El penúltimo

Every story has a beginning, middle and an end. The end of my entries in this is blog is near. I will try not to let myself slip into uninhibited sentimentalism. 

The truth is all of my American friends here are headed back to the States to continue on with the lives they put on hold back home. I would be lying to say I am not a bit envious of their American prerogative to eat spicy food; to walk down spacious streets and sidewalks; and to celebrate the day it was borne in on those dirty redcoats and the rest of the world that an underdog's triumph over a giant would stand tall and beat its chest on the 4th of July for years to come. Maybe I will travel to England to celebrate Independence Day. 

Pues nada... they will go and I will stay. My extended homecoming moratorium has its reasons--causes which I feel valen la pena. I would not put off quality family time and Texas barbeque for nothing. So, what's my justification? What deems me pure as the freshly driven snow? Or, better yet, what contract has been signed in that invisible hall known as our head space that is compelling me to rivet myself to this continent? 

The answer is hidden in that same place that every old-timer dusts off to recount and deliver their fabled cock-and-bull stories of their glory days. I write of a sacred center to us all--the heart. Human emotion has a penchant for standing behind life events, blasting beams of romance, conquering the unnoteworthy, softening the edges and casting a silhouette remnant and inaccurate in view of its truer, more austere antecedent. 

Memoirs always have an element of romanticism. They are the classic cars on the road being towed behind dually trucks enroute to their next show hosted by the local Lion's Club during any given Memorial Day Weekend. The deliverance of these memoirs is not what is important, nor the vehicle; what is of pertinence is that substance that drives the system. A vehicle's motor burns a composition of combustible chemicals for kinetic energy. A human being's heart burns an equally combustible composition of adventure and curiosity. 

So, what is my point? Is that my elevator speech? Was that my Atticus Finch closing argument? ¿Qué dices, tío? Well, what I am really saying is this: I am not ready to say adíos España just yet. I would rather continue to fly about Never Never Land a bit longer. Besides, who would want to leave a 16-hour work week and find themselves caught in the crossfire of a 40-hr weekly trench? This is my early retirement at 28. 

If I happen to get gored or pulverized or a combination of the two in San Fermin, at the least I can tell my grandparents and childhood pets I got one golden year in before being demapped. Every Spanish person I speak to tells me not to do it. El cementerio esta lleno de valientes. The deaths are usually always foreigners they tell me. Run behind the bulls, do the final stretch only or just for un ratito at the very end before entering the plaza. ¡Qué va! They cannot see I have already got the concrete mind: All mixed up and already set. 

Needless to say, I have been enjoying la vida tranquila. It is a bit daunting to face three months of unemployment over the summer however. I have every intention of living as a modern day Abbie Hoffman here and pinching every last centimo I have through means of shameless, hippie society drain. 

I have my motorcycle, backpack and tent. Ojalá, my bike will see me to Pamplona, the start of El Camino de Santiago de Compostella and a test of endurance of a ride from southern Italy back to Madrid. This could be the best summer plan I have ever conceived or it could be nothing more than a pipe dream of some naive foreigner in Europe. Judging by my track record here, I would put money on the latter. Either way, the trip will not be characterized by its comfort and ease. 

Before this let's-make-a-lifestyle-out-of-this-traveling-on-a-budget idea deeply rooted itself inside mi mente, I had noticed one thing. Traveling is not always easy. As a matter of fact, I have found it quite taxing at times. Infinitely many variables can suddenly pit themselves against you and turn your wanderlust into a lake of fire where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. 

Staring at the travels of other's through the peephole of social media does not offer the panoramic view of the truth, whether it be for better or for worse. There are always moments when pictures fall short of the grandeur. Likewise, there are also moments when the paradise promoted and disseminated to your computer screen fall short of reality. What really makes it a trip are the people you travel with or meet along the way.

Walking about and snapping photos along the way to incite jealousy through the misleading hallways of social media is a lot like hacking on the same branch you are sitting on: Only you will fall for it. 

I would like to thank all those who have taken the time to read. Come to Spain and see for yourself. My next entry will be my last. Stay tuned for the uninhibited sentimentalism...