The gentle elderly painter from Sunday's party, the one I talked to for a while about strokes (and who called me a 'boy'), was standing in front of a shop window in the street in Sitges yesterday. He looked tired, hesitant and sad, his hair uncombed – though he was wearing a shiny new jacket, a Christmas present; he looked, in fact, as you would expect him to, as he's been clearly been a bit disoriented/overwhelmed since his stroke last year.
But when I went up to say hello, he brightened, switching on a pleasant social manner like a lightbulb: it is that quality of the persona, of the mask we present to others, that is so important for us introverts. And I'm sure he enjoyed talking, while repeatedly touching my arm, my face, in a slightly anxious, forlorn intimacy – telling me about the friend for whom he was trying to find a Christmas present, what would be a good choice and what wouldn't; but I was struck by that strange resonance of the feelings underneath, that sense of loneliness and a bit of fear about the future.
Perhaps I identify more because I can easily see myself in the same position: it is indeed hard to face complicated health issues alone and/or in a far country. (Which reminds me that one of my Christmas gifts was bought for Michael, who took such great care of me this summer, dragging me out for walks when I was sitting at home doing nothing, keeping me moving and awake and in contact... I'm sure some of my recovery is due to him; I hope he likes the chocolates he is getting in, admittedly comparatively paltry, exchange.)
What does one do for all the people who are left a bit too alone toward the end of their lives – for the painter, for Dennis or Chris, for my mother? It seems so sad that we don't have lives that are a bit more tribal, communal, engaged. Think of the massive buildings of Barcelona's Eixample, grand apartment houses that seem comfortable and attractive – but also each one is so formally, so coolly, isolated from the next....
And no, don't tell me: the fact that I'm in a busy coffee house, people animatedly talking to each other everywhere, writing in a blog – yes, I get the point. But hey, I'm an introvert too.
•••
That evening I went in to Barcelona, looking forward to shopping and dinner and such; the rain deflated those plans somewhat, and I found myself amazingly tired when it wasn't even properly dinner time. But of course one of the great things about Spanish tapas bars and coffee houses (like the one I'm in now) is that you can sit for a long time and nobody cares, nobody rushes you off. I exchanged the sweater successfully, but couldn't find more of those shirts in rich colors – a shame, as it was inspiring to put on the deep reds, the forest greens; it made one feel less lackluster, more alive.
Dinner was, as it happens, excellent – if not very social: the distinctly gay restaurant 'Castro' (no, it's not named for anybody Cuban) wasn't very busy, but the food was even better than it has been at other times. And everyone working there was social and in a good mood; a pleasant experience, though probably my liver wasn't up to the little glass of orujo given to me by the waiter at the end of the meal, after I'd asked him to compliment the kitchen.
•••
Dashing through crowds of shoppers and partiers to the train station – just minutes before not the last but the third-to-last train of the evening – I was uncertain as usual which track I should be on; and found myself walking besides a short, muscular gym trainer, a handsome little man in spandex shorts and a warm jacket. I asked about tracks and trains to Sitges, and he said he was heading there himself (a sure sign, of course), so I walked with him for a bit and introduced myself.
When the train arrived forty minutes later, at about 11 pm, he put on a massive knitted cold-weather hat/hood (incongruous given that it wasn't all that cold, not to mention its mismatch with the spandex), and walked next to me into town while we talked – sort of talked, anyway, as I still have very primitive Spanish and Catalan, and he didn't know English, French or German. But a pleasant conversation nonetheless; we were both utterly tired, drained by the late trip on a rainy night, but enjoying a civilized exchange.
Most remarkably, after we talked about Barcelona and Sitges, living there and visiting, and I told him how much I had enjoyed my stay; as I turned off to go towards my apartment, he gestured expansively in an easy, gracious farewell that suggested a grand ownership of Sitges, of Catalonia, of all Spain, and said he hoped I would enjoy my stay. This young man, short and muscular in spandex and an absurd red hood, looked unquestionably and unselfconsciously like the lord of the castle, guaranteeing safety and comfort to the exhausted traveler, whose shabby clothes he is too dignified, too utterly noble, to notice. And then vanished into the dark street, like a shadow of the Golden Age....
It is no wonder we are always so enchanted by Spanish men: they are always lords of the castle, and we are always their deeply honored guests.