“In a Little Spanish Town . . .”

by Gary White

So go the lyrics of a popular song from my youth. I actually had the opportunity to live out that dream in the years after Elyn and I were married. Elyn had done the research for her PhD in Cultural Anthropology in Spain. Her topic and her passion had been the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage that crosses the Pyrenees from France and then from east to west across the northern part of Spain. We traveled there in a summer and I met the family who had become her Spanish family when she was living in Spain and walking the Camino. I had always wanted to live in a foreign country long enough to move beyond the tourist status and this looked like the perfect opportunity. Her Spanish family invited us to come back to Sahagún and live, so in the summer of 1997 we packed up our things, sold most of them and moved to Spain.

First we walked the Camino, just as Elyn had done in 1982 when she was doing her dissertation research. Then we moved into the apartment that our Spanish family had found for us on a upper floor of a hardware store in downtown Sahagún. The apartment was luxurious by any standard and cost us a fraction of what we would spend in the U.S. for similar accommodations. My Spanish was nearly nonexistent, having forgotten all of my high school Spanish, but Elyn was quite fluent and I was willing to learn.

Living as a resident in another country is much different from being a tourist there. We had to negotiate such necessities as getting phone service, getting internet connections, the post office, the bank, grocery shopping, etc. In all these areas our Spanish family was more than helpful and in short order we were firmly established in town. Elyn’s language ability made everything work smoothly.

Our apartment had been decorated by the owner of the hardware store below. He was an accomplished interior decorator by Spanish standards and we had heavy Spanish furniture, an elaborate chandelier above the huge dining table and chairs, walls that had many coats of finish on them, and the standard persiana window coverings that all Spanish houses have to protect them from the heat of the afternoon sun. There were balconies in the front and the back overlooking ancient ruined churches and the bustling downtown area and two luxurious full bathrooms with the latest fixtures. The kitchen had a dish washer and a clothes washer of the latest design, along with complete sets of dishes, glassware, silverware, and cooking utensils. We only needed to unpack our personal items to be completely at home.

Our Spanish family, the Luna-Tovars took us in, just as they had Elyn many years before. We were invited to all the family dinners and outings and if we didn’t appear daily at the little book store that had been in the family for two generations the matriarch of the family, Paca would appear at our door and exclaim “have you died?” Not only were we welcome in the family, we had family obligations to fulfill.

At first, the novelty of everything kept me totally entranced. Grocery shopping was a new experience. There was the place that had the best meat, another for fish, a third for fruits and vegetables, and a small supermarket for the cleaning supplies and other non-eatables that we needed. Paca informed us of the best places to go and we would move from shop to shop accumulating what we needed.

Every Saturday there was a open air market on the streets below our apartment. There we could get nearly everything we wanted, from clothing to freshly roasted chickens. The streets filled with people from the surrounding areas and there was much pushing and shouting as people vied with each other for the attention of the sellers. One thing that became very obvious to me immediately is just how loud the Spanish people are. They seem to all talk at the same time and to shout at each other. At first I thought they might be angry, but that is just their way of being in the world. Soon I could push and shout with the best of them and every Saturday was a lot of fun and excitement.

Sundays were always the Luna-Tovar’s family dinner, which we were expected to attend. These dinners would start in the early afternoon and extend through the evening hours. There were seldom fewer than a dozen people in attendance, and just as on the streets, everyone talked at the same time in loud voices. There was much joking among the family and I took my share of the jibes, even though I was not good at retaliating. Much was made of my great size and indeed, I was taller by far than any member of the family. In fact, I was nearly the tallest person in all of Sahagún. The food was plentiful and we were expected to eat generous quantities. Lamb that had been roasted to perfection in the wood burning oven was absolutely heavenly and there were a large variety of vegetables prepared to perfection. The family made its own wine, which was served in generous quantities and they had hams that had been dried in the attic above the house until they were the standard Spanish ham that is prized all over the world. Paca was the master chef who could prepare the tortilla español in her special way and bake the best flan I had ever tasted. In the middle of the afternoon there was usually a lull in activity as everyone took a short siesta, but soon the family began to gather to eat again from the leftovers of dinner and the party was on again in full force.

I was totally unprepared for the rhythm of Spanish life. Spaniards usually get a rather slow start on the day and arrive around 9 AM at work after having little or no breakfast. They eat several small snacks during the early part of the day and close up shop at around 2 PM to go home for the afternoon siesta. Lunch, which is usually the largest meal of the day, would be served at around 3 PM and there would be a quiet time or even a nap, before returning to work at 5 or 6 PM. Shops would open again and remain open until around 8 PM. Then it was time for a light dinner before the evening activities began. People came out on the street en-mass in the evening. A typical evening would start with un paseo, a walk outside of town with conversations with neighbors and friends. Then the town square would fill with families. The adults would drink, play games, and socialize while the children ran and played together on the plaza. Just when I would think it was time to go home the real evening activities would begin. Bars and night clubs would be filled and drinking and dancing went on until after midnight. The hours for sleeping are short and when we complained that we needed to go home to sleep, we were told, “The more you sleep, the less you live!” We quickly became known as “sleepyheads” and our family teased us unmercifully for our American habits.

We were very happy in our little Spanish town until, in the spring, we began to feel a subtle oppression. Spain is a society where oppression is a strong part of their history. First, they were oppressed by the Spanish Inquisition, which ruthlessly stamped out all diversity, and ran the Jews and the Moors out of Spain after executing many thousands of them. The Inquisition was followed by an equally ruthless fascist state run by Generalissimo Franco. The country only emerged as a full democracy in the 1970s and many vestiges of both the Inquisition and fascism still exist. There is a national police force, created by Franco that remains a heavy handed presence in every small town. The Catholic Church was aligned with the fascist government and exerts itself in all areas of Spanish life. This is not a country that tolerates much diversity and we began to feel the subtle oppression, even though we were tolerated as the outsiders that we were and our Spanish family treated us with love and affection. I began to want to breathe freer air and we knew that our time in Spain was over.

The illness and death of both of our mothers added the final touch and we found ourselves on our way home. I did achieve my goal of living in a foreign country long enough to not be a tourist, and I was happy to be back in the U.S. again.