples include Dearborn, Mexican Village, Chinatown area in Detroit – from my upbringing, I believed these were areas of less economic desirability.  In the 60’s, whites moved out of the city … the suburbs flourished.  Innocence and ignorant intellectual spaces were puffed up with prejudice and might makes right propaganda, I also was brought up in a conservative church (we were the only religion going to heaven), both experiences making me the fattened calf of rural American life, ripe for the harvest of patriotism.  Part of what  I lacked was missing the richness of developing skills in another language.  There is a respect, a commonality that can be bridged between people when we can share with each other. 

This brings me to this morning’s observation.  My traveling companion can speak Spanish – I am trying.   There is a joy (perhaps respect) that is evident as we stumble through trying-out our Spanish.  This delight is felt.  There are moments when I miss what is comfortable, I do miss family but for the most part, I am learning what I have failed to know much about people from other cultures.  What I detect is a similarity within our daily life, our family needs are comparable with the exception that I have too much of everything … more than I need.   Instead of spreading fear, I believe that if Americans had an embedded cultural exchange and had to learn the language of the people we intend to war with, we ‘the people’ would  be less willing to perpetuate the hate, commit the atrocities of war that ‘my country right or wrong’ propels us to participate in.  I am reminded of the child tale of the duped emperor who paraded the streets to show off his invisible clothes.  It was a small child who said, ‘He doesn’t have anything on!’  Travel allows me to see that the average people within a country are much like me, they have less, but they have a broader perspective of people.  They are not afraid of language … they are not afraid to smile at me and offer  camaraderie in acknowledgement of my effort.  I am cutting strings; I am designing my own stage … I am thinking thoughts that do not belong to the state.

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Prestidigitation (Now you see it; Now you don't.)

I was enjoying a cup of coffee in the Atocha train station Madrid, Spain while waiting for departure to Toledo.  As I admired the cleanliness of the station, a gentleman walked by and quickly snatched a half of sandwich left for scrap on the table next to me.  The leftover was gulped without chewing; vanishing at an amazing pace.  ‘Did he take that?’   He turned without making eye contact and moved toward a bank of ticket machines.  At first glance, he seemed well-groomed, he wore dark trousers and a beige ivy cap – quite dapper from a distance but upon closer examination, I noticed that the sleeves to his outer jacket were soiled.  He pulled a small suitcase blending in as a traveler as he strolled to the bay of automatic ticket machines.  At sleight of hand speed, he swiftly slipped his right hand into each coin return, careful to be looking out at the hub bub of people while letting his fingers do the seeing.  I read once that advanced sleight of hand requires months (sometimes years) of practice before it can be performed expertly in front of an audience.  This man mastered the technique and also was adept in not drawing spectators to observe.   An elderly magician … sad commentary on the economic state of the world, but for the moment, I bow to his resourcefulness.

My glass is half full ... his is half empty but there is an entire bottle on the table.

How do you ask for a half bottle of wine in Spanish?  'Media botella de vino por favor.'  Well, the media was lost in translation ... sign language did not work.  But, the entire 'botella' was delicious.  Tomorrow, we are on to Toledo, Spain.