“Tell me honestly though – have you stayed well here? Have you been happy?”
Osbaldo and Mari Elisa observed me from the salon sofa as I formulated an answer.
What do I say to that? Yes, in most ways, no in some others. “Well, yes, of course! You have taken such good care of me.” And truly they did, and they have. From helping me get settled in to preparing meals, sharing in groceries, and welcoming me into family events. Still I explained that it was difficult for me to stay under the roof of a family, with familiar rules, familiar schedule. It was hard as a 23 year old woman to have a curfew and I missed hosting parties in my own house. It was theirs really, they were there first. How could I impose on them in such a way as to host a party with dozens of people? But I had to tell him, and I said honestly, that of course I had stayed well.
“And it was for me as well, somewhat awkward to give you rules. I hesitated to do it. But it is a home, after all. I didn’t want to, but there has to be a way for us all to live peacefully…. And you could’ve had a party if you wanted,” was Mari Elisa’s reply.
Osbaldo sighed and stretched a little. “Well, honestly, I’ve been quite happy with the whole situation,” he grinned sleepily. Really? I thought. He didn’t realize there was ever any problem? What a man. But I felt comforted by it, though, knowing that I had been imposing at times, that I had come in too late some nights, left my laundry in the washer too long, pushed the snooze button on my loud alarm clock multiple times, and that these things hadn’t been any reason for him to want me to leave. He was not, as I had feared they both would be, glad to see me go.
The next day I began to move my things from the Leon house to my new home in the Plaza Mayor. Mari Elisa and Osbaldo had told me around Christmastime that they were looking for a new house and that I ought to find some place to move just in case, so I did. It has been a good change of scenery, a very central location with activity day and night. My roommate is the French lector at the adult language school nearby. She’s a dear girl, fun to go out with, easy to live with. I like to try out my French with her occasionally (I speak very little), and she practices her English with me (she speaks it very well) and she’s promised to teach me French cooking (I just learned how to cook rice the other day. Who am I?)
Semana Santa (Holy Week) absolutely arrived the Friday of suffering (el viernes de dolores). I myself hitch hiked a ride to Sevilla to meet up with a couple of friends from the States, Mike, who also works in Andalucia as an English lector, and his friend Bethany who was visiting for the week. Sevilla is the top spot for Semana Santa celebration. On Sunday we hopped the train south to Cadiz, oh so famous for its location, beauty, and military base, yet for such grand fame it is a tiny place. We saw our first procession of Semana Santa there. See the pictures, and don’t be alarmed, they are not part of any race-hating society.
Speaking of the capirucho (the pointy face-hiding mask), it occurred to me to ask a Spanish person about the origins of the shape of the hat. I supposed that it had a religious significance, as a similar shaped cap was used by the Ku Klux Klan, a group whose reasons for killing blacks, Jews, Catholics, and many others were loosely based in Christian religion. Well, from the answers I received, I gathered that the mask hides the face in order that the service or promise they were carrying out might be done in secret worship to God. Those who marched in the procession, it is supposed, did so in times gone by, did so in completion of a covenant they had made with God. The shape of the hat points toward the heavens, supposedly directing attention to the higher being, instead of the wearer. Well, all this becomes quite a bit more wretched considering the men who killed those of other races and religions in service to God. Those masks, as my friend Luana pointed out, were not a mark of humility but instead one of cowardice and fear.
On Wednesday I returned to Huercal Overa. The people of Southern Spanish cities traditionally affiliate themselves with an association for the Semana Santa celebration. These associations are called pasos and in Huercal Overa there are three – purple (morado), black (negro), and white (blanco). All year long, each association prepares its procession. This involves band rehearsals, preparing the tronos (the figures of Christ and the virgin which are carried through the streets) and the special garments that will be worn by the marchers. Much time and money goes into this. Lucky girl that I am, my dear friend, Pilar, invited me to march with her in the paso blanco procession on Thursday dressed in the traditional Spanish mantilla. We were fabulously Spanish looking, you just wouldn’t believe. Unfortunately, the rain began coming down quite hard only an hour into the procession, so we were unable to complete the procession. As it began to rain, the other mantilla in my line began to cry. Hm, maybe she spent a lot of time getting ready, I thought. Then I saw many other participants weeping as we returned to the Hermita where the procession began. Hmm, maybe they really love the Virgin. But the observers, the standers-by were crying as well. Maybe it was the money that was spent. What I had the opportunity of witnessing, though, was the end product of people from a small town, pulling together to create a special event. So even though it literally rained on our parade, the sense of communal support was impressive, if not heart wrenching for some.
So here we go back to the old grindstone after a week of unbeatable excitement. We’re experiencing thunderstorms. That might seem boring to you, but I haven’t witnessed a real thunderstorm probably since September when I left home and some days a girl just needs a good thunderstorm. Some of you know. Last but not least, happy (late) Easter! He is risen!
