Juntos

We stopped at an overlook on the way to the Sierra de Grazalema, the dramatic, rugged Andalucian countryside 70 miles south and east of Seville. We were headed for what would be a challenging trek up and down steep rocky ridges as tough as many we had hiked on the Camino. We didn’t know that then, as we stood looking out at the sandstone peaks and the deep gorges, the bluer-than-blue sky. It was both A Moment, and another in a string of extraordinary days shared by the four of us, los quatros amigos.

Let me tell you a little bit more about us: Poli and Tino, Sevillanos, were life-long friends whose ease with each other, especially their ability (so unlike heterosexual men in the US) to show casual, spontaneous physical affection, had astounded—and deeply pleased—me when we hiked together on the Camino Norte last October. Christina (a Canary Islander who had made a life in Cambridge) and I were strangers to each other and to the boys. The list of our differences, even between the two life-long friends—from temperament to life experiences, from family background to occupation--was much longer than our overlaps.

But now, six months after (randomly) encountering each other on the Norte, we were a bonded foursome, on adventures that would include mountain hikes, bike rides, horseback rides, leisurely almuerzos enjoyed in the sun in cinematic village plazas, nighttime wanderings through the city and along the Guadalquivir River. And so many cafés con leches, and more than a few cervezas. But also, and more importantly and wonderfully, five and a half days of conversation in two languages about our futures and our pasts, about love and loss, health and illness, parents and children, technology and nature, and yes, politics.

I had been so concerned with what I would encounter as a Trump-era American traveling in Europe (you know, Europe? Our former allies?). How easy it is to lose sight of what unites us as humans when those with power work to tear us apart.  

Up at the overlook, we encountered a fun-loving group of recreational motorcyclists, three men and a woman. We exchanged pleasantries. They asked where we were from. I answered “Estados Unidos, and then ducked my head, and said (I thought in a whisper, but I guess not), “lo siento.”  (I’m sorry.) The biggest, burliest guy with the most patches on his jacket, including one that identified him as a member of The Guardia Civil, nodded his head slowly and said, “Por uno no vais apagar todos.” Christina had to translate for me:

 “Not everyone should pay for the consequences of one.”