Where is the Mayor?

A musical welcome, and hugs and smiles have been non-stop.  When we Americans arrived in Jarandilla De la Vera for the genealogy conference, we were met by a local musical group dressed in their local costumes, playing music, dancing and just overall blasting us into a welcome we will never forget.  They accompanied everyone up the long steep driveway in front of the Parador de la Jarandilla and into the stone archway.  In the upper patio stood a large group of Spaniards who were all clapping wildly to welcome us into the huge, gorgeous plaza. The festive atmosphere was very emotional. 

The emotions zipping through the air since we arrived in Jarandilla de la Vera among Americans and Spanish relatives have left everyone a little off kilter.  The locals are thrilled to have us here, part of a 2-year project in the making.  It took me by surprise when a few people have recognized me either from seeing me in the documentary, Pasaje a Hawaii, or from the Hawaiian Spaniards Facebook site where I am an administrator.  By morning, the entire arrival sequence was printed in five newspapers and two television stations, including a national station. 

https://www.hoy.es/caceres/norteamericanos-conocen-tierra-20221025192406-video.html

https://www.laopiniondemalaga.es/malaga/2022/10/26/malaga-hawai-unidas-congreso-raices-77702525.html

Then, the different side tours of the local areas began. One specially gave me giggles (yes, I am tired). We were told we would go on a cheese tour in a nearby village and then move on to Villanueva De la Vera where the mayor would welcome us. Instead, we watched the cheese village in the rear view mirror and we wondered what happened? The people around me and my new friend, Victoria, stared about with questions, just as we did.  We watched the petite female driver continue along the narrow, serpentine road for another thirty minutes, follow the narrow streets and stop. What? 

Everyone got off and the group leader told us the mayor was going to say a few words and then we would have music and food.  So, we started following her. Imagine about thirty people scattering across rigid cobblestone streets that were as narrow as a goat track.  They were more like alleyways, with old stones holding up walls that we knew were ancient because we saw the year etched above the stone doorways. I found one that was 1846, one hundred years before I was born. There were many older dates, French drains along the middle of the walkway where water gushed along the channels.  We dodged the waterways and kept the group in our sights. Long, narrow and tunnels, rocky and dark.  The streets interconnected each other, flowers were in pots everywhere and dilapidated buildings were on every corner.  Where was this mayor waiting for us, I wondered.

The group of people was disjointed and nobody seemed to know where we were going. Nearly thirty minutes of walking steadily through tangled streets, looking into deep niches in rocky walls, we heard music. We followed the sounds and my cousin, Dennis Moreno, and I hiked up wide stone steps and the others followed. Before I knew it, Dennis had joined the throng of dancers inside the large room and danced with the women dressed in their local costumes. All the ladies helped others learn the dance.  I held back until I couldn’t anymore,  I jumped in and tapped my toes and wiggled my way through one sequence. When the music ended and the Spanish woman told me, between grins and hugs, that I’d just danced la jota, I felt my chest squeeze. La jota? My abuelita used to dance la jota and I felt tears.  When the local women heard me, every one of them rushed in for hugs.  The atmosphere continues to amaze me, filled with more emotions than words can convey.  There is a photo of me dancing Abuelita’s dance on someone else’s camera and I will post it when I see it.   Until then, my memory will work for me.  And as we all drove away on the bus afterward, we were all still asking, “Where’s the Mayor??!”