Everyone remembers the first time they set foot on Spanish soil. Dazzling light, dramatic landscapes, colorful personalities, pungent smells… impact the most travel-weary. You can be excited or exasperated, captivated or horrified, but you cannot remain indifferent, because this is a land that invites extreme emotions.
However, my first visit contradicted all the stereotypes because I came away convinced that the rain in Spain fell mostly on misty green hills inhabited by short, stout people wearing big berets and carrying black umbrellas everywhere. This impression came from a day trip from France to San Sebastián, the tourist city in the region known as the Basque Country.
To cross the border I had to deal with the legendary bureaucracy. General Franco was still in power and journalists were not welcome.
“Just for one day?” The Spanish consul looked at me suspiciously. “And you’re on vacation? Hm…well, I can stamp your visa but you must promise not to write anything.”
I naturally agreed, even though we both knew it was a ridiculous request. Now I realize that it was a first lesson in how Spain works: establishing human contact and what moments before seemed out of place is suddenly possible.
Years later I returned to Spain, this time with my wife. Fleeing from the British winter, we were looking for a place in the sun. We head south.
Arriving late at night in a city on the Mediterranean coast, we stagger through dark streets in search of a cheap hostel. The next morning, as we were getting ready to go to breakfast, my wife put on her thick coat.
“Why are you wearing that?” I asked her.
“I don’t want to catch a cold,” she replied.
“But look over there,” I said, pointing out the window to the street below. The passersby were in blouses and shirtsleeves. Not a coat or scarf in sight.
We had arrived in the land of eternal summer. And she felt great. Taking a bus along the coast, we pass sugar cane fields and find a humble fishing village. Women drew water from a fountain, and the smell of fried churros and coffee wafted through streets cleared of traffic, except occasionally for herds of goats.
It was the ideal refuge. From time to time I would buy the local paper just to confirm that we were in the right place. The heavily censored stories, each ending with the exhortation “Long live the Caudillo!”, conveyed the same message: Spain was an oasis of peace and prosperity while the rest of the world was in crisis.
One day we walked up a dry river bed to a town perched high above the coast, a mere touch of white on the hillside. The mules moved along the narrow main street lined with immaculately whitewashed houses. So rare were the visitors that a herd of giggling children followed us.
After sampling the local wine, we happily returned to the coast as the setting sun tinted the sierras with gold. It was good to be alive. And if we knew, we had just visited the town that would become our home.
