Magical realism was the topic of discussion in my literature class today. Little did I know this morning in class that this topic foreshadowed what was to be the rest of my day—a spectacular blend of magic and reality.
But I'm getting a little ahead of myself, as the magic started far earlier in the morning, before I stepped into my classroom. After eating breakfast (Rice Krispies, one of my favorite cereals when I was chiquitina) with Carmen this morning, I did sun salutations in my room before going out for a run along the River Tagus. The chill morning air nipped my skin, and light reflecting off of the river danced along the riverbank. I saw a beautiful crane (grulla) fly over the river and skim the shimmering water with its wings—I love how I never see cranes together, only flying alone, magnificent in their solitude. The river has small waterfalls in places, the water smooth like glass before dropping off. Today, one of the waterfalls was spitting out a rainbow in the sunlight.
After my run, I got ready for school, but first I took a shower and then rested a bit (mostly because I took a lot of time to properly shave my legs, and since freshly shaven legs against sheets is one of the greatest feelings in the world, I couldn't resist hopping back into bed for a bit). In literature, I brought pomegranates (granadas) that my family and I picked in the countryside to share with my classmates. We're reading La prodigiosa tarde de Baltazar, a short story by Gabriel García Márquez. The imagery of the beautiful birdcage in the story is lovely, and reading a short story by Gabriel García Márquez made me want to tackle 100 Years of Solitude, one of my favorite books, in Spanish. (Not anytime soon, but one day!)
I had a playdate with my new 14 year-old Spanish friend named Sofia. Her family is friends with my host family, and we first met in the countryside this past weekend when her family ate lunch with mine. I was delighted that Sofia wanted to spend more time together! Today, we talked about Hans Christian Andersen and Roald Dahl short stories. She's simply delightful. We're going to dress up together with Carmen for Halloween. (UPDATE: Sadly, this ended not happening as I studied for midterms, and as Sofia was out-of-town for Halloween. I still want to have a random masquerade party together!)
After walking Sofia to her viola class, I bought galletas principe (Prince Cookies), which are heavenly and light—two cookies (of the golden and light variety—looks like what you think of when you think "British biscuit") with chocolate cream (of the soft and fudgey variety) in the middle. As I walked down the cobble-stoned streets of Toledo while eating my delicious cookies, the sun shone warmly on my face, and the church bells rang all around me. I had an enormous smile on my face, filled to the brim with happiness.
In the evening, I met up with my intercambio, Marien, with whom I meet to speak every week so that she can practice English, and I, Spanish. We drove in her car up to one of the overlooks of Toledo. The sunset tinted the soft blue sky with a bright pink-orange band at the horizon, and as the sky grew darker, the mountains in the distance were a blue silhouette against the fiery, deepening orange. The streetlights along the upward-winding roads of Toledo became illuminated, and the lights from a distant village twinkled like stars, creating the effect that I had stepped into a beautiful fairyland.
Marien y yoAfter dinner that night, mi padre español told me of all the sad, horrendous stories from the Spanish Civil War and Franco's dictatorship. He told me about the recent actions of the human rights judge Baltasar Garzón who attempted to investigate crimes against humanity committed during Franco's regime. Spain, however, has a law that basically says, "We will forget everything that happened during the Civil War" (see link for more information), and, thus, Garzón was put into jail. My host father told me of the thousands of corpses of those executed during the epoch of Franco and buried on the sides of roads and in ditches and in fields, or flung into wells. Many Spaniards want to unearth the bodies to give their relatives proper burials. Federico told me of the grandmother of a cousin in their family who was tortured, killed, and buried against a wall—how many families know the exact spot of their loved ones' remains. The eerie image of souls wandering alongside roads, upon the red Spanish earth, crept into my mind.
My host father also told me the sad story of the famous Spanish poet Antonio Machado. As the Republicans (leftists, not a definition of "Republican" we're used to in the States) were losing the Civil War, Machado and his elderly mother were forced to cross the border from Barcelona to France. Machado died soon after reaching France, and his mother died three days later. In his pocket, they found his last poem, "Estos días azules y este sol de la infancia," which translates as "These blue days and this sun of infancy/childhood," and that my host father told me signifies that Machado had no hate in his heart upon his death, leaving the world with this hopeful yet sad (given the context) image. I started sobbing when he told me that Spaniards today (my host family included) still travel to France to put flowers on Machado's grave, as I could clearly see my host father's love for Machado. The sadness in his eyes and low, serious tone of voice made me realize how much Spain's past still haunts the present. Federico gave me a CD to listen to of Joan Manuel Serrat (a bit of the Bob Dylan of Spain, who like Machado was persecuted under Franco's regime) singing poems of Antonio Machado. I fell asleep with Machado's beautiful words swirling in my head.
