Kimberly L. Wright

(This story was titled “I went on a trip to Spain with 4 generations of my family. Here’s what we didn’t expect” but was killed. I thought I’d reuse it as a blog post.)

In June 2010, my mom took our family to diverse, beautiful Spain, including Madrid and a small town in Galicia, a dream come true for my grandfather, who claimed roots in the area. Joining Mom and Grandpa were his wife (Mom’s stepmother); my brother; my 6-year-old son and me.

Spotlight moments including Flamenco dancing in Madrid on one of our first nights there in an intimate café setting. The rhythm of the dancing, guitar and gypsy cries mesmerized our group.

Our trip included delicious paella in Madrid and interesting tapas in Galicia that included bits of seafood on crackers.

Spain incorporates different nationalities. Most know of the independence-minded Catalans and the sometimes restive Basque. Galicians also have their own languagereflected in their street signs. That area of Spain is also fond of witches, and in many shops, little “bruja” souvenirs were being sold.

We made memories of a lifetime, but we also faced obstacles we didn’t really consider.

Futbol, art and blood

The family caught World Cup fever watching a couple of matches on TV at the hotel we were staying in Madrid alongside people from across Europe. Spanish enthusiasm was contagious, even with the noisy vuvuzelas. Spain ended up winning the World Cup.

Visiting the Prado, the world-famous art museum, I remembered too late not all art is appropriate for all ages. As we were winding through the Medieval art section, my son asked,  “Mom, why do we need blood?” When I asked why he wanted to know, he responded, “Because I keep seeing it, and I can’t stop thinking about it!” The paintings he found disturbing shows Jesus being beaten and tortured, so I made sure to cover his eyes as necessary.

But he got to see blood again on TV as part of a World Cup match. An errant kick, and Gerard Pique received an injury to his face, blood pouring out of his mouth. It wasn’t long after this that my son decided to stop participating in contact sports because he didn’t want to bleed.

Opportunities and difficulties

We took my son to the nearby mall in Madrid, where he got to bowl (though never enough!), got a Spain futbol uniform, and at McDonald’s, a member of the staff painted the Spanish flag on his face as part of a World Cup-themed event.

It was here I lost sight of my son – a parent’s nightmare! — but before I really started panicking, up the escalator came a security guard, holding my son by the hand.  

As Grandpa’s mobility issues required the use of a wheelchair, we faced difficulty in non-handicap-accessible settings, which included the national rail line.

Another complication: we got on the wrong train in Madrid and had to wait in Medina del Campo for a midnight train north, delaying our arrival in Galicia. A long wait in a train station is trying for everyone, particularly a child, and in 2010, the world had not yet been inundated with personal electronics. Luckily, Mom brought a handheld Spelling Ace with cooperative games.

By the time we reached our destination, dawn was breaking, and the town was still dozing. The tiny train station was closed so we were all standing around in the chill outside until eventually a taxi arrived. I shared the very back with a sleeping boy, luggage, and the taxi’s nearly empty mop bucket that would flick water droplets with every bump.

But the spa treatment washed all that away. It included aromatherapy, three kinds of saunas – Roman, Turkish, and Finland – a shower of alternating hot and cold, ice, a dip into a therapeutic massaging pool and finally the mar Muerte, a mineral bath

We enjoyed the slower pace and small-town charm of Villalba, though the youngest and oldest travelers were not fond of the traditional late dinner in Spain.

I look back with fondness on this trip, my first and only trip to continental Europe, because so much has changed. My grandfather died in 2017, my son is now a man, and many changes of addresses later no one is who they once were.

I have read several books on Spain since, including one on the Spanish Civil War and the Franco dictatorship. My trip would have been richer had I studied ahead.

Sadly, my trip photos vanished in a laptop crash a few years later. My brother swears he has some he downloaded from his defunct MySpace page onto an old computer, but he hasn’t delivered them yet. Photos of once-in-a-lifetime trips deserve backups!