When In Spain: Report from Castellon, Valencia

A windstorm blows outside and I have already had to barricade a window that broke. Up until I heard it break, I had not touched it in the least. It acts as a painful reminder of the door that shattered on me in Brazil in my host-family's home. This, at least, was not my fault. It does say a little something about Spanish design, at least in Castellon. In the apartment, the floors are nearly all stone tiles, which look rather chic and clean. Except that they are terribly cold and continue to absorb any heat in the rooms themselves. I spent four years in Minnesota and have become wet with rain while camping (in Nebraska) with my brother and father; yet none of those times have been as cold as I am when I try to sleep in a sleeping bag underneath a sheet and three blankets. Valencianos (I am in the state of Valencia) can easily and simply make things look good, but seem to consider comfort a secondary or tertiary quality of a living space.

Other than that, my stay has been rather wonderful. Castellon (or Castelló in the Catalan) is about two hundred thousand people--really just a shade under Lincoln--with both a more or less pleasant beach and enjoyable hills. In the hills, great bushes of rosemary and thyme grow, as well as wild sage, though it does not really compare in quality. I am inspired to make herb soaps with it if I can harvest enough and smuggle it back in; in the meanwhile I might make a fresh herb focaccia. Even more surprising are untended orange groves from which one can pluck the tastiest wee citrus fruits I have ever had; occasional grapefruit and almond trees also dot the landscape. I have never lived somewhere where I might pluck oranges from the tree; to say the least, it is a delight.

This is the coldest part of the year and it ranges from a chilly mid-autumn Minnesota day, or maybe a late one in Lincoln. Yesterday was the warmest day I have experienced in months. It was, at its peak, likely in the mid-fifties which for me means a simple sweatshirt. The locals bundle up in layers with fancy scarves and plain to chic jackets. Dustin, Miss Lauren (aka, Dustin's Lauren, Lauren George, and eventually Lauren Phillips; not to be mistaken with Miss Lauren Fulner, aka My Lauren), and I on the other hand leave the apartment or climb the stairs to the roof to warm up. Apparently, it snows a couple times a century here, but I don't know if I believe it, except in the mountains which were picturesquely flecked with a light dusting.

Time spent with Dustin and Miss Lauren is time much valued. They are fine company and have treated my generously. I met Dustin's best Spanish friend, Tomás, who is a well-traveled, seventy-five year-old man who seems to be acquainted with every other person in Vallencia. He helps Dustin with his Spanish, recently using an analogy to "test" Dustin's skill. The trick, for Dustin anyway, is to say, "Si, si," every ten or twenty seconds; to be more authentic, he ought to say, "Valé," which means something like "Okay." They have very light schedules allowing them a good deal of leisure, which is just their style. The city provides public bikes given that you register and return them after their use for others at various bike racks, and buses get you where you mostly need to go, though walking is hardly a chore here.

Being here inevitably recalls Brazil and the reality of language immersion. I could, given some time, probably pick up Spanish pretty well. I may just do that. Simple sentences make sense and often a word or two provide an easy anchor to the meaning of a phrase. All the same, Spain feels much easier that Brazil ever did--save for the company and encouragement of my companions. Poverty feels like a rarity instead of commonplace, even though Spain is not one of the wealthier countries of Europe. In a way, the lifestyles tap into simplicity and calm in an enviable way. This is particularly true following the "lived-in" feeling (i.e. abundant clutter and that feeling of thorough use) of other places I have stayed in. Oddly, this city feels "lived-in;" that is, its tightness, the pedestrian boulevards and wide sidewalks, the light on the buildings even suggest a self-assuredness that wide roads and parking lots, chain stores and sprawl fail to entail.

I would love to be here in a certain way, a manner I cannot easily articulate. I envy Miss Lauren and Dustin for the place and am then dismayed at the struggle they are experiencing it. My envy, though, is not green or negative; rather, I see their position as one slightly more comfortable and flexible, in many ways much easier than what I recall from Brazil. All the same, this is a big first for Lauren, and a smaller one for Dustin who has always been markedly well-adapted to the stations in which he finds himself. I know the feeling of yearning for the familiar and the need to relax one's brain after the perpetual effort of translation. All the same, the... escape, perhaps... novelty as well... sense of exploration and change of pace, the ability to look back and to peer forward from that vantage that a foreign place allows has such richness, such exuberance that I cannot help but acknowledge that I miss it in my own way.

Rugs and comforters would help, though.