Caribbean fruits and Iberian friendships

by Roxana Maria Sabau (Romania)

Making a local connection Spain

I am a child of post-communist Eastern Europe. I have witnessed the hardships of the transition years of the 90’s decade. When my country joined the European Union, massive celebrations erupted in the streets. We could now travel, work and, most importantly felt acknowledged as part of the European family. I am grateful for the freedom I have been given and I fondly reminisce of the person who made me see it clearly. I reminisce of that warm October night, when my plane landed on the Girona airport. It was midnight, the rain was pouring and my heart was racing. Spain was my life long dream. Later that night, the bus arrived in Barcelona. The warmth, the light, the life. I woke up so early the following day. I walked for more than 8 hours, saw all the landmarks, had a proper Catalan breakfast, saw the sea, had a paella. At nightfall, I headed towards my future host for the rest of the week. I was excited to meet Valentina. I knew she was Venezuelan and I could not wait to practice my Spanish skills with her help. Little did I know, as I was walking down the paved streets, shadowed by giant trees, how much shared history the two of us had. When she opened the door I saw a solar smile and four really hip tattoos. I got to meet her child, her cats, her boyfriend. The first couple of days the conversation topics were light. We exchanged vegan recipes and she recommended the best spots in the city. But one evening, I came home with a giant bag of fruits, from a street stand. Among the many Iberian melons and kakis and the famous Girona apples, stood a half cut papaya. Her hands slowly smoothed over the shiny plastic that wrapped the papaya. “My grandma used to buy a billion of these for Christmas,” she said, with a distant pain in her voice. “Papayas for Christmas?” I asked in disbelief. “In Eastern Europe, the staple Christmas food is meat with pickled cabbage and more meat and then some more meat after the dessert”. “Don’t worry,” she laughed, “we’re not so different either. When I became a vegan I was almost shunned from my family. But everytime I think of Christmas, I immediately remember my grandmother’s dulce de lechoza. It’s a papaya-made dessert and it was the hit of every family gathering.” I didn’t mean to pry, but I had to ask her all these questions that were on the tip of my tongue since the moment I met her. Did she have any family left in Venezuela? Was she planning on returning? Why did she come to Barcelona, out of all places? How was life in Venezuela when she left? How was life in Venezuela five years, a decade ago? Over this strange assortment of fruit that I had scattered on the table, we discovered we were much more alike than we could ever imagine. Me, a short, curly haired Romanian with a constant sarcastic undertone and her, an athletic, eccentric Caribbean with an incurable optimism. We shared home countries with a troubled past, we shared relatives that disappeared under dictatorial regimes, we shared scores of friends and family that had to leave the country because of poverty. We shared our love for Hollywood movies and Colombian music. Our people were resilient, unbowed in front of historical and political hardships. On my last day there, we went for a walk on the beach. “Sometimes I close my eyes,” she said “and I send an imaginary message in a bottle. I send my love home to mis tías and I let the waves carry it. After all, it’s just a few thousand waves from this side of the sea to the other”. For the first time in my life, I felt the weight and responsibility of my privilege. We were so similar and yet so different. Unlike many others in this world I had the luxury of a place to call home. A safe haven. I did not have to send any message in a bottle. All I had to do was to be grateful.