Mountains

by Haley Welch (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Spain

My dad and I were greeted by Marta at the entrance of her place late at night. She gave us each a generous hug that more than made up for our missed flight. She smiled at us, deepening the creases near her eyes that could only be earned from a long life well lived. “Please, come in. Welcome to my flat.” Her soothing voice alone automatically relaxed our shoulders as we dropped the gear from our backs for the first time in hours. Marta was warm and kind. She walked us through her place, showed us where we’d be sleeping, and gave us grapes. We exchanged some tidbits about ourselves before going into a coma for the night. The first morning came, which meant we would get to see the town of Mataró for the first time right after the sunrise had finished painting it for the day. I made a cup of tea and followed Marta’s old blind gatita toward the terrace to see the work with my own eyes. After getting a clearer view of Marta’s flat on my way to the terrace, I caught glimpses of who she was. She lives humbly and beautifully. Her home spanned the top floor of an old apartment building just a five-minute walk from the beach. She kept her windows open, so there was a constant stream of fresh Western European air that blurred the lines of being outdoors and indoors. It was a complementary microcosm of the surrounding area. I made it out to the terrace itself and was greeted by a throng of thriving plants, a warm summer wind, and a tranquil grid of streets below. Proudly waving from nearby balconies, I could see the official flag for Catalunya, the region Mataró was a part of; according to Marta, they represented the ongoing struggle for Catalunya to gain independence from Spain. She told us that even though the Catalan language is a close relative of Spanish, and even though most Catalonians also speak Spanish, it was still almost insulting to speak Spanish to residents of Catalunya precisely because of the political climate. Marta encouraged us to visit the beach. Throughout our stay, we left the sanctuary of her flat in pursuit of another kind of peacefulness uniquely associated with Mediterranean coastlines. Very few people were ever on the beach, but those who were made sure to lie close enough to the ocean to let the cadence of the waves replace the whirring of their minds. A small village 30 miles from the teeming city of Barcelona, Mataró didn’t get a lot of attention. It was untouched by the chaotic life in the larger cities nearby. The people of Mataró waded through their daily lives with what could be perceived as apathy – but was, in fact, intentionality. This was evident in their contemplative moments of silence, the smiles offered to strangers in passing, the careful pace of their afternoon walks. There was an unspoken pride about their own oasis, but they didn’t need anyone else to know what they had. One evening, we walked to the idle marina just off the coast to see Mataró from the ocean’s point of view. The boats were lined up neatly, reflecting the unfiltered moonlight. A lighthouse at the end of the boardwalk flashed a reassuring green signal every few seconds. Once we reached the lighthouse, my dad and I turned to face what awaited us. The subtle nighttime glow of the city revealed silhouettes of mountains. Incredible, I thought – what better way to represent the refuge of Mataró than with the natural protection of colliding tectonic plates? The mountainous borders were also an eerie reminder of Catalunya’s past. After the Civil War, Spanish leaders worked to redact the Catalonian culture entirely. At one point, even speaking the language was illegal. Ultimately, the mountains provided a means of natural protection for the Catalonian culture, keeping Spanish influence at a safe distance. The day we left, Marta hugged us the same way the mountains protectively hugged Catalunya. I had hope that one day, the mountains I would form around my own treasured relationships and memories could be as powerful as those that stood for Mataró.