Asturian Hospitality, Pt. 1

After seven days of stifling Andalusian heat, I was ready to see another side of Spain. Luckily, cheap flights in Spain (and Europe as a whole) have made getting around quite a bit easier. Bargain carriers with names like Spanair, Vueling, and the not-so-subtle Clickair offer flights starting at 10 € ($14), but after taxes and fees, prices usually hover in the 30 € - 50 € range for a one-way ticket. Flying makes the most sense on long-haul trips, like the one I was undertaking between Malaga and the principality of Asturias nearly 500 miles to the north.

I picked Asturias out of my guidebook largely for the Picos de Europa, a mountain range about 20 km inland, and for its landscape of green pastures dotted with stone cottages and herds of livestock. I learned upon my arrival at my first Spanish supermarket (El Corte Inglés) that Asturias is also considered the dairy capital of Spain; "leche asturiana" carries the same sort of reputation as Wisconsin cheese does in the U.S. Fortunately for a weary traveler such as myself, Asturias also proved to be remarkable among the places I traveled in Spain for the overwhelming hospitality of its people.

As my plane approached the landing strip, the change from scrubby Andalusian desert to the verdant hills of Asturias was anything but subtle. Low-lying clouds grayed the sky and made the greens and blues deeper; the entire northern coast (from Galicia to the French border) is appropriately called "Green Spain." Later, I hopped on a bus to nearby Gijon, and marveled from behind the glass at severe cliffs dropping suddenly into the sea, and imposing factories that spewed smoke into the overcast skies.

My first encounter with Asturian hospitality, at the Semana Negra festival in Gijon, did not actually involve me interacting with another human being. I wandered through the fairgrounds, passing tent after tent of cheap merchandise and rowdy dance clubs, until I finally stumbled upon the main concert stage, illumined with bright lights and splashed with dry ice. A man with a large, white beard stood in front of the microphone, surrounded by a chorus of miners -- yes, miners -- dressed in white jumpsuits with black handkerchiefs on their collars, hard hats and headlamps to boot. This bearded man was belting out what I could immediately tell were hearty folk songs in the deepest sense of the word; they were the songs of the people. He sang of struggle and tragedy in the mines, dead comrades and martyrs and injustice. A few of those in the crowd raised their fists in defiance as they belted out the deeply-ingrained lyrics. In a magnificent display of unity and shared history, middle-aged couples, punk teens, old men, and even children all stood transfixed. These were the songs of Asturias, rooted in the deep-coal mining tradition, and no matter who you were or what you did, you instinctively knew the words. I couldn't sing along, but I shared in the intensity that permeated the crowd, a shiver in my spine, and I felt part of something.

I decided to stay in Gijon another night, inspired by the city's unequivocal Spanish-ness. Asturias prides itself on being the birthplace of the Spanish nation; it was the only territory never to fall to the Moors and thus the geographical starting point of the Reconquista. The next morning I resolved to take in some rural countryside, something with breathtaking cliffs leading to rolling green pastures, and I set my sights on a small fishing village called Cadavedo. Caught in the romance of it all, I decided the train would make the ideal conveyance, though my failure to master the 24 hour clock caused a hiccup in my departure (I showed up at 2:30 for the 3:30 train). Once outside of Gijon, the train appeared to stop at every conglomeration of two or more stone barns, and at the occasional lone, decrepit stockhouse. It traveled most of the way through recessed ditches or tunnels on the way to places with fantastic names like Aviles, Pravia, Vegarrozadas, and Zanzabornin. The ride was scenic, although longer than promised in the guidebook. Arriving at Cadavedo an hour and forty-five minutes after leaving Gijon, I expected to walk out of the station and into a quaint, colorful town; instead, the station agent, a medium-sized woman named Roxana with blond hair and large, protruding breasts, informs me it's about a 1.5 km down the road. She offers to give me a ride as soon as the train leaves, and I say okay, figuring she'll just drop me off and I'll get a taxi on the way back.

The friendly lift turns into something completely unexpected and exciting; an improvised tour of Cadavedo and it's vicinity. First, we stop at the grocery store, where I follow Roxana's lead: I buy a piece of "empanada gallega," crusty bread baked around marinated ground beef, which I devour in the car as we descend steeply toward the sea.

We don't make small talk, although Roxana points out her house along the way. When we make it to the port, she says, "I could leave you here and come pick you up later if you like," to which I express mild discontent. "Well, what do you want to see?" she asks, and I say I want to see the entire town, from up on high -- that breathtaking vista for which I've been searching. She tells me there's a hill not too far from here, the best view in the whole area, where the young people of Cadavedo go to enact some sort of modern-day Bacchanalia.

"You have to wear your worst clothes because the others pour wine all over you. More gets on your clothes than in your mouth. Still, by the time you make it up the steep part, you don't know which way is down and which way is up."

She is right. From the top of the mountain, we can see the gorge where Cadavedo should be, the train station facing us on a high plain, and to the east a half-moon beach, which turns out to be our next stop. We head down the mountain, and share a cigarette, Roxana opening up a bit during her descriptions of the Bacchanalia. Though unattractive, she exudes self-confidence, and it irks me that she lacks any curiosity whatsoever as to who I am or where I came from.

The beach is incredible, sheltered in a wide cove with cliffs rising on either side; instead of sand it is filled with smooth, flattened rocks approximating the size of a human kneecap. "Take off your shoes and walk around," she says in a maternal sort of voice. "You want to bathe, go ahead. Go ahead and bathe."

So I do. She takes a few pictures of me out in the water, as if we are old friends or relations. When I'm done I come back and sit beside her in awkward silence. The water is nice -- muy agradable -- I say over and over for lack of a better thing.

After the beach we hit one more look-out and then it's time to return to the train station, where we sit outside and eat peaches we bought at the grocery. Finally she explains to me that her husband is a truck driver and that she often goes with him on long hauls -- she's traveled all over Spain -- but not this time. At this point I realize I might not be the only one getting something out of this uncanny relationship we have concocted; me a tour of seaside Asturias, her a reprieve from loneliness and boredom. But she refuses to accept the money I offered for gas, and she doesn't have an email address to which I can send the one photo I've taken of her. She offers me her postal address, but I decline, saying I won't print the pictures. I express my frustration at having nothing to offer her in gratitude.

"No, there's nothing you can give," she replies in her matter-of-fact way that disguises her warmth. After an awkward one-cheek kiss that turns into a two-cheek kiss, I say goodbye and head to the other side of the platform to wait. My train has not yet arrived, and I am informed it's running twenty minutes late. Roxana peeks her head out the station window, and I think, that's twenty more minutes I get to spend in Cadavedo.