In the fall of 2007 I came to Andalusia with the aim of staying for a year, maybe two at the most. Some eighteen years later, I’m still here. That has a lot to do with Concha, my wife, but it also has to do with the Andalusian way of life, which I find immensely agreeable. It’s a life that recalls an earlier time back in my native Charleston, when locals walked to the pharmacy, the market, or the bar. A time when there was a cobbler, a florist, and a baker just around the corner. A time when food and family—and especially food with family—took priority over all else.
For me, the most telling difference between my former life in the States and my current life in Andalusia is the fact that over here, I don’t need my own car. Because Concha and I both walk to work, one set of wheels is enough for the two of us. We only really need the car for weekend excursions to the mountains or the beach, both just a short drive away. For longer trips to Seville or Madrid, we usually take the high-speed trains, which are clean, comfortable, and reliable. The train station, too, is a short walk from our flat here in Jerez. Almost everything is: On foot, it’s about three minutes to work, four minutes to the bar or the market, two minutes to the pharmacy. Although it does take a bit longer to walk to my mother-in-law’s place, she and I are both okay with that. Concha’s mom and I get along splendidly; we’re big fans of each other; but we don’t need to see each other every day. A half-hour walk is ideal: easily doable, but hardly obligatory. It’s just what the doctor ordered after a big family feast on Sunday.
If kids had been in my cards, the calculus for all of this would no doubt be dramatically different. As it is, I even take a kind of pleasure in hanging the laundry on the line. It makes for a good break from the writing—far better, health-wise, than the smoke breaks I used to take—and I find the task itself relaxing, even meditative. I also appreciate the sense of a job completed. While a story or essay or book is never really done—there is always more tinkering to do; even on the off chance that the thing actually gets published, it’s hard for some of us not to obsess over what we might have done differently—here in semiarid Andalusia, the laundry usually only takes a couple of hours to dry, at which point it offers another welcome break from the writing.
Life here is not for everybody. If you are accustomed to the polished opulence of a place like, say, contemporary Charleston, Andalusia might feel a little rough around the edges. These many years later, I’m still not entirely used to living in a flat, in such close proximity to so many others, or to navigating conversations in which three or four people are talking at once. I sometimes get to missing the lush flora and varied fauna of my native Lowcountry (if not the mosquitoes). And my salary as a part-time EFL teacher would scarcely cover a light bill in the States.
Still, I won’t be leaving any time soon. It’s a good life, and I don’t have to make a fortune to make it work. When I walk up to the frutería, our neighborhood greengrocer, I come back with armloads of mostly local produce for the same price I’d pay for a few shiny-but-tasteless apples from a big grocery chain back in the States. It’s true that our frutería, like most local shops, is closed on Sundays and during siesta, but in fact I appreciate that. To me it’s just further proof that when it comes to choosing between working to live and living to work, my adopted home sits squarely in the working-to-live camp. One has to work, of course, but at the end of the day, the point of life is, well, to live it. Andalusia knows this, and if ever I start to forget it, she is quick to remind me.
Happy Andalusia Day, y’all. Come see us.
A month ago I was able to journey to Lima, Peru for Will Milner’s wedding and enjoyed a blissful four days walking and living in a laid back neighborhood called Barranco. To watch families of varying economic status walking dogs or sitting and enjoying parks together, speaking to one another, checking on neighbors was refreshing. No agenda, no rush. And sure, there were tourists,of which I was one, but the neighborhood did not feel dominated by that element. It felt a bit wild and unpredictable at times, not entirely polished, but well lived in by locals.
Shannon and I find ourselves longing to return there. I talked to Will last week and shared how much we enjoyed it. We both felt echoes of our childhood Charleston memories in explaining the allure of Barranco. A place to “live”.
Thanks for the update. 18 Years. Wow. I loved it down there. I really want to return soon. And it was so great to see you and Concha in Berlin last summer.