Silence is an underappreciated art. The space between notes, the pause before a solo, the unspoken agreement between musicians that sometimes, the absence of sound is just as powerful as the sound itself.
This, unfortunately, is not a philosophy shared by the people of this town.
I have lived through many things: London traffic, secondary school teaching, the time I accidentally left a Coltrane record in direct sunlight and melted it into something resembling abstract sculpture. But nothing prepared me for the acoustic reality of Andalusian life.
Silence, in Spain, is like a rare migratory bird. It exists, technically, but nobody has seen it in years.
The mornings begin with the bread van, which does not believe in discretion. Instead, it announces itself via loudspeaker, a relic from the Franco era that seems to have been repurposed for terror. ‘¡PAN! ¡PAN!’ it yells, as if the very concept of bread is an emergency. This is followed by the fruit man, who uses an entirely different loudspeaker but with the same general approach.
Then there are the dogs. Endless dogs. Every household has at least one, some more than they have people. And they all have opinions. About everything. An empty street is, to them, an affront. A passing cat is a declaration of war.
Mid-morning, Antonio appears. Not to speak, necessarily, but to exist at a volume that suggests he does not believe in subtlety. If he speaks to a neighbour, it is with the projection of a man addressing a vast theatre. If he sneezes, it is an event. The man does not know how to lower his voice.
Siesta brings hope. A lull. A chance. The town slips into a strange semi-stillness, the kind where you almost believe quiet has arrived. Then, without fail, someone decides that this is the perfect time to engage in urgent home renovations. Tiles are drilled. Walls are hammered. Furniture is dragged across floors with the dedication of a composer arranging a final crescendo.
And yet, it is at night when the true horror unfolds. The Spanish believe in conversation. This is, in theory, a good thing. But they also believe in having these conversations directly beneath our bedroom window at one in the morning, with a level of enthusiasm usually reserved for political debates or declaring war.
The other night, I decided to take a different approach. I joined them.
They were surprised, at first. The English do not, as a rule, invite themselves into spontaneous late-night discussions about football, the economy, or why Jorge’s cousin is a disgrace to his family. But they welcomed me, offered me a beer, and carried on.
This was my opportunity.
I launched into a passionate, well-reasoned monologue about John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme, explaining its significance, its emotional weight, its place in jazz history. I detailed the recording process, the harmonic structure, the deep spirituality embedded in every note.
A pause. Then Jorge, looking contemplative, took a sip of his beer and nodded.
“So, you do not like flamenco?”
Silence. Finally.
We went home. The talking continued without me.
Some battles cannot be won.
