The nomadic family

I was born in a family rooted in the area where I was raised. Both my grandparents and their grandparents had come from the same village I was born in or one of the neighbouring villages. My parents counted 20 mature (not counting the ones that had died young) brothers & sisters, most of them got married, had kids. Most of them remained in a 30 km radious of where they were born, where I was born. Most of them had no idea what the world was about.

I am still trying to figure it out myself but at least I feel home wherever I land. I count the friends I made throughout the years and their friends as my family. I don’t always keep track of them but when I land somewhere I am astonished and touched to find them there.

I have been in Barcelona 10 days now. Every day again there is somebody to drink coffee with, invite  over for a glass of wine or share a meal with. I feel embedded in something I guess I am responsible for myself. The nomadic family. The arms of a community I actively chose to be part of. It is comforting. It is what makes me feel at home. That and what strangers offer me.

I went for a drink with a friend. A Monday evening, it had been raining all day. My favorite cafes where closed. We ended up at a nice but somewhat chique place called “Bilbao”. I ordered two glasses of red wine. The glasses were classy and filled almost to the top. The wine was good. When we had almost finished them a plate arrived with cheese and slices of dried sausage. Our glasses were refilled without asking. We talked. We laughed. We enjoyed our wine. And before we could say no they were filled again and a big plate with juicy olives was put on the table. We hesitated, we wondered about the bill, but the olives looked like they wanted to be eaten and we didn’t feel like worrying so we drank the wine and ate the olives. We asked for the bill. It was €6,-.

The kindness of strangers. Hospitality. Home.