Spain, June 2022
There is something about airports I think that brings out the worst in people. You walk through the doors of the glass building ready to welcome unbridled chaos in one of the only places that try so hard to organise it. Crowds and queues that never really disappear, screaming children that only ever get louder, and a sense of entitlement that is often only reserved for the clientele of retail and hospitality – though I guess in some ways, airports marry the two in an unwilling union that anyone can be privy to.
Travel is not but an inconvenience when the experience has to be shared with other people. I truly think that if people could privatise the process, they would. No one wants to rub elbows with the stranger who takes an extra seat for their carry-on and another just in case, and no one wants to fight over the last available table at the guised Wetherspoons when they intentionally arrived early to guarantee a seat. Families don’t want couples complaining about their children and couples don’t want children ruining their holidays. Businessmen just want a quiet commute and wedding parties want the whole experience. It is loud and obnoxious, and most choose to observe it like a silent film plugged into whatever device they have as a means of escape.
Even once you’re speeding down the runway nothing really changes. The chaos of it all simply becomes contained from row one to row thirty-one.
For me, only when you’re above the clouds, sailing upon the waves of a white sea does the chaos seem to disappear. It’s when the stress of travelling no longer seems so stressful. You’re flying higher than the birds and at times it almost feels impossible. The low hum of the engines masks what little chatter remains and everyone else retreats inward to their books, films, and music, finding so many ways to pass the time until the plane lands and they can partake in the chaos all over again.
The first day is always a blur. Jet lag sets in – you forget the day, the time, and the fact that you’re not yet accustomed to the Spanish heat. You manage to make it down the hill, wander around town, pick up some shopping, but then as the sun climbs high into the sky and the clocks tick passed midday, you’re asleep in the darkness of an air-conditioned bedroom until the early evening.
Thankfully, unlike the day, the views were something that never really disappeared. Blue skies and streams of white cloud tumbling across the valley turn to a starlit sky when night falls, both just as beautiful as each other. There’s something different about being abroad. Something that disconnects you from the noise of everyday life. I can’t really explain it, but even though we all stand under the same sky, we all see the same stars, when we’re so far from home, they all look different. Even if for the first day, all I did was adjust to the distance.
I don’t see much of the ocean at home, I always think of it as almost a foreign concept reserved for fantasy. Rolling waves, salted air, fields of sand, an endless blue expanse, even the simplest things about just walking down a promenade are so magical when compared to concrete grids, towering buildings, and the smell of burning fuel from the lunch rush. Sure it’s just as crowded, sure it’s just as loud, but that’s only on my left. On my right, there is a kingdom of sand and a world unknown. I just have to be prepared to empty shoes and socks as well as cracks and crevices as I venture down onto the sand and walk into the sea.
This is something that I wish that this was more common in Scotland. In Scotland, there is always a war with street art – drunken crudeness and bubble-font tags covered by a thin layer of white paint that has been defiled again in the exact same way and readied for the cycle to start again. Instead, whilst tags and the odd disjointed message are scrawled by an aerosol can on a roughcast wall, it is more common to see actual art on the streets.
In displays of their talents, people only tag the walls with their signatures as their art is credible and beautiful. It represents their culture, their history, and their journey, and rather than crudely scrawling political movements or religious beliefs, there are murals dedicated to these things that become monuments in their own right. I know that some of the murals that appear on the walls are commissions and projects but tucked around the street corners and in the alleys where the graffiti artists run wild, there are works of art that often go unseen. So when you’re away, explore. You never know what you might see, and with it, what you might learn.
It is always nice to take a day, to wander down the hill, and just appreciate taking time for yourself. During this holiday there were only a few brief moments where I had that time.
I came away to see family but with that, the next time I go away it will be to truly take time for myself and my partner. There is an obligation that I feel when I’m with family, one that I hold dear, and that’s to spend time with family. So rarely do we get the chance to really appreciate the time we have with the people we have, so when I take a breath, I take a breath with my family beside me.
The Archaeological Museum in Alicante is always worth the visit. Inside the beautiful building, you have the chance to walk through the rich history of the area from the prehistoric era to the modern period, and every so often several rooms are dedicated to temporary exhibits. During my visit this time, a spontaneous venture to satisfy myself and my partner, they had dedicated the temporary exhibit to the gladiatorial period of Roman history, displaying the history of the sport, its foundation and its rise in popularity, as well as its impact on Spanish culture.
However, even out with the museums, the townships have their own histories to them that are proudly celebrated. The festival of St. Peter, the celebration of the Christians and the Moors, is incredible and extravagant, with the festivities lasting all month as the people and the cultures of past and present are paraded through the streets each year, with all walks of life encouraged to take part. There is still an opulence associated with religion in Spain that is just so foreign in Scotland. The Reformation destroyed much of the wealth of the church, and whilst south of the border has been able to reclaim it, there aren’t a lot of churches and cathedrals that have that splendour anymore. Yet even the little church in the centre of Rojales basks in golden light with no expense spared to the décor as they paraded roses through the streets for the Corpus Christi procession that evening.
History is fascinating. It spans so many lifetimes and reaches places that are relegated to dreams, all the while holding different timelines and interpretations depending on where you are. It is a window into what was, and whilst it is ever recurring, it will never recur in the same way. We learn from history, we evolve and adapt, and when history rears its head, it possesses a familiar voice but an unfamiliar face.
So many things divide us but there are few things that really bring people together. Food and music, to me, though are the two languages that can never be truly misinterpreted. Wherever you go, if there is good food and good music, you can feel at home, all because you are suddenly transported into that world, that culture, and if you learn to appreciate it, the world becomes a much more welcoming place.
I always try to make an effort when I travel to eat as authentically as possible. I’m travelling to experience a different way of living, not to experience Scotland in the sunshine – if I wanted that, I’d save the money and just wait for a good day to head to the Trossachs. I go to Spain to, unsurprisingly, experience Spain, and when I’m there I eat Spanish food. It’s one of the best parts about being there. Breakfast on the veranda with a sampling of fish, meat, cheese, bread, and a little taste of home on the side. Perusing the menus along the narrow streets of Alicante to find the best taste of Spain, settling on a little restaurant on the corner and digging into a glorious paella. Then watching the sunset on the promenade of Torrevieja with an ice cream from one of the many parlours to end the holiday.
Though there was a surprise amongst it all. Statues being constructed here, there, and everywhere. Cordoning off streets and holding up traffic, diverting tourists and narrowing walkways, all in preparation for the Fogueres de Sant Joan Festival. Modern art amongst urban beauty.
A whole year goes into some of these designs, and time and dedication are given even to the last hour as I sat waiting on lunch and watched men put together their own contribution. They are incredible sights, constructed in the last week of June and readied to be burned come the end of the month on the feast of St. John the Baptist. It almost seems a waste, for such skill and such beauty to be reduced to ash, but every year one remains. Preserved as a memory for all the others that year. Just like the photographs of a holiday coming to an end, it’s something to have and to remember.
We flew out in the morning of a grey day, the dullest day that we had whilst abroad. The temperature had dropped and so had the mood. It would be good to be home, back in my own bed and with my own space, but there is always something nice about escaping the normality of regular life, as well as avoiding the rather annoying venture that is air travel.
And it would seem that we had gotten unlucky on two accounts that final day, as navigating the airport and flying back was met with screaming children and faulty boarding passes, and then that night, as we were back in sunny Scotland, a spectacular storm hit the valley which would have been a sight to see. Something for next time I suppose, though if I could I would gladly skip the travel part next time.
