SPAIN
-
A Sentimental Journey –
by
Very
soon after arriving at the Valencia airport, I started looking for the reason why
the coast is called the white one, Costa
Blanca. The houses passing on the
right side: white regular squares hurled on top of each other along the steep
green hills, look like clusters of abstract, cubist grapes, an architectural
detail typical for the whole Mediterranean coast, so near to Africa. As we enter Moraira, my destination, and
drive through the abrupt, narrow streets as if rushing through white corridors
of concrete, where the luxuriant vegetation is barely seen through the lofty,
somehow Hollywood-like walls that are flush with the pavement, I am showing a
temperate enchantment thinking to myself that I have seen better places
before.
Moraira was like a glove you put on from the wrong
side: as soon as I got into it and turned around it started revealing itself in
its natural, untainted beauty. We get
into my friend’s house, one of many the Moorish architecture has left its
imprint upon; walls and hedges topped with red tiles and decorated with squares
of exquisite blue faience, arched iron rimmed balconies, winding stairs and
minute towers, cool open living-rooms.
And beyond it, within a few yards, the magic unfolding: a slant pathway
paved with large irregular stones is taking you on a smooth passage from
civilization to wilderness, from rigid geometry to sinuous curves, from hot to
cool, from white to green and red and purple, from the noise of the street to
the silence of the leaves.
As
the evening is falling we sit with friends at the generously laid table wrapped
in white muslin that waves in the sweet breeze - upon which the orange light of
the lanterns throw tremulous patterns - our senses invaded by the heady surges
of Galan de Noche,
a night blooming Jessamine reminding us that this is a magical balmy Spanish
summer night, one of those you remember and tell about for a long time to come.
Next
day, I am drinking my tea in the translucent morning while contemplating the
huge replicas of the three or four pots of aloe vera
I’ve got on my terrace in Heidelberg, looking at the motionless date palms and
listening to the electric song of the cicadas orchestrated with such minute
precision in the gigantic pines above.
The day progresses in a slow uneventful motion, the shadows of the pines
move along the wall. My friend Nicu and I talk
leisurely underneath. Later, when we go
to the sea it is the first time that I lay my eyes in awe upon Penon de lfach, a
massive cliff solemnly piercing the sea, solid as a mammoth, impressive, ubiquitous.
We
climb the hills, we look up at the chalet terraces supported by arched rows of
elegant and absurd white columns jutting from the raw stony mass, and, as we
look down at the narrow stripe of sand and at the incredibly saturated hues of
blue and green, I become aware of the amazing quality of the air caressing my
skin like the elusive touch of an invisible scarf.
We
return to the sea and we slip into a grotto where stone columns arched above
the stormy rush guard the entrance into the mighty mountain where fresh and
salty water mingle covered by a scintillating hue: Cumbre del Sol.
Alone
on the stony beach in the clear of another morning, I lie on a smooth rock
brushed at times by the fan of salty sprays; as I am trying to see the Balearic
Islands across the waters, my thoughts follow the rhythm of the waves; the air
is light, in the vacillating heat the colors melt into gray. Later, on a natural terrace drinking coffee
under the olive trees, contemplating El Penon de lfach in the hazy distance, I can’t read a single line from
the book in my hand full of the realization that this is one if those singular
moments when you are just content with being.
In
the evening we drive to Calpe. While passing along the restaurants lined on
the quay, we manage to get pretty full with sangria and hot fried sardines
offered as a stimulant by the inviting waiters.
After the typical Spanish dinner with mariscos, paella and fish we take a stroll along the quay towards Penon de Ifach, the majestical contours of which I kept following with my eyes all
through the evening; the moon is rising entangled in veils, orange, glinting like
a huge copper plate. And again, the
silky air enveloping me like a smooth, immaterial coat, touching my forehead
like a passing thought. That is the
night when, completely mesmerized, I witness how a girl called Fabiola metamorphoses from a lively careless child into a
well educated young lady I am having a lengthy elegant conversation with, just
by putting on a Spanish dress she has received as a present two days ago.
On
the last day, Nicu takes me to the mountains. The huge arid massifs are creased by
terraces; we keep wondering whether they are natural or the remains of some
ancient wine culture; birds fly in silent rotations, a kite of yellow and blue
is waving somnolently. At the top of Sierra Ternica
we find a garden restaurant. In the
quiet heat of the afternoon while eating the delicious roasted rabbit, the
specialty of the house, and drinking sangria, we sit under an olive tree and we
talk about the past, about the way we have changed along the journey of our
lives and about the wonder of friendship.
Upon
saying farewell the cook, the matron of the house who is busy peeling
vegetables inside, stands up and gives each of us a ripe tomato. As I bite into mine and then run back to
thank her again, she hugs me and gives me another one; a huge, tense and fruity
globe heavy with the sun of the Spanish summer.
On
the way back to the valley, passing the sleepy scenery and the deserted
villages slumbering in the paralysis of the siesta under the torrid sun,
looking at Peon de lfach rising from the hazy plains,
I finally understand that the name of the coast comes from the unique
combination of stone and light.
Timisoara,
Romania, 11 August