THE UGLY AMERICAN or WHY I’M GLAD MY PHONE DIED (in two parts) PART 2

The next morning, the family announced that they were going to stick close to home and wanted to visit the beach in Estepona which was very nice. Unique shops and restaurants and on a clear day you could see the coast of Africa. Wrap your brain around that, America. A local recommended Casares, a quiet historic little town in the mountains nearby. After hopping on wee-fee and doing a bit of research, we had to go. It turns out that white villages in the Mediterranean are not limited to Santorini in Greece as their marketing would lead you to believe.

So we took to the road, blazing through the south of Spain in a stick-shift Fiat. Everyone wanted photos, and since my wife was driving, that meant I was in charge of the point-and-shoot camera. But as the Universe had robbed me of not only my phone, but the chance to show all of social media that I was the next whats-his-name, the World was not going to get my art... it was going to get windmills. And not even the romantic wooden vestiges of lore, the enormous webbed lattices that Don Quixote railed against – No, the World would get those big white sleek modern things that look like something out of science fiction that were strewn amongst the foothills leading up to Casares.

The town itself had been a Moorish stronghold when the southern Spain had been occupied. As we wound up the mountain, I realized that hundreds of years ago actual knights had battled and died in this rocky terrain. The town’s name came from the Arabic “al’Qasr” or “fortress” which makes sense as atop the city walls you can see everything around you. It is so high-up that you can look down to see hawks circling a hundred feet below you, explaining its popularity amongst bird-watchers as its unique location showcases not only European birds, but also those that fly over from Africa. A fortress, indeed. It’s interesting to note that the Andalusian region is a hold over from when most of the Spanish and Portuguese land mass was called “al’Andalus” when it was first invaded by the Moors.

I mention the history of Casares because that is what struck me about this journey off the tourist path. While Epcot is a convenient way to culture-dabble, what you’re experiencing is engineered. It’s the same with a cruise. It’s the same with a cruise. You have technically visited far-off shores, but just the shore, as you are only ever able to experience the first few feet of a different culture. Yes, of course do the touristy thing if you need the same exact postcard photo experience, but you are missing out on the true authenticity of a place and its people. If you are lucky enough to spend any real time in a different culture, your boldness will be rewarded. As for our trip to Casares, I was not prepared for how profound my reward would prove to be.

We could feel the history of the place as soon as we got out of the car. It’s a storybook Old World town with cobblestone streets winding their way throughout little cul-de-sacs of small white stucco homes stacked atop one another, often centering around an olive or lemon tree from which the locals pick fresh produce for their family suppers. We arrived at lunch time and walked up the narrow staircase leading up to the tiny second-story dining room of a restaurant that had been recommended, which overlooked the city center. As the only guests, we were ushered to the best seat in the house – one of two tiny bistro tables on the balcony that gave a rare vantage on the activity below. I should say that I am not intentionally making it sound diminutive. The town square really is small and humble. And in retrospect, that was where I should have seen the error in my perspective. What was I expecting? Some grand gesture of welcome in a Disney version of rustic Spain? What beyond my magical pedigree of being from America made me any different from these people?

And that is when I noticed the fountain. In the middle of the roundabout at the heart of the village (integral to traffic flow as most streets were too small to allow more than one compact car) proudly stood a modestly-ornate stone fountain. My Ugly American sensibility would have maybe said at the time that it was “quaint” and looked “very old” and how nice of these people to have something for me to marvel at. It was about to teach me something though.

As our tapas and wine arrived, I remember getting out the point-and-shoot camera and, instead of snapping a shot of our beautiful chorizo in red wine and rosemary, I took a quick photo of the city center in all its mundane glory. While going through the photos after returning home, I’m so glad I did.

[PHOTO]

I poured our wine and my wife tucked into our snacks, when I noticed something so simple, that reminded me of a lesson I had forgotten over the years. A young man in his 20’s walked through the city center and, barely even breaking his stride, reached his cupped hands over and took a deep drink from the water and then ran his hands through his hair and was on his way. A woman, scolding her young protesting son, pulled him over to the fountain, dipped the hem of her skirt in it and washed off his face. A grandmother brought over a bucket and let the gushing water fill it before she returned to her mopping. This fountain wasn’t placed there for our tourist pleasure to swoon and take selfies in front of - these people were USING it. This fountain was vital.

After lunch, I had to have a closer look. The year 1785 was carved into the stone and that is when the lens focused for me, so to speak. This fountain itself; what must have been a marvel of technology bringing life to this town high in the mountains, was nearly as old as my country. And while we busy ourselves with our status, both online and in real life, the people of this community have been going about their business for centuries thankful daily for the small simple pleasure of having fresh cool water in the place they gather amid their daily lives and put out their “open” sign and discipline their kids and clean their front stoop and dine together and drink together and bum smokes from one another and argue with each other and hug one another and celebrate holidays, unfettered by the nonsense and problems of important big city life. The fountain was a symbol of not only that community, but of the idea of community. One that we very often lack in America. We are too often fettered by our self- imposed expectations to appreciate the basic beauty that we have around us. Not just the beauty of our environment, but the beauty in the journey our fellow man and what it is to co-exist with each other and allow ourselves and others their pursuit of happiness.

Our technology and other distractions serve many purposes, helpful and harmful. But in that moment, I was so thankful that I did not have my phone. Instead of taking a picture of my tapas for Instagram, I learned one of the greatest lessons of travel: No matter how far you go from home, the same things that make a place home are always important. Sometimes you have to fly for 9 hours and drive up a mountain to be reminded of it.