Keeping My Sister

They thought it would never work. We are too different, my sister and I. How could we possibly take a two-week trip together?

Rose and I are less than a year apart, so I guess it was to be expected. You can see it in our old family albums, where there’s a photo of Rose in her stroller, me standing beside it. She appears to be pushing me away.
That pretty much sums up my memory of our relationship. We are so opposite in so many ways, beginning with appearance. My father’s Teutonic ancestry is evident in her fair skin and hair. She approaches life with a self-confident stride.

I, on the other hand, manifest my mother’s dark Sicilian features. It’s immediately evident that my background is Mediterranean: Brunette hair, brown eyes, coffee complexion. And a reserved disposition.

So there we were, both in our 50s. I wanted to return to Spain, a country I’d travelled in as a recent college graduate. But I didn’t want to go alone. So I asked this most unlikely of travel companions if she wanted to go with me.

Why? Because in that circumstance, I valued the very traits that also intimidated me. My sister would stride confidently through Spain, unintimidated by language or strange cities or the fact that this would be her first trip to Europe. Or so I thought.

I’m also a teacher by nature, although not by profession. Since I was 16 and first studied Spanish, I’ve loved the language as inexplicably as most teenagers love their first love. That led to a Spanish major and the month-long solitary trek around Spain. It also led to two unforgettable years as a high school Spanish teacher.

And Rose was interested. She let me take the lead in planning the trip – half the fun, as I told her. We had minor disagreements at that stage, but no deal -breakers.

So we touched down in Madrid’s Barajas airport – and most of what I knew about it now came more from Rick Steves than my previous experience. We took a fee-controlled taxi to our hotel, a serviceable one with friendly staff, and within walking distance of the Plaza Mayor.

At this stage. I was the interpreter. Rose had questions; I posed them to the cab driver, then translated his answers. But only for the first two or three days. My sister’s fearlessness came to the fore. She started saying things herself, starting with “Do you speak English?” If the answer was no, she uses a combination of the Spanish she knew with my filling in the blanks to find out what she wanted to know.

We’ve both matured, my sister and I. There were many points at which, in the past, disagreement would have led to an argument and discord. But she gave way sometimes, and so did I. I’m fascinated with the Basques, and I wanted to visit a Basque museum. Rather than say she didn’t want to go, she said, she’d just sit and read in the lobby while I satisfied my curiosity. And she did it, not grumpily and grudgingly, as some such compromises are made, but apparently content for me to pursue my interest while she pursued hers.

I enjoyed that trip with my sister. I know she has plans to go back to San Sebastian, her favorite city there, so I think she also enjoyed the trip, although I know now that she would have planned it differently. I’m glad I was able to introduce her to Europe.

Every once in a while, I get a text from Rose, often a question about Spanish grammar or how to say something. Sometimes she writes in Spanish. I’m glad to share the language and culture I love with the sister I’ve learned to appreciate not because we are alike, but because we are so different.