The Invisible Magic of Spanish Culture
When people ask me about living in Spain, I get the same three stereotypes,
“Oh, that’s the country with paella, Flamenco and bullfighting, right?”
I also tend to hear “Aren’t they lazy? Don’t they take two-hour siestas everyday?”
I’d accuse my own countrymen of ignorance, but then I remember how I have to explain to the Spanish that every American doesn’t subsist on Big Macs, look like a character from Jersey Shore or own a gun; though I’m only sure about two of those things.
Besides, I was just as ignorant about Spain.
When I first came here on vacation four years ago, I thought it was heaven on Earth.
In a way, it was.
The breathtaking landscapes of the north where the turquoise ocean meets the edge of the forest, the distinct touch of Islam in the south and the openness and hospitality of the people were unforgettable.
But after living here for three years, it’s obvious that this isn’t the true magic of Spain. Though it is what keeps the tourists coming. It’s what has made Spain one of the most-visited countries in the world. It’s what lured Hemingway here and inspired some of the most memorable novels of all time.
But Spain is far from a utopia.
I live in Madrid and it’s as busy as many cities in the United States. Some struggle to pay bills. There’s poverty, corruption and crime. I thought by leaving the United States I’d be escaping an inept and corrupt government only to discover I had simply traded in one for another.
There’s pain, depression and suffering. Unemployment is still through the roof, especially youth unemployment. Populism is on the rise. It’s not that this country doesn’t have its problems.
But despite this, I’ve come to realize there is just something different about Spain.
Besides the obvious differences from my culture, there was something I couldn’t define yet nevertheless felt. It’s the true magic of Spain, and the closest Spanish word I can find to describe it is cercanía.
Literally meaning “closeness” in Spanish, cercanía is something one feels. It could be the two kisses on the cheeks they greet you with, or a spontaneous hand-on-the-on-shoulder mid-conversation, but it’s much more than just physical.
It’s not just an intimacy between people, but with the present moment.
It could be as little as making time to make a home cooked meal for lunch. It could be going on a walk with your grandmother, with her arm gently wrapped in yours.
You can see it when they engage in small talk and exchange random acts of politeness. An “hola” from a stranger when you’re walking down the street or an “hasta luego” which everyone says in unison when you walk out of an elevator, which feels like a prank the first time it happens to you.
But they don’t do it out of social obligation.
They do it because they would want the same from you — a reminder that we’re not alone in this world.
It’s the same reason why the Spanish, given the choice, would always prefer to be together. Whether it’s with their family or friends doesn’t matter — it’s rare to see a Spanish person alone. Even if they go somewhere alone, he or she doesn’t wear headphones to block out the world. They carry portable speakers; graciously sharing their trap music with the rest of the world.
On the weekends and holidays they load their families into the car or train and take to the streets of their town or city. Often they go for no other reason than to be amongst people. They crowd the streets with no sense of urgency. They walk slowly — meander, really — just taking it all in.
It’s also the same reason the Spanish have been accused of being honest. Miraculously uninfluenced by white-lie-telling and politically-correct culture, they prefer to be frank and sincere.
“Cameron, te has engordado,” said my girlfriend’s mother when she first saw me after we had returned from vacation in the United States.
“Cameron, you got fat.”
I wasn’t offended because it wasn’t personal. In a way, I actually respected her. It wasn’t negative, just an honest observation.
Humans treat each other much more like humans here; not success objects. They don’t rigidly define themselves by their jobs or roles.
In my home city of Boston, I constantly felt a sense of status anxiety and was always comparing myself to others, at least career-wise. When we socialize or go on dates, the first filter question is, “What do you do?” We want to know where the other person fits within the social hierarchy; the higher the better.
In Spain, they don’t lead with those questions. Two people are much more likely to date based on mutual interests rather than hierarchical checklists. They’re not as obsessed with their “personal narrative.”
We have two narratives in the United States: the hero narrative — us against the world. Or the victim narrative — the world against us. Ask any American what his or her story is and you’ll likely get a version of the these two. We have to know where we’re going. And believe us, we already know what it will be like when we get there.
Ask a Spaniard what his or her story is and you’ll get a sideways glance.
This isn’t to say that the Spanish are simplistic; they’re not. They’re just not caught in an incessant self-narration of their lives. They’re just living their lives; laughing, crying and striving just like they do in every other culture — but it’s not a Hollywood production cast with villains (“haters”) and heroes (themselves).
There are, of course, the less-pleasant customs of Spanish culture. They seldom use blinkers and will often cross from the inner-lane to the outer to make the exit in a rotary without signaling. When your train reaches its destination, you’ll find a crowd of people bull rushing the door while you’re trying to get off. And yes, many people, including some 15-year-olds, still smoke.
But there is also something deeper here. It’s palpable. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but it permeates the air like perfume. And though you can’t trace its source, it still gives life a distinct and unforgettable aroma.
This is cercanía.
You could take away fútbol, wine or paella and Spain would still be Spain. You could take away bread and the townsfolk would riot in the streets. But if you took away cercanía, you’d swear you were in a different country.
Because it’s the beating heart of Spanish culture.
And while it’s not as sexy as tapas and sangria or as novel-worthy as Hemingway might have led you to believe, it does make daily life a little more bearable, a little less lonely and a lot more human.
And for that reason it’s been said that Spain is a country you can leave,
— but never leaves you.
