A Day Among Old Friends

Enric stood in the soft rain next to the door of the church. He saw us coming, then took a second glance when our eyes met. I smiled and quickened my step and when we met Enric embraced me. “¿Cómo estáis amigos?”
 
I hadn't seen the Moreta family in 17 years. Kaitlyn was just a baby and we left her home with Grandma. I met Teo, Enric, and their daughter, Marta, 24 years ago during a 2-year church mission in Spain. I had kept loose contact with them through postcards, letters, and e-mails.
 
With pride that could be typical of a Catalán I introduced my daughter, “Esta es mi hija, Kaitlyn.”
 
With a light rain still falling we walked to the car of Enric and drove a few blocks to Teo's store called El Repunt. In addition to selling keys, she is a seamstress who repairs clothing and upholstery.
 
Enric unlocked and lifted a grilled gate, then unlatched the door inside. Teo sat at a sewing machine and immediately stood up when she saw us. “Oh, John,” she said in Castilian Spanish. “You haven't changed a bit! You are still very skinny.” She came right up to my face and gave me a kiss on both cheeks.
 

Soon we were back in the car and on our way from Girona to Palamós. Kaitlyn and I sat in the back seat and for much of an hour I talked to my old friends. For people in their sixties, they looked very healthy. Other than the fact that their hair was dyed jet black, they both appeared the same as they had 24 years ago.
 
Enric asked if we had been in the cloister of the Cathedral. He said one of his ancestors from the Mascot family is buried there. When I heard this I became excited to share that one of my great-great-great. . . . . grandpas, Ramón Berenguer II, is buried in the Cathedral also, but in the nave.
 
Teo reminded us that she was from Andalusia—from Granada. While we drove she played a C.D. of a local gerundense musical group, and sung along and clapped her hands.
 
In typical European fashion, there was nothing smooth about our ride. We made sharp turns, abrupt stops, and twirled on roundabouts. Kaitlyn, being sensitive to motion sickness, became very “mareada.”—but she survived.
 
Northern Catalunya is a very green place. Hills that are wooded with pine trees spread across the land, with much larger mountains peeking from the distance. Old farm houses with terracotta tiled roofs dot the countryside.
 
When the sea came into view it was a deep blue. We came to Palamós where the grand view opened before us. The long sandy beach abutted a sea filled with sail boats and a large cruise liner. We walked the boardwalk until it started to rain, then went to the restaurant where we found Marta and Juan beneath a black umbrella.
 

Marta greeted us with a beso on each cheek, and Juan with a handshake. The daughter of Teo and Enrique had grown since we last saw her. She was tall and slender with long chestnut hair. Juan, her Portuguese boyfriend, I had never met. “João” was his real name, but the Castilian version was much easier to pronounce.
 
I ordered from the menu of the day, eating fish soup for my first course, butifarra and fried potato strips for my second, and bizcocho de naranja for dessert. Teo ordered a pot of steamed mussels for us to share.
 
The conversation at our table was interesting. We spoke three languages. I spoke to them in Castilian. Marta spoke to Kaitlyn and sometimes to me in English. They spoke to each other in Catalán.
 
We spoke of many topics. They perceive Donald Trump as a businessman and clown. He talks of too many things he shouldn't even talk about. Most of all they are very scared because the American President has an extreme amount of world leverage and could create instability on a whim.
 
We talked of food. Marta has traveled to the U.S. Many times and gave us her opinion on American cuisine—we have too many sauces, much of the food is greasy, and everything is loaded with sugar.
 
As the conversation drew on, my Spanish became worse. Perhaps my tongue was tired of contorting in unfamiliar positions. My ability to understand seemed to slip. I found myself more and more asking, “¿Cómo?” Perhaps my friends were becoming more and more relaxed in their speech and cracking jokes that I didn't catch. I have always had a difficult time understanding Enric anyway, especially with how he pronounces his “L's," which he can't pronounce at all.
 
Marta proved to be the true linguistic queen. She was hesitant to speak in English at first, but in the end was able to articulate several complicated issues. She explained that she is nervous because when she speaks she is telling herself in her head that it doesn't sound right. She took seven years of English in school and has had several opportunities to practice.
 

When we finished our meal it was raining on the boardwalk. Teo forgot to bring an extra umbrella so we drove to another location. Near Calella de Palafrugell the downpour had slowed to a sprinkle. The road winds up a long hill where there is a lighthouse and 2,600-year-old Iberian ruins.
 
From a summit the expansive blue Mediterranean meets the shoreline below us, covered by a rugged declivity of pines. On a clear day one could almost see the Balearic Islands from here. Our view was blocked by heavy gray clouds on the horizon.
 

We descended to the village of Calella and walked the narrow streets that flank the coast. Small fishing vessels were pulled ashore and a rusty anchor leaned against a rock wall for display. On a small promontory walkway the Catalán flag blew hard with the wind. The wet smell of salt and rain filled my lungs. I didn't want to leave.
 
But at last we had to leave Palafrugell and the coast. We traveled a different route than we had the first time. Marta and Juan drove in a separate car. We passed through unfamiliar towns with old buildings. Enric pointed in the direction of a sanctuary where Salvador Dalí married his wife, Gala.  Then with pride he added, "And we were married there, too!"
 

I knew we were back in Girona when the imposing gray walls of the Cathedral came on our left, and the smaller, but very impressive Basilica of Sant Feliu just below it. We flanked Devesa Park and pulled into an underground parking garage on Carrer Remences. We took the elevator to the first floor.
 
The Moreta family lives in a flat near Teo's store and near Devesa Park. Their living quarters are simple, with souvenirs on their shelves from friends or their own travels around the world. Kaitlyn and I sat on a sofa so soft that I wanted to fall asleep.
 

They gave us a glass of water and we spoke of many topics while here. Most of all we talked of the battle for Catalán independence. Teo showed us pictures on her phone of the October referendum election when the Spanish National Police used violence to prevent the Catalán people from voting—images of bloody and battered people. Marta explained that one of the key issues is that Catalunya pays far more in taxes than it receives. The people here are fed up with it. Now the Spanish government has arrested several people connected with the rebellion, accusing them of sedition. The Catalán consider them as political prisoners. Both Marta and Enric emphasized that the Catalán are peaceful people and want to resolve this by non-violent means.
 
After the sun had set, Enric invited us to cenar, or to eat supper. The Spanish eat their largest meal during the day, so the cena is a lighter affair. We found an arrangement of jamón, olives, pork loin, tuna, roasted red peppers, and cheese. Teo made a French omelet.
 

The conversation continued and we talked of Muslim immigration in Spain, and local eating and sleeping habits. They said that the idea of the Spanish siesta is a myth because many don't take a nap during the day. Marta says the company she works for, Nescafé, doesn't observe medio dia because they are owned by the Swiss. But Teo, who owns her own shop, closes down between 1 and 4 pm and can't help but to take an occasional short snooze.
 
At last it was time to leave. Enric handed us two bags of gifts, including three bars of turrón. Teo hugged me tightly, kissed me on both cheeks, and cupped my face in her hands. A tear almost came to my eye as I realized that this could be the last time I saw this family. Then she gave Kaitlyn the same affection. “Will you please give your mother a hug for me?” she asked. I waved goodbye to Teo as the elevator door closed, and I never saw her again.
 
Marta and Enric accompanied us down to the street and the four of us walked on a dark Girona night, under street lamps and through rain-scented air. “Your hotel is not far from here,” Enric assured us.
 
We arrived at the Hotel Condal where I sat down my bags and gave each of them a hug. Words felt inadequate to describe how I felt toward them, but I think they knew I was grateful. One last time I said goodbye.
 
We entered the hotel lobby. “Seiscientos cuatro,” I said. She gave me the key and I told her, “gracias.” We stepped into the lift and went to the sixth floor. ♠

(L-R) Myself, Kaitlyn, Marta, Juan, Teo (Enric taking the photo).