Where are all the young people of Leon? The university is far from the city centre but I am still flummoxed by the dearth of 20- and 30-somethings. I see old people in droves - ambling, stretching, jogging, dawdling, ruminating, pushing wheelchairs with nonagenarians staring vacantly at shop windows. Google tells me the province of Castile-Leon loses most of its youngsters to emigration as Spaniards seek work abroad, leaving behind an armada of granny nannies.
At the outdoor gym along the Bernesga river, grannies and grandpas hog the exercise equipment - keeping an eye on toddlers playing in the park. A pair of wiry, athletic seniors dart past as I head to the riverfront McDonald’s for an ice-cream sundae. No, I am not embarrassed. I’m here on vacation and refuse to acknowledge my perennial out-of-shapehood. A pair of affable retirees are painting a section of the McDonald’s store as I sidestep the recien pintado (wet paint) signs. I spot another old man with a Glovo (food delivery) box zooming past on his scooter. With few youngsters on hire, there is obviously no ageism here.
At the Espacio Leon mall, a middle-aged woman supervises a footwear store, metamorphosing rapidly into helper, picker-upper, cleaner, cashier as I (egged on by my mother) bug her with questions - Are these on sale? Can I get these in a larger size? Where’s the other of this pair? Do you get these in black? But the manager is unfazed and responds to all my queries with a smile. Ten minutes and a forex-card swipe later, my mother is the owner of a comfortable pair of walking sandals.
On the eighth floor of my apartment block, an elderly woman is climbing the stairs and huffing. She is lugging a wooden plank too big to fit in the elevator. I offer to help. Necesitas ayuda? She says no. Just one more floor to go, she says. Gracias. But she breaks into a smile and seems grateful that I asked. Labor costs are high in Spain and life would be difficult here for yours truly, accustomed as I am to the middle-class luxuries of maids and handymen in India.
My mother is back from church. The elderly parish priest, spotting an unfamiliar devotee among the pews, spoke to her after Mass. The two didn’t make much headway, insulated as they were in the cocoons of their respective languages, but my mother was able to convey that she is from India. The priest’s face lit up as he heard the word. Que bonito pais! My mother, who found solace in Catholicism after my father passed, nodded along to the priest's babbling, wishing she could understand Spanish or, even better, that the clergyman could speak English. The only word she knows apart from Hola! is salida (the departure/exit signs at airports) - which has limited uses in ecclesiastical conversations.
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