I served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I served for 18 months in the Spain Barcelona mission. I learned and saw so much on my mission. I loved it and was forever changed by it. This story doesn’t begin to cover my experience in Spain but I felt it needed to be written. Spain is a first-world country and a popular country for tourists to visit. So, before I went there I was blissfully unaware of the suffering that exists. It’s not in the way you might think. This story is part fiction, part truth. The family is fictitious but everything else was written from things I actually observed or the experiences of people I knew. Can Vidalet is the metro stop in a place I lived in Spain for 6 months. In this story, I try to capture the struggles of two groups of people I came to love on my mission.

I knew many Latin Americans living in Spain. They had moved there to try to improve their lives. But it was hard to make a life there. When I was there the unemployment rate was nearly 25%. They worked in whatever they could find and sometimes lived more than one family in an apartment. They often ended up basically living in the houses of elderly Spaniards and taking care of them. In the Barcelona area, they had to learn Catalan if they were going to go to school. Many Spaniards I met didn’t like that so many Latin Americans were immigrating to their country. The economy was struggling already. The Latin Americans were often very poor and yet they were some of the most generous, happy, and courageous people I have known.

The other group is the Spaniards. As a missionary, I often found Spaniards to be cold and unfriendly. I hesitated to talk to them in the street. They frequently wouldn’t even let me get a word out. With most people, if you don’t understand their behavior, you should look a little deeper. That’s certainly true for the Spaniards. They are living in a post-dictator Spain, and many have not forgotten what Franco did to them. Catlunya is a state in Spain with their own culture and language. Catalan is very different from Spanish. Under Franco’s reign they were forced to be more Spaniard. They hadto learn Spanish and teach school in Spanish. All their street signs and names were changed to Spanish. He killed 30,000-50,000 people in concentration and work camps and executions. The deaths in the war during his reign is even higher – 100,000-200,000. No wonder he left some scars. He was in office until 1973. It’s still a fresh wound in Spain, especially among the older Spaniards who remember. Marjorie Hinckley once said, “There isn’t a person you wouldn’t love if you could read their story.” That’s definitely how I felt about the Spaniards. Anytime I was able to get to know one, I found so much to love.

This story deals with the struggles of both of these groups of brave, resilient people. I hope it leads to more understanding, compassion, and love.

 

Can Vidalet

 

A better life. That’s what we were here for. The metro rattled to a stop, and the doors opened. A cool, female voice announced our stop, “Can Vidalet.” Her accent was mellow – mushy almost. It was fuzzy in my ears. I glanced at Mama and my big sister, Cristina, but they didn’t react. In Peru, we enunciated, and our consonants didn’t sound like mush. Here, they pronounced their C’s and Z’s with the “th” sound, and they sloshed their S’s around. It was like I was on pain medication, and the world had become indistinct.

I tried not to let myself miss my Papi. It’s not like I would be seeing him if we’d stayed in Peru. He was gone, but I couldn’t help wondering if he ever thought of his niñas. He probably didn’t. If he cared, he wouldn’t have left us. I’d always had this little dream in my head, though, that he would show up one night. We’d hear a knock just as we were about to go to bed. Mama would open it, and Papi would step out of the blackness. He’d fidget with his hat and say “Anita, forgive me. I love you.” Then Mama would cry and throw her arms around him. Cristina and I would hang back for them to have their moment until we couldn’t stand it. Then, the four of us would stand in the doorway, a tangled mess of arms and bodies, and we wouldn’t let go for a long time. My dream had been unlikely in Peru, but it was impossible now.

We ascended the stairs of the metro stop into a bustling square. We were met by the biting December air. December is summer where I’m from. Cold and Christmas seemed like a horrible combination.

 “Oof. Busy,” Mama said looking around the square. The buildings were tall and crowded together, and the people seemed in a hurry to get somewhere. I was a little surprised to hear Spanish coming out of such white people, but then I remembered that Spaniards were European. Everything about their light skin contrasted by their deep, dark eyes and their dark hair bothered me. It couldn’t be natural to be so fair but have such dark hair and eyes. Almost everyone was smoking and their frames were tall and bony.

There seemed to be an excessive number of elderly Spaniards. They kept their heads up in a defiant way, and the men walked with newspapers and loaves of bread tucked under their arms. They didn’t make eye contact and didn’t smile. Even when I saw them exchange besos, I felt there was something restrained about it. They kissed on both sides of the cheek instead of only one like we did, but even the extra kiss seemed cold to me. They didn’t smile as they moved to the other side for the second kiss. It seemed formal and compulsory.

We had arrived at a suburb of Barcelona called Hospitalet. It was dirtier, poorer. There was a strong smell of garbage that sat stale in the air. Mama had told me that there would be lots of Latin Americans and she was right, but even they didn’t seem as warm as the people back home. Europe had cooled them. 

Mama looked around for someone to ask directions from. She finally approached a Latina woman holding a toddler’s hand.

A few minutes later, we walked down a busy rambla in the direction the Bolivian woman had told us. Mama clutched a piece of paper with the address of her friend.

As we were walking, an elderly Spanish couple passed us. I couldn’t catch all of what they said, but I heard “Estas personas,” and the woman shook her head as though disappointed in life. These people. That’s what we were to them? These people? I had never thought twice about the color of my skin, but now it instantly classified me. When mama had decided to try to get to Spain instead of the United States, I was excited because I would fit in. They spoke Spanish in Spain. I didn’t know it would be so different – I would be so different.

The difference didn’t even stop with my skin. I started to notice that, especially with the older Spaniards, I couldn’t understand a thing they said. I tried to ignore the lisp thing, but even then I could only catch a few words. I looked at Mama. “I can’t understand them,” I whispered.

“They’re speaking Catalan.” She explained, “It’s a little like French and Spanish combined. Barcelona is part of Catalunya, and they’re very proud. But don’t worry, cariña, they all know Spanish too.” What she didn’t tell me was that, yes, they all knew Spanish but they often refused to speak it. They insisted that Catalan was the language of Catalunya and, if you were going to live there, you’d better learn it. She didn’t tell me the schools would be taught exclusively in Catalan or that the street names and signs were all in Catalan. The gap widened, and my dislike for this strange place and strange people clawed its way deeper.

We moved in with Mama’s friend, Gabriella. Cristina found a job singing at a bar in the evenings. Mama thought that, at nineteen, she was a little young to be doing that, but it was all she could find. I helped Mama look for work. I got used to some things. I learned to say adèu instead of adios and bon dia instead of buenos días, but a lot of things remained stubbornly out of my reach.

After talking to Mama’s friend, we discovered our problem. We were illegal. We had come on a tourist visa. We wouldn’t be able to get normal work. Most of the Latinas here cleaned houses for a living, or they worked interna.

I laid on the bed crying. “I don’t like it, Mama. If you’re going to take care of an old person, you have to be there all day and night.”

“I know, cariña, but we have to work at what there is. Don’t worry. Working interna won’t be so bad. I’ll be able to come home on the weekends, and I’m sure you can visit me there.”

“What if you can’t find anyone to take care of or what if she dies?”

She stroked my hair softly, “Maria Rosa, why do you worry so much? There will always be old people.” It was a funny thing to say, and she laughed at herself. I glared back.

“What will I do at night when you’re there and Cristina’s at the bar?”

“You’ll make friends. You can walk around Hospitalet. It’s historic. Think of it! We’re in Europe. Don’t worry. Things will be better.”

Europe, I found, was beautiful in a harsh, human way. Of course, I never got out of the city, but the city was encroaching. The buildings had beautiful architecture and terraces on the windows, but the cobbled streets were narrow and the rooms horribly small. They called apartments pisos which meant “floor” where I was from. It was fitting actually. The apartments were flat, similar, and stacked up. There seemed to be nowhere to go to get away from people. We were constantly on top of each other – in the metro, in the streets, in the pisos. The buildings were beautiful and majestic, but I couldn’t tell where the sun rose and set.

Mama finally found work caring for an elderly Spanish woman who was losing her mind. Her name was Rosario, and she was sweet and distant. She liked to show me pictures of her wedding and always talked about her wonderful, handsome husband. Mama whispered to me that she and her husband had divorced twenty-five years before. Maybe it was better that she didn’t remember. Maybe it was better to let her believe he still loved her.

After a few weeks, Mama saved enough money for us to get out of Gabriella’s piso. We didn’t have money for a piso all to ourselves, but we found a man who was renting a room out. We gathered our things, and the man led us down a dark, narrow hall and into the room we would be sharing. I stared, not wanting to step into it. It was dim and tiny. The floor was brownish orange tile. One queen sized bed and a large wardrobe stood squished with almost no room between the walls and furniture.

“It’s puny.” I whispered, “We can’t even fit all of our stuff in here.”

Cristina wrinkled her nose cutely and smiled, “It’ll be great! We’ll all sleep together in one bed. It’ll keep us warm!”

I couldn’t smile.

Mama put her arm around me, “At least we’re together, Maria Rosa. Don’t worry. Things will get better.”

I couldn’t say what I wanted to say. In Peru, we were poor, but we had a house. We didn’t have a dad, but we had family. How much better could things really get alone in a foreign place where we were disliked and where we had to squish into one room of another man’s home?

One night, on Cristina’s night off, we went out walking together.  We linked arms and she was quick to point out all the things we’d never seen before or things that struck her as particularly funny or beautiful. We came to a discotheque, and the loud music radiated and vibrated my sternum. Cristina let go of my hand and started dancing in the street. She closed her eyes and moved her body to the beat, making good use of her hips in her tight jeans and rolling her upper body. I laughed in spite of myself. “You’re crazy.”

“Come on, Maria Rosa! Loosen up.” She called, laughing. She twirled, and her poofy black curls flared out in all directions and then settled on her loose, red top. “Come on!”

“No way! We’re in the middle of the street.”

She ran over to me and grabbed my hands. She began to move them back and forth slowly at first and then gaining speed.

“Cristina, stop it.” I said laughing still.

“Mmmmm.” She said smiling at me and moving my body with her arms. Her eyes sparkled, and her smile was so wide and true that I finally gave in and danced with her.

“Yeah!” She said loudly. The song ended and another one started. It had a Bachata rhythm – the Dominican style that had spread to all of Latin America.

“Maria Rosa! Bachata!” So, we danced the Bachata just like Mama had taught us, Cristina taking the male part. “Viva Peru!” She yelled. Yes. Live Peru. Live without us.

Suddenly, I was crying. Cristina stopped moving and put her arms around me.

“Hermanita, what is this?” She said gently.

“What are we doing here?”

“Come on! We were having fun. Why are you being like this?”

“I can’t help it. Have you given up?”

“Given up on what?”

“On everything! Our home, our culture, our Papi.”

Her face fell and hardened like limestone. “Maria Rosa, you stop that. Papi is not coming back, ever!”

I ignored her. “Everything here is different! People are mean.”

“Not everyone is mean. How hard have you tried to get to know anyone?”

“The food is weird and bland!”

“You liked the paella!”

“Everyone speaks Catalan!”

“We can learn it too!”

“I…”

“No!” She held onto my shoulders. “Enough of this. You’re making it worse. Not everything is going to be the same, but it could still be good!”

I wilted, not wanting to argue anymore.

“Come on. Let’s go home.” She said finally.

“We have no home.” I muttered.

She rolled her eyes and grabbed my arm. “Mama should be back when we get there.”

She was, and when we walked in the door, tears came unbidden to my eyes. The smell. The potatoes, the yellow chilies, the eggs. Papa a la Huancaina.

“Mama!” I said excitedly. “You made Papa a la Huancaina!”

She grinned at me. “I did! Rosario’s daughter was early today and the landlord is out tonight, so I thought I’d do something special for my girls.”

Cristina smiled knowingly, “You couldn’t have picked a better night for it, Mama. Let’s eat!”

That night the three of us crowded in the bed. Cristina was in the middle and I was on the edge by the wall. I was happy and sad. My favorite food in the world pressed against the sides of my stomach. It had been just what I needed, but still a little tear pushed its way out of my eye and disappeared into the pillow.

Cristina put her hand on my hand, “Don’t worry, Hermanita. Things will get better.”

“You learned that phrase from mom.” I said a little bitterly.

“You should try it.”

 

Like in Peru, almost everyone was Catholic, but there seemed to be a lot of missionaries. There were Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons, Evangelicals, and they all walked in pairs. They seemed to target us. I would see them cross an entire plaza full of Spaniards just to talk to us and anyone with brown skin. I soon figured out why. Spaniards did not want to talk about God.

The name Franco hung heavily on their shoulders. Franco had been gone for awhile, but people do not recover from such things. Mama told me about the White Terror. Franco had killed lots of people who disagreed with him. He especially targeted the separatists – Catalans and Basques. He killed their leaders and stripped them of identity, forcing them to speak Spanish and changing their street names from Catalan to Spanish. They’d regained some identity since then, but on many streets, you could still see the scars of tyranny – a Spanish name faded by the Catalan one. Jaime and Jose stood subtle and pale next to the bold Jaume and Josep.

Maybe the Spaniards thought God had abandoned them, or maybe they kicked Him out for His failure to protect them. Either way, I felt he was not there and not entirely welcome. And I missed Him. I tried not to wonder why He hadn’t done something for this bitter country.

I took walks when Mama and Cristina were gone. I liked the city best at night, when the streetlamps twinkled and the streets weren’t so crowded. I couldn’t find grass, but there were pretty plazas. I avoided the tunnel where the Romanians slept on mattresses next to their shopping carts full of metal. I also avoided certain parks where boys collected to experiment with marijuana. They frightened me like I frightened the old Spaniards.

After a while, I began to realize that the word “crisis” was dropped a lot. The Spanish unemployment rate was twenty-three percent. Suffering, it seemed, was not unique to me. It’s silly, but I had assumed the first world didn’t have such problems. There was something morbidly comforting in the revelation. I guess things started to look different after that.

One night, I walked alone down the Avinguda de Severo Ochoa. In the middle of the street, there was a wide walkway lined with benches. Most were occupied by elderly Spaniards. Men in black hats talked about nothing and everything. Their wives got all dolled up just to come sit on the neighboring bench for a girl chat. They were lovely and alive. I smiled and walked on.

Further down the road, on a bench in front of the bank, Catalunya Caixa, a Spanish woman sat. Her leathery skin was neither young nor old. Her brownish grey hair was pulled tight ready to break. She had lived much and had much to live still. Her skinny smoker’s body hunched forward, her elbows on her knees, her head resting in her palm. Her eyes were dry and tired. There was no crying, no hysteria, but I recognized her look. I was sure I had worn it often lately. It was that look that I saw in the Romanians under the bridge, in the Muslim women under their scarves, in the gypsies under their laughter. It was worry frayed by exhaustion.

I wondered about her story. I’d imagined Spaniards were my enemies – rich snobs who looked down on me because I was illegal and brown and couldn’t speak Catalan. This woman didn’t look down on me; she just looked down, almost like up didn’t exist.

On an impulse, I sat next to her on the bench and touched her arm. She glared at me.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

She jerked away from me and barked, “Ainhoa.”

I nodded. It was clear she didn’t want to talk, so I stood.

She looked up suddenly, “What’s your name?”

“Maria Rosa.”

“Molt de gust.” Then she paused and looked into my eyes, “I mean, mucho gusto.”

I smiled, “Mucho gusto, Ainhoa.” I began to walk away but paused and said, turning back, “Ainhoa, no te preocupes. Las cosas mejorarán.” Don’t worry. Things will get better.

I didn’t know if I believed it yet or not, but I understood why mama said it so much. You had to try to believe it. You had to, or you wouldn’t survive.