May 24, 2007
Cortijo El Membrillo,
12 km east of Arcos de La Frontera
May 24, 2007
Dear Friends,
Four weeks ago, when we arrived at El Membrillo (which means ‘the quince tree’), the countryside was dressed in nothing but every imaginable hue of green. Now green competes for our ooohs and aaahs with multitudinous red poppies, yellow cactus crowns, tall purple thistles, and the indigo spikes of an ubiquitous shrub we don’t know how to name. In the field across the dirt road that runs past our gate, pink and white sweet-peas curl up against rows of maturing sunflowers. When these hybrid girasoles blossom in two weeks or so, miles of blazing orange will also stun the morning eye. All this under a steady hot sun set in a deep blue sky, surrounded by the craggy Sierra de Grazalema.
Large swathes of the rolling valley around us are also turning blonde, as field hands (who seem to appear out of nowhere at first light)
methodically mow acres of tall grains and grasses, bundle them in neat
square bales, and haul the bales away. They labor in full sun until 2
p.m.—that’s lunchtime—returning after siesta, around 5, and quit only when the sun goes down at a little before 10. They are close enough for us to spy on from the patio, but also far enough away so that the noise of their machinery comes up the hill to us as a not unpleasant drone under the incessant chirping of the small birds nesting in the palms along the southeast side of the house.
We enjoy watching the workers, admire the patience it takes to clear a
field, wonder out loud if the overloaded flatbed truck will make it up the rutted dirt path and negotiate the curve that leads to the main road. It does, of course, several times a day. For us, watching this classic pastoral scene unfold is a form of relaxation, and it’s easy to wax romantic about it. We know, however, that for the men working below the house, there is nothing relaxing or romantic about it. From time immemorial the
regional officials all over the country. It is a little like our mid-term elections, an important test of the strength of the major parties before national elections are called in 2008. The big issues this year are the prohibitively high cost of decent housing for the “average” urban Spaniard, terrorism (domestic—ETA—as much as international), immigration (mostly African and Muslim, but also South American and Eastern European), “urbanization” (also called the ladrillo, or bricks and mortar, problem)—i. e., uncontrolled development, unregulated real estate speculation, local government corruption in lucrative construction deals.
There is also talk about access to water, the phenomenon of emigration
from village to city, and about climate change and other environmental
issues. The conservatives also push the “family values” button. Among other targets of their alarm is the recently-passed law that mandates
“citizenship education” for every child. The proposed curriculum includes “tolerance” as one of its subject areas, meaning, of course, acceptance of homosexuals and Muslims, among other minorities. The airwaves crackle with predictions of doom—the loss of “Spanishness.” The socialists reply with utopian slogans about pluralism and “convivencia”—life together—and warn about sliding back into the barbaric and isolationist clutches of “Franco-ism.” Meanwhile, the haying continues, and the fields, as they do every year, go from green to gold to brown.
A few days after we had settled in at El Membrillo, Anne and I drove two and a half hours over the mountains to
The weight of five grown women and three sets of luggage gave our little car a workout, especially on the bumpy road that leaves the highway and brings you, after a few more kilometers, to the farmhouse gate, but we managed to arrive safe and sound (despite my inability to master first gear after full stops on steep inclines…). The farmhouse extended its serene welcome to our little group, and for the next week it served us well as the headquarters for many extended meals and conversations about vocation and ministry, about the vitality of the church, about writing, and about our lives…We took long naps, long walks, and read long books (and some not so long!). Mostly we enjoyed each other’s company in ways that the pressures of duty and time back home do not often allow us to do. We were also able to visit some of the most typical and important tourist sites in Arcos, Sevilla,
was far more than we gave to them.
Meanwhile, on a cold rainy night in
hundreds of small craft, both banks of the wide river lined for miles with cheering throngs. The Sox, however (if I remember correctly), did not stop at the cathedral to place a grateful spray of flowers at the feet of the statue of Mary, “Queen of Kings” and Patroness of Sevilla, before continuing their victory lap around town atop a big red sightseeing bus.
Only in
It’s snail season here in the countryside. Every restaurant in town and
all the roadside ventas are plastered with handmade signs—Hay caracoles! We have snails! Most of these signs also specify that the snails on offer are de Arcos. We are not snail experts and cannot say whether Arcos snails taste or look different from snails gathered in Bornos, a few kilometers down the Antequera road, or snails from Prado del Rey, a few kilometers in the other direction, but it seems important to the restaurant people that it be stated clearly: these little creatures are from here—local, ours, and therefore good—probably the best.
I love this small claim about the best-ness of locality, the best-ness of home. And I love the fact that when we came four weeks ago, you could ask, but you would not be able to get any snails from Arcos for lunch. And in a few weeks, you won’t be able to get them again, anywhere. In these small rural towns there is still “a time for every purpose under heaven”— and thus there are things to look forward to because they are not always available, at least not like this…snails from Arcos and nowhere else. There are still things to savor with a special joy, treats that the whole family dresses up and goes out for—asparragos, fresas, melocotones, caracoles—each delight in turn, each in due season. Last Sunday we saw them at the Venta Antonio, children as young as 3, middle-aged couples, very old grandparents, tackling with gusto large clear glasses of Arcos snails, toothpicks wielded with great dexterity, “snail juice” slurped down and licked away neatly… to the last luscious little drop. This age-old rhythm of deferred desire and momentary satisfaction, of the acceptance of the grace of this moment and no other, is all but unknown in our other world, the world back home where we can easily gratify every desire in the very moment it seizes us and demands satisfaction.
Most of our days here unfold in an easy rhythm of rest, walks (down to the pig farm, up to the goat pen…), reading, and conversation, punctuated by occasional drives through the countryside, almost daily visits to Arcos for a paper, a few groceries, an occasional lunch or supper, and the occasional use of free wireless internet access at the Arcos municipal library—when it’s open, which it isn’t always, even when it says it will be, this being Spain. (One either develops a certain philosophical attitude toward this kind of inefficiency, or shrivels up and blows away in fits of Anglo-Saxon apoplexy. We have chosen flexibility over fits.)
But every couple of weeks we roam a bit further afield, to Villamartin,
about 30 km from the farmhouse, where the regional hospital is located.
Anne has to have her blood tested regularly until everyone is satisfied
that she is well out of danger of post-op blood clots, and in Villamartin they do the deed. Here the nurses wear blue and white uniforms—complete
with caps—and draw blood rapidly and painlessly. Anne wants to adopt them and take them home. When we first went to the hospital (a public health center called Our Lady of the Mountains), we had no idea what to expect. We are not part of the Spanish Health System, no one knows us from Adam, and all we had to offer was a little piece of paper (in English) from Anne’s doctor at home that specified the name of the required test. Within a few minutes of our arrival, we were attended by a young man who set us up with everything we needed, no questions asked. Blood was drawn, the analysis conducted, and the results given (during a personal consult with a doctor) all within a short 3 hours, and it cost us a grand total of 11 Euros—a little more than $15. We wondered if we had been given special treatment for being foreigners, but we know now that this is just the way things work here, except that the local people pay nothing at all.
We have a week left here at El Membrillo. Then we spend a few transition days in
sorrows, challenges and dreams, and commend you with faith to the God who is the donor of all our days and the lover of all our hearts.
The Spirit’s peace be yours, dear friends, and the unmatched exuberance of Pentecost!
Love,
Mary