(more photos here)
Caceres, WOMAD Music Festival
I find that it’s in those moments when you begin to doubt yourself, to wonder if you’ve really chosen the right path, when you finally stop and take it all in. After almost 8 months here in Spain I find myself filled with competing emotions. Itchy feet draw my mind to faraway places waiting to be explored, but comfort draws me home. My problem with the latter is that I’m not sure where home is at the moment. Yes, home is where your heart is, but I’ve taken my heart on the road and learned a valuable lesson; I can be happy anywhere (an after Malanville I mean it) because I bring my happiness with me. My heart is light, making it quite easy to pack.
Eight months into Spain and I find myself sitting at a café in Caceres, where I came for the WOMAD (World Of Music And Dance) festival with a group of friends. Though quite a bit older than me, they may be younger at heart. MJ is quick to laugh, happy to gossip and stays out until the sun comes up. Though she stands a good foot shorter than me, it’s easy to forget when you’re near her and feel the energy that seems to radiate from her.
The festival is held in an old Spanish city that dates back to the Romans and today it maintains much of its roman and medieval charms. Once a year musicians from around the world congregate in Caceres and bring this old town alive. Concerts are held in historic plazas, century-old cathedrals provide the backdrops. Wandering through the narrow stone-paved alleys takes you from one band to another, like traveling from England to Africa.
The first group we saw reminded me of the power of music to transcend language barriers. They were a mix of nationalities and sang beautifully in several languages. Next we situated ourselves on the railing of old medieval steps to see a group that seemed to blend flamenco and Middle Eastern sounds. It was the kind of intoxicating beat that makes your body sway unconsciously. The singer had the voice of a flamenco singer, so full of emotion that understanding the words become obsolete. The kind of voice that hits you straight in the heart, fills your heart with such intense emotion that it chases the others away. Whether you came to the show happy, sad, angry, stressed, those emotions are swept away; there is suddenly only room in your heart for the emotion of that voice. After a stressful week, I let this music settle over me, free me, let me drift away. (Speed Caravan)
I awoke early the next morning to partake in my favorite activity, walking the tranquil streets partially lost but finding myself. The city is so well preserved it takes you back in time. You can picture men in togas or tights walking down the streets with their swords, ready to court women and start duels. Though these cities can be found all over Europe they never lose their charm.
I must stick out as an American. I suddenly found myself with a microphone before my lips and a camera in my face. The local news team was delighted to have encountered an American at the festival that spoke Spanish; so delighted in fact that they tipped off the radio show that I was there as well. I was suddenly very popular with my tales of Colorado and love of African music. I’m not saying it’ll go to my head, but the Spaniards are really starting to appreciate me.
Nostalgia
Lately I have felt like music flows around me. Luckily it fills my friend Michelle as well. We recently went to Frankfurt together on a mission to reminisce. We were like a moving jukebox roaming the streets. The simplest quote was enough to start us singing. Songs ranged from classic rock to Disney, intermixing French, Spanish, English, and even German. I like to think that this music filled our hearts, made light but the nostalgia that Frankfurt brought to us both.
Four years ago when I was still a traveling neophyte I came to visit a friend who had moved to Frankfurt for a year. I found it astounding that she could move somewhere so foreign and then adapt.
Now I walk down the same streets, seeing the same sights but with an entirely new perspective. My first time here I was disappointed by the modernity. Having just left the beautiful old cobble-stoned streets of Paris where the Eiffel Tower stands tall above the old ornate buildings, the jagged glass skyline of Frankfurt was unimpressive. To make matters worse, having little German and even less confidence the people of Frankfurt had seemed unfriendly and cold. But this time I was drawn by the smaller more subtle beauty.
This year I was excited to try out my German. The people of Frankfurt were immensely patient and willing to play along in our simple German conversations, but the truth was that they all spoke perfect English. I have found that the people of Frankfurt find my attempts as amusing as I do, or I just find them amusing enough for all of us. The challenge of getting a thought across or making sense of the world going on around me in a language I have far from mastered is invigorating. Even the smallest act becomes a challenge to overcome.
Most conversations revolved around food. We criss-crossed Frankfurt intent on trying all the best Germany has to offer. The wurst (bratwurst, currywurst, rindwurst), resembling hot dogs served on hamburger buns were delicious. By sitting in random restaurants and ordering the most difficult thing to pronounce on the menu we stumbled upon amazing food, people and music.
To add to the nostalgia, I went to Frankfurt to visit old friends from Malanville. They are two of those rare people that really get it; who understand without explanation all those little inside jokes and comprehend my Franglais (a French and English creole). Spending time with them sent me back to the hot, malaria and mosquito-infested nights of Malanville; when life was good if the fan worked and ice was better than gold.
We spent the nights reminiscing on the bad beer and worse customer service in Benin. Our English conversation invaded by French and Zarma. Marveling at how clean we are without the layers of African dust, but deep down we felt the pull of the roots that we had planted during our 2 years in the sub-Sahara.
Next it was Michelle’s turn to walk the misty roads of memory lane. Having lived in Frankfurt when she was 10 she was eager to roam once again the paths of Kronberg. This would turn out to be quite the adventure; diving into small town Germany.
Kronberg was magical. We visited Michelle’s former landlords who welcomed us both like cherished friends. They invited us to lunch and entertained us with life stories. My favorite was when Tilo, the husband, told the tale of how they met. “I lived in France for 2 years,” he said, his eyes glowing, “then one day I met her and I married her.” The glow of his eyes spread across his face and you could see that he still considers this the best decision of his life.
Next we explored Alt Kronberg which maintains a rustic German charm that has been lost in the blinding dazzle of Frankfurt. The houses, some dating back as far as 1573, lean a little after having watched centuries pass by. But it was the park that stole my heart. It was nothing more than simple paths through rolling meadows. The hills rose up in the background and the old tower (800 years old) looked over Kronberg.
The time soon came to say goodbye to Frankfurt and friends both old and new. We spent our last night calmly in our hostel. Enjoying the last moments with friends met on the road. Our last night, I found myself surrounded once again by soothing music. Michelle and one of our roommates, wearing matching Converse sneakers, passed a guitar back and forth, singing tales of homesickness and wanderlust that touched my heart. I let myself get lost in their songs as their Conversed feet kept the beat. I found myself once again befriending one of those fascinating strangers that sees the world through different eyes. But soon our time had run out. The time spent in the past as well as lost in music was soothing and yet revitalizing, charging me up for the adventures ahead.
No comments:
Post a Comment