Silvia came to the Cafe while the coffee was still filling the upper portion of the espresso maker. She had a well-used daypack over her shoulder, and she started filling it with food, a loaf of olive bread, homemade plum jam, dried figs, a jar of tabbouleh with cucumber and chopped mint, two wooden bowls and two spoons. She put the goat cheese someone had given us the day before in a small widemouthed jar, four apples, and two liters of water from the tap on the counter. I assumed I was to carry that. Strangely enough, I was melancholic to be leaving Blondie for two nights, even though he probably wouldn’t notice I was gone.
I reminded myself to stick to the plan. “Blondie is the problem, and going further into the woods will give me some peace mind.”
“Bring your sleeping bag, and a sweater. It sometimes gets cold up there.”
After filling our bellies with a large fruit salad and some toast with tahini and honey, we walked across the field and up one of the trails towards the mountains. I couldn’t believe I’d been in the village for over a month and still hadn’t walked up there. I had never been so shy in the past. If someone had told me paranormal experiences are normal, perhaps I would have explored more freely, rather than waste so much energy second guessing myself all that time.
Lila was right, there were many swimming holes deeper and more secluded than mine further up the stream. The trail paralleled the Darro upwards for many kilometers. We passed ten foot waterfalls under looming chestnut trees and twisted oak trees.We passed an old stone bridge arched over the pure flowing water. Countless enchanted spots invited us to stop, with moss covered rocks to sit on, surrounded by ferns, but we kept walking in silence. I felt at ease with Silvia. I’m couldn’t remember why I had ever been afraid of her.
“What made you decide to come to Spain in the first place?” Silvia asked about an hour into our trek.
“I was in Spain two years ago, and I made some good friends who I lived with for awhile. I came to visit them.”
“Are you still going to?”
“I don’t know, Silvia. I’m sure you noticed I was acting rather strange when I first met you. I still feel a bit lost.”
I was walking in front. The trial in front of me looked like a scene from the Hobbit. With a swell of emotion, I stopped and looked at Silvia in the eyes, which are very dark brown.
“Silvia, I don’t know where I’d be now if it weren’t for you. Thank you so much for everything.”
She breathed air out her nose in an affectionate laugh, and she squeezed my arm.
“You’d be just fine. Be happy. You worry too much.”
In the past tears would have spilled down my red face, but something had shifted. I experienced the world from the inside more now. I smiled and kept walking.
I pondered what she said. “Maybe it’s anxiety then.” I had ruled out enlightenment and being psycho. “Anxiety or depression maybe. Hey! She said to stop worrying.”
“Aia, where do your friends live who you were going to visit?”
“I met them in Granada, but we rented a house in the Alpujarras. We had really amazing landlords. Agus and Bea Eterno.”
“You know Agus?! Oh my God! You’ll have to tell that to Marco. He’s told me about all the work Agus has done to try and protect the acequias around there.”
“Yeah. Agus is like a father to me. Actually I came back more to see him than my friends even.”
“What about your real father? Is he in your life?”
“He is, and he’s great. I don’t think he’ll ever appreciate the things I value though. My mom and I are more similar.”
“That must be hard to feel like your dad doesn’t really accept you.”
“I’m used to it. He accepts me more now that I got a job. I’m not sure I want to take it anymore though.”
“Are you thinking you might stay here?”
“I want to live more simply, like you and your friends do. It doesn’t feel right to simply take advantage of everything you’ve established in the village though. I want to work hard and create a life I believe in myself.”
“It that your voice or your dad’s voice talking?”
We walked some more in silence, enjoying the wildflowers along the path, peace of the tree people. Trees are role models of community. The highway was no longer audible.
“Who is Marco?”
“Marco is an old friend of mine. He’s a lawyer from Madrid and he does a lot of pro bono work for the okupa movement. I don’t know if you heard, but Nu was put in jail when the lower village was torn down. They arrested him for building without a permit. Basically the police didn’t like his attitude, because he wasn’t the only one building houses, although his were the most beautiful. He learned to do finish carpentry with wood in Morocco. I introduced Nu and Marco, but I had been friends with Marco before that.”
“You mentioned you had a favor to ask me if Marco is coming. What is it?”
“Oh, right. On the full moon of July, every year here, there is a big party in the woods at some friend’s of ours. Marco used to come to every one, but he hasn’t made it the last few years. Somebody needs to keep the Cafe open in case anybody stops from the road wondering what’s going on. I was going to ask if you and Blondie could stay open late that night?”
“Are you kidding, Silvia? After all the things you’ve done for me! Just let me know if there’s anything unusual I need to know.”
“Thanks a lot. I’ll give you somebody’s cell phone number in case you need to call. Blondie has a phone right?”
“Uh huh. How did you meet Marco?” I changed the subject, stopping to sip some water, then passing the bottle to her.
Silvia drank and then paused. She was looking down at some large rocks where she propped one foot. Frown wrinkles I had never seen before were pursed by her lips.
“When I was pregnant, I was really scared Rafa would find me and kill me and the baby. He was really fucked up, so I hired Marco to try and arrange a fake death for me. I wanted him to make me die on paper, and help publish an ubituary and all that, in Barcelona, so Rafa would stop looking for me.”
I wasn’t expecting such a sordid response.
“So are you legally dead now?”
“No. Marco convinced me not to do it and to get counseling instead. He was right. It would have been especially inconvenient for Cas otherwise.”
“Could Macro make somebody disappear like that? Isn’t that illegal?”
“I don’t think he could. He helps immigrants a lot, and he knows all the loopholes with social security numbers and that kind of stuff. He’s an odd lawyer, because he only takes jobs he believe in.”
“Did Rafa ever find you guys?”
“My friend in Barcelona came and visited, before Cas was one, to tell me that Rafa had overdosed and died.”
I decided to stop asking questions. I would wait for her to share more if she wanted, without making her dig up the past. Silvia walked on, and I watched her sprite body bob over the rocks ahead of me. She was so hip, always dressed in black. Even her wisps of white hair were incredibly classy. No matter where she was or what she was doing, she was poised, as if she had never given up balancing across a tightrope forty feet in the air.
.......
We stopped to eat lunch on the top of a ridge with panoramic views of the Sierra Nevadas to the east, the Vega to the south and valleys and mountains to the north and west. The trail headed down from the peak, with one bent tree growing on the top, into a natural meadow of tall grass. There were no signs of human activity anywhere to be seen, except for the stone platform where we were resting. Two or three hours later, after traversing the tall grassy meadow and climbing the densely wooded mountains behind that, we arrived at The Vines.
First we passed a few smaller trails branching off from the one we were on. Then we saw a house in the woods made of mud bricks, wood posts, and branches as a ceiling. After that, the trail opened up to another clearing with a view to the west. Several grassy mounds had chimneys coming out of them, and doorways and windows gaped in the earth like dark mouths. Each dwelling had outbuildings around it, with open walls and thatched roofs, workshops and outdoor living space. No running water was visible anywhere, but many hand tools, fruit trees and gardens portioned the well trodden ridge into well-choreographed paths, leading every which way. Only one building stood above ground. It was impressively large, with dark wood structural beams exposed in the adobe walls giving it a folkloric facade. The wide back of the building was built directly into a ledge of rock which jutted straight into the sky on one side of the field. The other end of the building opened onto a wide patio of natural stone slabs, surrounded by two rings of grape arbors, which appeared to be as old as me. Wooden benches lined the round corridor of overhead vines, and a cascading view of the mountains to the west shone through the lush green foliage and ripe clusters of dangling grapes.
I saw some familiar faces from the market. Everyone was busy, hanging up clothes on a dead tree branch wrack outside one of the dugout houses, leading a mule with firewood on its back, carrying baskets full of fruit or armloads of herbs. They all knew Silvia and smiled at us. I followed her straight onto the patio surrounded with vines and into the large building. There was no glass in the windows, only large shutters, for when it gets cold. The back wall of the whitewashed hall was a natural crevice in the cliff, about twelve feet high and ten feet deep. Blending in with the gray stone, a broad chimney towered above a widespread fireplace and disappeared up the crevice. This masonry contained some cement.
“It must have been a lot of work carrying bags of concrete powder all the way up here!” I thought, as I spun around marveling at the rest of the room.
To the east was a communal kitchen with a lower ceiling. The rest of the space had high walls, a homemade-looking terra-cotta tile floor, and large windows faced west, where the sky was beginning to flare sunset colors. An ancient woman sat by the fireplace, although it was not lit on that balmy summer day, grinding raw garlic and dried pepper in a stone mortar. Several people were busy in the kitchen, and one of them exclaimed happily when she saw us.
“Silvie!!!! And this must be Aia? Hi I’m Yolanda.” She already had her arm around Silvia’s shoulder. They were like two scrawny little girls in the playground, and she smiled lovingly at me. “Welcome.”
“It’s beautiful here. Thank you for having me.”
“It’s a special day, and there’s lots you can do to help get ready. Since Candela and Jav are not getting married, this baby shower is the big celebration when the couple’s families coming together. She must be about your age. Come. Let me show you around and then you can help cook!”
I liked this woman already, and I didn’t feel sorry for her at all that her husband had cheated on her. She was joyful and gave herself completely to her surroundings, without the slightest ting of being wounded. Yolanda introduced me to her mom, who must have been over 100 years old, whose German accent was even more pronounced. Yolanda, who was at least fifteen years older than Silvia, but still looked close to forty, led me outside. From the patio she pointed out some landmarks in the distance, and down along a steep trail where she told me the fountain was.
“The men will have a ceremony for Javi down there tonight, and we ladies will stay here.” She gestured to the circle of grape vines around where we stood, which looked like a parody image of paradise, in the golden light of late afternoon.
For some reason I wanted to cry. I felt like something had been missing all my life, but I didn’t know what. Did I miss Blondie? Well, I always pined for him lately, but something much deeper was aching in my chest, clenching my throat, swelling in my eyes. It was a mixed feeling, like finding something I had lost that was very important. I held back tears of joy.
The social scene was hard to figure out. Silvia told me that Candela is pure gypsy, from el poligono, the neighborhood in Granada where the mayor tried settle the nomads. They just tore out the copper water pipes, sold them as scrap metal, and continued making fire and riding horses in the streets. It was clear that many gypsies were present, judging by the number of men sporting mullets. Short mullets, with just a mild poof of hair on top and some straggly bits trailing down the neck, and long mullets, like Jimi Hendrix in the front and Don Juan in the back. There were all other sized mullets in between. It takes a lot of conviction to pull off this hair do, but it is timeless when it works. Michael Jackson long rocked the mullet, when he was both of his races, but maybe that’s a bad example. With my carelessly lopped off hair, I would have fit right it, if I was a guy. The women were much more beautiful than the men, which is often the case. I soon started checking them out instead, admiring their long healthy wild hair. Of all the goddesses present, Candela was the most precious of all. Even being very pregnant, she was dignified and graceful, her perfect skin the color of dulce de leche. The mother-to-be was the archetypal vision of femininity, a wide smile with gleeful dimples, sensuous movements, a spherical belly. Strands of black wavy hair were clasped behind her neck, where a blood red rose was placed.
Among the gypsy guests, who presumably had all walked the long path to The Vines earlier that day or the day before, were the mountain residents themselves, a bunch of grungy new age folks. They planted grass on their roofs, made their own tools and clothes, and carried water to their outdoor washing stations and gardens, from a spring in the forest, on horseback. Combining Andalusian gypsies and Spanish bohemians is a bit like combining Dead Heads with members of the Tea Party. Political extremists, liberals and conservatives alike, and people who couldn’t care less about politics, have a lot in common. They tend to ignore issues regarding the welfare of those less fortunate than themselves. Granted, politicians are mostly all in the hands of big business. Nevertheless, society has made some progress in providing services for people who cannot care for themselves. I considered myself a moderate observer of all concerned. Typecasts always fall short of reality. Dead Heads tend to engage in grassroots social activism, more than your average Tea Party follower, or Libertarian for that matter, who so verbosely boast the utopian theme. Conversely, a single member of either of the later sects can often be found smoking more weed than a whole family of Dead Heads combined.
On the subject of marijuana. Smoking it in Spain is a bit like drinking Red Bull in the United States. It is still regarded with an air of scorn, by people who watch so much television they don’t even notice their malaise or lack of personal efficacy to provoke them to try and escape it. I caught the whiff of a few joints being passed around as people prepared for the feast, but it was a very wholesome affair with lots of model kids running around. I didn’t get high. I would have actually preferred to come down a few notches. Something haunting and elusive still fluttered in my chest.
Yolanda assigned me the task of making a salad that looked big enough for a hundred people. First I washed the lettuce in a large steel bowl, drying it by swinging it outside in a dishtowel. Then I washed and cut peppers, cucumbers, fennel and grated carrot. I added some chopped apple, (as Siliva had taught me), with lemon juice to keep it from turning brown. With me in the kitchen were Candela’s parents and Javier, her handsome partner. Candela’s father was not cooking. He was chain smoking cigarettes near the window while his wife and Jav prepared dinner. They were making couscous, Morrocan style, steaming the couscous over vegetable broth and sauteeing the sauce separately with caremelized onions, prunes, roasted almonds, and cinnamon.
“This is my worst nightmare!” Proclaimed Candela’s father. He spoke with one of the lowest voices I had ever heard, and had a majestic curly black mullet, with grey roots that showed where the dyed tendrils were growing out. He wore elegant kakis and a silk shirt with dark paisleys on it. “My only daughter running away with a skinny payo!”
Payo is a condescending word for anyone who is not of the gypsy race.
“I’ve already corrupted your daughter, so you’d better be nice to me now!” Javier shot back.
“I’ll show you being nice!”
Candela’s mom swatted Javier’s butt with a wooden spoon and started chasing him around the hall, the two of them laughing.
“Is this what you’re going to do to me every time I come visit?” Cried Jav, pretending to run as fast as he could from the obese woman ready to thrash him.
“No, even worse. We’ll come move in with you if you don’t visit often enough!”
When they came back to the counter, out of breath, the unemployed father boomed. “Well, lucky for you that you can sing, son, although you dance like a scarecrow!”
Gypsies are not perfect either. Like anybody, they can be superstitious and closed-minded. I could understand, though, that for someone, who’s people have proudly given the finger to imperialism for thousands of years to date, marrying their daughter to a white man could seem unfortunate.
“I must admit, in that department, you’ll always have me beat!” Javier surmised fairly. “Let’s hope the kid inherits your genes for dancing!”
Effortlessly shouting now, the patriarch bellowed, “That kid is going to inherit everything from me!”
“Blessed be. Lord have mercy!” Prayed Candela’s mother.
“You’re such a pain in my ass!” Javier shook his head and chuckled. Putting down his spoon, he grasped his mother-in-law’s shoulders and kissed one of her squishy cheeks strongly. Then he approached the regal bear in the window and kissed his smoke stained stubble as well. “I’m going to check on the goat. I’ll be back.”
We had goat, roasted slowly over rosemary wood, for dinner. There were probably only thirty or forty people at the meal. Many of the other mountain dwellers must have gone home. After dinner the women and the men separated to honor the young people about to become parents. The men filed away into the darkness along the path to the spring. The ladies made a circle on the patio with candles in glass jars all around us, a fire cauldron in the center. My tears were able to flow then, but everyone was crying so it didn’t matter. It is so beautiful to hear what women say to each other when they are reflecting one another’s strengths. Candela drank in the words of encouragement meant for her, but the atmosphere nourished everybody. I still wasn’t sure why I felt torn. What was it that I longed for? Perhaps it was just a lost part of me. If so, she must have looked exactly like this primitive goddess glowing across the bonfire from me, ready to take on the world for her baby. The world is my child. My child is a poet.
.......
The next morning Silvia and I awoke early on the floor of the main hall when a group of people came to practice yoga. Yolanda was leading the session, and about fifteen people, men and woman hailed the sun, contorted themselves into many strange shapes, bowed slowly with their hands on their hearts, and then meditated. They all seemed to know what to do without instruction. I copied Yolanda and felt silly for imitating a spiritual practice I knew nothing about. At the end they surprised me by standing in a circle holding hands and singing the lord’s prayer in a beautiful simple melody. The day had hardly begun, and I was crying again. This place, which felt so much like home, pushed me over the edge, for some reason.
I have known many people, myself included, who often scoff at Westerners who dabble in various spiritual traditions from around the world. Hearing the reverence in the mountain people’s voices singing the Lord’s prayer helped me realize you don’t need to specialize in one religion to be spiritual, unless you take everything literally, which is missing the point anyway. As long as you can translate for yourself, all initiations lead to the same thing: the experience of unity, love and freedom.
One of the things I am proud of had always been my audacious goal of pioneering my own spiritual path. Many reasonable people turn up their noses as they decline a nibble from the modern day smorgasbord of the divine. Ironically they are not queasy to partake in thousands of other goodies and products of globalization, eating pineapples in winter, driving Asian cars, buying a bargain sweatshop suit etc. As the cultures of the world merge into oblivion, why not relish the best of what they can reveal before they are lost? Even if it is our birthright to reinvent the wheel of religion, personally within ourselves, its less arrogant to acknowledge that trillions of other people have done the same before.
“Our father, who art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
For thine is the kingdom, and the power,
And the glory, for ever and ever.
Amen”
Just as people were departing after yoga, with the sun peeking over the tips of the trees to the east, and dew swirling into white steam from the grassy slope, I recalled the previous night’s dream. I was with Cas. We were making love. As he was looking down from above, we adored each other, and we felt the same thing at the same time.
.......
I’m so glad we stayed another night. The fire cauldron was dragged from amidst the grape vines onto the grass where people could sit on the ground more comfortably. Rounds of wood served as stools, and a few chairs were brought out for Yolanda’s mom and Candela’s parents. Orange light rippled from the central flame onto the three tiers of people, mountain dwellers and Candela’s friends and relatives interspersed, lounging on the ground, sitting on stumps, and standing with their backs in shadow. Musicians took turns, but the gypsies soon dominated. Structured by polyrhythmic clapping, they bore their souls, one by one, its rawness rendered sublime through the courage of honesty. Ordinary people were transformed into creative geniuses when prompted by their hearts, to step into the center to dance solos next to the fire, or sing from their seat on a stump, each with their own unique voice. Authenticity is one thing that cannot err. A mystical transfusion happens when one person witnesses another person surrendering to personal catharsis. The inner alchemy is contagious through art. Javier was brave to interject. Performances by people who have been immersed in art since they were in the womb it is a hard act to follow.
“I would like to share a song with all of you which is not a flamenco song. It is a cheesy pop song from Mexico. It is not even a love song. Candela and her family have given me so much through their music. It has given me back my self, which I was running away from. Many things have changed since I met Candela four years ago. I would like to take this moment to thank you, and your family, for reminding me that life is not about trying to overcome the selfishness. It is about becoming one’s true self. Hopefully this won’t sound egotistical, but I am done trying to rid myself of my ego. Candela deserves better than that. Throughout my life I was told that the ego is greedy, arrogant, and weak, parasitic. I tried to be selfless for years, to be of service, to reduce all forms of self-interest. From now on, my self-interest is to be the most dynamic person I can be, to be worthy of this gorgeous magical woman’s company. This baby does not need a selfless father, but a father who is real, who loves life, and lives it fully! I learned this from my new family. I offer this song, to share a part of myself that is now in the past. I sing it with gratitude, especially to you Papi, for inspiring me to be the best man I can be. Your daughter is the most vibrant and alive person I have ever met, and I will forever strive to keep up with her.”
Everyone was quiet after this speech. Javier, who had been accompanying many songs with his guitar strummed this tune alone, the warm light reflected gold as honey on the front of his guitar. His eyes glistening as he glanced up and smiled at Candela.
“To my ego!” He murmured and then sang:
“Why did I not kiss you deeply in your soul when I still could?
Why didn’t I embrace my life while I had one?
And I, who didn’t realize how much you were suffering,
Didn’t know how much harm I was causing.
How is it that I never noticed you were not smiling anymore,
That before turning out the light, you no longer said anything,
That love had got away, that the day had arrived,
That you didn’t feel me anymore? It stopped hurting.
I was dedicated to ridding myself of you,
And I was absent for moments which are gone forever.
I dedicated myself to not seeing you.
I closed myself into a world where you could not hold me back.
I distanced myself a thousand times,
And when I returned, I had lost you for good.
I wanted to hold on to you and then discovered that
You saw things differently.
I dedicated myself to losing you.”
This time I was the only one crying. My soul! I have been trying to kill my own soul! Eradicating the self is intrinsically vain. There was a coldblooded murderer quietly playing its ghostly game inside this very silent lonely house. The bluff to become selfless was my ego’s attempt starve the soul, which it had kept locked in the basement of my being for many years now, dying for meaning, dying to express itself. I moved a few steps away from the fire, hoping to hide my tears, to blend in with the mystical darkness of the mountain ledges. I could not stop crying in this crazy place where I had no privacy, but the reason felt important. What I believed to be missing was here all along, patiently waiting, systematically abused.
My ego was like a traumatized child, lied to about who it’s real parents were and what they desired. The ego and the soul are like siamese twins. They are not enemies. They are best friends, and they belong together. A long time ago, they were lied to. They were told their adopted parents, Nature and Nurture, were their real parents, and that they only wanted one child. The soul lived in a world of pure imagination, changing shapes all the time, as only the imagination can. This terrified the ego, who decided to slay it’s fair, sensitive, other half.
“Why didn’t you fill yourself with me when there was still time?
Why did I not understand what I do now?
You were everything to me, and I was blind.
I saved you for another time, this cursed ego.
I was dedicated to ridding myself of you,
And I was absent at times that are gone now forever.
I dedicated myself to not seeing you,
And I locked myself in my world, where you could not hold onto me.
I distanced myself a thousand times,
And when I returned, I had lost you in all ways.
I wanted to keep you, and then I discovered
You saw things otherwise.
I dedicated myself to losing you.
I dedicated myself to losing you.”
--Alejandro Fernandez
I grew up in the most privileged, and perhaps the most ego-centric, society in the world. It’s strange. Even at the heights of individualism, the rhetoric of negating the self prevails. Rich people praise their kids when they surrender to massive amounts of debt. Poor people praise their kids when they surrender to the burdens of their loved ones. Children are praised when they surrender their childhoods. Both men and women are praised when they surrender to their families. All this is false. Nature and Nurture are not my parents. Mother Earth and the Great Spirit are, and they have many many different kinds of children. All this time, it was not the ego being surrendered. It was the soul. My precious, innocent, soul, playing make-believe, turning itself into everything, just to learn, to bring joy, was the hidden scapegoat. That explained why I loved flamenco music so much. It cultivates the individual and gives itself, unrestrained, back to the collective. Flamenco had snuck some nourishment past my ego’s guard, keeping the soul alive, waiting for me to learn the truth, to set her free, to play with her again.
“My soul, it is you I have been missing, you who have been locked up, abandoned, mocked, and terrorized for so long.”
When Javier finished singing, the small crowd cheered and clapped.
“Olé! That’s it!” Candela’s father endorsed his new son’s message.
Candela jumped up, wearing a long red ruffled flamenco skirt. She pushed Javier’s guitar aside, sitting on his lap, side saddle, and hugged him, her huge belly against his thin chest. The baby listening inside would not have to choose which side if itself to keep.
Extremely cheesy pictures of the free spirited gypsy women
Gypsy Kings-Mira la Gitana Mora
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3MTWLr7-SE
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