The Village of Immortal Spaniards

Before being offered the opportunity to squirrel myself away in a random-ass house in the middle of a random-ass part of Spain, I was a card-carrying member of American society. My groceries are delivered to me, because the nearest town (some 10 kilometers away) has a grocery story that will deliver your stuff, free of charge, provided you spend more than €50. I don’t have a car, because I’m probably not going to be here forever, renting ain’t cheap, and the road signs are difficult to decipher. Plus, my Spanish is still el-sucko, and I’m pretty sure I would need additional paperwork.

It’s quiet here. Tranquil. Tranquillo, is one of my favorite new words. The town I’m living in has a population of approximately 80 (coincidentally, the median age of this village’s inhabitants), and is located on the edge of this massive amber-colored field that stretches on into infinity. I’ve needed the privacy, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. My aunt, always the coolest of chicks, owns this house, and she said I could come over and house sit while she’s getting some globetrotting in, free of charge. Pay for my own ticket and make sure my passport is up to date, and head on over. 

Half the time, I’ve been getting some work done, but have also squeezed in the time for some personal writing. The other half of the time, I’m either sleeping, binging on some shows I’ve wanted to watch, or am taking advantage of getting off my lazy ass to go for a stroll. It’s a nice way of being able to control this narrative: I can spend time in the house to my heart’s content and everyone just leaves me alone. But if I want to go out for some fresh air, I can do so with some confidence that it will be just that — an easy walk where I don’t have to be on my guard as much as I was back home.

I don’t know what it is about the people who live here. Maybe it’s the language barrier; maybe Spanish people are just polite (they really are); maybe it’s that folks here just don’t give a shit… there’s this impression of “ah, no worries, we’ve seen it all before, whatever” that I either never experienced in my day-to-day life back home, or maybe I did, but my defences were always so heightened that the cool people — the ones who didn’t cross the street to hit on me, or ask if I needed help, or what-it-was o’ clock because their phone wasn’t working, and they were trying to figure out why not, but I know they had it pulled out to record some video, or God forbid, the outright gropers [“Are they real? Can I touch them?” as they had already cupped one with a lift to measure its heft… More women do this than guys, to be fair, but fuck you, this is my body and we’re not in some sisterhood just because we both have vaginas, you crazy bitch] — faded into the static. 

But when I’ve been walking around town, and on the rare occasion I see someone, there’s barely an acknowledgement that I’m different. Sure, there’s that occasional eye flick accompanied by a furrowed brow, and yes, there’s always the little kid who will point and look at their mom with this expression like, “Mommy? What the hell is up with this chick?”

And then, yesterday, there was that one ancient woman who prattled on in a particularly drawl-y dialect of Spanish, who took it upon herself to bemusedly chortle as she waved her hands around my boobs. I could make out the words los hombres and encantada as she made “presto!” flicks with her gnarled, work-worn fingers, a giant, benevolent grin spread across her face. But she was old, and eccentric, and a damned hoot, and exactly the kind of woman I would want to be when I’m too old to care, and she reminded me of the grandmother from Coco, so when she laughed, I did too, and in what broken Spanish I know, was able to respond with a close approximation of “I know, right? They’re freaking huge!” And then she patted one the same way she would have patted one of her grandkids on the cheek, and told me to follow her inside her little centuries-old stone house. She went through the door easily because she was tiny; I thwacked my head on the way in, and she just laughed again. Building standards regarding door heights didn’t exist in Spain back when, across the Atlantic sea, Jamestown was nothing more than a romantic little tobacco growing outfit that was just getting off the ground. 

She asked me to take a seat at the dining room table, as she continued talking, punching words as she flailed her little hands in the air. She turned on an electric kettle and took a jar of Nescafé off the shelf. I think she knew that I didn’t understand a word she was saying, but she didn’t really give me a chance to cut in edgewise anyway. I think she just enjoyed having the company. A little milk, a little sugar in this dainty old chipped tea cup, set it on a plate, and a little swirly cinnamon cookie stick thingy. 

I managed to understand un momento as she tottled off into the next room, through a doorway even shorter than the one I had come in through. I looked around the room, half wondering what the hell I was doing here all of a sudden, and the other half of me going along for the ride. This didn’t seem like the kinda woman who was going to spike my coffee and sell me off into a life of indentured servitude, especially not with the aged portrait of sad Jesus (crown of thorns edition) hanging next to the curio cabinet, so what the hell. Life, I like to remind myself when I have the perspicacity, is only made out of the experiences that involve stepping outside your comfort zone a little. 

She returned a few moments later with a scuffed up red leather book — a photo album. She set it down on the table, and together, we reviewed a lifetime of pictures. Mi abuelito, she said, pointing to an old photo of a very proper mustachioed gentleman. One of those pictures where you had to sit still for 10 minutes while the exposure was setting so the image didn’t blur. Wedding pictures (from dozens of weddings); family portraits; one big group image that reminded me of that black-and-white photo from the end of The Shining; a particularly stirring moment when she seemed to imply that the woman in the picture was her sister, but she was with God now (totally cried a little, because this woman had my emotions on a leash at this point); and as the book went on, and the pictures shifted from yellowed, to grayscale, to color, to ones that were printed out on sheets of printer paper, she stopped at one in particular. Mi nieto, she said, tapping her finger on the plastic-covered page. 

“Grand-e-son.” It was the first time she said anything in English. 

“Si,” I said. “Tu nieto!”

“El es muy hermoso, si?”

Awww, that was it. All of a sudden, the pieces of the puzzle settled into place. I am absolutely not (nor have I ever been) particularly keen on the idea of being set up with anybody. But it is a truth universally acknowledged that when an old woman, especially one who is as unabashedly proud of her family as this old woman was, tries to set up up with her grandson, the only acceptable response is to (at the very least) nod your head and express your agreement. 

“Oh, siii…” I replied, nodding my head, and giving my enthusiasm a kick. “Muy hermoso! Que guapo!” I was proud of myself for thinking of an additional word to describe male beauty. And for what it was worth, he was pretty handsome. Objectively speaking. Still don’t want to be hooked up by anyone’s grandma. She gave my boob another pat-pat as she said something else and cackled herself to watery eyes.

Spanish families actually visit each other on a regular basis. It’s just part of the culture. So I imagine, at some point soon, he’ll bend over to give his abuelita a hug, and she’ll sit him down, probably at the same table I was sitting at, and tell him about this woman she met who lives in the village. In some Spanish equivalent, she’ll say, “She is very pretty, she is a nice American girl with black hair and dark blue eyes, and I told her all about you, and she thought you were haaaaand-sooooome.” (subtext: “Settle down and marry someone and give me a great-grandbaby, dammit!”)

And he’ll roll his eyes a little, but he’ll be a good sport about it, and he’ll agree that yes, she sounds like a very nice person, because another cultural universal is that grandchildren are always nice to their grandparents when there’s love and enthusiasm involved. 

By the time I left the house, and had given her some kisses on her cheeks (her arms made it about three quarter of the way around me), I was actually feeling really nice. I had this elated feeling you get when you have a nice conversation that takes you outside your comfort zone. This old lady reminded me of my grandma, and reminded me of how I haven’t called her enough. I went back home and hopped on Skype, and gave my grandma a call. 

I’m sure I’ll see the old lady again. She knows where I live after all (I think everyone in town probably does, because when there’s someone new in a small town, everyone finds out, because small towns are boring and gossip spreads fast). And when I do, hopefully I’ll have a few new phrases in tow. 

And she might say that she told her grandson all about me, and that he will be there in a couple of weeks, and that I should come over for dinner (something I’m sure she wouldn’t have shared with him in advance, crazy octogenarian cupids being what they are). At which point, I will have to say yes, because, again, politeness and cultural universals. Oh, and good Spanish food.

But I’ll actually probably be excited about it. Human interaction isn’t a bad thing, and she’s a sweet lady, and again, Spanish food. And of all the physical qualifiers she shared with him, I think there are some she kept close to her chest, lady to lady, out of decorum at the very least. If this dinner ever does take place, he’ll know I have black hair, and dark eyes, and am pretty, and am American. But she’ll probably have left the part about tetas enormes out of the picture.