The Tale of the Man and the Sun

I actually wrote this several months ago but never posted it. I didn't think it meant anything. I saved it but didn't re-read it until recently. I'm posting it now because it has some significance to me now. Hopefully there are others who can see something in it as well. Otherwise, enjoy it for what it is- a story!

The Tale of the Man and the Sun

There once was a man who lived in the Land of the Dawn. Every morning as he awoke, the sky would already be shading from grey to purple and then to bright orange. He would watch as the Sun crawled over the distant hills and into the sky and as he did so he would be filled with the hope and promise that comes with each new day. The Sun would travel its path upward, but before it reached its zenith, the man would fall into a blissful slumber; this was part of the magic of the Land of the Dawn. The man never knew darkness or the night sky.

Every morning, also, the man would be awoken by the three-note trill of the Morning Bird. The Morning Bird would sit outside the man’s window and its song would be carried over the land and beyond the distant hills, where it would call the Sun up from the ground and into the sky. The Morning Bird was an ancient and magical creature, the man knew, but he never understood the bird. He would merely rise to its call and take in the those pregnant moments at the start of the day. The Sun, the Bird, and the light over the hills were all the man knew of life.

One morning, however, the man awoke to a new song. It was still a three-note trill, but it was different from the song he had heard every other day of his life. The man rushed to his window and saw that there was indeed a new bird perched in the tree outside his window. This new bird’s call reached out of the distant hills as well, and called the Sun upward. The man watched as the great orb rose above the hills. Afterward he dressed quickly and approached the new bird.

“Who are you?” asked the man. “Where is the Morning Bird?”

“I am the Morning Bird,” was the creature’s reply.

“There was another, though,” said the man, confused. “Where has it gone?”

“That other bird was old and frail. He has passed into Night, and there he must stay. I have come to take his place.”

The man was more confused than ever now. Furrowing his brow he asked, “Night? What is this?”

“Why, Night is where the Sun goes after the day is done.”

At this man laughed. He knew that this new Morning Bird must be a trickster or a fool. “Nobody knows where the Sun goes!” he cried.

The Morning Bird, tired of explaining everything to the ignorant man, simply said, “There is much of this world you do not know,” and flew away.

This troubled the man, and it stayed with him for several days. He would watch every Sunrise, just as before, and would be filled with all of the hope that they contained. But the Bird’s words echoed inside his mind, and soon the hope of each new day was not enough. It was blind hope, hope unfulfilled. He had to know if there was more. After many days he approached the Bird again.

“I would like to know where the Sun goes,” he told the Bird.

“Then you must follow the Sun on its westward journey. It will be a guide across the lands. But be warned,” said the Morning Bird, “the lands beyond your own are very different.”

The man noted the Bird’s warning but ran to pack his things. The next morning, as the Sun crested over the distant hills, the man was filled with a new kind of hope. This hope was not blind but focused on the task ahead. Today, he told himself, he would follow the Sun.

The Sun rose ever higher in the morning sky, and soon was as high as the man had ever seen it. Drawing a deep breath, he took one last look at the distant hills before turning and heading west. The man traveled for hours and was amazed how the Sun seemed to shrink as it crossed the sky. His shadow, too, was shrinking, as if being pulled closer to his feet. Soon his shadow was nothing more than a dot beneath him and the Sun was beating down harshly upon him. He did not like this burning, relentless Sun. How could this be the same Sun that caressed him in the Land of the Dawn?

The man came upon a small village whose residents were taking shelter under their patios and inside their houses. The man, sweating heavily and feeling his skin begin to burn, called to one of the people under the patios. “Pardon me, but may I sit in the shade with you until the Sun passes?”

One of the men under the patios beckoned him over. “Come, get out of the heat! Where are you from, stranger?”

“Thank you. I’m from the Land of the Dawn,” he explained.

“The Land of the Dawn? Where is this? I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s far east of here,” the man explained. “It’s where the Sun rises from behind the hills.”

His new companion looked at him for a moment in disbelief, and finally let out a great big laugh.

“Oh, stranger, you must have been in the heat for longer than I thought!”

“What do you mean?” asked the man.

“Illusions of the Sun rising from the ground . . . Listen, my poor friend, the Sun does not rise from the ground. It sits high above us forever, blasting down its heat. We in the Land of Noon must all do our best to avoid it and stay cool. That is simply the way life is.”

Now it was the man’s turn to look upon his companion disbelievingly. “No no,” he insisted, “I’m afraid you’re wrong. Before the Sun arrives here, it rises from the hills at the Dawn. Its rays warm us and give us hope- it’s not a thing to be avoided.”

“You still sound mad, my odd friend. Every day I have lived, the Sun has poured itself on us from on high. This is all I have ever known the be true.”

The man was about to argue again, but then recalled the words of the Morning Bird. He said to the man from the Land of Noon, “There is much of this world you do not know.”

The man noticed that the Sun was indeed continuing on its westward journey. He bid his new friend, who still thought him crazy or ill, goodbye. The heat persisted after Noon, but the Sun fell even further down toward the ground. It was the strangest thing the man had ever seen, watching the Sun fall downward instead of rising higher. The sky even began to change color, from bright blue to moody purples mixed with orange. Eventually, the man came upon more people; these were the inhabitants of Evening.

The mood in this town was still, the man noted. Not energetic and hopeful as in his own Land of the Dawn, nor was it oppressed and stagnant like the Land of Noon, and the he was glad to see that the people did not avoid the Sun. Here, the people were gathered quietly on a hillside, watching silently as the Sun sank further and faster toward the Earth. They all sat staring into the beautiful colors swirling in the sky, as if they were all sharing the same, deep thought.

The man took a place next to an old woman. He, too, stared into the sky, for it was the most beautiful pageant he had ever seen. The Sun had turned to a deep orange, as it looked in the morning, but here it was swirled by layers and layers of wispy, dark-hued clouds. Orange and blue and purple mixed like a dream.

He leaned over and whispered to the woman, “What’s this we’re watching?”

“Why,” she whispered back, “this is the Sunset. How can you not know that?”

“I’m not from here,” the man explained. “I’m from the Land of the Dawn.”

“The Land of the Dawn?” she asked. The whole time she spoke she never took here eyes of the sky.

The man nodded, knowing that this pensive, wise old woman would not laugh at him as the man in the Land of Noon had. “Yes, where the Sun rises from the hills. I’ve followed it here, through the Land of Noon where it sits high up sending down scorching heat.”

At this the woman took a moment to look away from the Sunset, but only a moment. She said, “There are no such places, young man. The Sun sinks softly into the Earth, here at Evening. Life here is about reflection and watching the end of the light. That is all there is.”

The sun was sinking even faster now. The peaks of the distant hills- hills that mirrored his own back home- were outlined against the great orange orb. The light was dying quickly, and as it did so the man whispered to the woman, “There is much of this world you do not know.” The Sun sank further, until it was a sliver over the horizon. Then as its final rays reached out and caressed the man’s face, the Sun disappeared completely.

The man looked about him and saw that everyone on the hillside, the inhabitants of Evening, had fallen into a deep sleep, as he had done in his own land when the Sun passed him by. That was the spell of this land, and he was not a part of it.

He was suddenly gripped by a great fear. He had wanted to follow the Sun, but never imagined that it was disappear completely! The man suddenly remembered that there was another land, the land of which the Morning Bird had spoken. The man would have to go the Land of Night. There he would again take up his journey, following the Sun.

Fearing the darkness that had enveloped him at the Sun’s setting, the man sprinted westward. His chest hurt as he drew in air, which grew colder and colder. He crossed the hills the Sun had fallen behind, but instead of finding the great orb waiting for him, came upon something quite different.

Everything was still dark and the air was still very cool, and there was no Sun. Instead, a billion tiny points of light were scattered across and ink-black sky. The sight overwhelmed the man and he fell to his knees. There must have been an infinity of tiny dots above him. They didn’t move, as the Sun did, but instead were stationary, twinkling down like diamonds on black velvet.

Slowly, the man gathered himself and stood up again. This, then, was the Land of Night. No Sun, only a billion tiny replicas. The man tried to look around for someone to talk to, but the inhabitants of this land did not make themselves easily seen. They slinked around in the shadows silently.

Listening carefully, the man heard something vaguely familiar. Three notes, faintly calling into the Night. They were weaker and sadder than he remembered, but these were indeed the notes of the Morning Bird that had so recently been replaced. The man ran to the Bird, who was perched on dark and gnarled tree.

“My friend! My friend!” called the man, excited to have found a familiar face in this strange and frightening land.

The Bird lifted its head weakly. “You? It can’t be! From the Dawn?”

“Yes,” said the man. “I’ve followed the Sun to find out where it goes.”

“You won’t find it here, I’m afraid. I’ve been calling it since I got here, but instead there are only Stars.”

“Stars? The dots in the sky?”

The Bird nodded. “They glow weakly, and give no warmth.”

“Where has the Sun gone?”

“I don’t know. I doubt we’ll ever see it again.”

“No,” said the man, “that can’t be right. The Sun will come again.”

“There is no hope of such things here,” explained the Bird. “We here walk in darkness forever.”

The Bird suddenly looked fiercely at the man, “You must go! Quickly! Go back the way you came!”

“No,” shouted the man, “there’s nothing back there. I will go forward! I will find the Sun!” With that he began to run again, desperate to find those bright rays of light he had always known. The Stars seemed to pass him in a blur, offering neither guidance nor hope. Instead they twinkled distantly, as if the man did not matter to them.

The man ran into the darkness but found only more darkness. He ran up and down hills but at the crest of each one there was only more ink-black sky and Stars. Finally he passed the hills and was running across a flat plain. Still, there was only Night.

The man collapsed in a heap in the middle of the field. He looked back up toward the sky and cried openly, for he had lost any hope of seeing the Sun again. His crying turned into deep sobs. Over the sobs, though, there was another sound.

A note.

Another note.

A third note.

All called across the field, toward the hills the man had just crossed. The man rose instantly. From the distance the trill rang out again: the call of the Morning Bird. A feeling rose up inside the man, a feeling he had not ever thought he would feel again: hope. His hope only increased as the sky turned from black to murky grey. The call continued, and the grey shaded into purple and then strips of orange appeared above the hills.

And then it happened: the Sun rose again, as the man had seen it a million times before, but now it was different. The light stretched over the hills and warmed the man’s tear-stained cheeks. It wrapped around him like a blanket and the air he drew now was warm and refreshing. He had never seen a Dawn like this.

When the Sun was well over the hills (the man made sure of this, for he was afraid it might fall back down behind them as it had done in Evening) he walked back toward his home, where the Morning Bird sat in its tree.

“I have seen where the Sun goes,” said the man.

The Bird’s eyes seemed to smile. “And?”

“All I have seen . . . it has only made the Dawn more beautiful.”

A Love Letter to El Retiro Park

My second trip to El Retiro revealed far more to me than the first. My first trip, remember, was on my second day here- no luggage, no experience in Madrid. Admittedly its only been a week, but I definitely got a lot more out of it this time.


Four hundred years ago this park was designed to house a king, and it is fit for the task still. Just a few steps off the street and into the park’s pathways and you’re already miles (or kilometers) away from business of the city. Almost immediately roaring of the buses and honking of commuters is replaced by evening birds’ songs and wind through the trees. There is little indication that somewhere outside lay an urban beast, pulsing and beating and constantly in motion. With all of its fury it cannot permeate this area.

Pages could be spent describing the activities and uses that the park’s visitors find for it, but in a glimpse the park is …
… a dog walk, as healthy and reinvigorating for the dog as for its aged owner.
… a peaceful retreat for young couples.
… a quiet study hall.
… a perfect setting for a wedding party’s photos.
… the setting of a tai chi class, in session in a small clearing among the trees.

… more than this still, but even with all of the activity the park is big enough to house all and still give each one his space. A walk through the pine-and-flower scented air can be as solitary as standing in your own back yard or as social as any outing with friends. Water flows in all parts with ponds and fountains that cool the air and provide a smooth soundtrack for the pace of life it surrounds. Set against the motion of the waters are unstirring giants in the form of statues and buildings. These monoliths seemingly rise out of nowhere, beautiful and alarming at once.

Walking through the park can be familiar. The feel of nature, it seems, does not need translating. You could be in Spain or in the United States or anywhere else in the world and you’d instantly recognize the feeling of age, immensity, and balance that comes with a walk in the park.

While El Retiro can be as familiar as walking through the state parks near my home, it can also be as strange as a scene from Alice in Wonderland. Parts of the park are well-manicured lawns decorated with pillars and ponds, a rich display of wealth. A king would truly spend his time here, among the fine courts and patios laid out perfectly in every detail: the black-and-white checkerboard of ground tiles, the oval-shaped orbs of vegetation that line every row, the vines that creep exactly up the pillars.

Described here is but a fraction of the park’s grounds. It would take weeks to explore its totality- not only because of its size (350 acres) but because it defies careful, exact examination. If one were to see the entire park, it would merely be coincidence. One finds oneself wandering, following the contours of the hills or searching for the base of some distant tower. In innumerable ways Madrid is similar to any other city, any other multitude of people piled on top of one another. But in its center, truly, is a unique emerald gem.

Exploring Spain - Heart, Mind, and Soul ...

… someday. But for now, I’m doing just fine using my stomach, liver, and bladder.

Stomach:

Spanish gastronomy. Where do I begin? Spanish cuisine seems to be Spain’s own little secret. In the U.S. if you say “Spanish” most people hear “Mexican” or “Latino”, which is pretty wide of the mark. The rest of Europe seems concerned with French and Italian cuisine. But if Spanish gastronomy is a secret, the Spaniards don’t seem to mind. As my unofficial host, Angel, put it: “I have friends in Germany, Italy, Mexico … they all say, ‘Come here! Come here! A week, two weeks, whatever- come here and I will show you around!’ But I don’t go. Why would I go? I have everything I want here in Spain.”

And he did a fine job introducing me to some of the finer selections at a bar called El Rincon de Extremadura. There was jamón, of course, and Manchego cheese. The young Manchego had an almost creamy texture and the old was more solid and definitely sharper. But in between these and plates of olives was something else. Served warm on top of bread, this was a black mush flecked with white grains. I took a bite and instantly loved it. It was warm and rich. The flavor was strong like jamón ibérico, but with a soft mealy texture.

“What is this called?” I asked.

“Morcilla.”

“Morcilla,” I repeated. “And it’s made of rice and what else?”

“Sangre.”

“Sangre?” Blood?

“Si. Sangre de cerdo.”

Pig’s blood. Ah. So mounded on top of the bread was some sort of Iberian blood pudding. What did I do? I said, “Que rico!” and popped the last bite into my mouth. And from now on I’ll be looking for morcilla at every bar I visit!

Liver:

Which came first- the tapa (little plate of food served with your drink) or the caña (small beer)? I can’t figure out whether cañas are there to give you something to drink with your tapas or tapas are there to give you something to eat with your cañas. What I do know is that where ever you go you can order a beer for a Euro, a Euro twenty, a Euro fifty, and with it you almost always get a little dish. Around here it’s usually bread with some ham and cheese or a plate of olives, but downtown you can get a small plate of paella and quite a meal out of it.

Yesterday about noon Angel said, “Are you coming downtown today?” I thought sure, must something to do. There sure was, and that something was drink. I don’t know who Angel was racing, but he just kept ordering drinks. I had a pretty good buzz by two in the afternoon. The Spaniards may not eat dinner until eleven at night, but anytime’s a good time to drink! Salud.

Bladder:

Don’t worry, I don’t have any real experiences to share about peeing in Spain; “bladder” just kinda fit in with the theme I’m going with today. I will say, however, that I learned that if you have to go to the bathroom, you have to hacer pis. To do piss.

Boy, learning Spanish is easy.

Um Poquito de Gracias

In my fanaticism of Spain I’ve read quite a bit about the culture and norms of the country. Now that I am here I am daunted by that which I do not know. In fact, on my first day it seemed I had forgotten the entirety of my knowledge of Spanish altogether.

The taxi driver who took me from the airport to the apartment seemed very frustrated that he was giving me good advice on where to get off and which route to take, and all I could do was understand every other word and nod.

“M-30?” I would ask. Of course, I had no idea what he had said about M-30. I knew it was a highway, and one near barrio Moratalaz where I’d be staying. “Si, M-30,” I’d say. He looked at me in the way one finds oneself looking at a victim of stroke trying to eat soup.

Eventually I regained my command of the Spanish language, by which I mean I am now understanding every other sentence instead of every other word. This is less confusing to me and, somehow, more frustrating to the speaker. Still, I am trying, and continue trying I will.

However, as I said above, there was little I read that prepared me for what I’ve found of Spanish culture. One article in particular, written by a man who loves Spain, noted the fact that the Spanish tend to drop “por favor” and “gracias” from every day conversation, and that can come off to foreigners as bit … well, rude. And it’s true; not that Spaniards are rude, of course, but that “por favor” and “gracias” are reserved for special situations. I went to the supermarket last night with the woman from whom I’m renting my room. It was a great experience and, frankly, I couldn’t have faced that supermarket without her. However, I did note that there was very little “excuse me” and “pardon” as we shoved through the crowds- and as they shoved back. It was the crowd’s fault for being there, and all I had to do was this simple errand. Viva yo.

The contrast to this is another personal experience. It started when the airline lost my luggage (as of this writing it is still not recovered). So I showed up to the apartment with nothing but a bag full of a laptop, some books, and a number of other things that are completely useless when all one wishes to do is clothe oneself. I mentioned this is my second conversation with my other roommate, Angel. Now, keep in mind that this is my second conversation with the man, the first focusing mainly on where to find cheap groceries and the proper time of the month to buy a metro pass. (The answers, in case you’re wondering are, in this order, “Lidl,” and, “At the beginning.”)

When I mentioned that my luggage was lost that I had yet to retrieve it his eyes went wide and he immediately began dispensing advice. Contact the police, raise hell with the airline, and talk to his girlfriend. Then he went straight to his own closet and began pulling out shirts for me to wear. When he returned to the bathroom, where I stood mouth agape, he worked out a system whereby we would use separate razor heads on the same handle and that way I could shave. All of this he did in between noting how noble (a word which I believe has a slightly different connotation in Spanish) I was and it was wrong that this should happen to me, and we would take care of it immediately. Except for the “Gracias” which I threw at him as he threw me his belongings, there was no formal politeness about it. But it was still the most polite and instantly helpful I’d ever seen.

If it means tossing away every, “After you, sir,” and, “Please-and-thank-you,” we have, I wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of the Spanish version of politeness in the world.

My Life: A Parody

Trisha suggested that my first trying hours here were to be looked at as an adventure more than a setback or hardship. And this is true; how delightfully, wonderfully, happily boring it would have been to have seen my luggage spat out onto the conveyor like all the others. No no, that would not do at all. However, it is still only a story of lost luggage, so I’ll attempt to dramatize it for you as best I can.


I disembarked from the cramped British Airways flight with the combination of pain in my backside and wide-eyed excitement that can only come from twelve hours of travel. I slung my backpack over my shoulder for the nine hundredth time that day (or had it been two days?) and made my way down the ramp into Madrid-Barajas airport. My fellow travelers began making phone calls and arranging meetings the moment we were out of the plane; I had no such phone calls to make, I knew. There was nobody waiting for me in Madrid except for the hot Iberian sun that shone outside the airport’s giant windows and a country full of unknown possibility.

Step one was to follow the signs toward Baggage Claim. The signs were easy enough to follow as everything was listed in English first, then Spanish: a sign that Spain’s tourism industry was alive, thriving, and slightly overbearing. The signs were misleading, however, as they led first to the green-sleeved immigration officials that are the Guardia Civil. As the line crept forward toward the plastic strongholds which could deny me entry into this country, my travel-weary mind began to race with worry: “Do I look like a terrorist? What does a terrorist look like? Should I try to look less like a terrorist? Wait- won’t that make me look more like a terrorist?” My worries were, of course, unfounded. The agent barely looked at my passport long enough to stop telling a joke to his companion.

My first obstacle was hurdled and now Baggage Claim truly lay ahead. A series of signs and information screens led me to Belt 8. Everyone took up positions around the belt, some vying for optimal location while others nonchalantly chose spots along the line, creatures of eternal patience. I was somewhere in between, waiting in some places and then finding myself pacing along the line like a chained animal- an analogy not far from the truth. I was trapped until my luggage came out, bound to it by an invisible tether.

But no matter how much I tugged on the tether from my end, my suitcase did not show. Others had gotten their luggage and were making their way toward taxis and hotels and beds, but a handful of us were still left waiting, staring at the empty belt passing before us. Occasionally we’d look up and smile weakly at one another, the international sign for, “Let’s try to stay positive even though we’re probably screwed.”

And screwed we were. Eventually a veteran traveler told us that he had spoken to the authorities and that our luggage was still in London, or possibly Pakistan. All we had to do was fill out a claim form and move along; the proper authorities would take care of everything shortly. Had we not been mentally crippled by half a day of travel, we may have realized that, in our entire lives, we had never known the proper authorities to take care of anything shortly. But, mindless airport sheep that we were, we signed the forms and left. Tether cut, energy depleted. I caught a cab.

The cab ride was paradoxically short and expensive (almost 30 euros) and had I the energy I might have argued with him. Instead I shelled out the colorful bills and made my way down the Camino de Vinateros, searching for number 97. It wasn’t long before I was standing in front of a grated door, staring haplessly into the reception area. Carlos, the doorman and the man who was to give me my key, had already left for siesta- probably only ten minutes ago- and I would have to wait three hours for his return.

Panic set in. My fuel of intermittent sleep and airline food was not enough to get me through this. My personal defenses were crippled and I suddenly felt vulnerable and alone. I had no personal effects save for my suddenly very heavy backpack, and to make matters worse all the money I had in the world was in my pocket! Too any bored mugger I must have looked like a fat, three-legged zebra calf.

Suddenly I was suspicious of everyone. All of the teenagers and kids were obviously thugs, but what of the old lady walking the dog? Brilliant cover. Let her pass you by and WHAM! - the dog’s on your throat and granny’s making off with your laptop and money. Stranger still, nobody was even speaking English! It was some sort of gibberish with a lot of th’s. Oh, I was a long way from home indeed, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember why that ever sounded like a good idea.

Carlos eventually arrived with muttered apologies for being late and an envelope full of keys. I gave the apartment a cursory inspection and promptly collapsed onto what I assumed was my bed, exhausted.


So there it is, Day 1: The Melodramatization. Hey, things can only go up from here, right?

Neither Here Nor There

With less than a week before I leave, I find myself in a strange kind of limbo, an out-of-body experience. Though I am here- physically- taking care of the last errands and details that will change my life, I spend much of my time mentally projected to a distant country. I imagine and re-imagine my first few moments there, trying to ready myself for the unknown, if such a thing is possible. And then I fall back and realize that I am still implanted on the flat Midwestern plains that I have called ‘home’ for so long, and probably always will. As my departure draws nearer, I’m pulled further and further to the extremes of these thoughts, enjoying both my dreams for the future and memories of the past.

As delicately as I can I cut the thin threads that bind my life here. Old debts are paid off and possessions are boxed up or meted out to those who will find them useful. The more my collection of ‘things’ shrinks around me, the stronger I feel. It’s as if all of the importance and care I’ve put into them is transferred back to me, giving me the strength to take my few remaining artifacts and go. Eventually I’ll be down to a backpack, a suitcase, and myself.

But I must stress that only these tiny, material threads are being cut. There are more important ties to this place, heavy cables (to extend the metaphor) that will always keep me anchored here both geographically and personally. They are my relationships with friends and family. In my remaining days here I have not been cutting these at all, but maintaining them and strengthening them, getting ready for the stress that will be put on them soon.

Of course, these are all complicated layers on top of one very simple and ever-present emotion: I’m excited. Not like a child before Christmas, but more like the excitement of a parent before the birth of his first child. So much is unknown, and there’s no handbook, but I’m just ready to dive in and do the best that I can.

In the meantime, however, I am both at home and away. I am preparing to leave yet am already gone. Put simply, I am neither here nor there.