I probably should preface this entry by acknowledging that I am just returned from the most satisfying dining experience I can remember, and am feeling at peace with both myself and the world. We drove five hours yesterday from Pau in France across the Spanish border close to Biarritz, past San Sebastian and Bilbao, to our fondly remembered Tinas de Pechon hotel on the northern coast of Spain, on the Bay of Biscay, where Cantabria meets Asturias. The same two women who treated us so hospitably last year greeted us as we arrived, and we have settled in for a five-night stay in this peaceful little village on this beautiful Cantabrian headland. The extra beneficience with which I am viewing life at this particular moment comes as a result of our return to the restaurant El Arbidel in Ribadesella to the west of here, for Jerome's third birthday dinner, and one of the culminations of our trip to Spain. The quality of the food, its pacing and presentation, its contrasts of textures and tastes, the attention of the staff, the intimacy of the room, all combined once again (our third visit) to make it a most memorable event. All was done elegantly yet without pretention. We are already talking about a future visit.
In a most contented frame of mind, then, and after the contrast of a few very pleasant days in France, I am wondering (not for the first time) about the source of my/our affiliation with and fondness for Spain. It is not just the obvious (my long history with the country since a junior semester here in 1972, our speaking the language, even the possible and more subtle relationship that comes from our both growing up in California with its partly Spanish heritage), though all that is certainly relevant. Put together, that background makes Spain seem to me to be at the same time comfortable and homelike, and exotic and foreign. The edginess of a place whose culture is unfamiliar (or known only through stereotypes), whose language is unintelligible at any but the most superficial level, and whose history is largely unknown to me, is both stimulating and uncomfortable, and I confess, at this point in my life, to preferring comfort and familiarity to edginess.
At the same time that Spain is comfortable, it also is a foreign culture, no question about it. Part of its exotic quality is the blend of Iberian, Roman, and Visigothic, Catholic, Jewish, and Moorish cultures and traditions that still manifest here, to a lesser or greater degree depending on the province and coastline. And the meseta, the heart of the peninsula, presents yet another history and personality that is distinct from the rest. And part of the charm of the nation is this very disparity of subcultures and regionalisms, not dissimilar to the United States (consider the Deep South in contrast to New England, or the West Coast in contrast to the Eastern Seaboard).
Added to the mix is the fact of the emergence of Spain from the Fascism of the Franco era, which closed its borders more than just politically, into the late 20th century and a world, if nothing else, lightyears ahead technologically speaking. There is a youthfulness and a hopefulness in Spain uniquely related to having doors and windows suddenly thrown open while at the same time regaining a sense of centuries of tradition that had been repressed. Spain is tumultuous, as witnessed by the restlessness of both the Basques and the Catalunyans to claim their own way in the world, and also by the flood of immigrants from North Africa into Andalucia in the south. Not to mention the economic woes brought on by the overspending encouraged by the EU upon Spain's membership in that community. But there is also a vivid horror of the memories of the Spanish Civil War that despite occasional exceptions causes a rejection of violence as a means to resolving differences.
And Spain endures, which is an important quality at the heart of its culture. And there is a sense of self-worth, and a recognition of the worth of others, that I continue to experience as I interact with the Spanish people. It's not that there aren't rich and poor (there most certainly are), but rather that the poorest street cleaner still estimates his own inherent value as on a par with that of the son of whatever hidalgo or prince. A gross generalization, yes, but there is a subtle sense of that here. In part, I think, because this is not a consumption-based, capitalist culture, at least not yet. Also, its roots go deep, and the superficiality of newer societies is mostly absent.
Am I romanticizing? Probably. But this is the closest I can come to reasoning out why I keep returning to Spain, out of all the possible destinations in the world. I count myself fortunate that Jerome shares my interest and is willing to keep returning here, too, for I am sure that this is not our last trip.
