We stop at a metal gate that fences off acres of Spanish pastureland. Across the dirt road, the giant Telefonica satellite dishes serve as the only reminders of civilization.
“Esto es,” Alberto says. “This is the place.”
Marta and María’s country house is something from another time. Imagine a mid-1800s Spanish ranch like you see in the movies. I don’t have to imagine; I’m on set. Vine trellises and 15 flower pots adorn the porch. The house has muted maroon walls with sky blue paint outlining the windows and the main doorway, which features an Andalucian-style painting of the Virgin of the Macarena. They have a Virgin and a Saint for just about everything here — even “The Macarena.” Álvaro, Marta’s boyfriend and one of my best friends, tells me that the family’s land extends for a 30-minute-walk’s radius from the house. María and her boyfriend, Ismael, are out riding horses. The cows will return from grazing in an hour or so. Our friend David’s dog, Conan, greets us on the porch.
Walking inside, a blast of heat hits me. Forget your modern American grilling apparatus: They’re burning freshly-hewn wooden logs in an antique oven. Heaps of different kinds of meat cover the kitchen counters. Eugenio, the ranch steward who looks like someone out of a Depression-era photograph, is helping David with the fire. The actual cooking won’t commence until the logs have been reduced to embers.
In the meantime, I break out my baseball gloves and teach the Spaniards a bit of my national pastime. It’s almost the Fourth of July, after all. We cover basic throwing and catching techniques, which Álvaro picks up quickly. Our buddy Choches … not so much. You can’t shot-put a baseball. Neither can you swallow one, although Conan the Canine Barbarian is trying his hardest. We literally need a crowbar to pry the ball from his jaws. Of all the days to leave my crowbar at home.
After baseball, Álvaro pours me my first cup of sangría. Homemade. In a punch bowl. With loads of real fruit.
“He añadido ron,” he says, which roughly means: “I spiked the punch.”
Over the course of the evening, we will drain the sangría bowl three times. And then they’ll break out the hard stuff.
Back from horseback riding, María gives me a tour of the house. It’s actually modern, but her mother shrouded it in antiquity. María shows me the 1800s clothes irons, cow bells, bed heaters and water jugs her mother collected over decades to create the effect. She also shows me her mother’s paintings, most of which feature the family’s bulls. María informs me that, much more than serving as the mere antagonists of bullfights, bulls on a ranch like this serve a vital purpose: reproduction. This, of course, prompts me to ask her if they play Barry White or Marvin Gaye to get the bulls in the mood.
Evening falls, and Marta and María’s cousin and friends arrive. David declares the fire ready, and the barbecue commences. He and Álvaro kick everyone out of the kitchen, and we move to the picturesque back porch that looks out on the pasture. The roof beams, according to María, come from an old palace in Toledo. I tell her that my house’s roof beams probably come from Ikea. We draw the huge cloth curtains to block the wind, and everyone grabs a drink and a seat. Conversation, laughter and smiles.
Soon, the first plate of food comes out. Chorizo sausage and pancetta, which is a fattier version of bacon, if you can imagine such a thing. Not exactly a kosher first dish … but wow, what flavor! Next come bun-less hamburgers, sausages, another cut of pig I’ve never tasted before, chicken wings, Spanish omelette with chorizo, and a Spanish lasagna. Sides of artisan bread and the best olives you can find. Everyone ignores the salad.
More conversation, laughter and smiles. I swear, the Spanish have created an art form out of genuine smalltalk. Not a cellphone in sight. Who needs Facebook when you’ve got sangría? We talk about everything and nothing, which are really one and the same, when you think about it. I’m the only non-Spaniard here, but they treat me like family, teasing me mercilessly for my language gaffes.
Oh, how I am going to miss these people.
When no one can eat any more, dinner ends. In the kitchen, I record a video of Álvaro and Choches dancing like idiots to James Brown’s “I Feel Good.” I then show said video to everyone on the porch. As if that wasn’t embarrassment enough, Álvaro and Choches don dresses and heels and wear them outside. Marta says those are actually shirts, not dresses. Álvaro looks like a Saint Bernard in a sweater designed for a poodle.
“What bet did they lose?” I ask.
Marta smiles at me. “Bet? There was no bet.”
The girls’ cousin and friends leave, and “the usual suspects” prepare for one of our customary poker games. Taking me aside, Álvaro puts his hand on my shoulder and asks me, “¿Estás agusto?”
He wants to know if I’m comfortable. If I’m having a good time. If I feel at home.
All I can do is hold my arms out and smile. “Dude,” I tell him (but, you know, in Spanish), “this right here — human beings getting together, having a good time, enjoying each other’s company — this, to me, is the peak of civilization. This is what life’s all about.”
He grins and gives me one of his huge bear hugs. He and I both know that these moments are growing scarce, for me at least. In less than a month, I leave Spain. Less than a month left with mi familia española. I’ve been with them for two years now — two incredible years — and this summer, it comes to an end.
I remember when, a couple weeks ago, I told Álvaro I was leaving, and a storm cloud passed over his always-sunny face. “Seeing you all the time,” he said to me then, “I forget that this isn’t your country, and you’re not here forever. I forget that this isn’t your home.”
Sometimes, I do, too. It’s something I’m trying not to think too much about — my departure will get here when it gets here, and in the meantime, there are wonderful moments to relish. As Robert J. Hastings once wrote: “Life must be lived as we go along. The station will come soon enough.”
I walk out into the yard. Natural beauty as far as I can see, interrupted only by the tops of the Telefonica satellites in the distance. Out here, the stars hurt your eyes. The Big Dipper hangs lower and brighter in the sky than I’ve ever seen it. Taking a deep breath, I smell the fresh air and listen to the leaves rustling in the wind.
“Samu,” they call to me from inside, “poker!”
I head in, and they’re all seated at the table. Conversation, laughter and smiles.
“Os quiero,” I tell them.
“I love you guys.”
by 
by