An Old World

“Ziu-tul-ku,” my father teased me as I lay in my baby cradle.  I smiled and giggled while he made silly expressions.  He had a camcorder in hand and was capturing every adorable response I made.

            My mother came into my bedroom sporting an insincere smile trying to cover an overall exhausted face.  She was busy doing chores – folding laundry, preparing food, running to and fro – while the rest of the family relaxed.  In the next room over, my brother and cousin were glued to the tube attentively watching the roadrunner outsmart the coyote. 

            My dad headed toward the living room, leaving me alone with flying toys that hung over my head. “Maybe we’ll later go to the market,” he suggested as he circled around the room recording our home.  “Yeah,” someone mumbled.

            My dad briskly walked outside into the awakening day where the sun glimmered and the sky was clear.  The view from the apartment complex was barren; there were plain yellow fields in sight yearning for development.

            Life could have been drastically different had my family remained in Spain.  For one year my family lived in an apartment shared with a couple of other families.  It was very cramped; the living room, kitchen, and bathroom were all shared and we all had very little privacy, but the atmosphere was friendly and everyone acted like part of one big family.  My dad would have loved to stay in Spain.  “It is my favorite country,” he once recalled.  When we arrived to Spain in 1989, my dad intended to stay.  He went to the naturalization office, and tried to see if my family could acquire citizenship.  We were issued temporarily visas.  However, in a year we left to the United States where we were guaranteed citizenship.

***

            I was finally going.  It’s been many summers since I wanted to revisit, but now it was finally happening.  I was excited.  I would end my summer with a blast.

“Boarding passengers from section 7,” a monotonous voice sounded through the intercom.

            “That’s us,” I said as I picked up my backpack filled with gadgets and books that I hoped would keep me occupied during the flight.  I took along my Spanish study book for the very slight chance that I would actually attempt to brush up on my Spanish.  Yeah, like that would ever happen.

Inside the plane everything looked really funky.   All of the seats had dyed leather patches that ranged from red to yellow to green.  Each seat also had a personal LCD television, which of course eliminated the chance of me ever laying my eyes on my study book.

As the plane accelerated into the air I closed my eyes.  In just one day I would be in Spain.

***

My body shifted forward from the confines of my seat as the car abruptly jolted to a stop in the middle of the intersection.  Those behind us honked as my father attempted to start it up again.  Not having driven a stick in ages my father hadn't quite adjusted to driving the rental car yet.  Despite having a strong urge to sleep, because of jet lag, I grabbed my camcorder and started recording.  I wanted to capture every moment and every experience of the trip.  Plus, my camcorder was new, and my dad would have been disappointed if I didn't put it to good use.

My brother unfolded a large map and attempted to locate where we were and where we were supposed to be headed.  When my dad finally managed to get out of the traffic he had created, we approached another intersection.

"Where do we go now? Hurry up!" my dad urged.

"Uhhh, I think we need to take A5," my brother responded with uncertainty.

Dad promptly swerved the car to the right, while my body, because of inertia, leaned to the left.

The roads were surprisingly empty and the asphalt was fresh.  I thought Madrid was supposed to be bustling with people, but only a few cars dotted the freeway.  Wasn't the population like 3 million?  Three booths were visible ahead.  Was it a tollbooth?  Was there a bridge here?

            “Two euros,” my dad said.

            “That’s really weird,” I commented.  “A toll booth in a random place.”

What was really unusual, though, was that we soon approached another booth and then another one only after a couple of miles.  No wonder the road was so empty – nobody wants to constantly waste money.

"Yeah...I don't think we're going the right way," my brother finally acknowledged. "It looks like there are two different highways and we're on the wrong one.  We need to turn around and go back.”

“Just great!”, I thought as I turned off the camcorder, not wanting to waste tape recording the same thing over again.  I lazily reclined in the seat as weariness took over my body.

***

It smelled.  It felt unclean.  It tasted unnatural.  It was too gooey.  It was too sickening.  I came to the conclusion that attempting to experiment with random new food after starving for most of the trip and not having any sleep, was not the best idea.  I was hungry, but I just couldn’t bring myself to gulp it down.  The fattiness almost made me regurgitate.  I managed to force some pieces down but that was it.  It was foreign and I was afraid.  The curly pig ears mocked me, challenged me, and I forfeited.  I was most definitely not going to eat it.

“This is disgusting,” I quietly proclaimed.  “Try some.”

“Alright,” my brother said as he reached with his fork grabbing a miniscule piece.

“Disgusting, eh?”

            “Hehe,” my brother laughed. “Good luck with that.”

            “I’m sorry but I just can’t eat this,” I replied.

            Why couldn’t I have been like my brother who wisely chose patatas bravas?  Any variation in the preparations of potatoes probably wouldn’t have turned me off.  Throughout the duration of my trip we attributed patatas as “the safe food.”  It was always there for me when I didn’t want to risk feeding my curiosity.

As I slid the pig ears away toward my dad I began to “borrow” some of my brother’s food, his patatas covered with a red, homemade-like, ketchup.  He didn’t mind sharing of course, but there was so little left that I barely took more than a couple of pieces.

As the bartender came over to hand us our bill, he looked at me with a sarcastic displeasure, for he was the one who recommended me the orejas de cerdo.  How in the world did he think this was his specialty?

“¿No te gustas las orejas?” he asked me with a mixed smile as he picked up the plate of pig ears.

Obviously not!

“Uhh…No,” I claimed with my limited Spanish vocabulary wanting to get out quickly.

As I got up, I struggled to balance myself, moving side to side, and I almost fell down.  How long has it been since I last slept?  I realized that my body wanted to turn itself off.  It wanted to faint. It was tired.  It wanted to rest.

***

“Hand me your school I.D,” my brother commanded.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my overstuffed wallet from my slim pockets, and took out the tacky yellow Berkeley High School identification card.  My brother showed both of our school IDs to the lady working behind the ticket booth.

A steady line began to build behind us and it was getting crowded in the small-enclosed room.  The attendant looked at my ID, accepted it, and put it on the counter.  She then proceeded to look at my brother’s ID.

“No puedo aceptarlo.”

Denied!  I could see my brother’s adrenaline pumping up.  He had won a previous battle in a similar situation, and I was sure that he thought he could be victorious again.  I kept quiet as I anxiously anticipated what would happen next.

The attendant pointed to the date on the card.  In a small bold font, “06/2004” was written – a date from more than two years ago.

“Expirado,” she remarked.

“Pero este fecha no es la fecha de expiración,” my brother argued.

“No!”

“It is the date I started school!”

The line behind us grew ever longer.  I was hoping the girl might give in if my brother argued with her long enough but she was tough and stuck up (as all women in Spain seemed to be).  The argument grew as my brother repeatedly tried to explain the date’s significance.  The girl still refused to believe him feeling that she was being cheated.  I could see why he was annoyed, but understood at the same time why the attendant didn’t want to accept it.  Not wanting to argue with either of them I kept quiet.

“Estúpido!” my brother burst out in frustration.

“No tú estas estúpido,” the girl responded.

The argument and negative remarks were increasing became child-like.

“Just pay her,” my dad finally told my brother.

My brother let out a heavy sigh as he reluctantly handed the money to the attendant.  She accepted the money and grudgingly handed us the tickets.

When we finally entered the small museum, I couldn’t help but think how ridiculous the argument between my brother and the attendant was.  Consequently I ended up not focusing on anything in the museum.

***

As my brother, dad, and I walked through the streets of Madrid where chain stores tried to tempt us with food and clothing, I noticed that the buildings were like a layered cake; the tops of the buildings were old, but commercialism has modernized the bottom where brand name stores displayed their latest outfits.

Smack!

“What tha…?” I gasped as I attempted to regain my balance.

“Did that guy just hit you?” my brother asked.

A man grumbled behind me.  I turned around and saw a dirty drunken bum with a sack.  A crazy old bum just hit me!  Having mysophobia I couldn’t help feeling that some dirty germs now clung to the back of my clothes.  Yuck!

 “Yeah, that bum hit me,” I finally replied.

As I walked through the city I began to feel grateful that I didn’t live here. Spain, though in general is a nice place, had something missing.  Other than the commercialized areas, everything seemed old and outdated.  Everything ringed of a glory that has now passed.  All of the museums, castles, plazas, and cathedrals I witnessed throughout Spain, while impressive, were old – things of the past.  In America, there was a feeling of progress where new discoveries popped up all the time.  Everything seemed to advance and move forward.  In Spain, the only thing that seemed to advance was tourism.  It’s as if they left the Sagrada Familia cathedral unfinished on purpose, slowly constructing it in order to entice visitors to one day visit it again.

***

Dad parked the car on the small little street.

“That’s it there,” my dad said as he pointed to the balcony on the third floor.

“Uhuh,” I mumbled.

The place in all actuality didn’t have that much meaning to me.  So yeah, it was the place where my family lived, but I was only a baby, and consequently I remembered nothing of it.  The only image I had of the place was from the video recording my dad made.  Compared to the video, I noticed that the surroundings have drastically changed.  New buildings rose that took the place of the plain yellow fields.  Trees have grown, and plants crept onto the building.  The sign of progress and growth were very evident.

On the other hand, if my family actually stayed here, this would have been my home.  I would have grown up learning Spanish, meeting different people, and having a completely different life style.

I visited my place of birth, but I realized my home did not belong here.  After sixteen years I realized that, although it was a fun and interesting place, it wasn’t the place for me.