Glad to be Here

I have filled this blog with many stories and pictures about the things we have done and seen since arriving in Spain. And I feel a little pride each time I finish an entry, having organized, edited, and deleted myriad photos and attempted to provide a reasonably accurate, and hopefully at least somewhat entertaining, account of a given day, visit, or event. But being me, I have also felt a little self-conscious about my entries not really going very deep – being much more about logistics and details than about how we (or I) feel.

This morning, I am sitting with my lovely partner at a charming outdoor tapas bar located at one of the octagonal intersections that characterize the Eixample district where we live. Big glass windows covered with linen colored awnings and teak tables with extremely comfortable chairs shaded by huge matching umbrellas. We are sitting next to a table of three people: a man of about 60 who appears to be taking his parents, both clearly over 80 and infirm, out for an early lunch (especially by Barcelona standards.) They’re a somewhat motley crew – not sharply dressed the way so many here are, not clean shaven, and coughing the way life-long smokers do. The mother is in a wheelchair and has limited ability to speak and move; the father looks old and tired and says very little.

It’s 11 in the morning and the canyons of this neighborhood are quiet for once because today is a big holiday and people were up until all hours last night at street festivals celebrating Sant Joan (St. John). The three of them have just been served glasses of red wine (Mom proved herself alert enough to nudge the waiter when he poured her a meager portion, something they all got a chuckle out of) and tapas that smell of garlic and butter. Though they speak only occasionally, they look (perhaps it is my imagination) content. After serving their wine and tapas, the waiter retreats behind the large windows of the indoor part of the restaurant, where he then carefully and quietly sets tables, unfurls layers of big beige and white table cloths into the air and gently helps them float onto the tables below.

It’s as close to a peaceful, graceful moment as I have seen in a while, and it brings tears to my eyes. On the one hand, and of course somewhat superficially, it’s exactly the kind of “real” Spain I have wanted to experience – people relishing a glass of wine and eating together as a tight knit family. These three may be quiet but the feeling of their being together doing something they clearly all can enjoy is powerful and beautiful. It also draws me into a rare sense of “being in the moment,” something I have difficulty doing. I will be old like these three some day, and I (we, actually) have challenged ourselves to take what feels like the real risk of disconnecting from our careers and day-to-day lives to be with each other, attempting to live life a little bit while we are still young. I have felt a strong desire, often an obligation, to try simply to enjoy times like these, but it’s difficult - other feelings always seem to try to fill any every void I. “What will I do when I return? Is it OK to leave the kids for part of the day when I came here in part to be with them? Is it irresponsible to be sitting here on a weekday when everyone else is working back home?” On one level, I know the answers to these questions, the same way I know that what’s going on in my head isn’t really about the questions. It’s about whether or not I can just be, walk around a bit finding, here and there, a few moments of peace. Much more easily said than done for everyone, especially us compulsive type-As.

But today, this moment, is different, and I’m grateful for it. Not the usual feeling of “Boy, I sure am lucky,” but rather an appreciation for what surrounds me and gratitude for being able to take it in, like inhaling and appreciating a nice smell. A loving partner reading quietly across the table, being in a beautiful Spanish city, being able to see people capturing what I imagine to be a moment of contentment, and (maybe a first) a sense of my own mortality that somehow makes my life richer. I’m glad to be here.