Five notes on my Journey in the Land of Tapas
I.
As the rhythmic clapping of hands seemed to permeate my surroundings I was bedazzled in the psychedelic paintings of tapas around me. The manchego cheese, the jamon iberico, the patatas bravas, the green olives in their succulent oil polish. All-in-all a doble of cold beer or a tinto de verano to accompany this plethora of exquisite taste. With the cotton candy clouds in the blue darkening sky shedding polychromatic colours, I couldn’t help but bask in the incessant beauty of this historical land. This historical land of royalty, of flamenco, of freedoms, but most of all of puzzling identities. Welcome to Spain guys, gals and non-binary pals.
II.
Una caña. Una tapa. The addition is simple, even for the more inexperienced mathematicians within us. One beer, one tapa. Call it a match made in heaven. You add them up — two, three, four, and then comes the obvious conclusion: la siesta. You want to live like a spaniard? Good. I doubt anyone will tell you to do otherwise. You wake up, work until it’s time to bask under the sun for lunch with a glass of vino tinto or an Aguilar sin filtro. One pan con tomate and fried calamari? Yes please. No one can judge you as everyone is pretty much doing the same, exact, thing: drinking and eating. What is there to judge? The following hours are swallowed by silence and calm. Where has everyone gone? Asks the naive tourist that I am. It seems that yes, people nap — a proper, much needed two hour nap to relaunch the machine, preparing the body for the liquid and solid towers that will continue to pile up as night dawns upon the royal city.
III.
I began my departure down south — where I was told the omnipresent religious melange of Spain would make itself soon apparent. The mechanical horse pierced through the valleys of the south of Madrid as the orb of fire rose behind the barren hills of the foggy countryside. It unveiled its magical land, olive trees, small localised haciendas and farm-villages where it seemed like the world stopped turning. What year were we in? I wasn’t sure whether it was my exhaustion from four hours of sleep, my semi-throbbing headache from the beer I drank last night, or just the dream-like state of the land surrounding me that led me to these questions. An old castle fortress stands strong in the middle of this arid plateau, puncturing the soil, reminiscent of the many men and women that came before me, before all of us within this mechanical warhorse.
IV.
After a handful of hours my train stopped at its final destination: Cadiz. A city-port, and one of the oldest inhabited cities in Western Europe. Its archaeological importance cannot be overlooked. Dating from the 12th century BC, Cadiz was founded by the Phoenicians, an ancient civilisation from modern day Lebanon. With these thoughts in mind I took a stroll before cracking open a cold beer at the mercado central. One octopus and potato salad? A tortilla de camarones? Say no more. Belly-filled it was time to hit the beach. Walking down the ramparts of the olden sea-forts, shoes-off I dropped dead on the sand. The words of Lieutenant Kilgore shouted in my ears as I looked down the crashing waves… “If I say it’s safe to surf this beach, it’s safe to surf this beach!”. I also imagined armies of Phoenicians running down towards me from their ships, like a roaring beastly stampede. God, the sun was hitting me hard. I, however, was in no mood to surf nor fight an army of muscled men. A nice nap, and a nice tan were the two items on the menu. Ah, I sure love myself a nice beach…
V.
My journey here comes to an end but has left me with a precious mark, an allegorical tattoo of a different way of life, one that I sure could find myself adopting in not too long. As I walked down plaza mayor, the fresh end-of-rain smell and the sounds of dancing, tapping shoes pervaded the air. Lovers, friends, and families shared cold beers and fresh olives. I overheard some talking sports, about how Real Madrid beat Paris Saint-Germain, or discussing politics, about the infamous Vox party’s spectral dominion over the city. This seemed like a good conclusion to my trip. I took a seat in a nearby terrace and ordered a cold glass of Mahou — my last Spanish beer for a while. In a few hours I had a plane back home, where I’ll be bidding a bittersweet hasta luego to this historical land.
