Spain: Day 1

Bienvenidos a Monfero, Spain, a quiet (and today, rainy) pueblo in Galicia with green hills dotted by cows and sheep and clusters of fog in no hurry to move. Most people’s first taste of Spain is intense: car horns, bright lights, and wading through narrow, saturated streets. Those things aren’t bad; we’ll get there! But for now, we begin “en el medio de la nada,” as they would say here. In the middle of nothing. As educators, though, we know that where there is “nothing,” there is actually everything.

In Galicia, every blade of grass and smoking chimney tap me on the shoulder because of its connection to my family. My great-grandparents Domingo and Susana were gallegos: they grew up in Galicia, married and raised children and grandchildren in Cuba, and bounced their great-granddaughter, little Olivia, on their knees in the United States. Familial strife, poverty, and political instability kept Domingo and Susana bouncing from country to country, language to language, and culture to culture their whole lives. There is no better feeling than to teach students in the land of my ancestors. I get to choose to be here, incredibly lucky to not have to country-hop to experience hope like they had to do, like so much of the Jewish and other immigrant communities have had to do.

I watched students walk inside Casa Louran today, one of the houses we are staying in and where we all eat, for the first time. Slow-moving and jet-lagged bodies suddenly gained a jolt of energy as they walked into an eighteenth century farmhouse-converted home of stone and wood. We piled around the fire in the dining room and ate empanadas, cheese and olives, dips, and a few other vegetable appetizers. I have sat with eight different groups of students at this dining room table over the years, and I was worried we wouldn’t all fit. But all 33 of us (26 kids, 4 teachers, 1 travel coordinator, and 2 body guards) all fit around the table, our categories fading away, beginning with Max exclaiming, “Miguel! Tu aqui!” Miguel! You next to me. Miguel is one of the body guards; I don’t think he realized he signed up for so much more than security. Welcome to the family, Miguel!

Daniella began preparing for Shabbat right away as she unpacked ingredients we brought from the U.S. to continue our tradition here in Galicia: inviting the gallego community to learn about Shabbat through a challah bake and Shabbat dinner. Daniella teamed up with Jolie, Rachel, and Jillian to teach Ana, the bed and breakfast owner, how to make challah. Harry and Jillian helped braid. The weaving of bread was overshadowed by the more powerful beauty of watching students weaving other communities into their tradition.

Before Shabbat dinner, we participated in a traditional Galician music and dance workshop on the Casa Louran property in which three musicians–Carme, Richie, and Xan–invited us to explore traditional gallego instruments and dance with brooms and with each other until we couldn’t breathe anymore from laughing. It was a fun, interactive experience that illustrated a profound lesson: when you have no technology, you make music with whatever is around you and with whoever is around you. 

Carme, Richie, and Xan joined us for Shabbat dinner as we scarfed down the challah with pumpkin soup, fresh salad from the grounds of the property, tortilla espanola (the best omelet you could ever have), and fresh strawberries with requeson (a special cream cheese made on the property). Several of our students surrounded the musicians to welcome them to our table and practice their Spanish. At one point, I looked over to see Sophie and Aaron, two examples of quiet leaders who won’t be the first to shoot up their hand to participate, but when the opportunity sits next to them at the table with a huge smile, they go for it.

The kids didn’t need me or anyone else to communicate and connect with native speakers. There’s no more profound view for a language teacher than the one from the other side of the table far far away, watching the learning happen organically without me. 

We ended the evening with Max volunteering to read aloud a Spanglish poem Rabbi Mayer already wrote on our trip, in which he describes what it means to be a “viajero”--a traveler–and the poem ends with a traveler’s profound knowing of joy as rest. We will get to the joy of the big and bright city, but first, we will lean into this poem and into the joy of Galicia’s foggy, rainy, and remote rest. Shabbat Shalom.

(Reflection photos and videos here)