Behind the old cathedral, at the bottom of a certain street, there´s a garden. It´s the loveliest, most peaceful little garden you could wander into.
I read the inscription over the entrance as I pass under its stone arch: Huerto de Calixto y Melibea. It´s the first time I´ve noticed the inscription. Until now, I´d wondered if what I called ¨the secret garden on the wall behind the cathedral¨, were more in the romantic or the religious tradition of secret gardens. But that seems to clinch it: Calixto and Melibea are the Spanish equivalent of Romeo and Juliet, this must be a romantic garden.
And yet, the harmony of the garden´s distinct little flower sections, its quietude and orderliness, conjure images of nuns, barefoot, pluming rosebushes before their midday prayers. The garden´s setting, behind the Albergue de peregrinos, lends credence to this notion, as do the multitude of seminaries and nunneries hatched in around Salamanca.
But, in the corner, under the shade of the blackberry tree, within reach of the damp touch of the ancient walls, there´s something mysterious, oneiric, about the garden. The running water of the lonely fountain, set in it´s own mini-clearing, adds to the feeling of timelessness and loss. There, beyond the murmur and clang of tourists, beneath the interlocking vines that cover its pathways, the garden lives. At it´s edge, overlooking the River Tormes, the walled precipice suggests a secret gathering of lovers at sunrise, while the drops of purple syrop from the blackberry tree mildly dispossess, hinting at an older, hidden presence.
I came here to be silent, alone, to gather myself for a moment between touristic sorties in and out of the medieval centre of the city. But as I sit in the corner, with two vine-covered walls at my back, and the blackberry tree providing a somewhat threatening shade, a man with a black guitar case approaches, and asks would it bother me if he sat down. Of course not, I say, with a nod of my head, watching as he pulls out a honey-coloured classical guitar, and begins to play, flawlessly, in the Spanish style.
After he leaves, I hear the birds again, and it becomes clear who the mysterious forest presence is, dropping blackberries on my head. I hear again the sound of the fountain running, I remember that from the garden, one has a unique view of the new and old cathedrals conjoined, from behind and through the leaves of the blackberry tree.
The garden of Calixto and Melibea—like so much of what one sees etched in the golden stone of Salamanca—is a facade. Inaugurated on the 12th of June, 1981, the garden was designed to evoke the setting of La Celestina, to encourage contact with nature, as well as to give the zone a ¨romantic air and medieval aspect.¨ Like Salamanca, what the garden presents is a cultivated romance. But somehow that doesn´t matter, the proportion and craft and care put into the project overcome its affectedness, leaving visitors to the city enchanted and coming back for more.
For me, however, on this, my fifth return visit to Salamanca, the artifice and charm has worn off. I genuinely enjoy my moment in the garden, marvel at the primitive-looking wooden desks the students kneeled at(?) that I see in the old university, and happily lick my ice-cream as I stroll, yet again, through the Plaza Mayor.
But by 2pm, I´m hot, I´m bored, and I wanna go home. I've been in Spain for 14 months (2 of which were spent idle and jobless in Salamanca), taught english to indifferent kids for 10, and I've just spent 28 intense days as a teacher/monitor at an english camp in Ciudad Rodrigo, on the border of Spain and Portugal; the last thing I want to do is return to Salamanca for another 3 days to pass the time wishing I was at home in my own bed. I don't know what I was thinking when I booked my flight home for 5 days after the end of camp. I thought I might travel around this corner of Spain for a couple of days, maybe catch a boat to Portugal, but I was just too tired to do that, so I chose the easiest, cheapest option, and came back to Salamanca.
It's wierd being here, again. I feel not only as if I'm retracing my own steps in Salamanca, but as if I'm following in my mother's footsteps too, taking cues from her scribbled annotations written on the loose leaves of the ripped-out pages of the Let's Go guide she left me. I think I´m beginning to better understand the crisis she experienced here, while travelling alone (most of the time) through Spain earlier this year: when you´re out of your home, or something you can call home, for long enough, whether or not its by choice, and you begin to feel kept away from home, the pleasure seeps out of travelling. There´s also the sad little fact that beyond eating and drinking there´s very little to actually do when you´re travelling (especially if you´re on a low budget). You can only read for so many hours a day and eat so much... you begin to feel isolated, an outsider, and somewhat irrelevant; cut-off from the responsibilities, routines, hobbies, places, and people that centre your life at home. You consider the avenues through which you derive and create meaning in your daily life, and to question if you would really be lost without the cotidian structure you've come here to escape.
I´m just putting in time before I can catch my flight home. And, beyond drinking, eating and reading (on the backless! public benches—these should be outlawed, or at the very least, severely restricted) there´s not much to do in Salamanca, hence my presence, here, in the internet cafe. I´m also simply tired. It was a long month in Ciudad Rodrigo and sleeping in the stinky hostel (HI Albergue Salamanca 12.90€/night, not bad) could only do so much to recover my energy and zest for exploration. Moreover, I can´t seem to break the rhthym of the camp: sleep very little, eat a lot, eat more, go go go go: collapse. So, I´ve been wandering around Salamanca like a madman looking for something to do, or eat. Yes, I can´t stop eating: I´ve had two ice-creams today, not just because they´re good, but because I´m still too tense to do anything else, like relax. Working back-to-back two week sessions at camp this year was too much (the other monitors took it even worse, but since I'm generally laid back and tend to disconnect too easily when silly problems arise, I suffered less).
I really enjoyed the first two weeks. They were intense, exciting, difficult and hilarious, but the second two were tiring, boring, and full of conflict. So, I can´t wait to go home: there are no kids there (I hope).
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