El Pueblo

By: S. Flanagan

Y que le voy a hacer si yo
Naci en el Mediterraneo
Y te acercas y te vas, despues de besar mi aldea
Jugando con la marea, te vas pensando en volver.

- Juan Manuel Serrat

San Martín de Trevejo is bittersweet. Every year I leave with the promise of coming back to her, even though if I had the choice, I wouldn’t leave. Maximo drives up the curved, slightly sloped hill and parks the car right in front of the house. He gets out and puts our baggage into the truck, which miraculously expands to admit it all. The most tearing time comes, when it is time to say goodbye. I cry inside, tears streaming under my eyelids as I hug my loved ones tightly. Who knows what the next year will bring, what changes will take place from now until then, but I leave knowing that I have made the most of the time I had. And like a departed loved one, San Martín abandons me like it has every year since I was born, only allowing me one last glimpse of it as I peer over my shoulder through the back windshield. But like the dash in the dates on the epitaph of a tombstone, it is the time between arrival and departure that counts.

San Martín sits in southern Spain, hidden among the hills of Sierra de Gata. It’s not on any map I’ve ever seen. Since I was born, I’ve been coming here every summer to revisit the family. The narrow cobblestoned streets are occasionally interrupted by patches of dark cement or stone slabs. Each house is connected to the next, like rows separated only by their changes in façade; doors are open and curtains kept down to keep the flies from getting inside. Walk east and you meet the river and the convent, and west past the swimming pools you can follow the road all the way up to the next town, Villamiel. Stone fountains await the visitor at each entrance, carrying sweet water from the springs at the top of the hills. The arroyo, less than half a meter long, runs though the spine of the town and branches off to irrigate the land and serve as mop water.

If you follow up la calle del fuerte, you pass my abuelo’s fuerte, his land that grows tomatoes, olives, pumpkin, and figs; next is the park, desolate to the eye until you’ve experienced it at night, playing tag with eyes closed on the metal slides as a seemingly mature teenager or a miraculous balancer of fifteen kids on the teeter-totter; walk some more and you reach Geli’s and Nista’s flat, my mom’s best friend and her father who used to hit me with his cane, light enough so you couldn’t complain but hard enough so it hurt; and passing the first pilón you arrive at our house, the different colored metal curtains hanging in front of the doorway to keep the flies from coming in; follow the arroyo up the sloped street that goes to the right and you meet the plaza. Here you can listen to the people speak, not Spanish, but Mañego, the language of the town, h’s substituted for f’s, trailing letters dropped off the tongue and some words changes entirely. The plaza is the scene of concerts during the month of August, a grand fountain surrounded by four bars. I enter in the usual one and Carmen, the lady at the bar, asks about my family. We talk as I sip on my Fanta.

Later I leave to where I spend many afternoons: Maricarmen’s house, an old wooden door one would not even notice on a stroll through the street. It sticks, so I push it open and follow the old wooden steps nailed with old screws all the way to the top, walk through the overlapping planes and slopes of the floor of the entrance rooms connected by steps to even them out and fitted with tiles of decorative, geometrical, Arabic art. When climbing up to the top floor, where the room is cluttered with guitars, drums, and a microphone that our aspiring band experiments with to pass the time, I am encountered with the painting of a beautiful sevillana who penetrates me with her stare, the beautiful epitome of the traditional Spanish woman. Around six or seven, we walk to the natural and municipal pools by means of the very same street. We lay our towels on the grass and play cards.

But there is no set schedule here, and one is free. Last summer I decided to do something else and go biking with my cousin Alvaro. We were active bikers, and rode kilometers everyday up and down the surrounding mountains. Today we decided to take an unknown route that headed through the mountains westward to Portugal. I barged into the kitchen to announce the plan to my abuela, who tried to dissuade me but only convinced me to put on a warmer jacket, and off we were. The climb up was short and the scenery of the stray bulls, cows, forest, and reddish monoliths at the tops of the mountains passed us in colorful blurs. Every once in a while Alvaro would yell something to me over his shoulder or we’d hit a bump and rattle the aluminum of our frames, or change the speeds of our bikes. But then another sound mixed in.

The soft pitter patter of rain drops, and more and more until suddenly we were caught in a thunderstorm, thick drops splatting on the back of our neck and soaking through our light clothing. We both took shelter under the same measly branch that boasted a few scattered leaves and decided to turn around and follow the main road back to the pueblo. In minutes we were completely drenched. Water dripped off my eyelashes and down my nose and lips, and pure excitement raced through my veins the same way I raced my cousin up the slippery, windy road. Once in a while a car would rush by and splash us with the water that skirted our from under its tire. The headlights approached and a whoosh of air would bring a refreshing chill. Except this car didn’t. This one stopped, the tires making a gravily noise against the road, emphasizing the traction it had with the pavement. This one was here to help, and almost disturbed our fantasy afternoon. It was my uncle, who carefully laid out cardboard and newspapers across the backseats for us to sit down on and packed the bike into the back. He scolded us halfheartedly for leaving in an oncoming storm, but a pleased grin never left his face. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud from the ridiculousness of the situation. I mean, here we were, newspapers and cardboard sticking to our wet butts, hair dripping water, singing along with the car radio in the middle of what became on the of the worst storms of that summer, after getting lost somewhere in the blurred borders of Portugal and Spain, and being rescued by a savior who drove a silver Audi.

Sometimes we have bodegas in family taverns, and aunts make traditional food, delicious octopus with paprika, savory jamón Serrano, tasty meals and suave fish and an abundance of bread and olives, and uncles and abuelos bring their house wine, fermented from their very own grapes. There is a display of old and ancient cooking instruments and farming tools, and there is laughter and storytelling. I help my Tita bring down plate after plate of food, and breathe deeply from the musky air, satisfied.

Other days we throw each other in the pilónes that are built around the pueblo. Pilónes are giant stone fountains with one single pipe that delivers the crispest, most delicious water from the springs. The cousins, a little older than I, usually start it. My cousin Tania, sitting on the stone steps and smoking a cigarette in her red cotton dress on, is picked up by her boyfriend, carried playfully all the way to the pilón, and dumped in. She marches out with hilarious frustration and pulls him in with her. One by one the family comes out and unless you are well hidden in the top floor of your house, you are guaranteed to follow the same suit. We all end up in the arroyo and a picture is taken.

Life is centered around family, and everyone returns to their own house for dinner. My abuela makes puree and croquetas, meats and fish, desserts and appetizers. Abuelo insists that the TV volume be made higher so that he can hear the weather report, and abuela tells him to be quiet. Mom tells them both to quit bickering, causing more ruckus herself, and my uncle and I grin as we eat our soup. I help clean up by sweeping the floor while mom washes the dishes. At night no one stays at home. My abuelos go sit out on the street to enjoy the company of each other and the company of their lifelong friends. Mom goes out with her childhood friends, Emma with her cousins. I get ready and leave too.

Apart from family, friends are the hardest things to leave. They are Alba and the way she linked arms with me and told me stories from her imagination that some would dismiss as childish but were beautifully woven together; Pablo, her twin brother, the way he confided in me and imitated my accent when I spoke English; Lucia and her hip haircuts and edgy style, the way she attracted looks from awestruck admirers wherever she ventured, and Ana, her little sister who looked up to her more than anyone else in the world but would never admit it. Carlos, his comforting touch and intertwined hand in mine as I pulled him along to wherever we were going next. LauraMora, the loud outspoken beauty who had a contemplative side too, and Carmen, who learned to play every instrument that is needed to make a rock band. Jose Luis, attached to his playstation, except for when we’d pull him outside and pretend he was a character form a video game that we could control. Laura with her “atcha, tia” and warm embraces, Nico with his corny jokes and stunningly handsome looks and , Sergio carrying around his phone as a permanent supply for music. Then there was me-the youngest, the foreigner, who every once in a while messed up in her Spanish but refused to speak English, and they’d accepted me with open arms.

Tonight, the band de locos was going to get a little crazy. We were going to watch the shooting stars from a clearing up in the mountains and brought some fireworks to celebrate. The stars exploded beautifully across the night sky just like the fireworks, except one of them created a spark that started a brushfire. Nothing big or dangerous of course, but enough to get the police to interrogate us the next day. Carlos, with his quick wit and a sarcastic stroke of his chin, blamed the fire on Borja, the most annoying kid in the area. Despite the busts of laughter that escaped each of us, the police never bothered us again.

San Martín offers a change form the ordinary, an accent that emphasizes my summer just as it does the name. Its significance for me could fill pages and pages, but there is no substitute for experience. I avoid retelling stories of Spain for fear they will lose their significance for me, or be lost to the tinted opinions of others. When I arrive, hearing Spanish is a breath of fresh air. Stepping on the ground, I feel enriched. This is my country and I pray that she once again accepts me. I am home.