One of the worse parts of living 5000 miles from my family are Sundays, particularly winter Sundays, or rainy Sundays. Lazy Sundays, if you want. In Spain, Sundays are nowadays devoted to two things: family and hangovers. When I lived there, young and restless, I went out every single Saturday night, all night long, Spanish style. I would arrive home pretty much for breakfast, and sleep until lunchtime. But Sunday lunches were religiously spent with the family. Everyone would come to my parent’s house, where I lived back then, and have lunch, Spanish style again, appetizers, first course, second course, dessert, coffee, sweets, drinks, and many many cigarettes. We would talk, and argue, both loudly, and we would have fun. In the summer we used to sunbathe before and after lunch in my parents’ yard. When it was colder we went for a walk up the hill by my house, just to warm up by the fireplace when we got back, and then we watched crappy Sunday TV in the afternoon.
There was nothing special about them, and probably back then I complained about having to wake up for lunch and found them terribly boring. But they are one of the things I miss the most. Still, twelve years after I left, my Sundays feel purposeless unless I fill them up with activities. But whatever I put in them, be it birthday parties, barbecues or picnics, visits to museums or lovely trips to Ikea, they never feel right. I guess they won’t until I become the grandmother, the matriarch, the cook, the host of a big family Sunday lunch.
In the meanwhile, I will keep practicing in Chicago, we will have some friends over, with good food and wine, a I will bake a cheesecake, and we will still be loud and fun. And this Sunday will be a little bit happier knowing that, in just a few weeks, I will actually get to have Sunday lunch at my parents house again.
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