Life is a Dream

I am sitting on our incredibly uncomfortable couch trying to piece together a strange dream I had.  I dreamt that I was back in the US for a week, that I saw friends & family, that I attended a dissertation defense at UVA, that I had Thanksgiving dinner at my mother's house.  But here I am, in the apartment on the Calle del Prado, and I'm not sure if any of this happened.  Like Segismundo of Golden-Age-Spanish-drama fame, I find myself wondering whether or not my memories are of a real experience or not.  Here are the pros and cons:

What was dreamlike about it

• I met with some good friends in the department lounge, where we had a lovely albeit too-short conversation.  I usually go out for lunch with these friends.  What in the world were we doing in the lounge?
• The dissertation defense was in the History department.  I am in Spanish, but do research that is historically oriented.  What was I doing there?   Clearly my intellectual identity issues were making themselves felt in my dreamworld.  The defense went extremely well, by the way.
• I was with some other good friends at a burger place, eating delicious organic burgers, but they were having veggie burgers and breadless burgers.  Breadless burgers??  Clearly Dali-esque.
• At Thanksgiving, my cousins Carlos Hernán an Victor Manuel were there.  Victor saw me putting marshmallows on the sweet potatoes, and expressed curiosity about this, asking me if it was an innovation of my own.  CH was there last year, so he checks out, but I have not seen VM since he was 11 or 14 years old.  And he continued to be fascinated with race cars, as he was when he was a kid.  A very suspicious detail.
• Carlos Hernán had a preternaturally well-groomed beard.
• At the Spanish Consulate, we explained to the consular official that my son had to have a note from them explaining why he was missing gym class that week.  The consular official provided us with said note, on consular stationery.
• I was in our house in Charlottesville, with the family, talking with our renters.  They had rearranged some of the furniture, so that the house looked both familiar and not so familiar.  At one point, I was looking for stuff I needed in boxes, and couldn't find anything.  Just like an anxiety dream.
• There was Asian food everywhere.  We went out for Thai with my mother, and for dim sum with my mother-in-law.  The strange mix of cultures in the DC area seemed unreal.
• My brother was at Thanksgiving in this psychedelic shirt.  He said an artist friend had made it, but it looked like it was made from old curtains, like in Gone with the Wind.  
• My niece asked me if they had killed Voldemort in the last Harry Potter book.  I asked her if she had read the book.  She simply responded, "yes."
• My son delighted in taking care of my in-law's dog Ruckus.  He referred to the dog as "my dog" and spoke of how she was going to come to live with us one day.  If you knew Ruckus, you would appreciate how creepy this is.

What was real-seeming about it

• During the dream, I could only fly if I was in an airplane.  I was on several of those.  None of them traveled over land, or dove into long tunnels, as they often do in my dreams.  None of them were detoured to Singapore or Swaziland, as often happens in my dreams.
• The food tasted so real.  The sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, turkey, pad thai, pork buns . . . all of it.  Good, too.
• I did not have to kill Voldemort, as I often do in my dreams, but I did see a movie in which several people were devoting themselves to this very objective.  
• VM did not look 11 anymore.  He looked like he was in his late 20s, as he should be.
• Charlie, my baby nephew, behaved in perfectly baby-like fashion.  He did not drive a car or do complicated stunts.  He gurgled a great deal, but did not talk, or tell me my new book was crap.
• Most of the people I encountered behaved quite reasonably, even affectionately.  No one spoke in tongues or demonstrated that they possessed magical abilities.  None of them notified me that I had to take, the very next day, a final exam in a class that I did not even know I was registered in.
• Heathrow Airport, where we connected on our return flight, was nowhere near as horrifying and stressful as it so often is in my dreams.  
• At the Spanish Consulate, there were no additional forms demanded of us.  We did not have to show that we had gotten our butts notarized and apostilled.  We handed them our passports, and they were returned to us with the visas in them 1.5 hours later.
• I have a large sack of Target-brand bathroom products and over-the-counter medications in my closet.  This sack was not there before the dream.  Nor were the Harry Potter books on the shelves, or Santiago's electric keyboard in the apartment before the dream.   There is also a selection of cheeses in the fridge, which we were apparently given by my mother-in-law, which were not there before.

At this point, I have seen no photographs of any of these experiences, and will not be swayed by photographs once I do see them.  How would I know they weren't concocted in Photoshop, perhaps on the basis of information garnered from this very blogpost?  The physical evidence (the bag of stuff, the cheese, the keyboard, etc) tells me I should believe this dream was no dream at all, but reality, but maybe Zoë's just been shopping a lot, and I've been too immersed in work to notice.  The visas and the note, though . . . Could Zoë and Santiago have gone to DC and gotten these?  I can only say, following Segismundo:

Yo sueño que estoy aquí

en este sofá sentado,

y soñé que a otro estado

más angloparlante fui.

¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí.

¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,

una sombra, una ficción,

y el mayor pavo es pequeño;

que toda la vida es sueño,

y los sueños, sueños son.

Going Cuban in Castile

My friend Gustavo, who teaches classes on Cuban culture, says that students often walk in on the first day of class expecting it to be about "mambo, mojitos, y mujeres," and are surprised to find out when it's all about sugar and slavery.  Well, this post is not about any of those things, but it is about being Cuban. It is also about public transportation, roasted meat, and mob behavior.

Last weekend we were treated to a visit from a friend and his family.  This friend is a historian who is also on sabbatical, and is spending his year in a chilly, rainy country to the north.  Basically what we're doing, but in a nicer and much more expensive apartment.  The schools in that chilly, rainy country were on vacation, so he, his wife, and their daughter decided to go to Lisbon and Madrid.  Unfortunately, they brought the chilly, rainy weather with them to sunny Iberia.  It never rains here, by the way.  Only on holiday weekends.  Our friends were undaunted by the weather, though.  They live in Seattle most of the time, so sunshine is something that they only know about through TV and movies.

We had a great time with them, going to museums, eating tapas, churros con chocolate (fried dough with hot chocolate) and cochinillo asado (roast suckling pig).  All this despite the occasional shower, and/or soaking downpour. Churros con chocolate is Madrid's most famous breakfast treat, and cochinillo asado is a speciality of the city of Segovia, where we went on Monday, the Big Day Off.  It was All Saint's Day, a national holiday, so we caught the high-speed train to this lovely old hilltop city famous for its Roman aqueduct, its cathedral, its romanesque churches, and its hilltop castle or alcázar.  The cathedral was lovely, the aqueduct impressive, the churches closed, and the alcázar grand, even though we never went inside.  Despite the occasional sprinkle, we had a wonderful time walking around the streets.

Lunch was at Casa Duque, a restaurant that's been around since 1895, and is housed in a restored 16th century building.  The owners have been roasting lambs and pigs with great skill for over a century now, and they have the certificates, plaques, and pictures-with-famous-people to prove it.  They actually offer a course for people who want to become "master roasters."  I asked Zoë why she was not enrolled in this course, and to this date have not received a satisfactory reply to my question.  Luckily, the only rain that hit that day fell while we were wallowing in roasted piggy deliciousness.

After lunch, we wandered around a bit until it was time to catch the bus back to the train station.  And this is where my story really begins. You see, when our train arrived, the city of Segovia had several #11 busses waiting to take everyone up to the old town.  We thought that the municipality would exhibit the same wisdom in the afternoon, providing ample transportation in time for the 6:20 train to Madrid.  Not so.  One bus loaded up, and then pulled away leaving a crowd of desperate day-trippers on the sidewalk.  Another bus stood idly by, its callous driver waiting for it to be time to start his route.

We started to count the minutes until our train left, wondering if we would get there.  We ran across the square, through the puddles, to the taxi stand.  No luck.  Big line, no taxis.  Back to the bus stop, where Mr. Devil-May-Care had finally pulled his bus up.  The once-calm line was turning into an anxious crowd as the driver fiddled with some papers and change.  People started yelling at him.  "Let's get going!"  "We're going to miss the train!"  He continued to fiddle.

Santiago came up to me, and told me it was time to go Cuban on him.  Here, an explanation is in order.  As you know, my mother's side of the family is Ecuadorian (quiteño, to be precise, from the city of Quito), and my father's, Cuban, from Havana.  These two brands of Latin American culture are really quite different.  Quiteños put a high value on politeness and soft-spokenness.  They can lose their temper, of course, but it takes them a while before they abandon their indoor voice.  Cubans do not have an indoor voice. What they call "talking" is often perceived by others as "shouting." They are also fond of using a vocabulary that would make a prostitute blush (unless, of course, she is a Cuban prostitute). None of which, mind you, is mean to be offensive.  It's not shouting and cursing, just communication.  For example, there is a Cuban comedian who tells audience that the proper translation of "¡Coño!  ¿¡Qué mierda comes!?" is "My point of view is different from yours."

Spaniards are somewhere between quiteños and Cubans, although there are certainly much closer to the Cuban end of the spectrum.  They can be loud, and are certainly foul-mouthed. Unlike Americans, or quiteños, they have no filter that examines words and ideas before they are enunciated, discarding those that might be considered offensive.  Words simply drop from brain to tongue, and pop out of the mouth, and it is the listener's job to know how to take it.  Zoë, I believe would tell you that Spaniards are on a par with Cubans, particularly after our experience at back-to-school night, where everyone was shouting/talking so very loudly, but I must disagree, if only out of national pride.  I cannot let anyone share the throne with Cubans as the loudest and most foul-mouthed of Latin Americans.  To Zoë's assesment of Spaniards I must answer: ¡Coño que no! ¡Que tremenda comemierdería!

But I digress.  Imagine, if you will, a stunning Roman aqueduct, over 2000 years old, spanning hundreds of feet and standing several stories tall.  One end of it thrusts into the orange stone of an ancient walled city, its crenellations almost burning in the light of the setting sun as it pierces through the clouded sky.  A brisk fall day.  A one-thousand-year-old Romanesque church in the background.  At the base of the aqueduct, a small crowd of Spaniards loudly berates a hapless bus driver.

I decided to go Cuban, and join the fray.  "What do you think you're doing?"  "Can't you see there are people waiting?"  "The train is going to leave and we're all going to be stranded!"  "This is an outrage!" "We're going to file a formal complaint with the municipal government!" I was in there with the angry Spaniards, yelling, gesticulating, crowding in, feeling the exhilaration of losing myself in an angry mob.  Finally, the driver let us on the bus, but we were held up.  By what?  By an elderly Spaniard who thought that the moment he bought his ticket would be the perfect time to give the bus driver an extended lecture on the nature of quality customer service.  Damn him!!!  I almost went Cuban on his ass too!!!!

The bus finally pulled away from the curb, full of glum passengers with little hope of reaching their train.  We yelled at the bus driver every time he stopped to let pedestrians passed.  We measured the wisdom of making a run for it at the station, just in case the train was delayed.  Seconds would count.  Our sense of solidarity with the others that had developed at the bus stop was fading, as we began to realize that the bus's arrival at the train station would trigger a mad dash for the train in which it was going to be every tourist for him or herself.

Here was the lineup:

• My historian friend: Most likely to make the train.  He's a runner, and was wearing a good pair of walking shoes.
• The kids: Youth, vigor, and sneakers on their side.  As long as they didn't run in the wrong direction, they're chances were good.
• The historian's wife: Also a runner, but wearing clogs that were no good for for the sprint.  As a result, a wildcard.
• Me: Definitely not a runner, but I had sneakers on, and figured I could take the elderly Spaniards, as well as the ditzy pair of Brits.
• Zoë: Also not a runner, but like the historian's wife, wearing unfortunate shoes.  
• The elderly Spaniards: They were screwed. Not real contenders, but could figure in the competition as obstacles to the real competitors.  The trick was going to be to get off the bus before they even got out of their seats, so that we wouldn't be stuck behind them.
• The smiling Brits: Did they know what was going on?

The bus stopped, and we were off!!  The historian was in the lead.  His daughter second, me third.  The spouse was  lagging behind.  I don't know where Zoë or Santiago were.  We sprinted across the parking lot to the glass doors and  …

There is an unmistakeable stillness that fills a train station after the only train has definitively left the station.  There is no bustle of people coming in from the platform, or hurrying out to meet the train.  The loudspeaker is quiet.  The board listing arrivals and departures flashes no platform numbers.  There are no voices of greeting or farewell.  The ticket-takers stand still, as if dormant.  The people on the benches look like they've been there since time immemorial.   We burst into this stillness and immediately recognized it for what it was, a certain sign of our defeat.  No one needed to ask if the train had left.  I remarked to the attendant, "The train is gone, right?" and got an unnecessary nod in reply.

This was the moment at which our tiny society dissolved.  Surely, there would not be spaces for everyone on the remaining trains.  Our former allies were now our rivals, in what would surely be a ruthless contest for a limited number of seats.  We took advantage of our lead to get into the ticket line first, sure that we would have seats on the next train.  The rest of the bus passengers filed in behind us, forming an orderly but decidedly grumpy line.  

As a new window open, I hopped into it it, but found myself joined by one of the elderly Spaniards.  No, he was not trying to cut line.  He just wanted to get a head start on his complaining.  As the RENFE ticket agent explained our scant and expensive options for getting to Madrid by train that night or the next morning, my fellow traveler scolded him for the faults of Segovia's municipal transportation system.  Others joined in. One shouted out that we should all go to the police to denounce the incident.  Clearly, having gotten no satisfaction from the bus driver, everyone was ready to stick it to the train station guy.  Still in Cuban mode, I joined in, suggesting it was ridiculous for public transportation not to be coordinated with the departures of the train.

Eventually, Zoë and I gave up, realizing that the few spots available on the trains were going to cost a fortune, and that going Cuban was not going to make them either more plentiful or cheaper.  But we'd come up with an alternative.  The bus!  Of course!  We would take the bus!  We abandoned the ugly mob, got a #12 bus to the bus station, and rode a moldy-smelling intercity bus back to Madrid.  Home by 9pm.

The next day, the historian and his family flew back to their chilly, rainy country in the north, and the sun began to shine again on Central Spain, just in time to go back to work and school.  I half expected the newspapers to report how an ugly mob at the Segovia train station had lynched a RENFE ticket agent, but I never did get to check the headlines.  Passing the Cuban restaurant on our street on the way to the Biblioteca Nacional, I thought to myself, "Coño, que jodienda aquello del tren."