Memory Lane

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay …

~ Christina Rosetti

I don’t remember the year we went to Amandi. I know the sun was shining. I know we sat at a small table eating the only food available (it wasn’t a restaurant). I must have driven, but I don’t recall the car nor any of the winding roads. All I remember is we went to Amandi because we were young, adventurous, and knew the story of the wine - wine so perfect the Roman legions took barrels of it back to their homeland. That’s the story, and there’s no reason to deny it. The region is called the Ribeira Sacra, which should never be translated as ‘sacred riverbank’. It has terraces for cultivating the vines, maybe constructed by the Romans or maybe not. All I know is I was there, acting a bit Roman as I enjoyed the wine, but that’s all. It was something that happened early on as I was getting to know the lay of the land, but I’ve just told you all that I remember, which isn’t much.

I don’t remember the first time I went to Santabaia de Camba, but it was still called Santa Eulalia back then. It was probably July, but I can’t swear to it. I don’t remember if we went by car or by bus, but I think we had a lot items with us because the old stone house didn’t have much in the way of food or fresh bedding. I don’t recall anything we ate, but there were walks all over the area. I didn’t appreciate them enough, I’m afraid. I do remember picking blackberries, which was considered odd, but they ended up in a nice jam.

I don’t remember how long it took me to visit all the little knots of population near Santabaia, but there had to be nearly a dozen, and I did scramble over a castro or hillfort. I never saw the remains of a Roman villa that’s supposedly nearby. Years later, the little places continued to pop up in conversations, but none of them was memorable. I don’t remember how many times I went to Santabaia before the old stone house was sold to somebody in the village.

I know one time we went to Monte Faro because it was the celebration of some saint, but I don’t remember the saint or the year we went. I only recall sheer boredom and a little boy, a nephew, running around the high field with no clothes on at all. I remember his grandfather shaking his head and saying the boy had no shame (although he was barely five and didn’t know what shame was).

I know one time we went to a pazo (manor house) to see a pretty old document, but wondered why it was being kept there and what would happen when the owner was no longer around. Maybe it’s still there, in Ulfe or Trasulfe, which are names you just have to love.

I don’t know what year I went to the castro de Boroña for the first time, but I know I drove. After that I went back and remember three of the people who also went, but how many visits in total? Who knows? One thing that I can see to this day are the stones of a Roman road leading down to the circular stone buildings clustered on the ocean cliff. The stones were marked by the wheels of Roman wagons, but they were still in place, as if waiting for more huge wheels to carve more ruts in them. I could hear the carts growling in their path to the sea.

Maybe if I try harder I can remember the year I first saw the Torres do Oeste, the towers supposedly built as a defense against the Vikings. Actually, the towers were older than that, but the Viking invasion is a nice touch and once I watched the reenactment at night.

There’s also the Praia da Lanzada, the beach famous for promising fertility to women looking to conceive. I do remember a fellow telling me to let the clutch out as I was trying to ease the car down a slope so we could leave. The little chapel has its own ritual, but I don’t recall the origin nor the meaning: people grab a broom and walk behind the altar, sweeping. I think there are some grapes carved into a wooden arch. I’ve forgotten the rest.

This is just the beginning of a long, long list, and I won’t belabor the point. My memory, however, is out of control, because the years have just disappeared and I can’t find them. In the same way I’ve lost track of when I first stopped taking my anger out on Compostela and fell in love with the city. Hard to put a date on that one.

Now here I am, a double café con leite and a glass of water on the table in front of me in the little praza de Mazarelos. The sun is warm and I’m glad the big umbrella is here to shade the view. I’m concerned about all the missing years, however. Am I losing my ability to measure time? Are all the years destined to dissolve into thin air, leaving me behind? What am I to do with all that sun and toponyms flickering in my head, my eyes pointed every which way?

And now it comes to me: years can be counted and they can be identified, but in fact they’re of little consequence. It matters not what year I went to any of the places I’ve just mentioned nor even if I’ve visited them all a dozen or a hundred times. You see, all these places are stored in the same memory and this very moment I can conjure them up with a thousand more details (if I really try). The year, then, is now; the visits are all still her with me and are not part of the past. I am still in Amandi contemplating the sucalcos or hillside terraces of the Ribeira Sacra. The fried eggs taste like they always do. Santabaia still has an hórreo or raised grain bin, plus an eira or threshing floor. It’s right next to me, next to my table. The towers, whether or not they were good defense against the Vikings, as sitting right outside the Mazarelos arch and waiting for me.

Now you might wonder what the purpose was in my declaring that I’ve lost track of so many years while retaining a lot of details about the places visited. (There is so much more I could say about Santabaia, a Lanzada, or a hundred other places.) Well, it’s pretty simple: if everything ultimately passes through a door into the past, then what is left for us? It’s like people who pass away yet never leave us. We only are who we are because we have gone places and done things.

Just gather it all up, put the divine weight of the world on your shoulders, and keep forgetting the numbers, since the year, your age, the miles traveled and the money spent have no value. The fact that they happened is the only thing we need to remember, and those memories aren’t going anyway, that’s clear as day.

Remember me, Galicia, when I am gone away, just as I’ve remembered you. Not as a list of places distant in time but as places forever present because they never went away, they only moved inward.