The Castle of My Dreams

Castle and proprietor. Count on it.
All photos in this post 2019 Jessica Knauss 

In January 2006, I was studying very hard in Salamanca. I was also getting to know the public face of Manolo Garcia as I'd never had the opportunity to before, and loving every new thing I learned, about both Alfonso X el Sabio and Manolo Garcia.

That month, thirteen years ago, I dreamed I lived in a large structure with many staircases and bedrooms. This wonderful dwelling was filled with ten or twelve writers and artists, focusing on their creations and feeling inspired by their distraction-free but gorgeous surroundings. One unassuming but popular guest was Manolo Garcia. He would give impromptu creativity talks in chambers where everyone sat on sumptuous pillows, but mostly he created, like all the other artists. He stopped me on a staircase to thank me for inviting him to my artistically stimulating refuge from the obligations of daily life, saying it had been the best month of his life.

Since then, I've known exactly what I will do with all the money I'll earn from bestselling books and unexpected inheritances. I'm inspired to run an artists' colony where writers and all kinds of creatives can practice their art unencumbered in a spectacular setting.

Fast forward ten years, ten of the best years of my life because they included my marriage to Stanley. Poking around on the internet one day in late 2015, I found a castle for sale. A Spanish castle for sale. The asking price was five million euros, which doesn't seem outlandish to fulfill one's cherished life dream, but was far out out of my prospects.

I showed the listing to my soul mate and he was happy to find out it's in the same region as Frías, a gorgeous medieval wonderland we'd recently seen and where he said many times (jokingly) that we should go and live. The region is called the Merindades, and it's the hardscrabble mountain birth mother of Castile, and thus of Spain as we know it.

Specifically, my castle is located in Lezana de Mena. It's next door to the place where the word "Castile" was written down for the first time (that we know of). The first written notice of the castle is from 1397, and it was built a few years before that for the Angulo family, one of the important landowners in the region. The construction is solid and finished with perfection in every angle. Aside from the tower, which is the only thing visible in my photos here, it has a wall and other towers and some usable one-story buildings. It sits on 22,000 square meters of gardens with fruit trees, a stream, a little forest with three century-old oaks, and a large pond. (Perfect for rhinoceros grazing, but we'll think about that later.)

The price, to me, is further justified because it boasts state-of-the-art central heating; a heated swimming pool with geothermal technology, a wave generator, and spa jets; all new plumbing; double-glazed windows; a centralized vacuum cleaning system; satellite telephone system with Wi-Fi, TV in all rooms, and motion detectors in communal areas; five open fireplaces, three of which have inserted cassettes with hot air impellers with insulated stainless steel flues; solid oak beams and stairways; floors made of oak, chestnut, and northern pine; six bed chambers with on-suite bathrooms, two with walk-in wardrobes; three powder rooms; a library; a large refectory; public rooms; a kitchen; and an elevator!

And now the asking price has been reduced to less than three million euros!

This first week of January 2019, I had the chance to visit my castle for the first time, so of course I seized it! Driving north from Burgos, my friend and I were aghast at the constantly changing countryside. Just looking through the window filled me with gratitude. "If you like Castile," said my friend, "it doesn't get any more authentic than this!"

Passing by innumerable Romanesque churches and other castles I don't currently have plans to buy, weaving through the mountains, we at last came around a bend and my castle presented itself to me like a gift from Spain, the entity I've loved longest and hardest. It was apparent that the castle wasn't open to visits from tourists (But I'm not a tourist! I'm the future owner!) before we even parked.

The town surprised me with its lively atmosphere. It lacked the sense of desolation you get in a lot of towns on the Castilian plain, and felt welcoming. We had tea in the bar across from what looked like the castle's front gate, while I was champing at the bit to get outside and take photos and commune with my castle. The lady who made our tea gave us the low-down: Indeed, no one is allowed in the castle unless they intend to put their visit in a high-visibility publication or have documented ability to buy it. Even so, I didn't feel turned away. I had a strong sense of being in the right place, which is something I haven't felt in my life very often.

The castle passed into the Velasco family in the early fifteenth century, a time full of conflicts between nobles and uprisings at all levels. The Velascos had countless castles all over what is now northern Castile, claiming their territory and warning against any and all transgressions of authority. Wouldn't it be ideal to have an invasion of writers and artists in this beautiful space to encourage the sense of peace that now blankets this valley? 

Generous donations graciously accepted, serious investment queries gladly entertained. 

Love or Money?

At the risk of obviousness, I love Spain.

I've loved Spain with blind faith since I first heard about its existence when I was about eleven years old. People have been telling me lately how hard it must be, away from home during the holidays. I've nodded and smiled, only to realize later that they were talking about me.

I can't understand why anyone would not love Spain.
Photo 2005 Jessica Knauss

No, I don't feel as if I'm away from home. If we must pathologize my experience, I've come up with the term nationality dysphoria, which is a form of psychological suffering on its way to being diagnosable, but I prefer to think of it as one of my defining characteristics rather than a disease. If you asked any one of my friends or family members to describe me, their first sentence would be, "She loves Spain."

Now that I'm here, what would it take to get me to leave? I underwent just such a test of my love and loyalty this past week. I'm exhausted!

A company I worked for in Massachusetts (one of my favorite places in the United States) had been trying to contact me about a freelance job. I welcomed this idea, because in order to live in Zamora, I teach English on a part-time basis. It pays enough to live frugally, but if I want to have money left over at the end of the year to pay student loans or buy a ticket back to the United States (that part's iffy), I have to maintain a healthy schedule of freelance editing.

The company had some trouble getting in touch with me because this came about when I was traveling in Ponferrada without much internet. We finally set up a time for a call via Google Voice on Monday afternoon. I should've suspected it was a big deal when they insisted on the phone call. Most of my freelance work never leaves the realm of email.

My favorite historical figures call me to Spain.
Photo 2016 Stanley Coombs 

Nothing could've prepared me for what happened. I had my notebook next to the computer to write down the specifics, and it only has one line of notes before all hell broke loose in my brain. A huge editorial project in Spanish packed into three months for one of the most famous publishers, I would have to live in Massachusetts while I worked on it.

But... I live in Spain...?

As we kept talking, the offer took on epic proportions.

* A round-trip ticket.

* A rent-free apartment equipped with ways to eat frugally.

* More pay than I've ever earned in a year as a freelance editor, and much more than I make as a part-time teacher assistant, for three months' work.

That quantity of money wouldn't seem like much to some, but it would offer me some exciting possibilities.

It turned my head. I felt I'd only ever seen job offers like this in movies before. However, inconveniences included no health insurance and no transportation allowance. I would have to give notice at school and my gorgeous apartment and be on a flight by Christmas Day at the latest. (This kind of last-minute scramble is routine in this industry.)

I requested twenty-four hours to decide, and put up the twenty-four-hour Facebook poll at the top  of this post. The poll is highly simplified, but that was what it boiled down to for me: Love = staying in Spain, Money = leaving immediately for three months. I wanted people's gut reactions, and I got them. I was impressed, but not surprised, when Love became the favorite from the start.

I also got advice from a few people whose opinions I trust. In my shoes, they would go for the money. In my circles, money is rarer than love and you must take it when and where you find it. And, after all, I've already experienced true love, the kind you always hear about and never think is real. How greedy would I be to demand yet more love now that my sweet Stanley is gone?

I went to bed thinking that in the morning, I was probably going to pack my winter clothes to head to Massachusetts. The English idiom "sleeping on it" is "consulting with the pillow" in Spanish. My Spanish pillow did a lot of convincing, because I woke up in the opposite frame of mind.

I got up and emailed to politely decline.

With the time difference, the company wouldn't read the email for several more hours, but I felt better instantly. With that strange interlude over, I had an unusual day at school that required every ounce of extroverted energy I'd stored up over the last six months.

I was emotionally exhausted to the point of physical symptoms when I received a counteroffer.

The old offer still stood, with its plane fare and its quick time frame, but the new offer added:

* A generous food allowance.

* Even more salary!

* I would be picked up from the airport.

* I would work with people I enjoyed, as well as a new international cadre of brilliant experts.

* I would be a train ride away from all the wonders and friends of Boston.

I started thinking I would be crazy not to accept. As this blog post admits, I may just be a little crazy. Add nationality dysphoria to my normal, earth-shattering grief, and we can conclude that the only reason I'm not a complete basket case is that I'm successfully treating the symptoms of my pathology by living in Spain. I've also had some wonderful help with my grief.

I researched the details of what it would take for me to accept the offer. Sure, there were a few problems, but they all had solutions. Then the Facebook poll ended, with Love the clear winner. Why wasn't I as clear about it as my friends?

I had a coffee date that afternoon with my Zamora-native friend. It turned out that such an activity involves viewing the colorful sunset and the flight of the storks at the castle as well as a nice little walk past innumerable medieval and Renaissance architecture masterpieces that exert a physical pull on me to have tea in a cozy jazz cafe.

The storks just keep coming at Zamora Castle. (Not a photo from the coffee date.) 

I explained the extraordinary job offer to my friend, and he was impressed. "You must be really good."

"Of course, I'm the best. Didn't you know?" I replied with a sense of humor I'm not sure anyone understands but me.

All the beauty of Zamora had come out to meet me that afternoon. I savored the signature bergamot essence of Earl Grey tea in a jazz cafe in the small, unique city of my lifelong dream. My life since my true love died has dipped frequently into unbearable, but here and now, I can reach out and touch happiness, if only for the briefest moments.

"Spain will be here when you come back," my friend said. "It's not going anywhere."

It was true, but I wasn't convinced. Sure, I would have enough savings to come back in the springtime and resume everything but work at school, which I assumed wouldn't take me back after such a sudden departure. But once I was in Massachusetts, the paperwork alone would be daunting. Doubts surrounded the idea in my mind.

Some of the greatest moments of my life have happened in Spain. 

My Zamoran friend and I stopped at the supermarket (full of Spanish food!! I'll have to write a separate post about this aspect of life.) before heading to our separate homes, and we sang a few lines from Manolo García songs in the middle of the street. This is not something that ever happens in the United States. If he was rooting for me to take the job, he was going about it all wrong.

I got home, made a Spanish-style light dinner, watched some of my favorite TV in the world, and then called up an old friend. She asked me different questions than all the other wise advisors I'd called upon so far and helped me unpack what felt wrong about the "it'll be here when you come back" argument.

Her question was: Would I have left Stanley for three months to be with a rich man?

When I recovered from the copious tears that sprang up at the thought, I choked out, "Never." No question. No argument. Everyone pack up and go home.

Photo 2005 Jessica Knauss 

Maybe no one else would see it this way, and maybe it's not fair to focus so much of the meaning of life on any one thing, especially a country, but this is an accurate reflection of my psychological landscape. At a deep level, I questioned whether Spain would ever take me back after such a betrayal. Perhaps the country of my birth would latch onto me and never let go. It was as if Spain was testing my loyalty and asking me to define what's most important. I couldn't disappoint the surviving love of my life, even if it will never give me words of approval because it has no lips or vocal cords.

I suppose everyone has their price, but the offer didn't quite meet mine.

Listen up, Spain! I passed the test. I'm staying as long as you'll let me. Send money now. Lots of money!

You Look at Me, I Fall In Love: A Few Reasons Zamora is Going to Be Awesome

Urraca of Zamora as portrayed in El Cid (1961) 

As you know, I'm going to be teaching English in Zamora, Spain, come September. It's a dream come true not only because I've always wanted to live in Spain, but also because Zamora has a lot going for it (in my humble opinion).

You probably haven't heard of Zamora before. If you look it up online, you'll find phrases like "overlooked" and "the quiet interior of Spain." That suits me fine. My dear Stanley taught me that many of the finest things in life are quiet and hardly anyone knows about them.

This anonymity is recent. From the time of its founding at the beginning of Roman power in Iberia, Zamora played an important role in commerce and military strategy. Its history is full of explosive characters, a goldmine for historical novelists—and I'm planning to do a lot of mining!

I pretend to be Urraca de Zamora in 2005. 

A most notable character is Urraca de Zamora. Her father, King Fernando I, decided to divide up his vast kingdom among his children. (This might seem like a good idea, but it has never played out well in history or fiction.) Urraca's three brothers fought it out until Sancho II had become King of Castilla, León, and Galicia. However, Urraca's father had granted her sovereignty over the walled city of Zamora, and she wasn't giving it up easily. Sancho besieged the city and then sent El Cid himself to ask Urraca to hand over Zamora in exchange for many different prosperous villages with their noble vassals. She refused with the vehemence required and with the support of the loyal Zamorans. In the end, she had to call in her other brother, Alfonso, to help, and once the siege of Zamora was over, Alfonso had become Alfonso VI of all the kingdoms of his father.

The rare and gorgeous Romanesque cathedral of Zamora
Photo by Jessica Knauss 

That's only one example of how desired Zamora has been by important players. The Spanish saying "Zamora no se ganó en una hora" refers to the many long sieges it suffered as leaders through history took great pains to win it or recover it.

Zamora has crossed my path before, kind of a teaser trailer for this new life plan. My proudest accomplishment, Seven Noble Knights, begins with a siege of Zamora (read it here when you scroll down)!

At Zamora castle. Photo by Jessica Knauss 

I also visited for one day before I started my doctoral dissertation research in Salamanca. It was not enough time to even begin to delve into the amazing architecture all that history has left behind. Zamora is a major center of Romanesque architecture, and I adore that style. I will adore imagining historical and fictional characters interacting, feeling their emotions, and living their everyday lives in and among this architecture. Much more about that later.

Finally, I had a feeling all along that it would be Zamora. The program I'm teaching with only allows you to choose the top three regions you'd like to be placed in, what type of school, and what size of city. None of the preferences are guaranteed as they place hundreds of teachers all over the country. I had indicated Castilla y León as my first choice because Stanley had said his favorite city was Burgos (the site of many scenes in Seven Noble Knights). I was thrilled when I received my first regional choice, but intuited that it wasn't going to be Burgos.

There were two Spanish pop songs in the 1980s that had provincial capitals of Castilla y León in their titles, and I strongly felt that it was going to be one of them. In my darker moments, I knew Soria was the place for me. I'm sure it's wonderful, but it's the only capital of Castilla y León that I haven't visited at all. Its '80s song is a six-minute epic of mystical angst and disappointment in love, complete with an organ that evokes church or the phantom of the opera.

These are the lyrics of "Camino Soria" (my translation):

Everyone knows it’s hard to find a place in life where time passes rhythmically without thinking, and pain doesn’t stay long. On the banks of the Duero there’s a city. If you don’t know the way, listen to this: The dead leaves fall slowly as you walk by and the deer begins to speak. On a cool morning the sun’s already out but can’t warm anything. When you can make out the mountain of the spirits, don’t look. Recover and keep walking. Bécquer was no idiot and Machado no lout, and from the two of them you find out that the cure for love is solitude. On the banks of the Duero, there’s a city. On the banks of the Duero, my love, I’m waiting for you. I’m headed to Soria, where are you going? There, I’m in my glory as never before. I’m headed to Soria. I want to rest. Erasing from my memory betrayals and the rest. Erasing from my memory, I’m headed to Soria. 

After the year I've had, I don't need any more brooding. I've got that covered. 

So I turned to the other song, "Zamora." The lead vocals are by none other than Manolo García, one of the loves of my life! Added to that, the lyrics and music are loud, fun, nonsensical, ROAD TRIP mayhem. (This is the 2015 version. The '80s version appears to use Zamora as an insane asylum. We'll leave that aside, too, thankyouverymuch.) 

These are some of the lyrics (my translation): 

There’s no rush to get there, everything’s yet to be discovered. If you want to come along, there’s room on board. I’m a gray Argonaut, but I have a plan: just friendship, that’s the deal. Chimeras, excitement, that’s what’s coming. Benzedrine-free shine, that’s the goal. A life of musicians who never want to stop, a life of acrobats and tricks. We’ll be freaks with excellent etiquette, guests no one is expecting. She looks at me, I fall in love with her, she takes me to Zamora. Our journey ends if I propose a wedding. And if you go off with someone else, I fall in love with your mother. You call me and say, “Calm down, don’t get worked up.” 

The Duero at Zamora
Photo by Jessica Knauss 

In both cases, the cities were chosen because of the multiple rhymes that could be made with their names, but I listened to "Zamora" on repeat for several days while I awaited my school assignment. When the email came in, it was so very official, with a dateline and everything, in the administrative capital of Castilla y León, Valladolid. Valladolid is a large and amazing city, but I was disconcerted because I thought I'd been assigned to a school there. No, silly, keep scrolling! Ah, there's the school address: It's in Zamora! Yippee! 

A fun song named after it, I started my first novel in it, Romanesque architecture, thrilling history, a good school, I should be able to walk just about everywhere, and it's close to Portugal. In ten trips I've taken to Spain, I've never set foot in Portugal. Time to dust off the bucket list. 

New Life: The Trip of a Lifetime, Part 13

It was June 2016. Stanley and I were waking up to bright blue skies and doves cooing in Arizona. For an instant each morning, I could fool myself into thinking I was still in Spain, on that trip I wish had never ended. Arizona will always live in my heart, especially now that I don't live there, but the disappointment was palpable, the lighting angles all wrong, the smell of the air off somehow.

I've lived in quite a few places, and geography has been a central preoccupation in my life. After I first traveled to Spain, when I was sixteen years old, I noticed a tiny seed of anxiety that I imagine in a manner similar to traditional depictions of the angel and devil hovering over a decision-maker's shoulders. As I moved east and west, north and south, and across the Atlantic for education, employment, and finally to be with my roaming true love, that anxiety devil grew from a seed and blossomed into something formless but huge.

The view from my study in Arizona could almost be Andalucía. 

I had a lot of freelance editing work that June, and as I pounded away at the keyboard in the little study I so appreciated for the short time I had it, I cogitated on this eternal geographical anxiety in the background. I noted that it affected my mental state at all times. It calmed down quite a bit when I spent time with Stanley and especially when we purposefully centered ourselves in the present moment. But maybe, just maybe, a physical place existed beyond that anxiety's reach.

Looking through the photos and videos from our Trip of a Lifetime, I came to one of those realizations that break the world open, that energize you and let you see new possibilities: I had an epiphany. I leafed through some old journals and photo albums and confirmed my suspicion that this new truth wasn't run-of-the-mill traveler's regret. Someone once told me I was born in the wrong country, and I was only beginning to understand how true that was.

Stanley was parked on the couch in front of the TV, a place he'd been more often than not lately, but I was too wrapped up in my epiphany to notice. I went out to him and spoke from my heart. "Spain is the only place I ever feel at home, the only place I don't feel as if I should be somewhere else." Over the course of the next half hour, with tears of emotion, decision, and joy, we hashed out some of the feasibility of going to live in Spain. I was convinced his visa would be easy as a retired person; mine, as a "working person" (a productive member of society or a drain on it), would be much more difficult to obtain. Stanley hadn't been feeling well—that's as much as he ever said—and all this was overwhelming at the time, but he agreed that we would look into it and figure it out "as soon as you get better," as I so naively put it.

I felt better because I always feel good with a plan or even a plan for a plan. My true love, however, never did feel better.

Without going into too much detail, he entered the hospital about a month later on a Friday. Stanley's sister flew in to help, but she considerately left me alone to chat with him his first night in the ICU. I played him several of his favorite Manolo García songs on his phone. In all the emotional strain, I was convinced that Stanley was now in a position to understand the Spanish in the songs perfectly. And so I closed the Manolo García bookends of our marriage.

Then I told him I'd found a program through which Americans could teach English in Spain, and that if he needed to leave, he didn't have to worry about me. I would be living the dream. Everything else he already knew.

The following Friday in the early morning, barely a week after arriving at the hospital, Stanley passed away. I have no working memory of much of anything that happened for the following four to six months. In spite of my best efforts, my life has become increasingly difficult and meaningless since then. But I had the resilience to undergo the complex, all-in-bureaucratic-Spanish application process for the teaching program I'd promised my husband I would apply for.

That small but epic act of hope has come to fruition. I'm just getting started with what promises to be a long and winding road, but barring further catastrophes (Have I had enough yet? Please?), this autumn I will start an academic year imparting my English expertise in a high school in Zamora.

This close-up of the frontispiece of the Cantigas de Santa María, Códice rico,
shows Castilla y León, Zamora's region, with its castle and lion insignia. 

This feels like exactly what I should do. Much more about this magnificent location in later posts.

Catch up with the rest of the posts in this series here. 

Leaving Madrid: The Trip of a Lifetime, Part 12

We thought we were tired in 2015! 

In 2015, at the end of the trip that was mostly about visiting Seven Noble Knights sites, Stanley and I had made plans to have dinner with my good friend—okay, he's an ex-boyfriend—who lives in Madrid. In the event, we were too unspeakably tired and emailed our regrets the day of. In May 2016, there we were, unexpectedly in Sevilla, at least six hours driving from Madrid, when the original itinerary I carefully put together back in Arizona had indicated we would only be three or four hours away. The itinerary would've given us plenty of time to see the city we would've been staying in and mosey over to Madrid to get to our makeup dinner date in plenty of time.

Hasta luego, Sevilla.
It was scary and exciting to drive the car straight into an elevator in the hotel garage. 

The unexpected joys of this trip were worth just about anything, but not disappointing my friend again. After that insanely wonderful night in Sevilla, we got up dutifully early and dragged ourselves to the car to get going. We took the time to finally use the black shoe polish to cover the scuff on the bumper from our first day, in Calatayud—which of course seemed like a million years ago. That's where Susie (as we called our phone GPS navigator) gave us a beautiful gift: When I gave her the address of our Madrid hotel, she showed me we didn't have to take the due north, six-hour route I was accustomed to. If we went through Extremadura, NNW and then swerving east, Susie thought it would shave an hour and half off the time.

Susie's route sent us through
Talavera de la Reina,
home of fine ceramics. 

I can't thank Susie enough for that insight. Not only was the trip shorter, but it also let me check off the last region of peninsular Spain I had never been to before: Extremadura. To Spanish ears, the name of this region sounds harsh: "extreme" and "hard." (Really the name comes from the fact that it was at the edges of "reconquered" territory.) In reality, it looks lush and inviting. The landscapes changed every few minutes into beautiful new configurations, and we still had that wonderful Spanish road trip feeling of being the only ones on the road. When we stopped at a roadside rest for something to eat, it seemed all of Hispanic humanity had converged there and Stanley's astonishment lasted all day: Where did they all come from? We didn't see any cars! 

We made it in plenty of time, relaxed and still on a Manolo high, to regale my Spanish friend with the first account of our trip of a lifetime. My friend is from Valencia, so of course he asked what we'd seen in his hometown.

"Manolo García," I said. "We had no time for anything else!"

My friend took us to a traditional Madrid eatery, where we enjoyed various tapas and larger plates, my friend practiced his English, and Stanley learned a lot about a Spaniard's point of view and my life before I met Stanley. 

Afterward, Stanley said, "He's a nice guy."

"Yes," I answered, self-satisfied. "I didn't always date jerks." Stanley was, of course, the ultimate proof of that. 

Sad section (skip if you desire)

Throughout the dinner, Stanley had a nagging, dry cough. "Allergies," he claimed so my friend wouldn't recoil in horror. Because Stanley never lied to me, I even believed the allergy excuse to some extent, telling a lady at the airport the next day who was constantly blowing her nose that my husband had them really bad this year, too. And so my true love's quiet distress was folded into the bizarre new reality I mentioned in previous posts. 

I asked why he hadn't eaten much at the delicious tapas dinner, and Stanley said it tasted weird—way too salty. I said I thought it had the normal salt level of cured meats. He was a salt lover, so the comment was even more bizarre. Food never tasted right to him again. 

End sad section, although it's always sad to leave Spain.

T4, Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas never looks as cheery on the way back. 

The next day, I tried to memorize how the streets, sights, sounds, and people made me feel because I wasn't sure how quickly we could come back. We were then subjected to some of the worst flying of our lives. Loads of turbulence, horrible treatment at US security, and we sat in the North Carolina airport starving but unable to stomach any of this weird food. Grief, mourning as only a traveler can experience it. I broke down in tears when we got on the plane from CLT to PHX, I was so done with everything. The ups and downs were so drastic, I could barely process them. 

The collage we made together includes photos, our VIP wristbands, a map
of Sevilla, and our Metro card from Valencia, which won a major design prize.

We both felt severely jetlagged, but when I recovered, I got some pleasure out of uploading videos and photos, playing Carmen's and Ricardo Marín's albums for Stanley, telling people the amazing things we did for two glorious weeks, and putting together a large photo and scrap collage of our last four days in Spain, i.e., the Manolo days, with Stanley. The finished project exerted a fascination over me and we never moved it from its spot on the breakfast table, so it was at eye level and I could stare at it before getting on with the details of this strange and foreign life in America. Once, Stanley contemplated the collage and said, "That's the best gift I could ever have given you."

"Yes," I said, because it was the honest truth. None of it would've happened if Stanley hadn't insisted I write to tell my story. "Have I thanked you?" I had, of course, but it was never enough to match my gratitude. True love creates an upward spiral of wonderful things. 

Next, the grand finale of this blog series: what Spain means to me and how it's still in the picture...

Catch up with the rest of the posts in this series here.

Sevilla Without Losing Our Seat: The Trip of a Lifetime, Part 11

There's always time for a fangirl moment. 

There's a rhyming saying the Spanish use in a musical chairs situation: “Quien va a Sevilla pierde su silla” (Whoever goes to Sevilla loses his seat). Stanley and I went to Sevilla, and did not lose our seats; on the contrary. However, there were many moments when I lost my mind with too much happiness. 

Monument to Don Quijote in Valdepeñas 

We got up groggily the day after the life-changing Valencia concert, although my head was pretty clear. No cobwebs could come in with all those neurons firing. We had debated exactly what to do about the laundry, and in the end we went to a lot of trouble to get our car out of the garage at the mall early, threw our clean laundry in the back, and felt very satisfied. Clean clothes! At last! 

Once we were on our way to my city (Sevilla! I thought I wasn’t going to see you! You sly gal.), I drowsed, but the smile never left my face. All the events of the past day kept replaying for me in the most delightful way. We had brought our mp3 disc with all of Manolo's songs, and listened to about six hours of it. The beautiful countryside looked so familiar. We zipped past Córdoba and I had a straight shot to see down the Guadalquivir to the Mezquita. Be still my heart! 

When we arrived, it was like an embrace from a beloved friend. I soaked in the sights, got to practice my Andalusian accent, and the enchantment of Sevilla tugged at me all night. 

We woke up early considering how late we were going to stay up. Happiness doesn’t let me rest. It was cloudy, which is weird for my Sevilla, and we consulted the weather report and it was supposed to rain! I agonized over my hair, which responds poorly to humidity. We wanted to know what was going to happen that day, so I called Marta. She said Manolo was very tired, and I said I understood. Stanley insisted I mention the coffee Manolo had invited us to, and we had to wait and see, but with the knowledge that the sound check would be delayed because of the rain. Even in the absence of news, no one could be sad in Sevilla, where all three of my true loves were converging (Stanley, Manolo, and Alfonso X, el Sabio). We thought we’d go have some lunch and come back so as not to miss anything. 

It was weird to have the sky grey. Was this really Sevilla? We started at the Corte Inglés, department store par excellence, where we looked in the tourism section for an umbrella. It was hard to decide—how many times are you going to need an umbrella in Sevilla?

Stanley wasn’t sure where we were—we'd only been in Sevilla a few hours on our honeymoon—but I led us fearlessly, using the new umbrella against pitterpats of rain. We found the nicest traditional shop, and I went in on a mission to get new fan. It was a complete shopping experience, not unlike wedding dress shopping, with me telling the saleslady what I wanted, and she showed us what she had, and I made more specifications, and there were loads of lovely fans, but I ended up with a fantastically gorgeous red one with polka dots and flowers. The fan is too pretty. The only thing I've used it for was to spruce up my display at the Spring Into Art event this last April. 

750 Years in Sevilla 

We passed an elaborate temporary archway near the town hall celebrating 750 years of the Catholic Church in Sevilla (since 1266!), and Stanley took my picture with the Alfonso X statue in the Plaza Nueva. That completed my trinity of brown-haired men. We made it to the cathedral and here might be the first time I noticed my own break with reality. Alfonso X is buried in the royal chapel in the cathedral, and it's only open to the public during masses. I wanted to check the schedule so we could spend some quality Alfonso time the next day, after staying up who knew how long at the concert. Stanley was so scandalized by the thought that I would be trying to do anything except get out of Sevilla to make it to Madrid the next day that I took a step back. Too much pleasure had skewed my reason. There was much more pleasure to come, I knew it, so who cared if it drove me crazy.

Jessica and perhaps the most bookish of her loves, Alfonso X 

I saw a British couple walking and the lady was talking about shopping, needing to get something “preferably with polka dots.” Ah, yes, my Sevilla satisfies everyone’s idea of Spain. Polka dots? Bring ‘em on!

We wandered down some of the side streets around the cathedral and passed an empty bar. I could see inside and there was a lone barkeep, and “Pájaros de barro,” Manolo's most popular song, was playing. Stanley heard it, too, and it’s out of character for me to play a joke, but the spirit was upon us. I came up with a whole fictional scenario of Manolo García playing music in a little bar for three people because that’s the kind of intimacy vibe I got from him. “Is he in there?” I said. And Stanley looked! But I wasn’t laughing at my love, because at that moment anyone could’ve done the same to me. With everything that had happened so far and the fact that we were going to another Manolo concert later, there was magic in the humid air.

Our plan was to rest up at the hotel for the long night ahead, but not a lot of rest took place. I called Marta to get the scoop, with Stanley egging me on, but again, Manolo was too tired. “He won't be at the sound check?” I concluded. I couldn’t help my voice rising a bit. But Marta gave lots of apologies and I maintained my understanding because how can you not when everyone’s so nice? She said Manolo would meet with us before the concert, and to be there for 7 p.m. I didn’t have a chance to picture what that might look like because as I was hanging up, comfortable with my Spanish phone manner by now, I heard Manolo say “Hasta luego” in the background! Surreal. Why wasn’t he taking a siesta? 

La Barqueta Bridge 

We returned to the front desk to ask if there was any good ice cream nearby. Stanley used the word gelato and the receptionist had no idea what he was talking about. “Helado al estilo italiano,” I said, and that worked, and was the perfect thing to do under the clearing skies before trekking to the auditorium. 

Stanley with bougainvillea on the Expo side of the river 

After a lot figuring, we decided we would take the trusty bus to the banks of the Guadalquivir to the correct bridge, La Barqueta, then walk. And did we walk. The auditorium wasn't on the map, so we had only faith to guide us. 

The 1992 Expo grounds, of which the auditorium is an integral part, were run down, even more than when I’d last seen them in 2004. After the Expo, it appeared to be neglected. We were there during the dead of siesta, which added to the ghost-town feel. It was hard to tell which buildings were closed for the afternoon and which closed forever. We walked and walked, our spirits never flagging, but doubt was creeping in. The map wasn’t too helpful because I wasn’t sure where we’d gone straight when we should’ve turned—there had been nowhere obvious. Then we came out of the alley created by buildings into an opening and far to the left, there appeared to be an auditorium, and we could hear music—the sound test! I’m not sure how far we went out of our way, but it wasn’t terrible because nothing was terrible. Todo es ahora. 

At the special guest entrance, segregated from the huge line 

We were amazed at the number of people in line already, but I knew we needed to find a place where there was a sign for press and special guests. It was just beyond the regular entrance and no one was there. We made it there around 6 p.m., way too early, as usual for us. We stood in the shade of a tree full of lovely bright yellow blossoms and looked through the gates and imagined what was beyond.

After the bullring chat, Stanley and I had batted around the idea of where in the world could a person actually have a Cola Cao with Manolo García? It would be madness anywhere public. He gives the impression he can move about freely, but I don’t know that he could honestly have had a quiet time with his new best friends. The world may never know. 

We chatted and waited patiently while the wind buffeted us. Some guards came out and gave us bottles of water and little posters advertising the concert in Badajoz, in June, much too late for us. A certified groupie arrived and acted as if she was on the special guest list. She wore a white t-shirt elaborately printed in black with “Mira Manolo lo que tengo pa’ ti solo” (Manolo, look what I have just for you). Yowza! I told Stanley what it meant and we both had the impression that nothing like that would move him. A friend of hers wearing the same shirt stopped by but didn’t stay, showing us that there’s more than one person who not only thinks of Manolo as a sex object, but also thinks he might cast his sexuality toward his fans. The idea didn't belong on the Planet Manolo we'd experienced. 

Sometime after 7, I called Marta again and we learned that Manolo was still resting (understandable, of course, after giving it all in Valencia) and he wouldn’t be there until 8 p.m., which was the time they were going to open the gates. I hope I didn’t seem too pushy. I asked her if we could come in and just sit down because we’d been standing and there was a lot of wind (whine whine). But she said okay, and kept calling me guapa. The whole thing was the most civilized and goodwill-filled experience anyone’s ever had.

Miguel came out to the gate, and we went through and the groupie and some others tried to come, too, but Miguel said, “Solo ellos.” 

Our VIP bracelets led to a pun that led to a huge compliment to my Spanish! 

He walked us in with the usual “qué tal” stuff, and before we went through the doors, he taped bracelets around our wrists that said “Manolo García en concierto auxiliar.”

I made a silly pun based on auxiliar in Spanish that made Miguel chuckle. “¿De dónde eres?” (Where are you (just me) from?) he asked. 

“Los dos somos de California” (We're both from California), I replied. 

“Sí, pero ¿de dónde en España?” (Yes, but where in Spain?)

I just shook my head.

“¿No eres española? Creía que eras española” (You're (just me) not Spanish? I thought you (just me) were Spanish.)

Yay! I told Stanley what had just happened—a Spaniard thought I was a Spaniard! He imagined Miguel had been wondering what this Spanish lady was doing with some American dude. That would’ve been a headscratcher. Best compliment ever! I’ve had people make assumptions before, but this is the longest anyone has heard me speak while maintaining that mistaken conclusion.

Backstage to catering, where the VIPs go 

He walked us through the backstage areas—I couldn’t get back there with a GPS now, there was too much stimuli—and it seemed like the catering tent was literally behind the stage. It was big, with a large kitchen area and maybe as many as ten tables. Miguel sat us down at an empty table, but there were several people eating at the next one, and they said to come sit with them, so we did.

A red-haired lady whose face was all smiles said, “¿Sois amigos de Manolo García?” (Are you friends of Manolo García?)

I was taken aback. Were we? What universe had we entered? “Sí.” And saying it made it so.

Someone brought bottles of water and we nibbled discreetly on some bread rolls, but soon enough Spanish extraversion, mainly Pilar's (“Pili”), took over. They were from Málaga, and we talked about being from the United States, and pretty soon I was regaling them with the long story about 2008 and the letter and the watercolor and this year’s letter and Valencia and now Sevilla. Talking about things I love and understand. Is it any wonder I felt in my element?

Manolo García's amigos are all amigos, too. 

It turned out that the older couple had had a son who was a huge Manolo fan, and then he passed away from an aggressive cancer. They struck up a relationship with Manolo after the initial shock and have met Manolo a few times in setups like this one. It gave me the idea that once you’re an amigo, you’re always an amigo in this universe. My tenuous grasp on sanity couldn’t stand up against it. I followed these friendly people down the rabbit hole, as it were.

We talked about how much Spanish Stanley knew, and he cleverly replied, “Café con leche.” 

We're even amigos with the caterers! 

They took a few pictures, including with the caterers, because everyone was a friend there, and they encouraged us to get something from the catering. I ordered a salad for Stanley, thinking I would eat my sandwich we still had in the bag if my head ever reattached to my body, but they brought a salad for each of us—flavorful lettuce, nice tomatoes, and peppers. Stanley was well occupied while I kept jabbering with the malagueños.

They said the American band had just been there, after I said I preferred the Spanish band. We talked about PhDs and teaching and editing. Then Pilar's husband got into telling us to come visit them and they would feed us and they would invite Manolo (invite, but not see) and they would take us to a national park near them with incredible gorges and dangerous-looking bridges. 

A much bigger venue than Valencia, the better to fit all the creative genius in. 

All the while the anticipation was building. They started talking about needing to grab our seats, they’re letting people in soon! They made sure we were going to sit with them, and I was thrilled to lay the responsibility for choosing at anyone else’s feet, because we’d seen that it wasn’t going to be as close as Valencia—you could fit a couple of bullrings into the open standing section—and we had left the binoculars behind.

When there were murmurings that in another five minutes, Manolo would be there, Pilar brushed her hair, “Pa’ que me vea guapa” (So I look pretty for him). “Yo también” (Me, too), I said, trying to undo the rough texture my hair had picked up in the rain, which was long gone. A simple comb can't do that. 

The American band must be on the ground floor? 

At last, Marta came through and led us all with our VIP wristlets to an elevator with a printout of which mythical beasts were on each floor, through some run-down hallways, and to a long, plain dressing room. The light poured in the windows that looked out onto the concert area. Manolo was standing next to these windows and was backlit the whole time, natural halos imitating the ones I detect are hidden on him, anyway. The Málaga people swarmed him. They all had bags full of something: Stanley thought they had presents for Manolo and wondered what we should’ve gotten him. Trust my true love to imagine something so nice. They were actually things for Manolo to sign. I already have two signed items from him, and it never occurred to me to use this meeting in such a manner. I must be unusual. Or demented, like the lollipop! 

Backstage! Photo by Jessica Knauss 

I wish I’d brought Carmen’s CD with me so she could sign it. Who knew she would be there? She ran through and Stanley tried to talk to her because he missed out the first time. She said thank you and “Hasta luego.” The Spanish have a severe aversion to saying adiós (goodbye).

Marta the magnificent, Jessica, Stanley. Photo by Pilar 

While I was hanging back there, Marta came by and chatted a little. We thanked her so sincerely for everything she'd done, and she was all, “A ti,” which is “No, thank you,” but I can’t imagine what we did that was thankable. Just enjoyed ourselves!

Listening to the maestro. Photo by Stanley Coombs 

Once the Málaga contingent left, promising to find good seats, it was time to say something to Manolo. What could it be? What would be appreciative and poetic and memorable? He was holding forth to a bunch of people I didn’t recognize, but later focused on me. I felt like the only human who mattered in the entire world for those few minutes. Stanley was hanging off to the side trying to get pictures. Manolo reminded me to read Lucia Berlin's stories, so I scribbled the name down later, taking it to heart. (And I'm not sorry I did! Great stuff!) 

The photographer who took the picture that's the cover for Saldremos a la lluvia (the first album Stanley heard) was there and Stanley took a picture of the three of us, and then got one of me with Manolo in which I put my arm around his slim waist and he returned the gesture. Because we’re amigos, right?

Amigos. Photo by Stanley Coombs 

When it was time, he shook Stanley’s hand again, and I went in for the two Mediterranean kisses I wanted so bad. I was so overwhelmed feeling that smooth-shaven cheek against mine that I whirled away, choked up, to grab my purse. It felt like the end and we hadn’t said half the things we’d hoped to. We waved goodbye with loads of smiles and hasta luegos all around, and found our way to the elevator. 

All the VIP amigos sat together. 

The auditorium was completely full by the time the show started. 

Valencia was meant to be a once-in-a-lifetime concert event. Sevilla didn’t make it less special because, in spite of the identical set list, the experience was totally different. Twice the wonder, or even more, because all was unique. 

I've always loved tortilla de patata and Stanley did, too! 

For one, it was a more social experience because we found our Málaga friends and conversed while we waited, and even ate with them. We didn't eat the sandwiches we'd bought, but gladly accepted their hospitality and chowed down on homemade tortilla de patata baguettes. Pilar in particular got a kick out of the Americans eating such iconic Spanish food. 

It was just as exciting when the show started and I took just as many videos of the unique performances. I tried to keep up with what my Málaga friends were doing, and they in turn were amazed that I knew all the words to all the songs. No casual listener, this American! So, they asked, Manolo García is your favorite performer? "I have two great loves in my life," I answered. "My husband and Manolo García." (I skipped Alfonso X for simplicity, but he wasn't far from my thoughts.) That utterance got a lot of olé mileage! 

Because he had so recently expended so much energy in Valencia, I thought Manolo seemed a little tired, loopier at times, missing a couple of musical cues. I couldn't believe it at the end, when people were already filing out, when he unhooked all his earpieces and leapt off the stage to bodysurf in the crowd. He used to do that all the time, but as I had mentioned to my new friends, he might want to consider doing it less, since he's getting up in years. That night, no one had any age at all. We were nothing if not innocent children. 

I thought I'd loved it when Manolo talked to the audience in Valencia, but in Sevilla, during the second half, before they played "Para que no se duerman mis sentidos," he came to the mic stand, very solemn, to deliver the speech to end all concert speeches. "My musical companions and yours truly... I know some of you have come to our concerts for many years, since you were little. We're grateful, we treasure it, we enjoy it, I promise and swear. Thank you very much. You've come from Cáceres"—here Pilar yelped and grabbed my leg: "He's gonna say it! He's gonna say it!"— "from Albacete, from every part of this peninsula, and even, even... from the United States. Thank you very much, truly."

"You've come from Cáceres... from Albacete..."

"and even, even from the United States."

Of course I stood and threw my hands in the air and yelled as if my life depended on it. I wanted everyone there to know who Manolo García was talking about. Stanley asked me what was going on and I said, "Manolo García gave us a shout out on stage! He's up there performing his heart out, thinking of us!" 

I've seen a closeup video of this incident, and while Manolo's expression is pleasant throughout, the smile that crosses his lips when he says "Estados Unidos"—priceless. 

Left: Ricardo Marín, guitar and voice;
center back: Nacho Lesko, keyboards;
center front: Olvido Lanza, violin;
right: Manuel García, voice and guitar. 

"We saw the show in Málaga at the start of the tour and we thought that was great," Pilar said after the finale but before Manolo jumped into the crowd. "This was even better!" I could just about believe it. I couldn't compare Valencia and Sevilla because they were parts of one amazing whole, but if a musical event ever got better than that, I was sure the universe would implode. 

(Marta and Carmen can be seen in this short video looking after Manolo's athletic welfare.)

We spilled out of the auditorium afterward and followed the flow of people as they gravitated to the nightclubs and other music venues that were now open. If the Expo '92 area seemed like a ghost town before, now it was all flashing lights and activity, as if we'd been transported to the world of The Jetsons—but with no taxis to be had in the sky or on the ground. We said friendly hasta luegos to our Málaga amigos and pushed against the crowd, facing the fact that we were going to have to walk all the way back to the hotel. It was more than two kilometers, for sure, and remember that even if we weren't aware of it, my husband was suffering from Stage IV lung cancer. Knowing that, you would never believe the brisk pace he kept up the whole way. I explained that we were actually safer then, in the middle of the night, than we had been during siesta. "Why is everyone out now?" Stanley asked. "Are they trying to prove something?" While there is a bit of bravado in how little sleep you can get by on, in southern Spain, culture takes place at night because before air conditioning, it was unquestionably too hot during the day. We didn't get back until three in the morning, but we were safe and happy. 

In the hotel room, I got a flash forward of being back in the United States. It seemed unbearable. How could that life be real? This life, here in Spain, full of joy and belonging, that should be real. 

Next: the Trip of a Lifetime comes to an end with a friend. 

Catch up with the rest of the posts in this series here.