Eavesdropping in Spain
A ramble on late night dinners, ageing, and declining shots
Hola from Valencia!
It’s been a long time since I’ve been back to this city — one of the many gorgeous places I was lucky to grow up in. My cousin lives a couple of hours away from here so I usually end up cuddled up on her sofa, too lazy to make the journey to the Comunidad’s capital. But the Valencian streets have been calling me back all of this year, so here I am. Plus, I desperately need to practice my Spanish so that’s a good excuse to be back.
I won’t lie though, since arriving I’ve been a grumpy cow. It might have something to do with the fact I’d travelled in a long sleeved, long legged (?) co-ord that was way too warm for the 35 degrees I arrived in. My suitcase somehow did not make my flight so I had to buy a T-shirt from the first coffee shop I went into. Chaos. If you’re asking me for my top travel tip: put your basic toiletries, a moon cup or whatever you use, some underwear and something cool to wear in your hand luggage. And swimwear. To be fair to me, I was carrying a dog which is heavy enough! Side note: look how cute she is!
Anyway, to celebrate my bag and I reuniting, and it rescuing me from the depths of moody cow-ness, I take myself out to a local little tapas bar in the city’s old town. It’s 10.30pm and I get to witness one of my favourite European rituals: The post sunset transformation of a casual city to one of chic fashion. I love how everyone makes an effort to step out into the evening. The table next to me is no exception. They are five women in their fifties or sixties (or so I thought until about an hour in when a deeper voice pipes up that makes me turn to see a solitary man tucked away in the corner). The table orders what seems like a bottomless bottle of wine and enough tapas to last them a long languid evening.
I barely read a page of my book as I listen to them talk. They discuss their kids: it’s this one’s last summer before heading off to university, the other one has just graduated, those lot are living their lives as professional adults… Another name is mentioned and there’s silence. ‘Well, what can you do?’ the woman in my eye line says as she chugs the last of her glass.
I lose focus for a bit as I finally get into my book but when I tune back in we’re on to spicier topics: Vibrators? Overrated but will do the job if no one’s around and you can’t be bothered to mechanically do the work. Blowjobs? Too much effort. Either they’re getting harder to perform or men are taking longer to bust. I’m praying my years of theatre nonsense are coming into their own here as I attempt to keep a straight face.
From what I’m beginning to gather, one of the women is single — the only single one of the group, for that matter. They’ve nicknamed her Carrie Bradshaw which cracks them up every time they say it. They start trying to spell it which has me quietly crying of laughter into my patatas bravas. They get serious. They tell Ms Bradshaw to just live. To not worry about what people say. One of the many commonalities between Spanish life and South Asian culture is the ‘What will people say?’ or ‘El qué dirán’ trope. They remind her she has her own money and she can fuck whoever she wants to. ‘Que hablen,’ let them talk, one woman toasts as another wine glassed is knocked backed. I think there’s a younger loverboy on the scene. Love that for her, to be honest.
They tell her she doesn’t have to accept anyone’s shit, she knows better. She’s like, ‘Chicas, listen. I know what good sex is and how to ask for it. But I’m not here to be training anyone. At home or in bed.’ Ooft. She doubles down on the nuance of, ‘I can ask for what I want but I don’t want to parent you.’
They then tell her to not worry. She’ll find someone. She replies instantly that, sure, maybe she will. But she has friends to socialise with, laugh with, have deep meaningful chats with... She has her kids that bring her joy but no longer need her constantly so she can, as they say, live. She doesn’t feel like she needs a partner to fulfil her. Sex is fun and, yes, it would be nice to have good sex regularly, but those aren’t the relationships that fulfil her at this point in her life. She repeats, ‘Sex is fun. But for now, it’s just that. You guys are everything else.’
We’re often told, or we see, that women become invisible in their forties and fifties, coinciding with the closing of the baby making shop, hormones going out of whack with menopause, kids leaving home, etc. Getting to that age and being invisible scares the living shit out of me. I think it scares the living shit out of a lot of women in their thirties. We talk about people at our age settling for partners that they never would have dreamed of because they don’t want to be alone or they’re worried they’ll lose their time slot for kids. But eavesdropping on these women is an affirming moment of ‘we’re going to be alright.’ Maybe there will be a hell of a lot of freedom when there’s a lack of fertility concerns, more financial security, stable relationships and self confidence.
I’ve been reading a lot about how invisibility in ageing is part of the colonial legacy (surprise, surprise). In many pre-colonial South Asian cultures (let’s decolonise the idea that South Asian culture is all the same while we’re here, thanks), to age as a woman was to gain respect, wisdom, power. There’s evidence to suggest ageing also brought with it a reputation of being an experienced lover, respected sexual educator and an in demand matchmaker. For example, the Kama Sutra, the lowest hanging fruit of evidence, discusses the value of female lovers with more experience, implying age (by modern interpretation), second marriages or courtesans. Another part discusses how older women are important sexual educators and younger women should seek them out. Islam talks about women having a mutual right to sexual satisfaction at all points of their marriage — not just at child bearing age. South Asian folk songs — especially in women‑only spaces like the Punjabi giddha or Bangladeshi bichar gaan — played an important role in sharing education around technique and pleasure, normally in the context of marriage. Some of it is extremely explicit. What’s amazing to me though is that it articulates women’s perspective of the erotic, which we rarely see or hear. A lot of history is lost, or not researchable yet, because songs are passed down orally — writing down explicit content was/is frowned upon. But you can still find these songs in villages, temples, at weddings… There are also ethnographers and historians doing a great job of trying to salvage folklore. I only feel confident enough in my knowledge to give you this top line intro but I’m actually trying to interview someone who knows more about this space in the next couple of weeks.
I was going to stop the story here but I felt it unfair to not tell you what happened next:
It’s getting late so I ask for my bill. The waiter, instead, gives me a Baileys something or other shot because why am I leaving after only an hour and a half at dinner? I use this as my excuse to turn to the women:
‘Do you want my shot?’ I ask. ‘Why aren't you having it?’ is the quick reply. I explain I’m tired (and pathetic) and I’m going to bed. I wasn’t even going to attempt to explain that I don’t drink. ‘That’s the problem with this generation,’ one woman complains. ‘Is there someone waiting in your bed?’ asks another, which has them all falling over themselves with laughter — which I really hope is because of the delivery of the joke and not at the possibility of me having a man. I ashamedly tell them it’s because I have an early run in the morning. They groan. I have disappointed these women I wanted to befriend. They ask me if I’m married. My ‘no’ gets Carrie Bradshaw dragged into the conversation: ‘Here’s your apprentice.’ They’re cackling at my expense, again. I love it really, knowing I’ll be part of their night’s story for years to come. Mr man in the corner suddenly comes alive and orders a round of matching shots for the group, and winks at me for having ‘saved me’ from the chaos. They cheers to my health, my bed and my early run (that I don’t end up getting up for).
Thank you for reading this rambly ramble of mine. As always, please feel free to feedback in the comments or drop me a note privately. And, if you’re in town, café?
Fun piece! A couple thoughts. When I was a journalist, I refused to get rando vox pops from people on the street because they would never say what they really thought. Eavesdropping, though, is VERY underrated. Also while I appreciate that becoming invisible is more a problem for women and no doubt East Asian women as they age, even white guys like me suffer from it:-) Thanks for the great blog!
Always interesting to read your thoughts on various matters.