Catapult Alumni Nonfiction
Sun and Snow
Getting lost and finding a slice of home in Andorra
It is 7 in the evening in La Massana, Andorra, and the sun does not seem to be setting any time soon. My new friends and I are having drinks outside a popular corner bar. As they talk about possible walking trails for the next day, my mind wanders. Nothing loses my attention quicker than people talking about anything even remotely related to fitness. I take a quick scan of the glorious mountains serving as a background to the stone wall buildings around us. I find inexplicable joy from being surrounded by mountains. I am glad I chose to spend my long weekend in this tiny country. Barcelona, although only less than 200 kilometers south of Andorra, feels like a world away. Here, I’m not juggling an internship, a volunteer teaching job, and a master’s program – I’m just a guy in a bar enjoying a drink.
I take a sip from my tall glass of rum and coke, or Cuba Libre for anyone who wants to sound more cultured, while I listen to my new friends, Chloe and Etienne, talk about their day. Etienne spent a good part of his day mountain biking from the hostel we are all staying at to the snowy mountain peaks of Pal, Andorra. Chloe woke up early in the morning to trek. She excitedly talks about her day while punctuating most of her sentences by blowing a soft raspberry, which I find both charming and distracting. “You know what? I feel like I cheated for being the only one who took the cable car,” I contributed to the conversation while pretending to feel bad for not doing any physical activity on my second day in Andorra. Etienne reassures me that it doesn’t matter how we got to the top because, in the end, we all took similar photos. I highly doubt that because I take terrible photos wherever I go.
Chloe and I bonded the night before after finding out we were almost at similar stages in our lives. She just quit her job and I will be done with school in about three months. Neither of us knows what to do next. When I was a teen, I thought for sure I’d have my life figured out by the time I’m 30. I’m now 31 and I still have no idea what I’m doing most of the time. Even though my life is not what I imagined it to be when I was younger, I still often find myself fascinated
The topic shifts to the other people staying at the hostel with us. The ski season is almost over, so the hostel only has four other guests. With the exception of Etienne, the rest of the guests and I share the homiest hostel dorm I’ve ever seen. The hostel is called Secret Spot. Our room looks more like a spa massage room than a hostel dorm. No bunk beds, just comfortable single beds with hotel-quality linens. The bathroom has a bathtub below a sunroof that opens to the mountains. The best part is that it was a bargain. For the price I paid for a comfortable bed in Andorra, I could probably get a cardboard box with a complimentary pack of gum in the center of Barcelona.
We talk about one of the hostel guests named Chad. His name is not actually Chad, but Etienne and I agree he looks like a Chad. He has perfect teeth, gorgeous hair, and speaks English, French, and Spanish fluently. He was a semi-professional skier before becoming an investment banker in Madrid. I knew I hated him the second I asked him where he’s from and he answered, “I don’t know, man, the world? I was born in France, raised in the UK. I spent some time in the US, and now I live in Spain.” I wanted to tell him that the world is so much bigger than that. I even peeked when he was undressing down to his boxers before going to bed with the hopes of seeing a little pecker, but the dude seems to be packing heat. The only thing stronger than my hatred towards him is my desire to be more like him.
My new friends order a second round of drinks inside the bar while I am barely halfway through my Cuba Libre. There is a large group of Argentinians at two adjoined tables behind me. I sensed they are Argentinians because two of them are wearing Messi shirts and some of the ladies, who have just arrived to join them, are all drinking Mate from one mug. I can also tell they’re Argentinians from their distinct accent. Most of my colleagues in Barcelona are Argentinians. They talk to me in English, but they playfully hurl insults at each other in their native tongue all day. I still can’t distinguish different accents in Spanish, but I recognize an Argentinian when I hear one. Listening to them vaguely feels like I am home.
It is hard to believe that the thought of Barcelona now evokes feelings of home after about six months of living there. I remember that, in the beginning, whenever I felt like I was making progress in finding my place in Barcelona, something would remind me that I did not belong there. It’s the little things, like ticking the wrong box in a government form because my Spanish is terrible, my roommate throwing away my leftover Asian food because it looks suspicious, or giving the wrong directions to two sweet elderly Spanish-speaking women because I don’t fully understand their question until it is too late. I am happy to live in Barcelona, but every now and then I can’t help but feel out of place. I never realized I thought of it as home… until now.
Etienne and Chloe return to the table after a few minutes. I invite them to join me for dinner at a friend’s newly-opened restaurant after drinking. After hearing that the restaurant is about an hour away, they decline because they have an early morning the next day. Unlike them, I don’t have any big plans for the next morning. After another round of drinks for everyone, off to the restaurant I go. The place is called Sol i Neu in Canillo. I pay for my drinks and ask the bartender for directions to Canillo in Spanish. Naturally, she responds in Spanish. I fail to catch half of her answer, so I sheepishly ask her to repeat it in English.
The restaurant I’m visiting is not actually owned by a personal friend. It is owned by Cande, a friend of my good friend Beli. I like seeing familiar faces when I travel and Cande is the only person I know in Andorra. I met her when she visited Beli at home. By home I mean the hostel in Barcelona where Beli and I work and live along with other staff members. I live in the hostel for free, get paid a little, and earn internship credits as well. The job is quite easy and a lot of fun. I get along well with the people I work and live with. I think that’s why Barcelona feels like home now. I live in a place where my roommates never forget to greet me with a hug every morning. It also helps that I’ve picked up useful Spanish phrases along the way, so walking the streets of Barcelona doesn’t feel like being in a foreign movie without subtitles anymore.
I clearly remember the day Cande visited us. I got home from our local Mercadona with our usual pantry staples and an almond buttercream cake. I was so excited to share the cake with everyone! She was confused when I told her it was no one’s birthday. I just felt like buying a cake because I needed a little cheering up. Everyone at home, except for our guest, thought it was a perfectly acceptable explanation. For someone with a name that sounds like candy, I don’t understand why she couldn’t get on board with someone buying a cake without a special occasion. She thought it was unusual, but at least she was happy to take a slice of the cake.
Walking the streets of Barcelona doesn't feel like being in a foreign movie without subtitles anymore. I hop on the bus and try my hardest to explain in Spanish where I am going. Fortunately, the middle-aged bus driver gives me very specific instructions in English. I need to get off at the center of the city, cross the bridge, and wait for the bus going to Canillo at the bus stop across the Mango outlet store. I cross the bridge, not without taking photos for Instagram first because that is how I travel now. I fancy myself as an influencer for my mere 200 followers. I board the second bus and ask the driver if the bus is, in fact, going to Canillo. He smiles and assures me I am on the right bus. He points at a front seat and tells me to sit there so he can call me once we arrive at my stop. I’m so excited to have Argentinian food for dinner. I know I am in for a treat!
It’s now very dark outside yet, looking out the bus window, I can still make out the snow covering the mountains. I switch my gaze to the bus driver. I’ve been on this bus for more than twenty minutes and I’m starting to worry that the driver has forgotten about me. I can see him clearly from where I am sitting. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showing both of his forearms covered in tattoos. He is probably in his late 30s, but his trendy undercut hairstyle makes him look even younger. With his athletic build, he could easily pass as an overpaid football player. I bet he owns at least three pairs of jogger pants. I want to remind him that he said he will let me know where to get down, but I’d rather miss my stop than be that pesky customer who keeps repeating the same thing over and over. Instead, I squint, fix my eyes on the driver, and try to send him telepathic messages to remind him that I am going to Canillo. I only stop because the old man sitting next to me is looking at me funny.
After about 10 more minutes, the driver signals for me to go near him, so I stand up next to him.
“So, this is Canillo. Is someone waiting for you at the bus stop?”
“No. I’m looking for a new restaurant called Sol i Neu. Have you heard of it?”
“Sol i Neu… Sol i Neu… I don’t think I know it. But if you are sure it is in Canillo, then the next stop is your stop.”
The bus driver wishes for me to enjoy my night as I alight from the bus. I wave goodbye as if I am saying goodbye to an old friend. What a nice guy! All the bus drivers so far have been extra helpful.
Armed with a screenshot of the address of the restaurant and my basic knowledge of Spanish, I am now ready to ask around and look for Sol i Neu. It would be easier if I had mobile data, but I was too cheap to get a local sim card. Since Andorra is not part of the EU, my Spanish data plan does not work here.
There aren’t a lot of people on the streets. I walk down the road and see an old guy with grey hair chilling with his fluffy dog in front of a bar. I always trust people with dogs. I strike up a conversation with him in Spanish, telling him where I want to go. I attempt to continue the conversation in English, but he informs me he speaks French, Catalan, and Spanish, but not English. I want to tell him how impressed I am that he knows three languages, but I can’t remember the Spanish word for impressed , so I just say, “¡Qu é guay!” (How cool!). He asks me to show him the address on Google Maps, but I tell him I don’t have access to the internet. He pulls out his phone and types the name of the restaurant.
“What’s the name again? Sol i Neu, right? Do you know what neu means?” he asks in Spanish.
“No. What does it mean?” I respond in Spanish. What does it mean is probably one of my most used phrases since I moved to Spain.
“Nieve .”
“Oh, snow! So the restaurant is named Sun and Snow! That’s a great name for a restaurant, don’t you think? I didn’t know that neu means snow. Thanks for telling me! Fun fact: I only understood nieve because it sounds like the Filipino word for snow.” That’s what I would like to say, but I am reduced to saying “¡Qu é guay!” again.
“You don’t speak Catalan? You said you live in Barcelona,” he said a little judgingly.
“No. I don’t know that many people who speak Catalan.”
Here I am, quite pleased with myself for having a conversation in Spanish only to be reminded that I don’t speak the language of the city I now kind of think of as home. I start to think of the words I know in Catalan. I don’t even need all my fingers to count them. Now, thanks to him, I can add neu to my list.
It turns out that the restaurant is 7 kilometers away or about a 15-minute drive uphill. It seems that I got down the bus too early. My only chance to make it to the restaurant in time for dinner is to take a taxi.
I walk back to the taxi stand, which is next to the bus stop where I was dropped off only a few moments earlier. It feels like I have been waiting for a taxi for a lifetime when I finally see a taxi approaching. I can see the driver and the passenger smoking inside the car. They are both serving bad-guys-from-90s-movies vibes. I judge their terrible smoking habits as I put out my cigarette on the pavement. The car pull over in front of me and a tall guy in matching black Adidas tracksuit emerges from the passenger seat. I don’t have a good feeling about this. I’ve had bad experiences with taxi drivers ripping me off. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like I have a lot of options. I’ve come this far and waited so long for a taxi. Besides, I’m not walking seven kilometers uphill to get to the restaurant. I need to get into this taxi. This restaurant better be worth it. I hope Cande remembers I like cake.
I tell the driver where I am going, relaying what the man with the dog said. He seems perplexed. Does he not understand my Spanish? My grammar and vocabulary may be poor, but my pronunciation is actually right on the money sometimes. I wonder if I used the wrong words. He responds after a few seconds saying he does not know where the restaurant is. He calls a friend and talks to him in Catalan. I figure he’s asking him for directions. There’s also an off chance that they are plotting to kill me and he’s asking for a place where they could do it. Either way is cool with me at this point. I just want this long night to be over. “My friend doesn’t know either, but we will make a stop to ask another friend. She works at a hotel. Maybe she’ll know.” he explains in Spanish. We go to the hotel and the taxi driver talks to his friend. Just like everyone else, she has not heard of the restaurant either. I am starting to lose hope.
Back in the car, I tell the driver one more time that Google Maps has the address. He seems irritated. He says, “I was born here in Canillo. I’ve lived here all my life. I have been a taxi driver here for thirty years. I know this place more than anyone. I know the address on Google Maps. There is no restaurant there.” I listen intently to everything he says. My confidence level in Spanish spikes because I understood everything. “But it’s new… restaurant… very new… open… last month,” I reason. My confidence in my Spanish skills quickly drops after that.
“If you want, I can take you to another restaurant. I know a good one.” he offers. I ask him to take me to a tourism office instead. He drops me off in front of the entrance of a huge ice sports activity center across the bus stop where I was earlier. Somehow, I always end up here. He refuses to accept my payment because he didn’t take me to the place I wanted to go to. Maybe I was wrong about him. He’s a good guy. His only crime is not believing in Google Maps. I, on the other hand, trust the app too much. If Google Maps asked me to turn right and drive off a cliff, I would be hesitant but I’d do it.
I enter the lobby of the skating rink complex and wait for my turn to speak to the front desk officer. She greets me in English. I ask her the same question I’ve asked everyone all night. To my surprise, she does know where the restaurant is! She drives past it every day on her way to work. Google Maps was right all along. I ask her if she could call me a cab, but she tells me it might take about 30 minutes because they have to call it from the city center. I thank her and say I’ll try my luck looking for a cab outside.
I have to make a decision. Either I wait for a cab, hoping it won’t take as long as the last time, or just go back to the hostel. I think It’s time to accept defeat. I better head home before it’s too late. I just want to eat my leftover rice and kebab in the fridge and go to bed. I walk back to the bus stop. It’s getting colder, and the other guy at the bus stop tells me there’s only one bus left to take us back to the city. The bus shows up a few minutes later. I am greeted by a familiar man when I board the bus.
“Did you find it?” the tattooed driver asks.
“No. I should have gotten off on the next stop.”
His smile fades as he starts to look worried, “Oh, I’m sorry. But this is Canillo. I took you to the right place. “
“No, no, no. Don’t be sorry. You were really helpful. It’s my fault. I didn’t ask my friend for more specific directions.”
He shakes his head and says sorry again as if he is to blame for all of this. He is officially the nicest bus driver I’ve ever met. I notice he’s wearing a wedding ring. Whoever he is married to is extremely lucky. I imagine he owns up to every mistake in his relationship, including mistakes that aren’t his.
I walk down the aisle to look for a seat close to the exit door. This time, I know I’m going to the last stop, so I can’t possibly get lost. There’s a 30-minute bus ride ahead of me. I go through the photos I took today. None of the photos are good enough to trick my friends on Instagram to believe that I am living my best life.
I finish looking at the photos and glance out the window. The first thing I see is a sign that says Fiesta Manila Bar and Restaurant . I can’t believe my eyes. Is that a Filipino restaurant? How is there a Filipino restaurant in one of the smallest countries in the world when bigger European capital cities don’t even have one? I hurriedly push the stop button to get off the bus on the next stop.
“Hello po,” I greet the waitress as I enter the restaurant. She is too busy to hear me. The place is packed with local people, so the waiters are running around to accommodate everyone. I look around and notice I am the only Filipino customer tonight, quite different from Filipino restaurants in Barcelona, where most of the diners are Filipinos.
“¡Hola! ¿Para comer?” the server finally notices me. “Opo, kakain po.” (Yes, I’m here to eat.”)
“Ay, Pinoy ka pala! Ang tangkad mo akala ko hindi ka Pinoy.” (Oh, you’re Filipino! You’re so tall I didn’t think you were Filipino.)
She calls the owner, who is busy attending to other customers at the back of the room.
“Ate, may kababayan tayo dito. Halika!” (Big sister, someone from the Philippines is here. Come meet him!”)
The owner, Ate Dina, and I chat for a bit before she jots down my order. Just like most Filipinos back in Spain, they are originally from Batangas, a province two hours south of Manila. She says there are no more buses going back to La Massana at this time, so they will call me a cab ride home when I’m done.
I ask for Pata Tim (braised pork hock), a dish I haven’t had since I moved to Spain, and a generous serving of garlic fried rice.
“You should try our Lumpia (spring rolls). It’s really good. Libre na para sa’yo.” (For you, it’s free.)
“Salamat po.” (Thank you.)
Sharing food is intrinsic to Filipino culture. The food arrives and it seems too much, even for a huge hungry man like myself. This is by far the best Filipino food I’ve had in a long time. They even give me a free drink. I ask the waitress for the bill and a doggie bag for my leftover. Then, I request that they call me a cab because I’m ready to go home.
“Wag ka muna daw umuwi sabi ni ate. Try mo daw postres namin. Would you like a leche flan? (Big sister says you shouldn’t go home without trying our dessert first. Would you like a Filipino flan?”)
It’s amazing how she manages to switch from Filipino to Spanish and English when speaking. It’s even more amazing to be on the receiving end of their Filipino hospitality especially in a foreign land. I remember a tourism ad that says the Filipino word for hello is, “Kumain ka na?” (Have you eaten?) and it can’t be more true. Sharing food is intrinsic to Filipino culture.
“No, thank you so much. I’m too full.”
“We insist. It’s on the house.”
“Alright then. Thank you!” I may be full, but I’m not stupid. I’m never turning down a free dessert.
I take a bite out of the leche flan and savor its sweet caramel notes as it melts in my mouth. Now, this, without a doubt, feels like home.
