Carmela appeared through the arrival doors of the airport of Santiago de Compostela.
she was talking on her phone, a folding version of a Motorola that i remember to be pretty fancy back at that time.
she had 3 piercings in her right ear and maxi square vintage sunglasses of the 70’s.
she looked like always. 1.55m. baby face. tanned. fat. happy.
‘your grandfather decided to die. and i’ve decided to live’, she said with a smile when i hugged her. it was march of 1996.
after my grandfather died, she started going to school to learn how to read and how to write.
‘it was about time, don’t you think? i am 65 and i have everything to learn’, she told me with a smile.
she used to buy every tuesday the magazine Pronto. and every afternoon once i was back from school, i would have my merienda meanwhile she was practicing her reading out loud.
i have never been attracted to gossip or tabloid magazines. but in 1996, the Spice Girls appeared in my life. and all the press was covering every single move of the most famous girl band.
‘Drunk Victoria Beckham threw her underwear out a taxi window’, Carmela read. she did a pause and looked at me above her reading glasses ‘you will drink one day, just promise me you will do it with some class’, she asked me.
until today, i have never thrown my underwear out a taxi window, so i guess i am doing ok.
we were closed. and thanks to Pronto and the spice girls, even more.
it’s not until now that i realise how modern my grandmother was. when she lost her husband, Carmela, instead of wearing black, asking God why this or that, she decided to ride her life with wannabe being her new life soundtrack.
my mother, 1.80m, pale, skinny, always sad, used to criticised her.
‘she almost looks happy he is not around anymore’, she said. i never heard my mother saying anything good about anybody, so i didn’t expect her to be different with my grandmother.
December 23rd of the same year, we packed to celebrate xmas with my other grandmother.
it was the first time, and the last, that i had my two grandmothers together for Xmas.
Eduvigis could read and write. but most importantly, she could cook.
she used to run a restaurant that was always full. but she was too naive, too nice, too kind. and she was giving too much on trust.
too much talent in the kitchen but none in the numbers, she had to close her taberna.
‘you are late’, she welcomed us when we arrived. ‘Oh, Carmela!, glad to have you. you gain some weight since last time, right?’, she said meanwhile she was smashing the potatoes.
i wonder what modern psychology says about this kind of love language.
the kitchen was a war zone. they invited us to go to the living room and they closed the door.
our xmas were pretty big. seven sisters. their partners. grandparents. grandkids. some special guests. we were always around 50 to 60 pax.
and somehow, in between all the good intentions of having a good night good food and good memories, the truth is the xmas magic was just for the kids.
before seating to our xmas eve table, the usual apero was several mental breakdowns and unresolved traumas served pretty raw.
food was coming. seafood, fish, meat and wine inter winded with far right and far left politics, rivalries forged in childhood and good and bad jokes.
at some point of this intense emotional tornado, Carmela asked me to accompany her outside. ‘do you know a place nearby where i can dance?’.
i also wanted to escape. year after year, was always the same. ‘we are in the monte, abuela’, i answered her. ‘and how long do you think this madness will last?’, she asked.
i checked my watch. it was 11.30 pm. ‘probably 2 more hours. we are almost there’, i said.
i came back inside to help changing the dishes from the second course to dessert. one of my aunts was talking to her younger sister in the kitchen.
‘she believes she is superior now just because she has this big house. but we don’t forget she got pregnant at 18 by the man from the house where she was babysitting’.
they stayed quiet when they saw me and after that, scared to death to hear more of this kind of stuff, i spent the rest of the night playing with the kids.
they tried.
they really tried to replicate this holiday magic we have seen so many times on TV.
but they put too much pressure on themselves trying to be something they are not.
the surface can’t hold. because there’s no foundation. they cant even fake it.
so instead of having a holiday magic, you get a shot of violent emotions and terrible memories.
there’s no such thing as a perfect family. but they couldn’t know.
Carmela never joined us again for xmas. and i have escaped it for the last 20 years.
if you feel sad when you see stories of perfect tables and xmas trees packed with gifts, remember that nobody would post their aunt with smudge mascara after a fight or parents yelling to each other.
it’s ok if instead you want to escape. or if you want to dance, like Carmela.
i just wonder what happens when you have been escaping for so long.
maybe the escaping routes are interlinking somehow. maybe they are drawing a path. or maybe escaping started as a coping mechanism and now it has become business as usual.
i dont know.
what i do know is that i landed yesterday in Melbs. i needed a break from Paris. and i am ready to dance.