Last Night in Madrid

The cool iberian wind played with my hair as it must have with Rizal’s over a century ago. Very few people here still know his name though it is carved permanently in the marker at Hotel Ingles. Most would probably pass by that place oblivious to the history behind its unremarkable 3-star façade and the noble soul that was once its guest.

There at the hotel, over a hundred years ago, expatriate indios from Las Islas Filipinas---conspicuous for their brown skin amidst a crowd of pale faces---met and laid the ground work for the Propaganda Movement against the Spanish colonizers. Time was when the only Filipinos who ever reached this land were from the privileged class seeking higher education. Ilustrados having thus been enlightened, they would scheme their grand plans for their beloved and beleaguered motherland.

These days, Madrid has become just one among the many destinations for the Filipino diaspora of men and women, some already college-educated, most still working menial jobs nonetheless. All bound by a common purpose of seeking fortunes which eluded them back home. From political, the Filipino quest has shifted to economic liberation, a century hence. For all the brilliance of Dr. Jose Rizal, he could not have seen it coming. The fruits of decades of Filipino governments ran like hell.

Generations have come and gone and I’m sure so much about Madrid has changed, I had a sense though that much about this city has also remained the same. As I veered farther away from Gran Via towards Plaza del Sol, I passed by La Mallorquina. I wondered if Rizal ever walked the same path and stopped by to sample their signature crema neapolitana? Did the Lunas? Or del Pilar or Jaena? Did they ever dine at El Botin? Or whiled away the time feeding pigeons at Plaza Mayor? As I do during late afternoons each time I visit and my business for the day are all done.

Too much of my country’s history is intertwined with this place. Somehow, I regret that slowly, generations from the later part of the last century have discarded most vestiges, save perhaps for our still devout Catholicism, of its influence in our daily lives. Español, now considered archaic and passé by today’s MTV crowd, is no longer being taught in school. Spanish-sounding surnames no longer dominate the country’s elite. The Chinoys have taken over. Even our concept of beauty has changed. For example, no longer is the entertainment industry an almost exclusive abode of men and women with aquiline features. It has become Asian, even ethnic in complexion.

Either we have become only too eager to sweep our colonial past under the proverbial rug or we had simply moved on culturally. The three centuries of convent life superseded by decades of Hollywood and now, globalization.

Where I grew up in the residential Sampaloc district, all but a few of the streets which used to pay homage to names and places associated with Rizal and the country’s linkages to Spain, have now been changed---to glorify obscure personalities most likely for the sake of nothing more than mere political expediency. But in Madrid, some of these old forgotten names can be remembered. From Retiro, that beautiful park with its landmark artificial lake lined with alleys---named after each of the former colonies including Filipinas---to Don Quijote and Sancho Panza whose statues can be found at Plaza de España. In addition to streets named after places such as Extremadura, Algeciras or Andalucia or virtues including Lealtad (loyalty), Honradez (honesty) and Sobriedad (sobriety).

During my first trip to Spain, I remember wondering how these people look like. These people whose ancestors once conquered mine and, in the process, left behind their imprint both good and bad. Are they still aware of what had happened? Or has the Philippines become a mere footnote in their study of the past? Just as very few of today’s Americans can still make sense of proper nouns such as Bataan and Corregidor. And just as with most Filipinos today, Spain and its legacies have somehow become ambiguous. Factoids to be quickly memorized only when academically required, if at all, and when the imposed retrospection has served its purpose, just as easily forgotten.

On a more personal level, I recall how I wondered then about the possibility, no matter its improbability, of meeting by chance someone of my surname. Someone with whom I could trace a common heraldry. Not that I had any illusions of nobility for even then, I knew enough Spanish to understand that my middle and last names suggest what could only be their humble beginnings. Even more, both my parents belong to the first generation in their respective clans fortunate enough to finish higher education.

Still, I must admit guilt for not readily quelching from my mind those dream images of that first Cabañes or that first Cabral boarding the galleon---probably as a ship mate or a cook---off to a journey that would take weeks if not months, to a distant and obscure Pacific shore never to return again.

Even yesterday, those thoughts still flashed in my mind. As I fed the pigeons at Plaza Mayor.... As the cool iberian wind played with my hair.... And then I pondered.... That beggar sleeping near the station in Callao...could he be a distant relative? Or did my forefathers acquire their surnames only by decree? The answers may forever escape me.

Still, in these parts, Madrid is my oasis. Nowhere else, in all my sojourns into Europe, have I ever felt more comfortable than each time I stopped by Madrid. Beyond just the usual tourist attractions which are, after all, delightful only during the first (or maybe until the second) visit, the Spanish capital was able to offer me something more. The crafts. The music. The shopping. The warmth. The everyday sights and sounds. The food? Siempre!

The truth is, even prior to coming over for the first time, I had already developed a penchant for Spanish cuisine. If at all, it only reinforced my love for callos, fabadas, the various paellas, and tapas of all kinds. After meals, I would go around the pastelerias or confiterias to sample a bit of everything and end up enjoying most. Even my taste for wine has tilted in favor of the simplicity of tempranillos over the complicated cab sauvs, refreshing parellada muscat over any other whites, and would actually prefer a good cava over your average champagne anytime! Best served, of course, with chorizo iberico, jamon jabugo, or simply tortilla de patatas y cebollas. Needless to say, my trips would never be complete without stopping by the basement deli at El Corte Ingles.

For shopping, whenever my itinerary allowed me to spend weekends in Madrid, I would make it a point to browse the flea market after Sunday mass. San Isidro, the city’s patron is the same as that of my hometown. Often, where there are crowds, there would be caballeros plucking their guitars in a style that reveals the true the origin of those old Tagalog serenades with their pleasantly prolonged and elaborate preludes.

Indeed, Madrid embraces. As it has embraced me with its warm hospitality throughout these years and each of the half dozen times that I’ve had the pleasure of visiting. Yet, even with its atmosphere that is somewhat familiar to me right from when I first set foot, each visit has enabled me to discover something new. About the city. About its people. About my motherland. About my heritage. About myself.

Does my heart belong to this place?

Though my looks are not distinctly Asian, in Madrid, I can deceive no one. At the tapas bar at Las Cuevas where I met up with a former schoolmate who is now a local resident, the accordionist recognized our origins straight away and started playing “Dahil Sa Iyo” much to our amusement. After dinner, we headed off to a nearby souvenir store to pick up a few items and the shopkeeper mistook me for either Chilean or Peruvian.

Last night in Madrid, it dawned on me that I am, after all, still an indio. Regardless of whether I may or may not be a far-down descendant of a peninsulare, that does not take anything away from who or what I really am today. Los señores y las señoritas can consider me an indio anytime. And I say that without any tinge of shame or regret.

If the label puts me in the same league or sets me closer to even just the coat tails of Rizal, Luna, Hidalgo, del Pilar, Jaena, Ponce and the rest of the indios bravos, I should be proud and I am! In Madrid, I walked the same paths these men have once traversed, heard some of the same sounds they heard, and saw some of the same sights they had seen.

Leaving now, I wonder how a place could draw you so close without claiming you as its own. And as Rizal must have felt on the last night he was here, I am excited to be an indio on his way back home.

Copyright ©2006 Ronnie C. Cabañes