Mañana in España, mañana proximo
You´ve probably heard about them, the chain of hotels that wrap a sheer strip of lace across the mountanous Spanish countryside. The Parador hotel chain offers up sincere luxury-- a place where one can read an inscrutable David Foster Wallace text while admiring the scenery in Toledo from atop the generous viewpoint.
Even stranger is the sheer amount of Americans that frequent this establishment, no doubt sons and daughters of the destinguished elite.
Even so my stay was one dappled in the sweet honey of luxury. One day here and already I feel rejuvinated, like a Spanish caballero. The kind of relaxation that can only be bought. We´re driving in a rented Mercedes -- a four-door hatchback which navigates through the barren olive fields of Andalucia well enough not to notice the glaring looks from the oncoming traffic.
The Spaniards are an incredible lot. They always seem to find the time to stop and have a caña, even if that time is in the middle of the afternoon.
My wife and I feel like imposters, travelling through this hot country with all the elan and panache of a visiting group of dignitaries from places unknown. She speaks a bit of French, and I a bit of Spanish, so between the two of us we manage to patch together a sort of piece-meal language, borrowing from our own patchwork frameworks.
Do I feel reborn? Of course I do, how could I not with James Joyce and the aforementioned David Foster Wallace as my compact compatriots. I´m never alone as long as the free tapas come gratis with a caña or jarra, depending on my mood.
My thoughts turn towards America, and my life there, from time to time, mostly at night, when the sleep comes well earned, and full of spices, like the chorizo autentico de Andalucia.
These thoughts of my home place, they are present, but tend to hover over me like the feeling after a day´s travels in a cafe´, tapas, or cervezeria.
The way of life, the jovial desire to let everything go. The certain vivre, gusto whatever you call it, that I somehow forgot I had somewhere along the line. My Spanish makes me wish I had ten more lifetimes.
It´s late here, the sun has long ago shut down for the night, and the prowlers are loose on the streets of Grenada, and the Alhambra beckons from atop another mountian side, egging me on, making me more grounded, young and boisterous than I ever was.
Buen Provecho Señores y Señoras.
Arbusto en Catalan
Even stranger is the sheer amount of Americans that frequent this establishment, no doubt sons and daughters of the destinguished elite.
Even so my stay was one dappled in the sweet honey of luxury. One day here and already I feel rejuvinated, like a Spanish caballero. The kind of relaxation that can only be bought. We´re driving in a rented Mercedes -- a four-door hatchback which navigates through the barren olive fields of Andalucia well enough not to notice the glaring looks from the oncoming traffic.
The Spaniards are an incredible lot. They always seem to find the time to stop and have a caña, even if that time is in the middle of the afternoon.
My wife and I feel like imposters, travelling through this hot country with all the elan and panache of a visiting group of dignitaries from places unknown. She speaks a bit of French, and I a bit of Spanish, so between the two of us we manage to patch together a sort of piece-meal language, borrowing from our own patchwork frameworks.
Do I feel reborn? Of course I do, how could I not with James Joyce and the aforementioned David Foster Wallace as my compact compatriots. I´m never alone as long as the free tapas come gratis with a caña or jarra, depending on my mood.
My thoughts turn towards America, and my life there, from time to time, mostly at night, when the sleep comes well earned, and full of spices, like the chorizo autentico de Andalucia.
These thoughts of my home place, they are present, but tend to hover over me like the feeling after a day´s travels in a cafe´, tapas, or cervezeria.
The way of life, the jovial desire to let everything go. The certain vivre, gusto whatever you call it, that I somehow forgot I had somewhere along the line. My Spanish makes me wish I had ten more lifetimes.
It´s late here, the sun has long ago shut down for the night, and the prowlers are loose on the streets of Grenada, and the Alhambra beckons from atop another mountian side, egging me on, making me more grounded, young and boisterous than I ever was.
Buen Provecho Señores y Señoras.
Arbusto en Catalan
posted by Kronski | 2:31 PM
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