A party-hardy and many adoptive grandparents (Muros, Spain)

Since Wednesday the entire town has been celebrating the festival for the Virgen del Carmen, who watches over fishermen. There are four nights of music and dance in the main square – I have attended two so far – and numerous religious activities, like noon masses and the procession of the Virgen from the main church to the docks, where she is carried aboard a boat and taken out for a spin, and then on to a smaller chapel. There the townspeople sing a hymn, solemnly, and then very unsolemnly rush to the Virgen’s stand to take one of the white carnations or gerberas that adorn her feet and, having been blessed by her, provide good fortune or something else immensely desirable. I am no good in crowds, so I went “whoop” and tried to walk the other way, but I got a flower anyway! Candida, one of the seventy-something-year-old women who make up my social circle here in Muros, handed me one as I was going down the stairs into the street.

She and her sister, Pepita, and their friend, Loli, adopted me at the party on Wednesday night when Susa (the next door neighbor who forced clothes pegs upon me and with whom I’ve had several coffees now) introduced me as a solo traveler, all alone and needing attention and instruction in dance. The sisters are intimidating – after two nights of dancing, Candida has yet to smile at me (I still categorize facial expressions into smiles, which are good, and non-smiles, which elicit concern on my part; I should know better after a month in Galicia), and they dance like it’s their God-given duty – but very kind. One of them was always holding my hand or petting my arm and singing into my ear, and we danced for hours. Well, they danced for hours. I can only claim to have danced for the last half hour or so, because when I started out I just stepped on their feet, kneed them (they are much shorter than I am), and apologized constantly. I could see Segundo, Susa’s husband, laughing at me, but by the end of the night he said, “Irene – there’s hope for you yet.” Flatterer. My body has no intuition – I am doomed to stumble until I figure out a pattern, and it’s hard to figure out a pattern in Candida and Pepita’s tight and unrelenting embraces. I can say now, though, that I won’t step on your feet dancing a cumbia, paso doble, waltz, a dance called “el polvorete” (sexual innuendos! I was totally oblivious to the meaning of the song until somebody acted it on stage), merengue, salsa, or tango. Last night I hardly danced at all, preferring instead to watch the show – the bands are impressive. There are two of them on separate stages, and they take turns entertaining throughout the night. Lots of flashy lights, costume changes, props, and audience participation. One singer, seeing that I was trying to take a picture of him, even serenaded me for a little bit; the picture turned out well.

Yesterday I ate lunch (which was so big that it ended up being dinner, too) with Mariloli, her husband Juan, and their daughter Maria. At Mariloli’s insistence, I had two servings of what I thought was the main course but was actually the first of several, so that by the time I left the house I had had generous portions of ensaladilla (cold egg salad with seafood and vegetables) and bread, lamb (mmph), potatoes, flan, brazo de gitano (a bread dessert eaten during the holidays), and orujo tostado (very strong alcohol – whoo! Maria said, “Now you’ll have no trouble taking a nap”). They are very hospitable, and Juan has seen the whole world by ship! He was a merchant in his younger years, and now shudders when anybody suggests that he travel somewhere.

I have discovered that I require a certain degree of anonymity to feel comfortable in a place – no possibility of that in Muros. Not only do Susa and Segundo know my exact schedule, since they call out to me every time I enter or leave the apartment, but Maria (the daughter of Mariloli, who is renting me the apartment), told me at lunch, “Oh, did you know that I went to school with Felipe’s daughter?” I thought, “Who is Felipe? Do I know his daughter? Why are you telling me this?” Two seconds of high-speed processing in my brain led to the realization that Felipe was the man who had taken me out to see his bateas; he had told his daughter about me, and his daughter had told Maria, who told me -- I had no idea that there was any connection between Maria and Felipe. I wonder how many people know exactly where I’ve been and what I’ve done every day. Small towns give rise to naturally occurring and freakishly intense Neighborhood Watch programs. I’m sure that if I bought condoms at the grocery store, one of my adoptive grandparents would be lecturing me within the hour.

-- Very funny: As I was typing, Mariloli came into the apartment and said, “Come have a drink with us.” Not a question. The life of the retiree is jam-packed with social engagements! I’m not sure if I’ll be able to handle it. –

Tomorrow I leave Muros, but I still don’t know exactly where I’m going. I may just ride the bus towards Santiago until I see a town that looks interesting and hop off. I am intrigued by the countryside. Exciting!