Travel Writing - New Mexico/San Sebastian

My family waited patiently on the sidelines of the parched soccer field in Santa Fe, New Mexico, as I thanked the four directions and left the dance covered in a film of fine red dust. They hadn’t been invited to join the rehearsal – children, we were told, had more of a connection with the necessary forces (and, a pause implied, less blood on their hands).

Later that week, in Taos Pueblo, we would see the same dance performed in full regalia next to a Catholic church left over from the conquistadors’ invasion. While the dances themselves had an air of solemnity, the atmosphere was that of a state fair. The crowds sat in lawn chairs and ate roasted ears of corn, while idly chatting with their neighbors. Most of the children preferred the rickety carnival rides set up just beyond the graveyard (whose freshest burials are furthest from the church) to the dances of their ancestors.

Years later, I find myself across the Atlantic on an ancient roller coaster that hugs the seaside edge of a sheer cliff. As a reward for surviving, we treat ourselves to ice cream cones (turrón, flavored like the almond Christmas candy, is the group favorite) and begin to discuss the complicated relationship with Spain that the American Southwest and the Basque Country share.

“You can see that it is not Spain,” Sara gestures to the height of the buildings, the moody hills, the low clouds, “but that doesn’t excuse killing people.” Spain has left a layer of its culture on every place it’s touched – a legacy that must be acknowledged, for better or worse. I think about the geologic strata that are visible on the exposed edges of the mesas in New Mexico, each era supporting the next.

Back in her grandparents’ old apartment in San Sebastian (which has the disused smell of a house of the dead), we prepare ourselves for dancing. She tells us about the pictures on the walls, the story of her family emerging in small vignettes remembered from a child’s perspective. The discussion meanders from her unmarried aunt to her grandfather’s love of painting to Napoleon’s occupation of Spain and finally life under Franco. We head out into the night, avoiding the bars where our Spanish is not welcome and occasionally asking directions from passerby.

It will be difficult to get lost, I think, with the beach always to the north and the moon and sun ready to provide east and west. Covered in a light mist from the sea, I turn and thank the four directions – I know where I am and how we got here.