La Comida

In the Chicago airport a man walked by me talking loudly on his cellphone. He said, “this is just between us.” On the flight to Madrid I sat amidst a group of U of Illinois students whose final destination was somewhere in Italy—they were off to study Renaissance history for a month. The girl sitting next to me wore sweatpants with the word “PINK” on the butt. Over the eight hours we spoke only briefly. I read The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho (disappointing) and she read the Nanny Diaries and talked to her friend across the aisle. We both watched the film Freedom Riders, though at several points I had to remove my earphones and avert my eyes in embarrassment.

When I travel abroad I become inevitably clumsy, and my first faux pas, though minor, occurred before we even touched down in Madrid. The flight attendant came around asking for “auriculares,” but I wasn’t really listening and handed her an empty cup. She made a derisory remark and then I realized my mistake and handed her the earphones. My language limitations became more obvious and painful later when I called Naomi’s Spanish family from the train station. I spoke to Montse first, then Manolo—they were trying to explain how I could meet up with Maite (their daughter) in Palencia (my train destination), but I could not understand. And I could see on the phone´s digital screen that my two euros were running out…. We finally agreed that I would simply take another train from Palencia to Espinosa (their home village). But to no surprise Manolo was waiting for me at the Palencia station. And I think he’d been waiting for some time—I’d said the train arrived at 2:45, but he heard “dos” as “doce” or twelve. My Spanish is mortifying (well, not always, but often).

On the Metro (subway) in Madrid, I had to make a couple changes to reach the Charmartin train station. At the first change I stood waiting for the door to open until an exasperated woman reached around me and pushed the required button.

On the train to Palencia two plainclothes policeman searched the belongings of the young man sitting in front of me; he had long, dark dreads and looked to be a gypsy. They went through the myriad contents of his backpack with some care, but it wasn’t until they made him empty his pockets that they found what they were looking for. He pulled out a small, dingy and well-used plastic bag with a bit of weed at the bottom. The police tsk-tsked then took his name and address and the weed, before moving on up the train aisle. The young man had argued against the confiscation, but one of the policemen said it was the law.

I had arrived in Madrid at 7:30 in the morning—supposedly. But my body was not fooled by the 600 mph chase of daylight across the Atlantic. It was only around midnight for me, and I had barely slept on the plane. I dozed a bit on the train, and then had a late afternoon nap in Espinosa. This bit or rest helped, but did not fully prepare me for a night out with Manolo, Montse, and six of their friends. It turns out that I had arrived on the annual festival of the granjeros (farmers), which is observed all over Spain. Manolo and Montse and their friends, whom are all granjeros, celebrate annually with a dinner out together.

We drove to the nearby town of Amusco, to La Sinagoga, a restaurant and bar. After a drink at the bar upstairs, we descended to the bodega, a stone-vaulted chamber, long and high-ceilinged and filled with large round tables. We had the place to ourselves.

The meal began with four appetizers—pimiento relleno (red peppers stuffed with cheese and covered with an orange-colored sauce), thin slices of lomo (ham) and chorizo, grilled vegetables dribbled with olive oil, and something called puerro—a sort of cold pudding made from the green stalks of onion plants. I would not recommend puerro.

For the entrée, the women (Montse, Blanca, Marabell, and Amparo) all had some sort of fish in white sauce. I had a grilled fish, a lubino, I think. There had been some discussion about what type of fish I should have, a discussion I mostly stayed out of. But while the fish was quite good, I would come to regret the choice I had made when Manolo had asked me “¿carne o pescado?” I first experienced doubt when two large dishes arrived at the table—the first a huge platter topped with a giant piece of beef two inches thick, sprinkled on top with French fires (two of the men, Francisco and Mariano, shared the beef, polishing it off with ease and aplomb); better yet, though, was a large rectangular casserole dish filled with the leg and thigh and breast of a small lamb (lechazo), with scalloped potatoes occupying the interstices. This dish was shared by Manolo and Juan Carlos. Luckily Manolo asked if I´d like to try some. Yes, I would. Muy deliciosa.

Later my manhood would be questioned when I was the only one not to order dessert. I think it was anyway. I could follow the gist of the conversations throughout the long meal, but most of the details eluded me. After an initial few questions, I was mostly ignored—which suited me fine. I was left to eat and to try to listen and understand. I should say in my defense that I had eaten a large meal late in the afternoon, as soon as I arrived at the house in Espinosa—a big salad with garbanzo beans and tuna, a broiled chicken leg and thigh (doused in an incredible juice), and finally a bowl of natillas, a sort of thin custard and one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.

After the dinner at La Sinagoga, we drove to a the Bar Tagore in Osorno. There we pulled several couches together, with woman on one side of the circle, men on the other. The conversation soon split along gender lines. I tried to follow the men, but the noise and my fatigue made it difficult. My attention was also distracted by a tv above our heads, on which was showing a program called Los Jovenes Toreros: Apprendiendo a Morir (Young Bullfighters: Learning to Die). One clip of a 14-year-old being trampled and gored was shown over and over. Despite such excitement, I struggled to suppress my yawns and to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head. Finally, a little after two in the morning we set off for home.

I got up today at 1:30 in the afternoon, having to cover two nights sleep in a single night. I rose just in time for lunch. Spain is about eating, at least so far.

Once I leave Espinosa, I don´t imagine I´ll have such leisure and opportunity to write as much as I did today…. But I can already feel a strong urge to have some English time.

Could someone forward the blog url to Alix? I didn´t send the original email to her, and I can´t figure out how to type the “at” symbol on this Spanish keyboard.