Speak, Stones

This place is like no other place I have known or visited. Please note that I am just as mystified as you are by this. Perhaps it’ll help if I retrace my steps.

I arrived in this city, which was once one of three major pilgrimage sites back in the Middle Ages, wishing I knew how long I would be staying. I hoped for a time estimate that would be a little more precise than between a week and the rest of my life. I wanted to work, so found employment, and then realized my work was boring. I was sure I would be leaving sooner rather than later. It was obvious. The handwriting was on every wall I looked at.

I often walked through the city, old and new, disliking the rough concrete squares, the narrow sidewalks, the bustle of everything. I felt the everything breathing down my neck. The new was a burden I had never felt before. Never anything like it. I felt posthumous, yet I was young and healthy. I could find very little that interested me. It was a sad state of affairs. It wasn’t homesickness, only the lack of connection to people and streets.

I looked into a lot of shop windows, disillusioned with what seemed to be poor fashion sense and discouraged by all the too-high prices. I was glad I had brought all the clothing I needed. Besides, I had to think of what would fit in my suitcases when I moved on. Other windows, ones belonging to little hole-in-the-wall shops, framed curious scenes, items arranged like a century ago. Those I liked, and stared into the spaces with room for the owner, a worn wooden counter, and a maximum of two customers.

I always kept walking and looking, wanting to discover the good, the bad, a smidgin of the ugly. Outdoors, everything was cold to the touch. Yet I also touched walls in homes that were cold, due to insufficient heat. I huddled next to a small round table that had a light bulb beneath, to warm feet and legs. My shoulders were cold. I had been warmer back home when it was zero degrees out. It was hard to imagine ever living in such a cold house the rest of my life as the one where I was staying. 

Inside and out, I think I smelled more garlic than I had ever thought existed. Usually I had to eat it, too. Even when I asked a server if that was one of the ingredients, and was assured it was not, food seemed to be drowning in it. I thought I should become allergic to garlic. That would fix them.

Day after day I would see so many new things that my head exploded. I had to push out old things to make room for the new ones that were coming at me relentlessly. That pressure they were putting on me was slow, but it was also continuous. Slow and steady were the city and its people. And I paid no attention. Clueless and in trouble, as we shall see below.

I often heard music in the streets. For some reason, that made me happier than I could comprehend. Did it remind me of parades in my home town when I was a little girl? I kind of doubt it. The people, costumes, celebrations were worlds apart. I think the whole city just talked to me on those brief occasions. It spoke of tradition and dancing, and I understood. I understood the language of the city, but I think I was still learning its rhythm. The way the music spoke helped open my heart, though. I tried to focus on that.

I didn’t know yet how to delete the ugly parts and squeeze open the lovely ones. This place was definitely a hard nut to crack. The people around me seemed to manage perfectly, but I was more or less adrift.

I ate polbo, octopus. Boiled, with salt and hot, smoked paprika. I ate, kind of, a nibble of a fried pig’s ear, an orella. Never again. I can do polbo, but ears with the grit and bristles still on them? You tell me...

All the while these walks, tastings, and other activities were taking place, I sensed that something else was going on. Subterranean, sub-terra, out of sight. That sort of something else. Like a tunnel, maybe. Something was beginning to move in that tunnel. I thought about that very carefully. Stones, it was probably just some stones, but these stones seemed different. They were soft, they could speak, they could see. Nobody warned me about this. Maybe nobody saw it coming. Still, I could tell. I knew what they (the minerals beneath the surface) were like.

One day something caught my eye. I think it was down by Cruceiro do Galo, which is off to one side, near the little Igrexa do Carmo. That was where I found green competing with gray, sparks of yellow, strands of fiúncho, wild anise. You could find all these things easily enough in the countryside, but mid-city was different. It seemed like it was a sign. The fragrance of the weed is too pungent to be pleasant or edible, in my opinion. Yet even if it was not something I’d use in cooking, I would always crush a sprig between my teeth. I did that on this occasion and was caught in a net like no other. The fiúncho find ended up in this manner:

No! I will not! (Kicks. Screams. Sighs.) Something was moving in my gut.

Now I must repeat the above list from arrived to ate, because it is the simplest way to illustrate why this place is like no other I’ve known. It has two hearts. One is tied to mine, like in Frida Kahlo’s painting, The Two Fridas. If the metaphor isn’t a good one, I’m not its creator. Frida was smart, though.

I arrived by train the first time. Subsequently, I flew in, came by bus, maybe by car. How many times? I have completely lost count. Maybe twenty, maybe closer to a thousand. Now when I leave, I know I will return. I have too much here now to just forget it all. Plus, it’s scattered everywhere.

Walking has taken on a different purpose, has different routes. I only look summarily in shop windows, except for the old places that survive and amuse observers with their wares.i take pictures and study the details on the little box of chocolate sardines, the tiny scallop shell charm made of jet, the liquor made of nettles or Padrón peppers. The household utensils in the bazaar (a type of store with low prices and too much kitsch) sometimes find their way into my suitcase for the trip back to the States, but not too often. A wooden platter for serving octopus is just a sentimental purchase, because I never prepare octopus myself.

Looking is now a full-time activity. My eyes try to grab and gather up everything. They are forever hungry. Touching what is within reach must sometimes be done in a clandestine manner, because my fingertips rob the objects I touch of their soul. Or perhaps they rob me of mine. The exchange is tantamount to a transfusion.

Smells seep out from everywhere. There is still a lot of garlic, most likely, but I can’t be positive. So much else is mixed in with it and the streets are lined with molecules with olfactory features. I detect mustiness, roses, cinnamon, bleach, pretty green pond scum, espresso coffee and so much more. Sometimes I see the items that are fragrant or repugnant, but not always. It doesn’t matter, since I know where the items are located. No freshly made caldo galego escapes me, and I can tell you which Galician broth is the best, partly based on the leaf lard it contains.

The music still parades down certain old streets, but I am more likely now to do something about that than to just let the musicians and dancers pass me by. I find out who they are, why they are there, things like that. It’s important to know how the bagpipes and other instruments end up in the city. Somebody must have invited them and hopefully somebody will compensate them for their performance.

Eating has progressed to where I cannot let more than two days go by without hurrying to my favorite spot to eat in the whole. In the whole world. Obviously, it’s not just about the food, but you’d be hard-pressed to comprehend my explanation if you’ve never been there, so I will not take up your time explaining.

Stones are shifting, moving, yet always moving back into place as I go through the endless cycle of sweeping the streets in order to size up the new and the old, the surprises and the repetition. This place is like no other, remember. It never stops renewing itself, yet it incessantly is aging into the perfect reflection of its past. Do you comprehend what is taking place? It is incapable of stillness. The structures that make up the city are vigilant, their memory... well, that is almost too much to explain. Still, I will try one last time.

At the risk of repeating myself, I must present the facts. The stones, mentioned previously, have not waited for me to go out, into the streets. They have actually entered the house where I am staying. From there, they have crawled into my bed, never asking permission. It’s too late anyway. Finally, they make my dreams stiffen as if we were all caught in a scene from the Odyssey or staring at Medusa.

Stop! I say. I am turning to stone and few people are aware of what is happening. I know that am turning into a me who is nothing without you. You, of course, refers to you the city who has given up indifference to become my seducer. It isn’t clear whether this place that is unlike any other is male or female, mother, father, lover, rival, exterminator. The city doesn’t care, and that is the truth. One of us must take control, and I know which it must be. Have known for a while now that things are not like they were when the first arrival occurred. All the bad has been torn away and discarded. All the good is a mindflood. I can’t seem to come up for air.

This city has begun to devour me. There, I have said it. Now it’s out in the open, even though I am initiating a retreat. There is not far to go. Now I need to express my last wishes before these thoughts can be washed away by the frequent rain. Here is what I’d like you to do:

Bury me, if you can, in a gargoyle. I wrote that in a poem. I was thinking about little Fonseca Square, a praciña. I cry whenever I go there, even if it’s twice in a day. This is where, for around twenty years now, I’ve envisioned I am headed. To a grotesquely cunning face, its grimace quite amusing, about twenty seconds from Saint James. Admittedly, the idea for the burial place comes from a Lorca poem (Cuando yo me muera/enterradme, si queréis,/en una veleta. When I die, bury me, if you will, atop a weathervane.) I prefer the gargoyle; it’s sturdier.

Yes, at first everything was all gray and dingy, or a dingy white. It was unappealing, true. It was akin to limbo. Nothing was alive but the dampness and the dinginess. White wasn’t really white. Then the colors emerged. Most likely, Franco had to die first. Then people could breathe brightly and dress with life instead of fear.

The stones, as you might expect, have lots of stones beneath them and lots of people have seen them, too. Do not overlook the fact that new stones, just like the old ones because they have always been here, manage to emerge. They’re usually working beneath the surface to become known. Once that happens, there’s a law that requires they be protected, so they return to their places, having briefly breathed the upper air. The city protects its own. That is a comforting thought. It’s part of why this place is like no other.

The rituals that once felt like ropes of restraint to me have been pulled inside out. They now seem like soft cotton cords, tugging at me. It was so hard to insert my mind into this field of granite, but once done, it was done. I have left the field of stars overhead for the more devout. I don’t need the Milky Way, The Way of Saint James, to guide me because I know exactly where I am and where I am going.

Now I speak to the stones and they answer, slowly. That’s quite natural. Next they speak to me and I answer. We have eternal conversations, which is the way it should be. That is impossible in any other city in the world. This one is unique, and I have claimed it. I am in the belly of the beast, only there is no beast. There is only the loud purr of thoughts and memories.

What was once a wrong fit, is now the same size. Our borders have fused. I am the gargoyle by Fonseca. That can only mean one thing.

I was born here.

I want to live here until I can’t anymore.

I want to die here and I will.

I will never be cold, hungry, or wet. Stones in this city have flavors: they taste of remexido de patacas, ribeiro wine, roasted chestnuts, caldo, garlic, etc.

Women grow out of doorways with trays and tongs trying to offer samples of almond cake with the Cruz de Santiago stenciled on top in powdered sugar. Cake with a cross. You have to love it. I do, definitely, but I never eat the ones they want the tourists to try. Those are too hard and dry.

I am like a pull-toy, moving at the whim of city. 

I am like a spider spinning a web by means of my unnumbered steps, retracing, reversing, releasing the threads of memory as if one of us were a silkworm, not a spider.

I am also like the prey of the spider caught in the web of the city. It is a very gentle web.

Now all I want to do is walk, slowly taking note of shifts in the granitic textures, the imperceptible movements that have left their mark on the city I have become.

The effort to move forward makes me stand still, staring, night or day. Income upon scenes where time has been molded around a jutting wrought iron street lamp, a horizontal flourish, and insists on creating shadows on the path below it. 

I walk anyway, staring downward, then suddenly flipping my head skyward as if someone has just called my name. Then I look down again, often only seeing people as bodies. I walk, sketching out arches and columns, measuring vertical and less vertical, wanting to wish away the symmetrical and having my wish granted. 

Cemetery of the Living, Santiago de Compostela, but its living are alive. They are not in a cemetery. I am proof of that. A Quintana dos Mortos, the Square of the Dead where there are no more Dead, cannot stop me from walking.

The stony foundations here can talk, like in Cuzco, they can move like in Cuzco. You already know that. Like in Cuzco, they say ‘we do not speak Spanish’. 

Now I bump into myself, and notice that I am accompanied by another person. Memories of a past linked to someone are never going away, but they have been forgotten. The only pain would be forgetting Santiago, which will never happen because I am the city.

Maybe I can’t understand how this whole world happened. That doesn’t matter, really. This is a place like no other. Nothing matters, except this place. And my gargoyle. The