A life, cascade of days remembered

I write this from a train bound for Barcelona where, according to the forecast, the days ahead will be full of rain. For a little over a week now, M and I have been in Spain to celebrate the holidays with my family who joined us from Manila a few days after our arrival. We rented an apartment along the bustling Gran Vía where thousands of pedestrians coursed through every night under the dancing lights of massive ad displays and Christmas decor strung across the busy road. Chatter in various tongues mixed in the air with the clatter of luggage wheels on cobbled streets and Christmas music overflowing from the giant retail stores. Most of our days thus far have been spent walking around the heart of Madrid, from the hip neighborhoods of Malasaña and Chueca to the streets of La Latina and the edges of Retiro Park. I marveled at the architecture of an old empire, sidestepped vomit and litter, gazed longingly at leather shoes and pastries displayed on shop windows, snapped photos of beautiful prints and design, stumbled over my basic Spanish. We seized the opportunity to enjoy the walkability of the city, no matter how sore it made our legs at the end of the evening.

As I waded deeper into the city, the library of my mind shifted in comparison, contrast, and discovery. A new row on the shelf for an expansion of the concept of siesta, records of Castillan Spanish next to Latin American Spanish, a short list of names of writers I want to read, new framed prints of lovely paintings hung on the walls of my memory. A minute yet significant change transpires in this intimacy between myself and this new world.

Naturally, I made it a point to explore Barrio de Las Letras, or the Literary Quarter, as a kind of pilgrimage to one of the city’s cultural centers. Place has memory and energy, and I always find myself invigorated by journeys to places where ideas and great stories first took root and flourished. Like stepping into a field of magic, such visitations always cause an interesting shift or expansion in my perspective. It’s purposeful, of course, because it requires that I seek out those storied buildings and read about the writers who frequented its streets, primarily the literary figures Miguel de Cervantes and Lope de Vega. Embedded in the well-trodded ground are Spanish verses and excerpts I tried to read, and every bar and tapería seemed to invite contemplation over a glass of wine. Later, I paid a visit to the famous bookshop Desperate Literature, where I purchased poetry books by Tomaž Šalamun and Alejandra Pizarnik, an issue of The Analog Review, and the bestseller by Simon Critchley, On Mysticism. The path I took towards the bookstore, coming from the direction of Paseo del Prado, was studded with second-hand bookstores and vintage shops I swooned over. Nearby, I strolled down the same spaces that helped shape Jose Rizal and his nationalist consciousness: Calle de Atocha, del Barquillos, Gran Vía. Many others, sadly, I had missed.

The highlight of our visit was definitely the Golden Triangle of Art which, with the Paseo del Arte pass, allowed us single-entry into each of the three big museums: Museo del Prado, Thyssen-Bornemisza, and Museo Reina Sofía. In Prado alone Michael and I had spent 3 hours exploring the basement and 2nd floors, leaving the 1st for a return visit later in the week.

As life goes, the trip didn’t go as planned, and we were unable to come back. A harrowing incident and some form of flu went around the group that essentially consumed three of our limited days. These days were spent running emergency errands and convalescing at the apartment with cups and cups of soup and ginger tea. In light of the new circumstances, we even had to shift our itinerary rather significantly. Whatever imagined vision I had of this time together faded in a blink.

Things, now, are as well as they can be. The emergency crisis — a private affair I may disclose after some time — seems to mostly have been averted. Herbal remedies from the local pharmacies have assuaged most of the symptoms, leaving most of us with only a sore throat and a light cold. Our noche buena feast was a makeshift dinner composed of the food in the fridge we hadn’t used up: packs of jamón Ibérico and Serrano, some frankfurters, a bag of salad greens, some spinach and arugula, orange juice, old bread. We supplemented this with some cheese, gambas, and padrón peppers from the grocery that, amazingly, was still open at 8 o’clock on Christmas eve. For wine, we opened a bottle of Hewitt that my family had carried from the Philippines. It had been recently discovered collecting dust in too-hot storage conditions in a forgotten room, but by some miracle and perhaps the quality of the winemaking, the drink remained perfectly enjoyable.

The train is passing swiftly through small hillside towns and rolling vineyards. Just now I sighted a reddish aqueduct. Above it all, a gray winter sky. I am still here on the loveliest vacation and we still have a handful of days ahead of us, but parts of me have already time traveled into both past and future. Split open, I can feel my excitement from the weeks leading up to this highly anticipated moment I now can’t seem to stay within, mingling with the uncertainty of what is yet to come, and the sadness of the inevitable leaving. In my chest is a beautiful stone heavy with existence. It is wrapped in fondness and gratitude for this life — these episodes of joy, illness, betrayal, bad weather, great food, unfortunate accidents, coincidences that allude to a great storyteller, love steeped in cups of hot tea.

So many of these days I will forget, though together with the remembered they all flow into the same stream of my life. It joins some great river, then an even greater sea, where I meet yours, and all the living and the dead. None of this matters; it all matters. The landscape, like the years, blurs into color in the window of the moving train.

Maligayang pasko, happy holidays, see you in the new year —