Spanish flying - I

A few years ago, we wandered through Spain. It was, as always, a work-vacation, where my father had a conference for a week and then we wandered through the country, stopping at random to explore, recoup and, of course, eat. And we met some very interesting people, folks we had known for years and others we had never seen before. There were also lots of sights to see, from magnificent cathedrals to stunning art, landscapes that shattered reason and small towns where ghosts ran through the streets. And each moment was an experience to be treasured, to be remembered, to be savoured.

We started in Madrid, landing at an hour that seemed unearthly after leaving Mumbai in the middle of the night. The hotel was cool, calm, quiet, almost gloomy, its walls and floors a dim jigsaw of water-coloured mosaic, the central elevator shaft a silent column that whisked people up and down. My room was around the corner from the one my parents occupied and between being terrified of windows that would not open and a door that creaked horrendously, I managed to dream up all sorts of visions that were as horrific as the box office was for Lady in the Water. A couple of days we spent wandering through the cool mornings and sunbaked afternoons in the city, tramping across painfully cobbled plazas and wandering down shaded lanes with laundry draping over balconies on apartment blocks coloured vibrant pink, green and yellow.

And then it was time to go north. The great adventure began early one morning, when we tramped, bags and baggage in tow, down to the car rental office. While my father filled in forms and my mother examined all the tourist literature, I got into the car – a Renault – and started it. It obliged, efficiently, neatly, hummingly. I put it into gear, watched carefully by the man who was handing over the keys, and urged the little chariot to move forward. It sat there, its small button nose perky, almost sniffing the air with an eagerness to get on with the trip. The man beamed fondly at me, waved me forward. I wiggled a little in my seat, trying to tell the car that it was okay to move. It just sat there, obdurate. I had a little chat with it, telling it how I was actually a pretty good driver, I knew which side of the road to be on and I did have a valid and untagged license, but it didn’t respond, except to chirp almost disparagingly when I hit the horn in my effort to find the brake. It just was not there. The man was starting to worry, that was obvious. And I was starting to get annoyed. Eventually, when my parents came out to investigate, the brake suddenly came undone and we shot off towards the opposite pavement.

Leaving behind a visibly alarmed car-hire official, we got on the highway and headed for Santiago de Compostela, where the conference was scheduled to be, at the northern end of the country. We got there late in the evening, and were greeted affectionately by old friends. Come out on the terrace after you settle in, we were instructed, and we did, hair and clothes blowing in the chill breeze, fingers and toes numbed by the cold, noses flowing with the unexpected and sharp change in temperature. A huge pot of dark red liquid was brewing under a large umbrella, wafting its interesting scents towards where we shivered. It was red wine, being simmered with coffee beans and goodness knows what else, spicy, fragrant and, best of all, hot. A close friend came up to give my mother a hug as she held her glass. Startled, she jumped; the poor man recoiled, his shirt wet, his chest probably seared. My father watched, smiling, while I stood there, my eyes watering, hoping that we would soon be fed and sent to nice warm beds inside…