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.
Gracias (pronounced grathias, say it right) para todos Casa Luisa! And I guess until next time,
Kimmifer (the whale that was scared of water, wine, and mud)
