Feeding Birds in Madrid : Becoming a childless grandmother at 26

Feeding Birds in Madrid :
​Becoming a childless grandmother at 26

First reading in Madrid, at El dinosaurio Open Mic

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It had always surprised me how the Spanish lived the outdoors differently than the rest of their European neighbours.

For a young Belgian girl such as myself - who knew only of grey skies and rainy weather 350 days a year - the idea of spending more than 2 hours outside was close to absurd. Our social lives were mostly dictated by the weather conditions – and like most European countries that never knew the real pleasures of a long-lasting summer, our social gatherings happened mostly indoors.

In Spain however, it was the exact opposite. And the first time I realised that was during a phone conversation with a friend:

[Phone rings]
​
“Hey man – what’s up?”
“Not much. Just working on some things”.
[Silence]
“…It sounds really quiet around you – are you ok? where are you?”
“Well…I’m at home…just at home”.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had called up a friend in Madrid and heard no noise in the background, as if the lack of phonic clutter in a conversation was a sign of alarm in this city.

See the Spanish not only spent much time outside, but they also lived outside. In their streets they did everything: They talked, they drank, they smoked, they begged, they sat, they laughed, they argued, they ate, they peed, they shouted, they slept, they kissed and sometimes, well sometimes they even cried…Walking in Madrid was like being part of a constant Greek Tragedy waiting to happen around every corner.

And one would have thought the latter would be a cultural trait that would have never rubbed off onto the skin of this young girl, until I was proven the contrary one spring day.

                                                                                                    -

One afternoon, as I walked out of my therapists’ cabinet with teary eyes, I felt the sun beaming in my eyes, and before I knew it, I could barely walk without feeling like it was blinding me.

See, I was in my 8th month living abroad in Madrid, and somehow, though I was always continuously surrounded by people and novelty and my friends back home envied me for having moved to the country of holidays - a fog of loneliness still lingered on me for all that time. A psychiatrist would have given it a fancy name like chronic depression. But I thought it might have more to do with the luxury of having too much free time on my hands and not enough new friends.

So as my soggy eyes, shoulders and hands weighed me down, I left it up to my feet to drag me anywhere like a floating ghost. I gave up a single care in the world that day if anyone would see me cry, and found myself half an hour later in a luscious green park.

As I got there, I looked for the first kiosk I could find - and a fine 4.50 over priced euros later, bought myself an ice cream, a bag of chips and a coke. I had always been a chubby kid when I was young, and managed in my twenties to lose all that extra weight. But what I hadn’t lost perhaps was the idea that a bloated stomach from a mixture of potato chips, ice cream and coca cola could offer me the illusion of a hug and a stone on my anxieties.

As I gulped down my melting ice cream on a bench nearby and away from most looks, I started on my bag of chips. That’s when I noticed two small birds hovering around my feet. It was sunny and silent that day, and while most people were at work and probably even unaware of the existence of myself or these two birds, there I sat watching them playfully lurking and getting closer to the crumbs that were falling from my mouth to the ground.

​I don’t remember how it even started, but before I knew it, I started running my fingers through my bag of chips and started sowing crumbs to the ground.

Little by little, as these two birds feasted on my sowings – they were soon met with an army of pigeons and crows. Each new sow became for them a trial for survival as they pecked and poked away. But, the rivalry appeared unfair as it was always the bigger and fatter pigeons that would get to the rations before the little ones would.

So, I took it upon me to become the mother Theresa of the birds. And that no beak shall remain unfed.
I started to throw crumbs to the fattest pigeons to my right and watched them fight over at what they thought was probably the most refined meal they had had in days (I believe my chips were bbq flavoured).
And then, I withdrew another amount of crumbs and sowed them to my left, for all the smaller birds to jump to. Indulged in their own war, both camps paid very little attention my strategy. And so, satisfied about my witty plan I smiled over to the group of little birds like a grand-mother would when she knows she is giving candy to a child who isn’t allowed to get any at home.
How great it felt to feel useful and needed like this again I thought.

                                                                                            -

A little later I noticed an elderly couple approaching. They sat on a bench across me and whispered into discussions. As I proceeded to my bird feeding activity, I gave a quick and automated glance to the elderly couple... And that’s when I saw it. Both wrapped up and tangled into each other’s arms kissing awkwardly like two teenagers, one having their leg placed over the other, and holding each other by the lips.  It was like a Spanish version of that Mister and Misses Jones song, and I for one wasn’t prepared to witness that today.  Geriatric displays of affection are cute to a certain extent, but should never go beyond a peck on the mouth I thought.

But perhaps what had bothered me most that day, was not how these two 60-year-olds had turned into horny teenagers – but how I myself went from crying like a child to feeding myself like an adolescent to then feeling like a grandmother in one single afternoon.

I always thought it was ironic how in life we spent most of our teenage years trying to act like adults. Wanting our parents to allow us later curfews, dressing inappropriately to pass off for an age we weren’t.
Then once we reached that adulthood behind an office desk, experiencing hung-over Mondays and a countdown to our next vacations, we reminisce about the liberties of being that kid again. The one that had no bills to pay and no responsibilities to think of.

And once we have children of our own, we sometimes also see how much of our inner child we have lost along the way, at the cost of social norms – we become too afraid to sing in the streets unless we’re drunk – too afraid to jump into puddles because of what others might say – and too afraid to say what we really think.

And when that hadn’t been a lesson enough, comes that day when we also realise that our parents are no longer superheroes with the answers to everything and that ultimately, we have to become the parents of our own parents…

Life cycles I thought, followed each other for a reason.
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Weeks later then, I downloaded a stupid application - called tinder - and brought a date to that very same spot where we made-out all afternoon like the 26-year-olds we were supposed to be. And, for every bird that hopped by, well, I threw an apprehensive look - and whispered to it in my mind : “Not now, little bird, not now,  Granny’s got better things to do”.