Spent the morning in Christina Enea park and was quite distracted by four white-clad, surprisingly chubby capoeiristas spinning and tumbling about to drum beats from a boom-box. What’s the deal with wearing white? These well-rounded capoeiristas seemed to represent a local club, with Brazilian flags on their shirts and cameras rolling to capture their dancing battles. The one lady of the trio revealed her convex belly and an awfully bright yellow yoga bra, but who cared? She rocked the outfit, and she could do things while wheeling on her hands and feet that I will probably never master. I seemed to sit right under a quince tree, as a lady with a little fat dog busied herself around my bench, picking fruit into a bag. The dog was quite as interested in what was on the ground as her mistress, but not helpful at all in picking quinces.
Gave up on the summit of the park and the capoeiristas’ acrobatics in favor of looking for a toilet. Or “los servicios comunales” as they are often called here. Thanks to a quick Google search pulled up a map of the park and found the toilets, unmarked and well hidden from anyone who necesita el baño. The peacocks I passed on my way look at me with disdain. There is nothing elegant about a tourist desperately in need of a bathroom.
After I successfully completed the comunales project the park was nearly empty. Most families had probably retreated for a late Sunday lunch, and I repaired underneath a tree which at close inspection appeared to be a Californian redwood tree. In Spain. And it certainly was not planted yesterday – or less than a century ago.The whole aim of this trip to Christina Enea park was to create a life plan: what would I like my life to look like 10 years from now? 5 years from now? What needs to be kicked off next year, or this year? I sat underneath the redwood tree and gathered bits and pieces: getting hold of Spanish and then spending the rest of my life trying to decipher French; completing the book manuscripts I have in my head; ensuring my job either includes home office time or a max commute of 20 minutes door-to-door; and ensuring I have enough creativity and headspace in my life. And oh yes, living by the sea. And oh yes, the person I live with wants to move to a landlocked country.
The bits and pieces refused to create order among themselves. Like the insane pioneer claims in a favorite poem by Margaret Atwood, “this is not order but the absence of order. He was wrong, the unanswering forest implied: It was an ordered absence.”
I gave up and went for pintxos and local wine.(San Sebastián, Spain; August 2019)