Music is a magnificent experience. We cry to it. We share laughs and good times surrounded by its rhythms. It helps us bond. It burrows deep in our minds and has a magical way of reviving memories and stirring profound emotions.
Years ago, the great musician/singer Rubén Blades released Todos Vuelven, a song that speaks to the experience of coming home; recollecting one’s memories from a time before leaving and the sad realization that time changes everything. As someone that left their place of birth at a young age, this song has always had a special place in my heart.
Coming home can be a complex subject for those of us from Latin America. We have deep roots in Latin America — but our roots also often extend to places in Europe, Africa, Asia and the Middle East. Where exactly is home in that case?
Home is all those places where our roots extend.
Years ago, those connections took me back home to Latin America for the first time. More recently, to Spain. Describing the complexity and mixture of emotions of this latter experience is no less difficult than attempting to narrate a symphony to a hearing impaired person.
“Bilbo, that’s what the Basque call it…” my dad once told me when speaking about Bilbao, the Biscayan city and heart of Basque culture — another part of my roots, separated in time by multiple generations. He spoke fondly of the Basque people and their plight, especially those he had met many years prior during a brief stay in Spain.
“Your grandpa would be proud to know we are here” I told my daughter as we stepped off the train and made our way through Bilbao-Abando train station. As we wandered the city streets, a million thoughts and questions raced through my mind.
When was the last time a family member made their way through here? Did they ever live in the city? If so, where? Are any of them roaming around here now? What made them go to the Americas?
Curiosity beckons…
There is a comforting and calming nature to the visit; a sense of belonging, exactly as home should be. The parks, with their colorful flowers in bloom, were a perfect complement to the architecture and the food — it all feels familiar and not so foreign.
And then there was San Mamés.
Nicknamed the cathedral, San Mamés Stadium is home to Athletic Club, the city’s beloved football team. We arrive in Bilbao on match day and the city is filled with reminders of the support and love the city holds for the club. Balconies throughout the city proudly display the red-and-white striped team flag and colors, while down on the streets, Bilbainos don the colors and casually chat about the upcoming match.
A few minutes before kickoff we leave our hotel and head off to the stadium. The handful of supporters we encounter in the lobby and exit doors are only a precursor to the waves of thousands of others we encounter immediately thereafter upon exiting. Two blocks later, we arrive at the stadium grounds and find it surrounded by a sea of red-and-white supporters.
Multi-generational families make their way through the stadium and take up residence in the seats near us. Our lack of Athletic themed wear makes us stand out, but only in our own heads, as we are made to feel welcome just as much as the die hard fans sitting nearby. A fellow spectator and his companion befriend us at some point and he later introduces us to another spectator sitting behind him. It feels like a homecoming.
Following the match, we wander the city in search of food and find that the sea of supporters streaming out of the stadium quickly fill the surrounding streets, bars and other nearby locations.
The following afternoon is the train ride through the countryside, heading back to Madrid. There is a certain familiarity and sense of serenity and comfort that comes from the countryside. It is reminiscent of the Pacific Northwest in the United States.
Perhaps it is no coincidence that visits there also seem to provoke a similar sensation.
