Ganas de vivir: a solo roadtrip story
self-portrait in Belmonte (2020)
My birthday’s coming up and this could be a piece about it— I mean, who wouldn’t want to read about how inconvenient I was even before birth? My mother was getting ready to eat pizza, and I was like, not without me, and proceeded to pop out a month earlier than planned.
Everything turned out fine —I’m among the most stable people you’ll ever meet, and my body developed pretty well (if you don’t count my mood swings or lack of upper-body assets). But no, this isn’t a story about clementine boobs, or still owing mommy a pizza, 28 years after birth. And although it is a story about self-discovery, it's also not a cinematic sequel to Eat, Pray, Love.
The previous years had been a blur, so this would be the first Summer of potential sweetness. And although I had convinced myself that a solo quarantine in an empty village hadn’t been rough, I might’ve lied a little. Three months later, large sidewalks, transit sounds, and city agitation were all I could think of. It’d be pretty damn sweet to take my car to new roads, I thought. So, as I ignored mom’s cross-border travel horror stories, and general distress as if I were going on a solo pilgrimage to Morocco, or riding the bus at New York City MTA Route B46, I made the simplest yet most rewarding decision to date.
No over-the-top planning (oops mom!), Mendeley’s 7,000 paper abstracts to read (sorry PhD), just driving down the road, music up, windows down. You know, the whole 9 yards and, ain’t gonna lie, free fallin’ on the playlist (I mean… who wouldn’t sing it at the top of their lungs ridin’ solo through the mountains?).
10 days. 7 stops. 1,284 km. A camera & 35mm lens. One pair of overused white Reeboks with the big toe almost pushing out. A car with an overloaded trunk full of unnecessary possessions, and a backseat filled with eucalyptus branches (aka air freshener).
Five documentaries and a dozen Wikipedia tabs later, the adventure began. Sunday morning on a warm July. Close the door and drive away, I told myself, as a cocktail of excitement, little girl anxiety, and false-full-bladder-syndrome crept up.
Sunday morning, July 12th (2020)
♫ Take me home country roads by john denver on the radio
Belmonte: first stop. Five museums in a day. Small houses holding a haunting past of Jewish persecution. Threatening bees on the castle tower. Humble humans in empty spaces. An overwhelming sense of peace as the sun set behind the mountains.
♫ Anchor by novo amor
Monsanto: second stop. Pocket-size village filled with character. Tiny medieval homes made of big rocks. Panic attack triggered by a miniature dog. A silent hike towards a castle over the hill overlooking untouched nature. The solitude and quiet of watching a beautiful sunset that is meant to be shared.
♫ Brown eyed girl by van morrison
Plasencia and Talavera de la Reina: quick stops. A dubious pensión room that gave me the impression I was waiting for a sultry date that would never show up. Improvised grocery cooling system with a cheap fan. Self-doubt and intimidation ending with a parking lot stranger whose trade of words and smile sustained the fall. A reminder that lows are needed for the highs to come.
♫ Solsbury hills by peter gabriel
Toledo: the high. Exhaustion and wonder over breathtaking sights from a city that nests history in every corner. Sweat and tears behind a mask as admiration overtook the senses. Pretty windows and balconies. Unexpected encounters with fellow travelers. Compulsive midnight laughs, rooftop picnic with good people, sangria with a view. A late-night sprint down the main road. A few lessons on spontaneity. A promise to return.
♫ Te dejo madrid by shakira
Madrid: farthest destination point. An urban embrace amid self-confrontation and anxiety. Surprisingly charming in all forms. More lovely balconies. Tear-provoking art in museums. Fresh grass. A sprint to catch the sunset, ice-cream on a city bench. Long walks alongside an impromptu, yet premium tour guide. Good beers, great food, and conversations.
♫ The great unknown by the mighty oaks
Salamanca: the farewell. Withdrawal prep. No GPS, cloudy day. Deserted alleys and plazas. Stunning architecture and beauty in the midst of melancholy.
♫ West coast by coconut records
self-portrait in Monsanto (2020)
As I drove away, tears poured, as if my eyes were clouds and all they’d seen in those 10 days had condensed them. There it was: saudade. I’d spent years foolishly translating it to homesickness. But that wasn’t homesickness — I wasn’t departing from nor arriving home. Home has never been a place.
And so it all clicked.
I discovered that to me the ephemeral stays and expected goodbyes trigger the comfortable familiarity I need. To settle, leave, and never really hold on. Because to hold, is to risk losing. And what I bring with me is never as meaningful as what I release. For only seldom do I recall the 2k photographs on my memory card, souvenirs, the camera charger, cinnamon sweets, or a pack of gummy bears that I left in my Madrid hotel room. What I do remember is the powerful sun — at least until my stylish watch tan line, and the very alluring dead skin around my toes remain — the places, and the people I met along the way.
The upbeat French feminist who accepted a ride to Madrid 15 minutes into the first conversation ran with me across Gran Vìa to the Temple of Debod for the sunset, showed me that friendship is not measured by time and having watermelon for dinner is perfectly acceptable. The vegan shrimpy Czech with the matching sarcastic humor (and level of insanity, and social skills shortage), who made me lose my banana during midnight laughing hour at the oasis hostel and, a month later, trusted coming to Portugal for another round.
The philosophical pseudo-Swiss who engaged in a late-night, slightly drunken push-up challenge, and disputed against my award-winning argument ofl’amour est completement rationale et la science peut bien l'expliquer, ainsi que l’explication est le destin biologique de l’homme. And the funniest Australian bloke(that I know of?) who educated me on Aussie rules, the Waltzing Matilda, the hand of God, and the Las Meninas artwork, and unknowingly challenged my across-border reluctance by making me hate how much I actually love Madrid — even mid-pandemic, and severely dehydrated under a 38° sun.
And because Spain is Spain, it did what it knows best: it swung a nice, open-handed bitch slap across my face and woke me up real good.
In its subtle, lively way, llena de ganas de vivir, it presented me with a little more about the world and a whole lot more about myself. And if that’s not what I signed up for when I first drove away on that July Sunday morning, then the joke’s on me… Because it’s exactly what I needed.
This piece was originally written on September 12th, 2020.
