Diego

Today I’m going to tell a little story about someone I once knew. It's all true.

Some years ago, in my early twenties, as part of my university degree course in Spanish, I spent an academic year in Spain. To be more specific, in Santiago de Compostela in North-west Spain, in Galicia.

Santiago is a beautiful little town, with all the charm of a sleepy village and simultaneously the vivacity of a bustling metropolis. It is very historic; the town is medieval in origin, and the Old Quarter still retains its beautiful winding and granite-clad streets and has been a centre of pilgrimage for hundreds of years – being the resting place of the relics of St James. Pilgrims still flock to pay homage to them, having walked many miles along the Way of St James. Santiago is the capital of the region of Galicia in the extreme North-west of Spain, and as such is a centre for culture and the arts. It is also a thriving student city, with over a third of the population being students. It seemed the perfect place to go and spend my year abroad – off-the beaten track, and not too touristy, because far from being lager-louts of the Costas in the South and East, all the tourists were pilgrims. It was safe and not industrial nor ugly by any means – quite the opposite. It was, and still is, a beautiful historic town set in the green hills of Galicia – the only drawback being that Galicia is extremely rainy, being right near the Atlantic coast.

I had been so excited about going to Santiago – after spending hours deliberating over whether I should go there, or to the sunnier South, I had finally settled on this out-of-the-way gem of a city. I set off with my Dad a day in mid-September, 2004, full of excitement. The minor snag was that we hadn’t found accommodation, because apparently the done thing was to look for it upon arrival. Apparently, it wouldn’t be hard to find.

Well, to cut a long story short, it WAS hard to find! Not that there wasn’t a lot of it – there was, but of varying value for money and standards of living. Not only that, but I was adamant I was to live with Spanish students, because that was the only way I would improve my Spanish, being surrounded by the language day in day out.

After seeing a lot of dud apartments – many of them filthy, looking out onto building sites, too expensive for what they were or living with international students, we stumbled upon a company that someone had recommended before leaving England. I hadn’t wanted to try it because it was quite pricey. Basically it was a privately run halls of residence. The company owned various residences around the city, usually no bigger than a normal sized flat, or a series of flats in the same building, where students would live, usually with a resident tutor. There was a central restaurant-diner where students would all congregate and eat three course meals twice a day (breakfast being biscuits and coffee a la Spanish way), so it functioned much like the halls of residences I had lived in back home. It seemed perfect, even more so when I was offered the chance to live with ten Spanish guys. Ten!! Surely, I thought, there has to be at least one amongst the ten that I get on with ....

So I moved into flat 1, 34 Rua San Pedro de Mezonzo. My room was opposite the communal lounge the students would share. I was the last to arrive, and instantly felt welcome. All the students were friendly, normal guys, who were interested in having an English guy coming to live with them. There was Miguel, David, Eladio, Daniel, Juan Benito, Jose Ignacio, Javier and one or two more that I can’t really remember the names of. But the one who left the biggest impression on me was Diego.

Diego was 18 at the time and just starting his first year at the University of Santiago. I was 20, but the Spanish aren’t so ageist like the English are, and so we didn’t notice any age gap at all. Diego was quite individual. He was friendly, but at the same time quite serious and pensive. He had slightly long hair and was very good looking, with quite serious big green eyes and a handsome face that always looked deep in thought. He reminded me of a king in a portrait, looking serious and majestic and thoughtful all at the same time.

Of all the people, it was Diego who I seemed to get on well with. The others were great people, but with Diego I had a personal connection. He, like me, was studying history, and found everything historical very interesting. He was a man of culture and of the arts, without being the least bit pretentious. He would always come and talk to me, and we’d chat amicably, despite the fact that my Spanish was barely beginner’s standard. Living with that amount of friendly Spaniards though, it was quickly improving. Diego and I would go out on short walks around the city, where he would point out things of interest and explain the Spanish way of life to me. I liked him from the moment I met him. It transpired we both loved music, and he invited me to come to a guitar and violin concert by the composer Boccherini, in an old church in the Old Town, which was really lovely. He invited me along to come out with friends of his that he knew, in the park where everybody congregated to drink alcohol. I never remember Diego drinking much alcohol, or doing anything that was wreckless. He was always thoughtful, serious and pensive, but friendly and open at the same time. I remember being in a restaurant on my own with my head in my hands, depressed beyond belief, a mixture of homesickness and struggling with my own personal problems, and Diego and Jose Ignacio approached me. “You know you can always knock on my door if you feel low”, Diego had said kindly, which was a lovely thing to hear in a time of hardship.

For reasons which I won’t go into here, I had to leave the flat I was in. It was absolute madness to have done so, looking back. I was having the time of my life there and my Spanish was literally rocketing up, with truly lovely people, meals taken care of ... it was bliss. Except for the fact that I suffered from acute Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and being in that flat – or rather, the fact there was a shop below the flat – was setting it off to an unbearable degree. I had to go. After just four weeks in my new home, I transferred to another. While the atmosphere of the first flat had been jubilant and celebratory, the second flat was an emotional desert. Three Spaniards who didn’t even bother to talk to me never mind to each other made it so that the place was practically deserted. My Spanish, which had been coming along in leaps and bounds, stopped. Aprubtly. Dead in its tracks. And to be honest, it didn’t improve much after that in the entire year abroad. I think back now what it would have been like had I stayed in the first flat, and how so very fluent I could have been had I stayed with that wonderful group of guys who had made me feel so welcome.

I still stayed in touch with Diego a fair amount. We met up from time to time, although the fact that I was no longer living in the same flat as him meant of course that we didn’t see as much of each other in comparison to the last. We still met up for the odd meal here and there, and caught up, and we were still good friends with each other.

He invited me to stay the weekend with his family in his home town of Santa Cruz, near La Coruna on the north coast. Such an offer from a Spaniard really is considered to be an honour – the home is sacred to the Spanish and inviting people into the close family circle is not taken lightly. Even more so from a Galician, whose reputation for being reserved and closed is famed throughout Spain.

We had agreed that I would come on the Saturday by train to La Coruna, and Diego and his dad would pick me up from the station (as he had already travelled back there on the Friday). I was quite excited to be seeing Spain from the inside out, as it were. A chance to see a proper Spanish family! I didn’t really know what to expect.

As it turned out, Diego’s family were every bit as lovely as I’d hoped, even more so. His father and he picked me up from La Coruna station and we drove to the centre of La Coruna, where his mother and sister were having dinner in a kind of glass marquee in the square – in any other place it would have been in the open air, but in Galicia, famed for its rain, you can’t really eat outside unless you want to get very wet! His mother welcomed me with open arms. She was a lovely, bubbly lady, very cuddly and maternal and very, very Spanish. “I’m Concha”, she smiled, “and this is my daughter Marta”. His father and mother asked me about my life and my family at home, and I had a lovely lunch with them there. His sister Marta was also very talkative, she was only fifteen at the time. When I came to pay my share of the bill, Concha’s hand steadied mine – “Oh no, please, leave that to us” she said kindly.

Later that day, Diego’s dad drove us to the Tower of Hercules, a kind of historic lighthouse in Coruna. Concha and Marta I think went back home, but we three walked along the coast of Coruna, a salty, wet and grey but delightful city, and walked up to the top of the tower. Diego was always very kindly, and I remember us standing by an information board inside the tower, where I was trying to decipher the Galician version into Spanish, with his hand moving along the text to help me. Galician is the local language of Galicia, a sort of mixture between Spanish and Portuguese, and all Galicians are bilingual in Galician and Spanish. Diego was Galician through and through, and from what I remember spoke Galician with his father but Spanish with his mother, who was from Andalusia. He always spoke Spanish to me in what I realise now is a very distinct dialect particular to Coruna.

My memory of that weekend is pretty patchy after all these years, so I can’t remember exactly what we did after that. I do remember that we arrived back home at his apartment, which was lovely like all Spanish apartments, and a true home. It was warm and friendly, just like Diego’s family. Artwork adorned the walls, including some paintings Concha had done of Diego and Marta and some scenery. Photographs of Concha as a toddler in Andalucia, and of Diego and Marta at their grandparents’ in Andalusia were on the shelves. I remember seeing a photograph of Concha in her graduation robes, and she had been very, very pretty. Diego had inherited her good looks.

I remember Concha preparing for a big meal that evening, and she had invited some other English people round that the family knew, husband and wife Peter and Mary, although Mary it later transpired was Galician. I remember Concha bustling around getting the food ready, and chastising Diego for not doing anything, whilst he sat there a bit hacked off and embarrassed the way all teenagers do when they are told off by their mothers in company! Peter and Mary came round, both in the forties or so, and it was a relief to hear an English voice after attempting to speak so much Spanish! We had a good laugh in the living room talking about things English and languages in general – with Diego’s mum and dad joining in with gusto. Then we had dinner – a really delicious Galician fish dish. Or maybe that was the next day ... I can’t remember too well. Whatever it was it was delicious. I remember sitting round the table and a sort of Spanish nougat being passed around. At first I declined, but Diego insisted that I try it because it would be a shame not to try a great Spanish delicacy, and he physically shoved the nougat into my mouth and rammed my jaw shut, so I had no choice! As I said, Diego was a man of history and culture.

We were due to go out that night, as everybody does on a Saturday. “Diego, your friend is tired” said Concha to her son, seeing me yawning across the table – “maybe you should have an early night”. “Do you want to go?” said Diego. “It’s ok if you don’t, I’ll just tell them we can’t make it”. “Oh no, it’s fine” I reassured him. I didn’t want to spoil his evening and besides I was quite looking forward to experiencing his world.

Before then, we went to a bar to meet a friend of his, who turned up extremely late without telling Diego. Diego always took it in good humour though. I don’t think a lot of his friends treated him as well as he treated them, but he was never one to complain. At the gathering in Santiago a lot of his so-called friends had ignored him while he was there trying to talk to them. Perhaps I’m wrong. But this friend of his in Coruna ignored me for sure!

Then Diego took me to a famous castle on a small island connected by a bridge to the town where he lived. It was quite surreal really – only we were out at that time, when darkness had fallen and the town shone a burnished yellow from the streetlamps, while a fine rain blew with the gusts of wind across the beach. I remember walking with Diego along the pier-like bridge to the castle, and him looking pensively out to sea. He tended to do that. We walked round the castle and spent some time walking round the beach. I felt very lucky to be there and to have such an accommodating friend as Diego. He told me he rowed every weekend, and that’s why he came back to Santa Cruz every weekend (although most Spanish students do this). I remember him teaching me the words for “to row” and “sand”, which is “arena”, which also means the type of arena sports are held in. He drew an arena in the sand and told me of the Romans and what events they held in them. He was an interesting guy, Diego.

Then we went out on the town. I can’t really remember much of this – it’s all so long ago. But I do remember we met up with a few friends of his and went to a few bars in the centre of Coruna. I didn’t enjoy it much – I was tired and therefore feeling a bit grumpy. It was nice to see Coruna at night though – bustling with congregations of students who had the affinity to meet under the stars. We went to a club and I tried my hardest to engage but after a while I just gave up, my eyes were closing on me. “Can we go home?” I said to Diego. “Sure” he said, and motioned to his friends, who were girls, to give us a lift back, as one of them had their own car.

I remember driving back and one of the girls telling me she hoped to study in Bolivia, which interested me as I’ve always been interested in South America. I don’t even remember anything else about that journey, other than it was raining. I remember me and Diego arrived back at the door of his apartment block, and he was just about to put the key in the lock when he said “Are you tired?” “No” I answered, lying because I didn’t want to upset him. “Shall we go for a walk?” he said. “Sure” I responded, and we set out on a small walk round where he lived.

Santa Cruz, his village, was on the sea, so his house wasn’t far from the water. Rain was falling but being blown haphazardly by the wind, and it was quite a wild night. This was around 2 o’clock in the morning ... and Diego, ever pensive and thoughtful, led me on a small walk round near the coast. I remember walking through a park, and everything was silent for not a soul was about. He led the way, I followed him. We walked near the shoreline, on a rocky hill that jutted out into the sea, where the waves were crashing into the rocks below. Diego had a velvet black jacket that he wore and was very proud of, and he was wearing it now. He looked out to sea and picked up a few stones and threw them as far as he could out into the ocean. “I like a girl called Leti” he said. “I’m going pull out a rose from my jacket, present her with it and tell her I like her” he continued. “Oh”, I said, not knowing sufficient Spanish to respond properly.

I don’t remember much after that, only that we must’ve walked back after an age and gone back to bed. I had a pull-out bed next to his. I was worn-out by this point, but Diego was still quite awake. Lying in bed and trying to prop my eyes open, he asked me “What was your ex-girlfriend Laura, like?” I didn’t know enough Spanish to respond, so I just said “with a lot of fire and passion” ... I never even had had a girlfriend but I told him that so as not to lose face. With that I drifted off to sleep.

Diego’s dad had been due to take us on a walk the next morning, but we were both so exhausted that we overslept. I remember his Dad coming in and saying “It’s a bit late for a walk now eh!” before we got up. Then he drove us to a coastal fishing village where we ordered fresh Galician mussels ... something I wasn’t too keen on eating. They were gigantic, and Diego and his family ate them with gusto, but I declined. “All this food we’ve bought especially for you and you’re not eating it!” remarked his dad, half-joking, probably half serious. The Galicians are very proud of their fishing industry – it’s very prominent in Spain, since half of Spanish fish comes from Galicia. The coasts are all prime fishing spots in the wild waters of the Atlantic.

Then we went to a concert his mum was giving, because she played the mandolin. We went into a village hall and she came on with some other mandolin players. It was nice music and I enjoyed it. I remember sitting next to a family friend of theirs, who told me she had used to live in Barcelona. “You didn’t want to stay there?” I asked her. “I wanted to, but I had to come back to Galicia because of my family” she said, almost mournfully. I wondered if she would still rather be in the sun-drenched city rather than rain-drenched Galicia.

As soon as Diego’s mum had finished playing, we all left and went and had a drink in a nearby cafe. I remember Diego asked for a Cacaolat, which is a kind of cold chocolate milkshake, and very nice.

Then I don’t remember anything, except Concha taking my hands and saying it had been a pleasure having me stay with them and that I must come again soon. She was a lovely lady, Concha.

Then me and Diego were on the train back to Santiago. We passed a lot of the journey in silence, each with his own thoughts. I remember looking at him and thinking how kind he had been to me and how lovely his family were.

After that weekend, I saw Diego a few times more. I met up for dinner with him a couple of weeks before I was due to leave, and he gave me his address and email address. I never gave him mine, and I subsequently lost his details. He said he was going to move into a flat with Jose Ignacio the next year and we wished each other well.

I was never to see him again.

I had no way of contacting him once I got home to England. I had his phone number but gradually forgot the PIN and by the time I realised it was too late. I didn’t hear from any of my former flatmates, and I figured I had no way of finding them. I had no access to their numbers, and I didn’t know anything of their surnames or anything. It looked like they were consigned to the history books.

After a few years – three, to be precise, I decided I should get back in touch with Diego. He had been a good friend to me in Santiago and I was sad not to see him again. I had previously given up hope of ever finding him – I didn’t know his surname, address, or anything. But then I had a brainwave of emailing the company that owned the residence where I met him. I sent them an email asking if they knew of his number, and they sent one back saying they had rung his house and his sister remembered me and here was Diego’s mobile number!!

I was quite excited, getting back into contact with him after all these years. I even held out hope we could arrange a meeting. I excitedly messaged him and received a reply within the hour. He was surprised to hear from me, and asked how I was, and how I had got his number. He exchanged two texts with me before saying we would chat online when he had the chance.

I sent another couple of texts to him, but he didn’t reply. Eventually, he went online and sent me an email. A few, short, surprised but otherwise friendly lines. I sent a big long description of what I was up to, how my life was going and how he was etc. And my address should he need it. He sent another back saying we could chat on msn messenger when he was online. Again, just two emails.

So I chatted with him on messenger. I couldn’t contain my delight at having found him again, I was so pleased. He didn’t seem so pleased. He hadn’t been so forthcoming with his texts, or his emails. I didn’t sense the same feeling of excitement and gladness was reciprocated. It was as though me turning up out of the blue was a casual co-incidence, and not something that really bothered him too much. We chatted, and he said he’d look out for me if he came to England.

The next time he came online, I tried to start a conversation with him but he immediately went offline. I tried sending him some texts to see how he was, but with no reply. I tried again and again, but to no avail. No reply.



No matter, he’s probably busy, I thought. I tried again in a week. Then again in two. I tried emails, texts, everything. It was then I used a special program designed to show you who has blocked you on msn and it showed that he had blocked me.

Since then I’ve tried to contact him numerous times. Maybe too many times, but I was anxious to re-start that friendship I’d had with him those years ago. No reply. Not a sausage. I tried and tried and tried but to no avail. I must have sent him over twenty emails over the months, asking how he was and just wondering whether there was any reason why he wasn’t replying, and nothing ever came back. I tried calling his number – nothing.

After all this time, in an act of desperation, I tried to search for him on the internet. I knew I had his surname – Iglesias – so I figured I could somehow track him down. I did succeed in tracking his mum down, because I knew she was Concha Iglesias – it turned out she is a teacher in a high school in Galicia. I wrote her a letter, and enclosed a letter to Diego, and sent it off to the school. No reply.

I sent another letter to the school, all of this just explaining I wanted to get back into contact with Diego and still no reply.

Eventually, through facebook I managed to find his mum. I sent her an email basically saying what I’d said in the letters, and to my surprise, received a reply. Being the kindly lady she always was, she said she had told Diego about the letters I had sent, and wished me well. She didn’t shed any light onto as to why Diego wouldn’t contact me, she simply sent some kind words my way and said she hoped I was well. At first she said it was probably because he had been away in Europe, but then she avoided the subject altogether. She told me not to worry and that I was a nice person who she had enjoyed having in her house all those years ago. She sent me two messages, both lovely messages from the Concha I knew and liked.

I did find the guys I had been friends with from that flat, through facebook. All of them welcomed me back, so to speak, and told me what they were up to. Jose Ignacio, who had been closest to Diego, reacted the same way as Diego’s mum – and sent Diego a message saying I had been after him. Diego sent him a reply, but completely ignored the subject of me, and so Jose said he didn’t know what had happened ... and that was that.

I suppose I will never know what happened with Diego. More than anything, it makes me sad and disappointed. I had had a friend in him all those years ago, and from the way he has erased me from his life and ignored me it would seem he is a completely different person. I caught sight of a recent picture of him on msn just before he blocked me – and he had changed a bit. Instead of the long, floppy hair he had had, it was now shaved in a buzz cut. He had a tiny goatee, and wore a very stylish smart shirt in place of the velvet jacket. Maybe, just maybe, he discovered he was actually very good looking, and perhaps found that life was better if he used that to his advantage. I still don’t understand though. He was one of the nicest people you could ever meet, and seems now to have turned into one of the cruellest. You might say it was because I was trying to contact him so much, and maybe anybody would be freaked out by that. But he erased me out long before I sent him extensive emails and texts ... and only then I did it because I didn’t know if he was getting them, and because I didn’t want to lose contact with someone I had good times with.

More time has passed now.

I still think of Diego to this day. For me, the person I knew, the friendly and pensive and decent guy, who took me, a nervous and stammering foreigner, under his wing and invited me into the most intimate circles of his life, will remain shrouded in the depths of my memory. For all I know, that Diego may be gone forever and I will never see him again, but I can at least look back on the fond memories that I do have of him and smile, remembering the thoughtful, pensive and friendly guy who was to me a true friend.