Hot air hits us like a brick wall as we step off the air-conditioned bus onto ash gray pavement in central Spain. We squint and place our hands on our foreheads as though we are saluting the gigantic windmills on the hill before us. The heatwave causes us to melt in the Spanish desert; the sun relentlessly beats down on us, making our heads full of dark hair feel like they’re about to catch fire. The landscape around us is dry and yellowish-brown with patches of green here and there. The terrain is rocky but tall golden grass and low green shrubs grow on the side of the hill. We begin our walk uphill to the point where the pavement ends and sand, dirt, and beige-colored rock begins.

Twelve giants in the shape of windmills tower over us and try to intimidate us with their bulky stone bodies and long arms, which don’t turn and spin like they used to when they were first built. Their bodies are cylindrical and stalky, the color of eggshells, and they wear triangular hats that are gray, blue, or black. The giants have square eyes just below their hats that surround their circumference, a rectangular nose, and a large rectangular mouth at their base. They loom over the town of Consuegra, a municipality located in the province of Toledo, Castile-La Mancha, which is home to about 11,000 inhabitants. The homes and shops and restaurants keep their distance from the hillside as if the sedentary giants will rise from the ground and stomp them in a sudden attack of mythic proportions. The air on the hill is stagnant and dry and it is mostly quiet with the exception of soft guitar music playing from the inside of the souvenir shop called Cabellero del Verde Gabán, the name of a gentleman who lodges the eponymous protagonist of the novel Don Quixote. We walk around and take pictures, posing like warriors with the brown landscape behind us as if we are Spanish conquistadors.

We stroll around and try to look at the new additions to our photo albums but the sun is too bright and our phone screens look black. Everyone starts to chat about what we’re having for lunch, where we’re going after that, and what we should do later that night. My thoughts wander and I think about the things I have to do once I get back home. Will my senior year test my limits? What is my college essay going to be about? Where am I applying? Will I get into the school of my choice? Am I in over my head? I feel myself tilting at windmills.

The windmills we are visiting rose to fame after being featured in the most influential piece of Spanish literature of all time, Miguel de Cervantes’ Don Quixote. Originally published in full in 1615, the novel follows Don Quixote de la Mancha, a nobleman who has read so many epic novels and chivalrous romances that he loses his mind. Throughout the story, the delusional “knight” travels through Spain, slaying evil and defending good, determined to live in a time that no longer exists. His “squire” is a laborer named Sancho Panza, his “steed” is an old barn horse named Rocinante, and his beautiful “princess” is a peasant woman named Dulcinea. Although Cervantes originally wrote Don Quixote with comedic intentions, the theme of the novel has been analyzed many times and becomes darker over time.

In chapter eight of the novel, Don Quixote and Sancho come across the cluster of windmills which Don Quixote believes to be a group of giants. He goes to slay them and the arm of one of the windmills knocks him off of his horse and onto the hard ground. “Tilting at windmills” is an English expression derived from this moment in classic Spanish literature; it refers to fighting – “tilting” literally means jousting – imaginary demons. Don Quixote is determined to bring justice to Spain by fighting for chivalry, and in doing so, he fights things that don’t actually exist. According to Merriam-Webster Dictionary, Don Quixote is linked to another term in the English language: quixotic, meaning “foolishly impractical, especially in the pursuit of ideals, marked by rash lofty romantic ideas or extravagantly chivalrous action.” So, Don Quixote is fighting with all his might against things that don’t matter, don’t exist, don’t harm, and don’t effect anything.

Depending on how I look at it, the windmills could be windmills or they could be giants. They could hold their actual purpose, which is primarily grinding grain, or they could have their imaginary purpose, which is knocking people off their horses and terrorizing the town. I could choose to enjoy my time here or I could choose to tilt at windmills.

I come back to reality and look around. My friends are still chatting and laughing about the inside joke of the day. I join in. My Spanish teacher calls us over to the front of one of the windmills and insists that we have to take a group photo. He walks over to a Spanish woman wearing a blue and white flowy dress and asks her to take our photo; she takes his camera with a friendly grin and gets accustomed to the device before it’s time to snap our group shot. He runs back to us and sits on a makeshift stool and we make a line around him, placing our hands on each other’s backs. Our teacher is wearing a white shirt with PITTSBURGH 25 written across the chest in bold black letters outlined in a mustardy gold. We are very far from home.

I wonder if the people of Consuegra ever tilt at windmills. The town seems so sleepy and tranquil that I find it hard to believe that anyone would ever find the need to joust imaginary giants like Don Quixote. The people of Spain are known for their laidback lifestyle; they go to work in the morning and have a two to five hour break in the middle of the day for a siesta and then return to work in the late afternoon. They always make time for friends and family and going out and enjoying themselves. They eat dinner around midnight in the summer months and bask in the moonlight hours after eating, sitting and talking around the table, a time they refer to as sobremesa, which does not have a direct translation in English. Life seems so carefree and relaxed here that I can’t relate to it, coming from the hustle and bustle and nonstop stress of the American lifestyle.

We soon get bored of standing in the brutal direct sunlight and venture to the souvenir shop, which is housed inside one of the windmills. Knick knacks line the circumference of the circular room and a woman with dark hair stands behind the counter, conversing with an American man practicing his Spanish. The air is cool and it is dimly lit inside the shop. Despite the cool shelter, it’s uncomfortably crowded and we can’t move without bumping into sweaty bodies with every step, so we quickly look at the shot glasses and tchotchkes and walk back into the arid desert.

After a while, our tour guide tells us we have five minutes until it’s time to get back on the bus and go to lunch at a local restaurant. My friend whines about how hot it is. My Spanish teacher recounts his hellish experience of reading a thousand pages of Don Quixote as a Spanish student in college. Tourists take pictures with their kids. We descend down the hill while getting rocks and sand in our sandals. It’s hotter once we hit the pavement. The bus creates even more heat and the putrid smell of fuel emissions fills the air after a while. The bus driver sits in the driver’s seat but doesn’t unlock the door, so we huddle and gossip about the boys in our tour group and discuss how we would spend our perfect afternoon. We fantasize about eating pomegranate gelato while we sweat in the summer heat. We fan ourselves with our museum maps from the day before until the bus driver finishes his crossword puzzle and opens the automatic door. We pile onto the bus and plop down onto the red 90’s patterned seats and blast the air conditioning on our faces. The sound of conversation engulfs me and I zone out. I look out the window at the brown hillside and try to see the whole view, tilting my head to look at windmills.

Works Cited