The Life in My Years

If I were asked to describe the face of Spain in two words I would offer, “joyful,” and “lighthearted.”

During three weeks of traveling throughout the country, whether it was in the metropolis of Barcelona or stopping for an hour in little Plasencia, I rarely saw anger or gloom or pessimism.

Okay, sure, there was that very first night in Spain and the sulky waiter at La Casa del Abuelo in Madrid. From seating, to the first portion of our meal he had the demeanor of a man who’d just sipped a bad batch of Tempranillo. It made us wonder if we’d stumbled into a nation of surly waiters. As it turned out, he’d apparently drawn the short straw and had to tend to the tourists; the greenhorns who didn’t know that in Spain, one doesn’t go to dinner at eight. He was a one man receptionist, bartender, maitre’d, waiter, cashier and busser. As reinforcements arrived, the man’s frown was turning upside down and by the time we left he was a happy chappy, bidding us a cheery “Gracias,” and offering a wave, as we left.

That half hour or so was the outlier. Everywhere we went we felt like we were in the presence of friends.

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El Mercado San Agustín was a five minute walk from our hotel in Granada. One Saturday morning, just as the market was waking up, we wandered around the many kiosks and purveyors. Though there were few customers, the place was already bustling. As the early shift busied itself with opening, more workers streamed in. It would, like every day at the market, be a busy day.

We were standing around figuring out what to do when a young woman motioned us over and asked us if we were looking for desayuno (breakfast). She had a bright, engaging smile.
“Si,” I answered, in a tone that must have sounded a bit uncertain. What was she trying to sell us?
Almost as if by legerdemain, a menu appeared in her hand and she began pointing out the different offerings. Her smile and her joy were infectious and we followed her to a table as if she were some culinary pied piper.

As Cora and I ate our breakfast I was struck by the camaraderie and cheer. There was work to be done and the day would be long and busy, but I saw no sign of discontent or grousing. Everyone seemed happy to be there and pleased with the company of their coworkers. Shouted hellos between kiosks, gossiping with regular customers and greetings for newcomers.

There is never a dull moment at Mercado de La Boqueria, in Barcelona. You snake your way through a crowd that flows through the entrances and floods the aisles. Whether you’re a customer looking for tapas or a vermouth cocktail, or a worker handling the never ending rush, patience isn’t a virtue, it’s a prerequisite. Enter without patience, and your experience is bound to be miserable.

At Bar Boqueria, where the stools are always full, two waitresses found a few moments, between taking orders, pouring drinks, herding customers, and hustling delicacies to waiting diners, to have a little chat. The woman on the left was a Filipina who found some moments to gossip with Cora about the old country, while trying to do a dozen other things, which included enforcing the loose, first come, first served protocol. In one moment she was sorting out line jumpers, sending them, heads bowed, to the rear, and in the next, she was upselling diners to order the live lobsters in the case in front of the counter.

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It was shoulder to shoulder and three to four deep at the jamon purveyor at Mercado San Miguel, in Madrid. Servers bounced from customer to customer and the only ones with a steady task that didn’t require scrambling about, were the jamon slicers. With a tempest of activity surrounding him, and using a razor sharp cuchillo jamonero, this jamon slicer calmly peeled wafer thin slices of porky goodness from a leg that was clamped to a nifty device called a jamonera.

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Below: Plaza Mayor, Madrid. Two waiters take a breather. These guys don’t bounce up to your table and introduce themselves in annoying, perky voices. They’re dignified and friendly at the same time.

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On a broiling day in Ronda, we took a break on a bench, under a shade tree, at Plaza Duquesa de Parcent. A man wearing Coke bottle sunglasses and a serious demeanor entertained passersby with some delightful flamenco guitar.

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Near Plaza San Miguel, in Madrid, we stopped to listen to an accordion player, play Time to Say Goodbye. The tune stuck with me through the evening, maybe in large part because he had such a sweet and kindly expression.

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Neither sweet or kindly looking, this performer in Barcelona’s Park Güell, was the essence of Spain’s passion and sensuality.

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Not every face was heartwarming. We arrived early for our tour of the Royal Palace in Madrid. Next door at the Royal Armory, a military procession was taking place. Stern, no nonsense members of the National Police made sure that tourists kept the way clear. They pointed and barked orders at some and gently persuaded others (usually young women). The soldiers themselves maintained their proper, soldierly aspect.

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La Catedral de la Almudena, in Madrid is stunning. Yet with all its majesty I was struck by this one painting that reminded me of the flinty old nuns in catechism. All that’s missing is a ruler to whack your knuckles with, as she warns you that you’re going to roast in hell for chewing gum in class.

But let’s end on a softer note.

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Our hotel in Madrid was on Gran Via, a street that never seemed to rest. At night, taxis were lined at cab stands and the sidewalks were alive with a gay, colorful never ending ribbon of people, out for dinner, shopping, entertainment or just to see and be seen. Just a few steps from our hotel was a theater on La Plaza del Callao where something was always going on.

One evening as I was returning to the hotel, I noticed that the plaza was more crowded and the people more giddy than usual. It was bedlam, particularly in an area of the plaza that was cordoned off. I glanced up at the theater marquee. Spanish singer Blanca Paloma had apparently performed in the theater and she and a member of her entourage were outside of the theater meeting the adoring public and the inquiring media. The crowd pressed up to the ropes but it was always controlled. Once people managed to take a few pictures and the teenagers got a chance to squeal and gush, they moved aside for the next wave. Never one to shy away from photographing a celebrity I waited my turn, took some photos, and returned to the hotel to Google, Blanca Paloma.