Some places announce themselves not by what you see, but by what you breathe in.

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Arriving at the Madrid airport from Tel Aviv, the first thing to strike me was a distinctive sweet odor that seemed to be everywhere, as though the very molecular composition of Madrid's air was unique and contained a yet-undiscovered element. As a traveler, my sense of smell is second only to sight and is frequently the first identifying characteristic about a new place—and the one that remains with me forever. When exposed to a scent intrinsic to a particular locale from my past, I am immediately and powerfully transported back in time to the moment of association, much like hearing a song from years before and reliving the sensations of another fragment of one's life. Here lie the secrets of time travel. The odor that immediately wafted into my nostrils on this particular day at the Madrid airport turned out to be a cologne that most Spanish men seemed to apply quite generously. 
   Naturally, I needed a destination and had none. I whipped out my requisite travel guidebook and circled a few possible pensions within my budget. With the help of my phrase book, I organized the handful of Spanish words I would need to reserve lodging and, after changing money, headed for the telephone. Successfully reaching the pension of my choice, I boldly blurted out my prepared speech in bad Spanish. The woman on the other end started talking incomprehensibly fast, and I just stood there with my mouth agape, as though I were on another planet. Not knowing what else to do, I hung up. 
   I decided to pass my troubles on to some unsuspecting taxi driver, who put my backpack in the trunk and me in the back seat. Still gripping my travel guide, I turned to the page with cheap accommodations and simply pointed to the address I had chosen earlier, risking the unavailability of a room upon arrival. I guessed this would be no problema for the taxi driver, certain that he would be happy to escort me around town until I found a vacancy. 
   Luckily, there was a room available at the pension, though I did not identify myself as the one who had called from the airport and then rudely hung up. I stood before an old building, as most European establishments appear from an American point of view. The proprietresses, dressed in long, shapeless black dresses and sensible shoes, looked as though they could have been the original inhabitants. When the door closed to the outside world and I saw my friendly taxi driver pulling away—taking the trace of his cologne with him—I felt as though I were entering a musty convent in the Middle Ages.
   Well, I must say, these ladies did not waste any time laying down the law about not bringing guests and other such rules, most of which I managed to grasp, their body language and intonation being universal enough to convey meaning. Finger wagging and a stern edge to the voice communicate well across borders. My room was mildly gloomy but tidy, with a lot of dark wood and my very own bath! I was delighted. Then again, no accommodation short of one ensconcing major insects could dampen my ecstatic mood. 
   After getting settled, I left to find the already-reserved lodging of my good friends, Rosalyn and Anil, who were arriving that day from San Francisco. Their relatively classy hotel turned out to be close to my dim, antiquated, but charming abode. As my amigos were not scheduled to arrive for a few hours, I decided to explore and familiarize myself with this part of beautiful Madrid.
   One might think I would want to rest after a night of the usual pre-journey insomnia and the exhaustion of traveling, but I was wired and excited to be once again on European streets, in a country I had never visited. My search led me to discover that we were not far from the Royal Palace and rather close to the Plaza Mayor, a bustling area of shops and restaurants frequented by tourists and locals alike. Many Spanish cities seem to have one—a main square that serves as a place of orientation. It was there that we had dinner that evening, when I was finally united with my friends, one of the easiest connections I have ever made while traveling, obviously because they had a pre-arranged hotel reservation, a concept that did not exist in my movements across the planet. 

Rosalyn and Anil:    
   I met Rosalyn on my maiden overseas journey when my best friend Carol and I spent two months hitchhiking around Europe. In Amsterdam, the mecca for the youth of the world, we found dormitory-style lodging, and Rosalyn was in the neighboring bunk bed. What truly deepened our three-way friendship came later, when we were all living in San Francisco a few years afterward.     
Rosalyn is a strong woman, sometimes lacking in tact, who possesses her own logic and cannot understand when others fail to grasp it. She is impatient in many things, driving included, and has been issued many traffic tickets over the years for not pausing long enough at stop signs while zipping through the residential streets of Berkeley like she is still on the freeway. One of my favorite Roz stories is when a policeman pulled her over for speeding, and she simply and innocently excused herself with Rosalyn reasoning: “I'm very sorry officer, but I just had strong coffee.” Rosalyn is large-breasted, with curly auburn-tinted brown hair and eyeglasses over blue eyes. Her flirtatious demeanor, outrageous naughtiness, and keen intellect have always beguiled men.
Rosalyn met Anil at an elegant San Francisco hotel tea dance. Anil was originally from Bombay, but had been a denizen of the Bay Area for many years. At the time of my story, Anil was tall and dark, with curly black hair, and a short beard and moustache that gave definition to his warm smile. His exotic looks seemed to cross many borders, given testimony by the fact that he has been taken for a native from Hawaii to Puerto Rico to Bali. What linked the three of us above all else has always been our zest for travel, and the time we shared in Spain and Portugal, where this story takes place.

    The story continues:
   For our first night in Madrid, we dined alfresco on the Plaza Mayor, gorging ourselves on langostinos, vino, and tales of our latest adventures. There was activity at every café and restaurant in the square, creating an atmosphere of festivity that made it seem as though all the diners were on holiday. Throughout my travels in Spain, I found the same mood accompanying the nights in plazas everywhere. 
   It is the daily siesta, I believe, that contributes to the special nature of Mediterranean countries and, in my opinion, is the most civilized approach to life. Siestas make you feel as though you gain two days for the price of one, nighttime being the bonus second day, reserved strictly for pleasure. Perhaps it is the siesta, combined with the ritual of Catholic confession, that forms the essential ingredients of the carefree and relaxed quality of southern Europe. 
   The dinner conversation eventually turned to our options for activities during our days in Madrid and other parts of Spain, as we had plans to travel together for a few weeks. After dinner, Roz got up to find the WC, and Anil and I began contemplating dessert. Eyeing a man eating something that looked like an interesting ice cream invention, I said to Anil, “I want what that man is eating.” 
   We were both quite startled when the man turned to face us and spoke in English. 
   “Would you like to try a bite of mine?”
    Our eyes settled upon the person who had just spoken, who had been sitting quietly at a table near ours and who I now realized had understood our entire conversation—if he had had any interest in listening. I saw before me a rather sophisticated-looking man in a grey business suit and unpretentious tie, with olive skin, silver and black hair, and black rimmed eyeglasses. His features were small but appealing, and his expression was friendly, with perhaps a touch of amusement in his pleasant smile. And so, we met Manuel, from Portugal, who was in Madrid on business, and with whom we proceeded to spend the entire evening. Rosalyn was obsessed with finding some café or bar commonly known to be the favorite hangout of flamenco dancer Antonio Gades, or so she said. God only knows where Rosalyn gets her information, but one would have thought it was the sole purpose of her trip to Madrid. 
   “I will be happy to take you in my car,” said Manuel, who very patiently drove us from place to place in search of the chosen destination. But when we at last found it, Señor Gades was nowhere to be found. Que sera. Nevertheless, we were afforded the opportunity to observe nighttime Madrid, with its café- and tree-lined wide avenues teeming with attractive, fashionable people drinking coffee and cocktails or eating tapas or ice cream. Many of the major streets converged in traffic rotaries encircling majestic fountains, elaborately lit to emphasize their grandeur. As we were all getting along so well, Manuel extended an invitation.
   “I am leaving tomorrow. Why don’t you all join me and spend a few days on my farm in Portugal? We will pass through some places in Spain along the way.”
   We went through major conniptions about making a decision. “We just got to Spain.” “I want to see Madrid.” “Oh, come on, let's be adventurous. We can come back and see Madrid later.” “How will we get back to Spain afterwards?” Blah, blah, blah. 
   And then, when Manuel left to go to the WC, being typical, paranoid Americans: “What does he really want?” “What if he's a murderer?” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera…
   What made things additionally ambiguous was that we believed Manuel was not quite sure how we all related, and just who went with whom— in other words, which one of the two women, if either, was with Anil, who rode in the front seat during our jaunt around the city. We finally agreed to accompany Manuel to Portugal, especially because he promised to travel through some interesting parts of Spain, and act as a tour guide. 
   We settled on an early departure the next morning and Manuel took Anil and Rosalyn to their hotel first, at which time it became quite obvious that they were in fact “the couple.” When I realized I was to be dropped off last, alone with Manuel, I instructed Rosalyn discreetly, “If you don’t see me by 8:00 am, I am probably kidnapped or dead, and Manuel is the culprit.” 
   When Manuel and I arrived at my pension, he considerately escorted me to the door, where one of the ancient señoras was waiting. She incorrectly assumed that, since all American women are sluts, I had invited this man to spend the night, and sternly reminded me that this was not allowed. Manuel and I said goodnight with a double-cheeked kiss and a promise to see each other the next morning at the appointed time. 
   Before hitting the road not very long after sunrise, we hit the market, which was bustling with activity. Newborn sunlight streamed everywhere in the sharp angles that are unique to this time of day. The distinct morning smells were a blend of hot coffee, a variety of cheeses and meats, ripe fruit, and of course the ever-pervasive men's cologne. We ate breakfast at the pace of the businessmen all around us and stocked up on provisions for later: bread, cheese, salami-type meats, tomatoes and fruit. You can just forget about being a vegetarian in Spain, especially at tapas time in the evening, when it is difficult to even identify all the little tidbits coming your way, let alone know if they once breathed. 
   By the glorious light of the morning sun, we left the city behind and made our first stop in El Escorial, an old monastery built in the 1500’s and converted into a museum, where we viewed a rich collection of paintings by El Greco, Velazquez and Bosch, as well as magnificent tapestries by Goya. 
   We next headed for Ávila, a beautiful walled old city from the 11th century, where we pulled out our Swiss Army knives, ate lunch beneath the balustrades, and took our first group photos. At the small tourist market, Manuel purchased a miniature hand-painted porcelain vase and presented it to me as a gift. And so, the seduction began. 
   Actually, it did not take long for us all to become enchanted by Manuel. He proved to be a wonderful guide and traveling companion who spoke English perfectly. But there was much more to Manuel. He was acutely intelligent and knowledgeable about art, history, culture and politics. And even though none of what we were seeing was new to him, Manuel was just as zealous as the three of us. It was obvious we had found “one of us” and that we were going to enjoy the next few days immensely.
   We later passed through Salamanca, a university city with the most beautiful Plaza Mayor in Spain. When it was time to go, I had to tear myself away from the view of the buildings—not to mention the exquisite young male students—which caused me to consider only for a brief {sigh} moment, returning to solo travel.
   Crossing into Portugal, Manuel took us first to Coimbra, with its ancient university and famous eighteenth-century library that he insisted we see. Unfortunately, the library had already closed for the day, but Manuel persuaded someone to open it just for us. The interior was truly grand, with arches, painted ceilings and meticulous detail. Entire walls of books on the upper floors cleverly moved outward to reveal volumes that were otherwise hidden and out of reach. Manuel was joyous, clearly proud to see our pleasure and awe at the beauty and artistry library’s design. 
   We left Coimbra as the sun gracefully took its final bow, and shortly afterward arrived at a restaurant featuring regional food, where we sampled typical Portuguese dishes, including bacalhau, salted cod fish, which I did not like. The owner and waiters all seemed to know Manuel, though we were still some distance from his “farm.” 
   When Manuel referred to his farm, I pictured some old run-down place with a few chickens running around. We finally reached our destination and discovered that his farm was, in fact, a palatial villa, filled with unique antique furniture, Portuguese tilework and a gorgeous tiled swimming pool outside. Only one servant was there at the time, but he shortly took his leave, and we found that everything was immaculate. 
   Manuel's bedroom was set apart, to the left of the living room, while on the other side a hallway led to additional bedrooms. Anil, who snored, chose the closest one, and Roz and I shared a room in the back with two beds, as far away from Anil as possible. Every room was elegantly furnished, often with hand-painted pieces that projected an aura of both sturdiness and comfort. 
   My favorite chamber was the study, belonging to the true owner of the villa, Manuel's father, an apparently well-known physician, of whom our host seemed very proud. In addition to volumes of medical books, a careful peruser could find small treasures, many from bygone times and difficult to classify or identify. 
   The next day Manuel gave us a tour of the area where we viewed dazzling waterfalls cascading over large boulders, as well as very old houses scattered along rural roads, including one he was considering buying. It was for sale at a cost that seemed, from our US dollar point of view, rather low. Of course, we all started to fantasize about purchasing the place and turning it into an off-the-beaten track pension of sorts. 
   Dinner was at a local restaurant where I agreed to sample a tiny bite of goat meat and all I can say is, once was enough for me, thank you very much. 
   After dinner, we returned home and opened a bottle of excellent red wine that Manuel had chosen from the villa’s selection. Following some pleasant repartee, Rosalyn and Anil soon retired, leaving Manuel and me alone in the dimly lit living room. By this time, Manuel was flirting with me more openly, and as it seemed we had been somewhat coupled off, I was beginning to respond. But the words coming from him were not merely typical verbal enticements. 
   “I enjoy my work but I plan to retire soon. I have always wanted to travel the world on a sailboat, only I do not want to do that alone.” 
   Manuel was some sort of executive at ITT, traveling frequently for work throughout Europe and to Angola, Africa. He spoke Portuguese, Spanish, English, French, and German. Though he was 15 years older than me, he still seemed too young for retirement, but what did I know about European executives at ITT? And who cared? 
   Here, next to me, was a true Renaissance man—cultured, wealthy, and imagining a future spent sailing with someone, toward everywhere and nowhere. And he was not so subtly suggesting that that someone might be me if I was keen. Needless to say, I was aroused, and my mind was working. What with the wine, the ambiance, and the talk of sailing into the sunset, romance was positively in the air. And yet, somehow, it all felt a bit too contrived. 
   I did not feel ready to make love with this man simply because we were the two singles. Less than half an hour later, I said goodnight and went to the bedroom I shared with Rosalyn. 
   The next morning, I awoke early. With the shutters closed, the room was still very dark, though I could make out Rosalyn’s sleeping form on the other bed. Suddenly, as though the elixir of the night before had finally taken hold, I realized I wanted to make love with Manuel that very instant. 
   I quietly slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the room, down the hall, past the snoring Anil, and through the living room to Manuel's door. His room was currently being redecorated and had no curtains on the windows. Light streamed in, and while my room still held the mystery of night, this room was awash with sunshine, and far from amorous. 
   There was Manuel, lying on his stomach, audibly deep in sleep. In his tank top undershirt, and with his partially graying hair, he suddenly looked like my father. Two seconds earlier I had been ready to join him under the sheets; now I waved my arm and mentally said “naaaah” and tiptoed all the way back to my bed. 
   After a few minutes, I realized I was being ridiculous. Just because Manuel had gray hair did not make him my father, and I decided to go back and pounce. Once again, I crept lightly across the house to the brink of my would-be lover’s door and again stopped short. Confronted once more with the not-even-remotely-romantic scene, I waved my arm, said “naaaah” and dashed back to my room. 
   This little performance went on a few more times until I finally exhausted myself and drifted back to sleep. In time Roz woke up and I soon heard the three of them talking in the living room. 
   “Amy is sleeping quite late, I'll go wake her,” said Manuel. 
   I shut my eyes and feigned sleep. When Manuel bent over my bed in my kasbah-like room, I reached up and pulled him toward me, a gesture to which he responded willingly.     Finally, Manuel became my lover, and with that surrender, all my passion for him— as a man and as a companion—was released. Instantly, I was in love with Manuel. Completely inebriated, I entered a different realm, that microcosm reserved for those in the first stages of attraction and love. 
   The afternoon was spent lazing around the pool. I was initially taken aback to see Manuel in moderately small bathing briefs, which revealed his unexpectedly attractive and firm physique. I really needed to overcome my ridiculous and unfounded prejudice that cultured businessmen could not wear skimpy bathing trunks and still be in fine shape. Perhaps Manuel's quiet sophistication and gray hair had led me to unfairly categorize him as older than he was. Manuel and I played Scrabble, and he clobbered me in my native tongue. He was clearly a man of great intellect and savoir-faire. And so began our little affair, destined to be short-lived, as traveling romances so often are, but Manuel was not ready to accept that adage. And unfortunately, he managed to ensnare me without offering anything tangible. 
   Manuel was off to Porto in northern Portugal, where he had some business to attend to, but agreed to meet me in Lisbon in a few days. Roz, Anil and I rented a car that would eventually take us all the way to Sevilla, Spain, after navigating some nerve-bending mountainous roads—on which I earned a few stripes on my driver's uniform— and making a few compelling stops along the way.
   The first was Cascais on the Atlantic coast, the westernmost point on the European continent. From this Portuguese fishing village, someone in the sixteenth century could look west and dream of the New World. All I could do was look inward and fantasize about a life with Manuel on our yacht. I will never forget our brief pause in Sintra, with its Moorish castles perched on hilltops that, with just a little imagination, allow you to forget modern times entirely. 
   In Lisbon we found a wonderful pension which, to this day, I would say was one of the nicest I have stayed in, given my budget. My windows overlooked red-tiled roofs atop the surrounding stucco houses, and I was able to observe the daily rituals of women hanging their wash, and birds resting between their endless flights. Rosalyn had read in her guidebook about an old area of Lisbon called Alfama that we decided was a must-see. 
   Late in the day, we set out to discover this charming district, anticipating the requisite cafés, shops, and plazas we had encountered in other old cities. Our stomachs reminded us of their relative emptiness, but we were holding out for dinner in some enchanting, 200-year-old restaurant, surrounded by mournful Fado singing. Frustration overtook us when none of our expectations were met. Today, there is apparently a trendy café on every corner, but perhaps that was not the case then, or we simply were not in the right part of Alfama. We decided we must be lost and once again consulted our book and less-than-detailed map, both of which indicated we were in Alfama. But we just could not accept it because there was nothing to “see.” 
   Finally, we approached a local on the street.
   “Do you speak English? where is Alfama, please?” 
   “You are in Alfama,” was the response.
   This was not the first, or the last time I felt like a foolish tourist. Blinded by our hungers for both food and a preconceived image of old Europe, we had failed to recognize the subtle, lived-in essence that is Alfama. By this time, it had grown dark, and we were truly in need of food, so we dejectedly left Alfama for an area of lights and restaurants.
   Perhaps as a reminder of the lesson we had learned, or as a way of laughing at ourselves, we adopted the word Alfama into our vocabulary. It came to mean anything difficult to find, unclear, frustrating or unattainable. When searching for a particular cathedral that took more than thirty seconds to locate, we would say it was “like Alfama.” When a person was guarded or difficult to understand, we might say “That guy was totally Alfama.” And when someone gave directions that were vague we would simply say they were “Alfama.” 
   Manuel showed up for an evening in Lisbon, as he had promised. He invited me to dinner alone, and I remember dressing carefully, selecting the most appropriate outfit from my slim collection of backpacker’s travel clothes. Even as a budget traveler, I always managed to have something versatile enough to transition beyond long days walking city streets, climbing temple steps, or hiking in the jungle. 
   But it isn't only about being a smart packer. As a traveler who carried everything on my back, as I did at the time, I learned a great deal about what I truly needed and what was important to me. It taught me which amenities I could easily give up, and which I clung to, even if it meant I had to bear the weight. 
   Even now, alternating between a backpack and a rolling suitcase, I still have to manage the load. I appreciate a decent selection of clothing. I like having more than a few pairs of underwear, and I enjoy having perfume or scented oil. I don't need tons of makeup, a blow dryer, or five pairs of shoes— okay, maybe three. Nevertheless, I hate when my luggage becomes too heavy. Over time, I’ve become quite adept at packing light, while still curating an assortment that satisfies my more bourgeois weaknesses, by selecting pieces that mix and match with ease.     For my date with Manuel, I chose white linen wide-legged capri-length pants, a ruffled short-sleeved lavender cotton blouse, a pale-yellow silk sash, black sandals, a small black leather purse, earrings, and perfume. 
   Manuel picked me up and drove us to a seafood restaurant on the water near the edge of the city. I chose a dish of fresh shellfish cooked in a tomato-based sauce, which was delicious and much preferred to the bacalhau I had sampled some days before. Once again, Manuel displayed his talent for selecting wine, and toasted me with a delectable white as he looked at me fondly. He seemed to be carefully studying my face, from my eyes to my mouth. 
   Our dinner lasted a long time. I could so easily adapt to the pace of European life, where meals are consumed slowly, in a relaxed manner, satisfying so much more than the palate and the stomach. Manuel and I discussed how we might proceed with our romance. We would be separating the next day, and though we spoke of meeting again at another destination in Europe, Manuel could not confirm anything because of his work and frequent trips to Angola. 
   He came up with a plan and shared it as he reached out to take my hand.
   “You will call me on specific days and times, if that is alright with you. Please use my office number to reach me. We will try to arrange somewhere to meet, my darling.”
   I knew Manuel was divorced, so I asked, “Why can’t I call you at home?”
   “As you know, querida,  I have more than one home and am often traveling. My work number is better, and if I am not there, my secretary will know where to reach me,” he replied. I accepted that explanation.
   After our seafood dinner, followed by regional sherry, we returned to my room for what would be our last night together. When I stood naked above him in the hotel bed, Manuel took in my form from head to toe and spoke softly, “You are so beautiful. I love your free spirit.”
   Manuel stimulated my mind, and we shared many of the same dreams about how we wanted to spend our lives. Even though he had grown up in an old-fashioned European Catholic environment, so opposed to my own upbringing, we even agreed on world politics. He was erudite, well-traveled, moderately affluent, aristocratic, and from a world far removed from my own, all of which contributed to my attraction to him. And I know that what drew him to me was my receptiveness, bright wit, and “free spirit,” such a contrast to the societies of business and Old-World family to which he belonged. Yet as a lover, Manuel was unexciting and seemingly inexperienced. He had been married twice, but it seemed he had learned little about what women truly relish from either of his wives. He did not appear selfish, but rather like someone who did not yet understand that intimacy was more than kissing, minimal fondling, and intercourse. 
   I was not complaining. After all, this last night in Lisbon was not the time to begin teaching Manuel the ways to unleash my sexual soul. And besides, rejecting a man physically is a sure way to unravel a fragile connection. Why not instill confidence, a far better foundation for further exploration and education? 
   I followed Manuel's plan and called him from Florence, Salzburg, and Skiathos. Nothing kept me from a telephone on the appointed days. Manuel was never able to break away and meet me. I concluded, at last, that perhaps he was not divorced after all, and like other men I had known, was just another boy pretending to live a fantasy he did not have the courage to realize.     Manuel found me alluring, youthful, and liberated in a way that both excited and frightened him. When I returned to New York some months later, I called him once again. He asked me to come to Portugal to be with him. The cynic in me says that he gambled, knowing I would not be able to return to Europe at that time. I have always regretted that I did not call his bluff and say, “Okay, I’ll be on tomorrow's flight to Lisbon, arriving….”
   Manuel, like his Iberian brothers, lavishly applied his richer version of the same general cologne, traces of which he left on the pillowcase. He departed early in the morning, and I clutched that pillow, hoping to breathe in not only the essence of Manuel, but also that moment in time, never to be again. 
   When packing for our departure from Portugal back to Spain, I slipped the pillowcase off its pillow and put it into a plastic bag, secured between my clothing, so that I could take it out at my will, bring it under my nose, close my eyes, and with a deep inhalation, reclaim the memory of my passion for Manuel.