No Plans, No Problem.: Ungodly Goodness

Okay, seeing as fall is creepily lurking right around the corner, I think it’s finally time to talk about summer. I don’t even need to say it this time around, because I know that you’re already thinking it, but yes, I do suck, and yes, I do need to do a better job at keeping up with my blog, but this time, unlike every other time—this time, it’s not my fault.

Take a deep breath here and calm down before you start aggressively pointing and jabbing your grubby fingers in my direction. I know. How could it possibly not be my fault when I’m the writer on this little old blog? Well, you know how sometimes when something so traumatic happens, some people tend to push it aside, lock it up, and bury it deep where the sun don’t shine? It’s kind of a strategic tactic, a form of denial if you will, to help them forget or pretend that what just happened, didn’t. The same phenomenon, I’d argue, actually occurs with happy events and experiences as well. Sometimes, some things are just so good and so pure that to expose them to the world would be a sin right there alongside greed and gluttony. Some experiences are just so completely good and perfectly perfect that in trying to describe and share them, you somehow manage to knick off a corner, chip the paint, and scratch the varnish. The only difference, I guess between the ungodly bad and the ungodly good experiences is that the bad stay buried deep, whereas the good put up a fight, kicking and screaming like Beatrix Kiddo, and eventually, given enough time, pop out of the snow like daisies—or I guess in this case, like vengeful undead brides.

And that, my friends, pretty much sums up my time in Secastilla, Spain this summer. I’m only kidding, but while I’m at it, let me grab a trowel if I’m going to be chipping paint and scratching varnish. I’m sure there’ll be a few laying around in the tool shed, and I guess I’ll just dive right in. That’s something I picked up there. When the sun is blaring down on you and you’re at the lake for siesta, you’re always going to expect the water to be a lot warmer than it actually is. Trust me when I say that the water isn’t going to get any warmer in the twenty minutes it'll take you to fully submerge yourself. Also, trust me when I say that in those twenty minutes, if you fail to fully submerge yourself, Jesse and Steve will definitely make sure to help you out. They might throw a little mud in there as well.

I guess, rather than produce a long narrative slash journal entry documenting my experience, what would prove to be most useful when staying as a guest at Casa Luisa would be some words of advice. Or should I say words of precaution? Wisdom? I guess the two really go hand in hand.

But in actuality, let me take the plunge and say don’t be afraid of dirt, because dirt will become one of your best friends. You’ll find her in places you didn’t even know she’d manage to wiggle into: behind your ears, in your pits, and if you’re lucky, you’ll even get mud thrown in your mouth a few times too many! Don’t be afraid of wine, even though if you ask the Casa Luisa gang, I’m sure they’d be convinced that afraid was more of an understatement of what we were--terrified was probably far more accurate, but don’t listen to them—I can guarantee you that terrified was one thing we were not. We just didn’t happen to be as close with wine as we were with dirt, but regardless, have no fear. Live to learn, and love to learn, because you’ll be doing an endless amount of that in Secastilla. Don’t fear the sickle, nor the tractor rides, weed whacker and mortar buckets; don’t be intimidated by the plantas magicas, and don’t shy away when it comes time for the chickens to be fed, raised, and eventually, killed, defeathered and gutted. Don’t be afraid of food and never shy away from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths. Actually, that line needs to be revised. In fact, BE afraid of NOT going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths. Love, or learn to love, the second breakfasts and the ten o’clock dinners, the tapas, the plates of jamón, chorizo (pronounced choritho, say it right), and queso, the crusty breads drowned in house-pressed olive oil, and the Sunday vermouths. Clean your plates, and I mean this literally, with a nice generous chunk of crusty bread baked fresh daily a few doors down. Really, love your food and love knowing that it came from a garden planted, grown, and tended to with the utmost care, dedication, love and devotion, with a smidge of pee thrown into the mix. Don’t be afraid of the fiestas, of the blaring live music, and the throngs of men and women loosened up by good drinks and great company. Don't be intimidated by the history, nor afraid of the abandoned villages that you'll frequent rather frequently. The buildings, though old and dusty won't collapse, or if they do, just trust that they won't collapse onto you, because you'll be far too busy trying not prick your finger sleeping-beauty-style picking wild blackberries outside. Don't be afraid of snapping your fingers along to some John Denver during a late night jam session. In fact, get crazy, pick up a ukelele, and join in on the fun! Whip your hair back and forth to some Radiohead in the car, and only stop for a few seconds for a few sips of "road beer". Don't be afraid to leave your phone, and with it, your connection to the world, behind you, because only in doing so will you realize that the real connections, and the only ones you really need, are the ones you'll make in Secastilla on a day to day basis--with not only the old wizards of the town, but with the earth and the carrots pulled fresh out of the ground, still blanketed by a layer of soil, with the animals, chickens that wait anxiously for your arrival and bunnies that scamper away at the sound of your footsteps, with the food and food culture, but most importantly with the people of Casa Luisa. Let these horribly fantastic people wiggle their way into your life and don't stop them as they're crawling into your hearts. Trust me on this one, you won't regret it.

The only thing you will regret is not being able to portray the experience as perfectly perfect as it actually was, without the knicks, dents, chips and scratches. No amount of words or pictures can and will do the experience justice. It really is just better in person, and no, this is not one of those "he looks better in person, trust me" moments. This isn't about Facebook stalking the kid that sits three rows in front of you in your chemistry class, and reassuring your friends that the weird dent on his face that shows up in pictures when he smiles, is so not there in person. This is the real. It's George Clooney on the cover of a magazine--great, but much better in person. Secastilla, Casa Luisa, and the experience in general really does look better, taste better, and feel better in person. It really just is better in person, and all I can say is, you really have to take my words of precaution or wisdom, whichever have you, and dive right in. Don't be afraid. Just go.