There’s no way to sugarcoat it, Christmas is hard. And, I know I’m not alone in this sentiment. It’s hard for a lot of people.
I scroll on instagram and see friends holding their family, smiling next to a perfect tree dawning tinsel. There are presents with red bows and dogs wearing matching sweaters.
“Look at what I have.” they scream. “Look at who I have.”
But, all I hear is, “Look at what you don’t”
I feel myself retreating inwards around the holidays. I usually don’t notice it until sometime in the second week of December when the looming question arises as I’m out with co-workers or friends.
“What are you doing for Christmas?”
And, no matter how elaborate, wholesome or wild my travel plans are, it’s never good enough. Their eyes turn sad. The pity surges out of them. It’s like a cough you’re desperately trying to supress while sitting in a quiet lecture hall.
And, for me, that’s notoriously the worst part about spending Christmas alone. It’s not that my plans are not beautiful, or that I don’t enjoy the stillness of my own company, it’s that I have to protect myself from the pity of others so as to not pity myself.
I’ve had Christmases with new friends in Quito, Ecuador. I’ve celebrated with a partner’s family in Bavaria. With friends in New York. I’ve spent holidays in hostels, on beaches, in National parks. But, never quite as alone as I am this year.
This Christmas I decided to go surfing.
A quick trip to Cadiz. Not too far from where I’m living in Almeria but just far enough to find small rolling Atlantic waves. I haven’t surfed much since leaving Ecuador and I miss it with every fabric of my being.
I pack my backpack and leave in the early hours of the morning on the 24th. I take a bus to a small town. It drops me on the street corner and I drink black coffee and read my book at an outdoor cafe.
A man picks me up in a BlaBla Car: a shared carpooling app. The passengers are traveling to visit parents, siblings, and partners out of town.
I’m going to see the ocean.
We drive in near silence for 5 hours. It feels like an eternity.
I’m dropped at a train station in Jerez de Frontera. A surf school owner named Pablo has agreed to pick me up and take me to the pueblo an hour and a half away.
He says there is no other way to get there because the buses have stopped running for the day. I pay him 20 euros in advance and wait patiently.
He’s an hour late. I idle on the train station steps with a man who looks to be homeless . We both watch as loved ones greet their family in the street and file into their cars to drive away. Warm embraces, kisses, babies cooing. I’ve never felt such an affinity with a stranger before.
Soon, the man is scooped up by someone too. There is no embrace but he gets in the car. The sun is starting to hang heavy in the sky and it’s just me and my trusty backpack on the train station steps.
I watch business owners board their restaurant windows and the taunting melody of “All I want for Christmas” tiptoes out of the station’s muffled old speakers and spills into the street.
When I’m finally in the passenger seat of Pablo’s van, I begin asking a rapid fire of questions about his business. I figure emboldening his life’s accomplishments will help distract from the inevitable question.
We jump between every socially acceptable topic for new aquaintances. His language is terse and cold. I begin to wonder if he’s having a tough day too. I grow quiet and in the silence, I can feel him studying me with intrigue. It’s like I have a sixth sense today.
I divert my gaze to the barren farm-scapes outside the window.
“Why are you not celebrating Christmas?”
There it is.
I swallow hard knowing that what he really means is “Why are you alone?”
I have the luxury of telling him a sort of truth. “I’m Jewish” I say. “Christmas doesn’t mean much to me.” I can feel the bitterness clinging to the edges of my words. They sting. I hope I’m not stinging him too.
The first part is true. The second part, that’s a lie.
In fact, I have beautiful memories of Christmas as a young child. Presents and trees and food and family. But, by the time I’m 12, they are all gone.Colorful portraits vaulted away in the fortress of the mind. My trauma holds the key.
As we crawl up the rolling hills of Andalucia in Pablo’s van, he asks me about my plans for food. Suddenly, I feel more stupid than lonely. I didn’t prioritize grocery shopping during the multi-leg roadtrip and now everything is closed. He offers to stop at a gas station so I can pick something up.
We pull off the main highway and I walk into the small store attached. I scan the shelves and some people shuffle in to buy a last minute beer or wine.
The line at the register is long and my food options are limited. I don’t want to take too long deciding. I grab a can of peas, a jug of water, some lentils with pork in them, even though I don’t eat pork. And, some candies. I’ll need something sweet.
He loiters in the rear of the store and I can feel his eyes piercing the back of my head again. I realize that if Christmas had a human form, it would probably be Pablo. I choke back tears at the register while fumbling with my crumpled cash and then we are back on the road.
The house I’m staying in is more isolated than I expected. He leaves me with a surfboard, wetsuit, a bike and some skateboards. I make a joke about all of the “toys” on Christmas day. It doesn’t hit. I can’t tell if it’s because I didn’t translate it well into Spanish or if he is just not into jokes.
The hot water doesn’t work either and he tells me he will come back to fix it in the morning. “Thank you Pablo!” I say in a voice as vivacious as possible. I wonder if I sound convincing enough.
I close the door quietly and the waterworks begin. I plug in the space heater, eat my lentils and go to bed.
In just 24 hours, my sweet life will resume. If you’re anything like me, you’ll understand that certain days of the year are more about survival than celebration.
I sleep like a rock and wake up early in the morning. Everything is still cold. I wrap the covers tightly around my body and give myself a pep talk. It takes some time, but I work up the courage to put my feet on the floor. I pull on every layer in my bag and open the front door.
The sunlight floods into the house. Birds are chirping and the wind rustles the palms overhead. The perfect day. I’m so ridiculously lucky, I think to myself.
I’m no doctor but I have a foolproof antidote to self-pity. It comes in a the form of a two step prescription and I made it myself.
- Feel whatever you need to feel with whatever intensity you need to feel it.
- Once, and only once you are numb from feeling with such fervor, equip yourself with gratitude. So much of it that it seeps from every pore in your body. It must be so loud in your mind and hot on your tongue that you, yourself, become it.
I pack a small bag and then I head out with the bike.
How lucky I am to have this body for movement.
A smooth green bike path connects the small coastal pueblos. Farm homes with cows and horses dot the coastline of Cadiz. Apart from a few people taking Christmas morning walks, there are no cars on the road.
I shamelessly play my favorite music out-loud and the wind blows through my tangled hair. I can’t stop smiling. I love being on a bike. It’s the closest sensation I’ve ever felt to flying.
My skin is hot and pearled with sweat. I can feel God warming me from the inside out. I come across a beach and two huge dogs wait for me in the street. I lock the bike to a stop sign and take off my shoes and socks. I walk with the pups in tow to a lighthouse at the edge of a cliff. I’m inside of a postcard. I dance at the top off the cliff and sing my favorite Caamp song.
The dogs disappear and I’m alone again. I lay in the sand watching the waves crash and roll. I study families and couples take leisurely strolls on the beach. They look like ants as I’m perched on the dune.
I spend my day like this, a rotation of flying on the bike and grounding myself with my toes buried in the sand. I go home and write. I drink copious amounts of tea and stretch. I run into the freezing ocean naked at sunset.
My Christmas in Cadiz is simple. There are no presents or people or fancy food. But, it’s full of movement and sun and canned tuna and elements.
It’s full of nature and profound thoughts. Thoughts so heavy that they actually teach you how to be light.
