June 6/7th – Madrid & Segovia – Belonging, or #chrissowhite

June 6/7^th – Madrid & Segovia – Belonging, or #chrissowhite

“Are you Basque?!”

A bouncy girl of about ten years old shouted this out to me, as I walked away from the Roman Aqueduct.

She was part of a packed group of livewire Ecuadorian kids, rushing and bustling next to the edge of viewing platform, close to where I was sitting. Most were frantically waving down at another group of kids, ignoring the monotone ramble of their teacher.

¡Hola! ¡Mira! ¡Mira aqui!

My heart jumped a little, anxious, as tiny feet scrambled up and around the crumbling ledge, hands in the air, desperate to make the biggest impression. There was laughter and un montón de jaleo.

The aqueduct stood silent, second place to the buzz of life, as it has done for 2000 years.

I left Madrid por la mañana, crammed my washing into the top of my bag, with the towel still damp from the morning's shower. I struggled into the metro, with my suitcase poorly balanced, and my rucksack cutting into my shoulders. On the move like this, I feel like a tortoise. Although perhaps not quite as world-weary (I assume!), but still, my life is in those two bags – and I can feel the weight.

The AVE high-speed train is glorious. I have not accounted for much train travel durante mi viaje, but this I could not resist. For the short journey it was delightful. Countryside rolling past the window, still tipped with scrubby greenary, was home to cows, gleeming white goats, and a few hikers. The train itself is luxurious compared to what I am used to, and seats have leg room, and foot rests. Foot rests!

A new hobby started yesterday. I've started talking to old American couples. It began on the train, and I met a nice liberal couple from South Carolina. Both teachers, one of Spanish, passing as bit of time in their beloved Spain to arrive eventually in Frankfurt, to the University, for business. Eventually discussion passed, like any current US/UK chat to a subject we all love: Donald Trump. His marginalisation of people particularly worried them, and the fallout on relations.

“I'm just worried what the world will think of America”. We departed and wished each other well, lamenting for politics both sides of the atlantic.

It wasn't the only Americans I met. Lunch was, typically, a simple affair. The view was special, food a little disappointing and over salty, and the coffee bitter. Kind of like my second couple of Americans. Sometimes it can be fun to play the 'how long does it take until they mention Muslims' game. It depends on the people quite clearly, and we have all be in that situation, where we think. 

“But, how did we get from ice cream to Jihad?” Well it could be the person, and it could be your colour. I'm white. I'd say it took 10 minutes.

I have never understood why people are so keen (even desperate) to discuss their most controversial views with complete strangers at the first meeting. But i'm from London I suppose. So perhaps I have some insight on 'the issue'.

“So what's with those Muslims in Europe?”

Living their lives I suppose. Stuck with some outdated views I suppose. Not mixing. Kind of like a couple of retiree Americans from smalltown Tennessee, afraid to let their grandkids go to school in Knoxville. But they were also nice. And not the only ones to be fearful of the change in America, or the world.

While America seems to be closing itself off to the world, other, traditionally more guarded cultures are opening themselves up. And this is a great thing.

Especially, it seems, the Chinese. I've been thinking about it. And I think, hands-down, they are the best tourists in the world. They embrace it like bees to pollen. They rub their noses in tourism. It is fantastic.

And it is not the kind of 'experience it like the locals', 'last night I tried yagé and I hallucinated the ancestral spirits' bollocks.
So I love the Chinese for their attitude.

It is raw, dirty sightseeing-for-sightseeing sake. I have never seen people take so many pictures, one after another, as yesterday in Segovia. 'Here is me infront of the Cathedral', 'Here is me slightly to the left in front of the Cathedral'. It goes on and on. But they love it. They buy chocolate Jesus from the shops, and study the guidebooks like it is the Koran.

And I think, in someways they have it right. Us nouvelle tourists, try desperately for an 'authentic' experience. 'Where do the real locals go!?' 'Let's go to the Market and take pictures of all that fruit we are not going to buy, just like the residents!'

You want authentic? Go to a fucking Wetherspoons.

But do I follow them? Of course I don't. I am just as bad as the rest. 

Truth is; I'm desperate to fit in.

For the first time in my life I am looking down at my arms, and analysing them. Is it just the light? Or am I really getting browner? Let's say I am (review in the morning). I don't need a tan. Or particularly want one. But perhaps i just want to be a bit more tanned then a tourist.  

Perhaps I am just rubbish at being a traveller. I want to be a stayer. A worker. A resident.

I want to walk down the street, like I fit in. I want to get that nod from the regulars in the cafeteria as they think “ahh esta él, suele pedir café y tosada con tomate”.

I think I managed it once. Walking through the streets of Tel Aviv, with not more then a few phrases in Hebrew, I could hardly count the number of times a local frantically asked me directions to a cafe, a rave (or, well to Oz for all I knew).

And it almost happened again, yesterday. Just.

It was a beautiful shady spot. Just to the left of a staircase, and looking out to the aqueduct, as it ran, arch-by-ancient-arch into the distance, each one progressively thinner, and less distinct. At the horizon, a soft granite grey blurred in the heat faze, touching a brilliant blue sky cut into by the mountains beyond.

For half an hour it was just me. I closed my eyes, and tried to imagine the shapes of the aqueduct, how they might frame on the page. I then drew, slowly; relaxed by the heat of the day, and its heavy air.

Progress was good once the groups started arriving. First to arrive were the Chinese.

It is not hard to gain an audience. Groups of two or three would stand behind me. I am not a great artist. Or even profess to being one at all. But there is something fascinating about someone sitting drawing or painting, and interpreting the surroundings. We all do it.

And I am used to it. I have spent many hours in galleries in London, teaching myself through doing, aiming to the admittedly low level I have now. But there is something nice about that. The best art you keep to yourself. Your little projects. And from my most self-conscious days to relative ambivalence, I have always had people peering, looking over my shoulder.

And abroad, people start talking to me.

Like those Ecuadorian girls. They shuffled up. Curious and giggling, while their compatriots were shouting and hollering. They just stood and watched for a moment; then the tallest walked round the front.

“Es tu dibrujo?”

“Si es mio! De donde Eres?”

She mumbled her home country, and went back to her friends, still rushing and taking selfies.

As I left, she shouted out a question – was from the Basque country? (A fiercely independent part of north-east Spain).

“No... Soy Ingles!” I proudly shouted back, to more giggles. Someone had clearly lost the bet.

My strange accent must have confused them – or pricked their imagination. They must have tried to figure it out, with a few theories. Their group then moved onto another monument.

I walked down the stairs, past the aqueduct, into the distance. The sun hit my creamy shoulders, and I clutched my warm leather sketchbook. The famous swifts of Segovia flitted and soared between terrazas, spires, and fresh white washing.

And as I returned to my flat, through the plaza major, just a little part of my heart warmed, reminiscing of the beaches and pinchos of my fictitious homeland – el Pais Basco.