SPAIN 2022, HERE I (DON’T) COME
Hitching a ride to the globe through a Galaxy, Nancy Richards gets a free guided tour
In the past few weeks I have walked the forests of Norway and coastlines of infinite fjords. I have seen ancient art in Antwerp, tilted at Dutch windmills, cycled the byways of Belgium, barged through the canals of Gent and eaten Indonesian. I have peeped at landscapes through portholes, birdspotted in Brussels and feasted on more confectionery than my eyes could consume.
I have seen rugby crowds in Marseille, tulips — and Vincent’s sunflowers — in Amsterdam, accompanied by towers of cheese wheels. As if that weren’t enough, I have seen the home of the Surrealists in Birmingham, Zandra Rhodes at Charleston, caught some jubilee crocheted street furniture, been to West End theatre and the site of the Battle of Hastings (1066 and all that).
But wait, there’s more. I have been to
Spain. Ah Spain. My mind’s eye has wandered the groves and tiled rooftops of Teresa de Cofrentes. I have bought asparagus and dresses at a market and walked the streets of Alcala del Jucar, a village built in a limestone gorge, and I’ve even got lost in Alicante, dammit!
Now you’re thinking that’s a lot of connecting flights. Nope. Not one. It just happens that every one of my friends chose these last weeks to travel the world — and cover their journeys on WhatsApp.
Homebound for family reasons, I had made peace with FOMO and been content to let the seductive images and redacted captions flow through my Samsung. But I do have to say the Spanish Odyssey stung a bit.
It was to have been a reunion. In the planning for months, with the minutiae of luggage scams, visa horrors, airline options, pandemic restrictions, wardrobe planning, conversion calculations and the good nature of the tame taxi driver who ferries between MacDonald’s at the airport and Carlos’s Bar on the square.
There was a point where I was almost relieved at not having to go through all that. From the comfort of my own (all too familiar) home I could scroll through these difficulties and delights without having to lift a backpack or spend a sou.
To ensure my presence — in spirit if not in the flesh — for the reunion gathering, I had made a little commemorative prayer flag, baby bunting you might call it, embroidered with “Spain 2022” to be hung somewhere symbolic. It found a home on the balcony of the convivial clotted-creamcoloured villa overlooking the groves. It became the sundowner backdrop to way too many clinking glasses of cava.
“Cheers girls!” I thought from a distance. But you know, it was the post of the giant paella pan that did it. I cracked. Admittedly I was hungry at the time, but I could just see my fork sinking into that. I may have shed one small sorry-for-myself tear. But hey. At least I got to “see” Spain — and Norway, and Brussels and Amsterdam and London — and even Hastings.
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