connect spin the globe
SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 2019 AFAR 77basilica, that I’m certain I’ve entered the realm of the sublime. At the
on-site museum I learn about Gaudí’s inspirations, drawn from nature,
the way he revised and revised and revised his designs. The church, still
unfinished, has been under construction for 137 years.
W
HAT ELSE CAN I see? What else can I do? Increasingly,
I feel energized. Maybe a part of my old self does still ex-
ist, the one that’s game, curious, excitable.
Day Four begins with a cable car ride up to Barcelona’s
Montjuïc Castle, followed by a downhill meander through the maze-like
gardens of Montjuïc Park. Then
it’s uphill again, accompanied
by the rhythmic chugs of long
escalators transporting me
to spectacular views. As I face
the Museu Nacional d’Art de
Catalunya, a palatial building
perched atop a fortress of stairs,
my gaze sweeps over the
Magic Fountain, the Venetian
Towers, the circular green of
Plaza de España.
By late afternoon, I’m tired
of walking. I take the bus to
Barceloneta Beach, where rows
of sidewalk merchants hawk
Converse sneakers, and hardy
surfers paddle out to greet the
waves. As shadows grow long,
I find a table overlooking the
ocean and contemplate the simple
perfection of a single ice cube
in a sturdy round glass. Down by
the water, two boys are attempting
handstands. They fall over and
fall over, hair wetter, faces sandier,
until finally they collapse, shriek-
ing, as their small bodies cede
to the surf. And now this sensation, a mix of longing and guilt: Have
I missed my own children? Barely. Four days, and already I feel like
another version of myself. I’ve shifted into a different narrative.
That evening, I enter the grand hall of Palau de la Música Catalana,
where I’m fidgety as I wait for concert pianist András Schiff to take
the stage. Piano was a pillar of my childhood. I played for 14 years, and
though I almost never attend classical concerts anymore, my mother
brought me regularly as a child. “Can you see his hands?” she’d say, as
I bounced up and down in my seat. She recorded my recitals and played
those cassette tapes over and over again, up until the very end, when she
was in the hospital battling leukemia. “ You were pretty good,” she’d say,
listening to renditions of Chopin’s nocturnes or Bach’s Italian Concerto
from my high school years. “It’s a shame you don’t play anymore.”
I do play now, sometimes, duets with my eight-year-old. He’s talented,
musical, but I fight with him to practice, as my mother did with me.
From high in the balcony, I wish I could tell my mother, “See, I’m here!”
Schiff ’s first F chord of the Italian Concerto rings out, tears stream
down my face. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s grief. Or maybe it’s joy in
discovering my renewed appreciation for the submerged parts of my
identity, the ones I thought I’d lost for good.
B
ACK IN MADRID, I spend Night Five with Ana, a friend of a
friend, who has brought three more friends. We start at the
food stalls of Mercado San Miguel and move to a proper meal
at Sobrino de Botín, the oldest restaurant in the world, where
we devour roast suckling pig and garlic shrimp. We end at Discoteca
El Son, a small club, and as the familiar rhythms of salsa and merengue
move through my body, another dormant urge ignites. My companions
egg me on, flag down the smoothest dancers, shout in their ears, “Hey,
this American woman wants to dance!” At 1 a.m. I say good-bye, return
to my hotel. But I’m still high on endorphins, far from sated. I change
my shoes, head back out, weaving
through Chueca’s rowdy streets un-
til I reach Tropical House, where
I join the throngs of sweaty dancers
propelled by the music.
My final day in Spain I’m run-
ning on two hours’ sleep, without
regret. A short train ride brings
me to the ancient walled city of
Toledo, stunning in its history but
also jam-packed. I’m sidetracked
by the various wedding couples
I encounter with their finely
dressed guests—men in blue-gray
suits, ladies in fancy hats, little
girls with flowers in their hair. One
party is gathered outside a church,
blocking my path, so I stand with
a group of Chinese tourists filming
the commotion with their phones.
When the newlyweds emerge, the
crowd erupts, confetti fills the air.
The Chinese tourists cheer, too,
their leader beaming as he waves
his small yellow flag.
Soon I’ve had enough of the
jostling. I long to escape. I find El
Rincón de Peter, a lunch joint with
a tiny terrace, in what must be the quietest plaza in Toledo. I order a
Spanish tortilla and fresh pineapple juice, listen to the jazz filtering into the
air from the boom box inside. “Buena música,” I say to the proprietor in
my halting Spanish. “McCoy Tyner?” His face lights up. He says something
I don’t understand, but the shared appreciation of the music is enough.
This last afternoon, my sole mission becomes to avoid the crowds. I
thread down Toledo’s narrowest lanes and every time I see people, I turn
down another alleyway. I find myself among wafting aromas of garlicky
sauces and yeasty breads, the sounds of clanging pots, low murmurs of
families in mealtime conversations. There’s the muffle of a trumpet, a
novice cellist practicing scales, the tinny bellow of an accordion. On the
balconies above me I spot lazing cats, small dogs, nervous birds hopping
around in their cages. Clotheslines sag, heavy with undergarments. In
the back alleys of Toledo, it feels as if I’ve discovered a secret, the sights
and sounds of ordinary lives.
And now, I realize, perhaps this is the side of myself I’ve been happi-
est to rediscover: the one that appreciates the beauty in the mundane.
I sit quietly and smell the flowers.Writer Mira T. Lee is profiled on page 28.