I was in Spain in 1971. I did not particularly like it. Spain was under the Franco regime. The people were guarded, closed. The old women in black dresses watched us with sharp, suspicious eyes. Shelley and I explored Europe with jeans and backpacks, two of hundreds of American youth exploring Europe with jeans and backpacks. We hitchhiked everywhere; it was safe in 1971. In France or Switzerland or Denmark, men or two girls or families would pick us up, all excited and friendly like curious dogs, and take us to go see their local castle, or home for a picnic with their wife and family, or to their apartment for meal and a couch. But in Spain, the only ones picking up hitchhikers were truck drivers who did it illegally, and made us duck down when going through towns. No one invited us home. Men leaned out of doorways and hissed at us, “Sssss, ssss, guapa,”or followed us down the street and sometimes lingeringly with one finger touched the backs of our upper arms. Creepy. So I did not know what to expect in Spain in 2017.
We did not expect it to be Mexico. Neither did we expect it to be quite so continental and brisk and serious. We thought maybe it would be a cross between Italy and Puerto Vallarta.
Since we did not make it out onto the country roads, we saw only villages and cities and busses and restaurants and hotels. The people were cosmopolitan. No chickens or potatoes on these busses. No Mexican busses where there are holes big enough in the floor to put your foot down for extra braking. In Spain, the busses have wifi with a password and USB ports to recharge your devices. The seats are numbered like airplanes and woe to the hapless tourist who sits in the wrong seat. The people are stylish. The women wear shoes like Italians. –no Keens or white tennis shoes. The men wear tailored jackets, no sweatshirts. And many are multilingual. And very tech savvy. And way ahead of the US in use of windmills and solar power, on roadsides and little farms and rooftops. And busy. Polite, but busy. We were reminded more of Goya and El Greco than… suddenly I can’t think of any happy Spaniards. The women did not wear those Mexican blouses with half of their bosoms bulging out. The men did not wear baggy pants and loose shirts. They all wore trim, modest, continental-cut clothing made of good cloth, like Italians.
The people were very helpful to us lost pilgrims. Everywhere we went, if we stood for longer than a minute gaping around like baby robins, looking for street signs or peering at a map or GPS, an older man in a suit or an older lady with a shopping bag would come over to steer us in the right direction. They peered and pointed, sign-languaged us, pantomimed, even walked alongside us for blocks– one man’s wife left to go to the farmacia alone so he could get us on the right street. They spoke some English, for the most part. God’s people are good. They take seriously their role as hosts for pilgrims.
Spaniards conducted business seriously, with awareness of customer service and the importance of tourism. They served efficiently in whatever language we presented. If we started in Spanish, they launched off into a flurry and lost us until we started waving our hands and laughing. They were polite and genuine. But there was none of the relaxed Mexican attitude– oh, just have a cerveza! No colorful outfits, flouncy skirts, or brightly painted buildings. No salsa music in the air in plazas and restaurants. No laughing waiters willing to clown around with Joe. Not much patience with halting bumbling searching for Spanish words when they already knew the English words. Much more like the French than the Italians. No arrogance or animosity, but also no amusement or enjoyment. Spaniards, professional and businesslike, stylish and severe.