Memory Triggers
There are news stories that will always stay with you. Then there are things you have witnessed that cling to you, as well. They aren't always bad, though some are. The funny thing is, you always remember them when you pass by the scene where they happened. Otherwise, you don't think of them at all.
Every time we take our daughter up to Santiago, we try to avoid the tollway and go by the crowded road. Just after Padrón is Iria Flavia. I remember that Camilo José Cela is buried in the churchyard there. He won the Nobel Prize back in the 80's for The Family of Pascual Duarte. It's a very dark book that should be read on a bright sunny day. It's also the only thing he ever wrote that's worthwhile. In his latter years he was under a cloud of accused plagiarism, and I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out not to be the legitimate author of the book. His Foundation and Library are also there, in front of the church, right on the road. I remember that his younger widow who ran it was accused of misappropriation and a committee of sorts was finally set up to run it. I never see it open, though my daughter went once with her class when she was in primary school. She said there really wasn't much to see, and they were given a copy of one of his last books, which was unreadable.
Further on, on the right of the road is a stone chapel, with stone stairs, all nicely squared. It's not that old. It was built over twenty years ago, and the old chapel, on an incline a little further ahead, was dismantled. The incline now leads up to a large new house. I imagine there was a footpath along the side of the old chapel that led to the plot, and which the family reclaimed as a right-of-way to their planned house. Who paid for the dismantling of the old structure and construction of the new chapel, I have no idea, but that family must have influence.
Onwards, and the road passes through Escravitude, with a seemingly Art Nouveau building next to the tracks. Unfortunately, it's not the actual train station. Those buildings in Spain were never really architecturally inspired. At least not outside the cities. It's a private house, and it used to have a café. But the café has been shut up for years, and now, every Sunday at least, there is a stand next to it that sells churros to those who are traveling hungry.
A couple of curves ahead, and down to the left is a furniture store that must not see many customers. Just like there weren't many cars parked there when it was the 3 GGG's club. Either the owner gave up on one type of business to try another, or simply sold and moved on. Because, just after the stationary radar with a rock through the camera glass (but the cars still slow down upon seeing the familiar and feared white hulk), on the right is another club, whose multicolored lights glow after sundown. A couple of years ago, an underage girl ran away from that club and went to the police. She told the usual story; of how she was tricked in her native country that she was coming to work as a maid, and instead ended up a sex slave in A Coruña, from where she was sent to that club I pass almost every Sunday. The club is still in business, whether by the original management, absolved of all wrongdoing, or new management, is not within my sphere of knowledge.
I continue, and on my right is a restaurant that has seen a myriad of owners/managers, a cousin of my husband's included. It once had a good reputation for roast meat. Now, it's a watering hole for the local aluminum company. Until it closes again.
Much further on, on what was considered a dangerous curve to the right (so much so they've put in cement dividers along the middle of the road), is the remains of a large, stately house. In a one-story annexe to this, an older couple used to live - until a truck came crashing in. After that, they moved out, and the annexe was allowed to fall into ruin and brambles, just like the house.
Once in Milladoiro, I pass an apartment building where on the right side of the first floor (European, second floor American), a man once committed suicide by opening various bottles of gas. With the inevitable spark there was an explosion that blew out part of the façade, as well as the windows on the neighboring building across the street. Until recently, you could see where the façade slightly changed color from the reconstruction. Now it's all almost one color, having been cleaned, or redone.
There are other, little memories I pass by on that route. With the passing years they accumulate, others seem to fade a little more. But there will always be something to make me say, "Do you remember....?"
Every time we take our daughter up to Santiago, we try to avoid the tollway and go by the crowded road. Just after Padrón is Iria Flavia. I remember that Camilo José Cela is buried in the churchyard there. He won the Nobel Prize back in the 80's for The Family of Pascual Duarte. It's a very dark book that should be read on a bright sunny day. It's also the only thing he ever wrote that's worthwhile. In his latter years he was under a cloud of accused plagiarism, and I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out not to be the legitimate author of the book. His Foundation and Library are also there, in front of the church, right on the road. I remember that his younger widow who ran it was accused of misappropriation and a committee of sorts was finally set up to run it. I never see it open, though my daughter went once with her class when she was in primary school. She said there really wasn't much to see, and they were given a copy of one of his last books, which was unreadable.
Further on, on the right of the road is a stone chapel, with stone stairs, all nicely squared. It's not that old. It was built over twenty years ago, and the old chapel, on an incline a little further ahead, was dismantled. The incline now leads up to a large new house. I imagine there was a footpath along the side of the old chapel that led to the plot, and which the family reclaimed as a right-of-way to their planned house. Who paid for the dismantling of the old structure and construction of the new chapel, I have no idea, but that family must have influence.
Onwards, and the road passes through Escravitude, with a seemingly Art Nouveau building next to the tracks. Unfortunately, it's not the actual train station. Those buildings in Spain were never really architecturally inspired. At least not outside the cities. It's a private house, and it used to have a café. But the café has been shut up for years, and now, every Sunday at least, there is a stand next to it that sells churros to those who are traveling hungry.
A couple of curves ahead, and down to the left is a furniture store that must not see many customers. Just like there weren't many cars parked there when it was the 3 GGG's club. Either the owner gave up on one type of business to try another, or simply sold and moved on. Because, just after the stationary radar with a rock through the camera glass (but the cars still slow down upon seeing the familiar and feared white hulk), on the right is another club, whose multicolored lights glow after sundown. A couple of years ago, an underage girl ran away from that club and went to the police. She told the usual story; of how she was tricked in her native country that she was coming to work as a maid, and instead ended up a sex slave in A Coruña, from where she was sent to that club I pass almost every Sunday. The club is still in business, whether by the original management, absolved of all wrongdoing, or new management, is not within my sphere of knowledge.
I continue, and on my right is a restaurant that has seen a myriad of owners/managers, a cousin of my husband's included. It once had a good reputation for roast meat. Now, it's a watering hole for the local aluminum company. Until it closes again.
Much further on, on what was considered a dangerous curve to the right (so much so they've put in cement dividers along the middle of the road), is the remains of a large, stately house. In a one-story annexe to this, an older couple used to live - until a truck came crashing in. After that, they moved out, and the annexe was allowed to fall into ruin and brambles, just like the house.
Once in Milladoiro, I pass an apartment building where on the right side of the first floor (European, second floor American), a man once committed suicide by opening various bottles of gas. With the inevitable spark there was an explosion that blew out part of the façade, as well as the windows on the neighboring building across the street. Until recently, you could see where the façade slightly changed color from the reconstruction. Now it's all almost one color, having been cleaned, or redone.
There are other, little memories I pass by on that route. With the passing years they accumulate, others seem to fade a little more. But there will always be something to make me say, "Do you remember....?"
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| The old road as it continues through Santiago. |
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