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 of my past, I am immediately and powerfully transported back in time to the moment of association, just like when one hears a song from years before and can relive the sensations of a different 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 generously apply.
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Naturally, I needed a destination and had none. I whipped out my requisite travel guidebook and circled some possible pensions within my budget. With the help of my phrase book, I next organized the few words in Español that I would need to reserve lodging and, after changing money, headed for the telephone. Successfully getting through to 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 of the one 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 but 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 to be from the point of view of Americans. 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. But then again, no accommodation, short of one ensconcing major insects, could dampen my ecstatic mood.
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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 area of beautiful Madrid. One might think I would want to rest after a night of suffering the usual insomnia that always lands prior to a journey, and the exhaustion of traveling, but I was wired and excited about being once again on European streets and 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 was when we were all living in San Francisco a few years later.
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Rosalyn is a strong woman, sometimes lacking in tact, who possesses her own logic and cannot understand when others may not grasp it. She is impatient in many things, driving included, and has been served with 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, she simply and innocently excused herself with Rosalyn reasoning by saying, “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.
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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 have crossed 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 or restaurant in the square, providing 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 like you gain two days for the price of one, nighttime being the bonus second day and reserved strictly for pleasure. Perhaps it is the siesta, combined with the ritual of Catholic confession, which are the essential ingredients of the carefree and relaxed quality of southern Europe.
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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 started 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?”
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Our eyes settled upon the person who had just spoken and 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.
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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.
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“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 alas 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 and fashionable people drinking coffee and cocktails or eating tapas or ice cream. Many of the major streets converged in traffic rotaries circumventing majestic fountains elaborately lit to emphasize their grandeur. As we were all getting along so well, Manuel extended an invitation.
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“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.”
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Naturally, we all 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…
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What made things additionally ambiguous was that we believed that Manuel was not quite sure how we all related and just who went with whom, or 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 and 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.”
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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.
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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. Our breakfasts were consumed at the pace of the businessmen all around us and we 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.
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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 got to view a rich collection of paintings by El Greco, Velazquez and Bosch, as well as some magnificent tapestries by Goya. We next headed for Avila, a beautiful walled old city from the 11th century, where we pulled out our Swiss Army knives, ate our 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 as equally zealous as we three. 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.
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Crossing into Portugal, Manuel took us first to Coimbra, with its ancient university and famous library that he insisted we see. Unfortunately, the library had already closed for the day, but Manuel persuaded someone to open it just for our viewing. The interior of the eighteenth-century library was truly grand, with arches, painted ceilings and meticulous details. There were entire walls of books on the upper floors that cleverly moved out to give access to volumes which were not otherwise visible or reachable. Manuel was joyous and obviously proud to see our pleasure and awe at the beauty and artistry of the design of the library. We left Coimbra as the sun gracefully took its final bow and shortly after arrived at a restaurant featuring regional food, which allowed us to sample some typical Portuguese dishes, including bacalhau, salted cod fish, which I did not like. The owner and waiters in the restaurant all seemed to know Manuel, though we were still some distance from his “farm.”
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When Manuel referred to his farm, I pictured some old rundown place with a few chickens running around. We finally reached our destination and discovered that his farm was 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 isolated in one part of the house to the left of the living room, on the other side of which was a hallway leading to other bedrooms. Anil, who snored, chose the closest one and Roz and I shared one in the back with two beds, as far away from Anil as possible. Every room was elegantly furnished with often 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 of bygone times and difficult to classify or identify.
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The next day Manuel gave us a tour of the area where we viewed natural scenery of dazzling waterfalls cascading over large boulders, as well as some very old houses spotted along rural roads, including one Manuel was considering buying. It was for sale at a cost which seemed, from our US dollar points 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.
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After dinner, we returned home and opened a bottle of excellent red wine that Manuel had chosen from the villa’s selection. Shortly after some pleasant repartee, both Rosalyn and Anil retired and Manuel and I were left alone in the dimly lit living room. By this time, Manuel was beginning to flirt with me much more openly and, as it seemed we had been somewhat coupled off, I was beginning to respond. But the words coming from Manuel were not just typical verbal enticements.
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“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, who traveled frequently for his work throughout Europe and to Angola, Africa. He spoke Portuguese, Spanish, English, French, and German. Though Manuel was 15 years older than me, he still seemed too young for retirement, but what did I know about European executives of ITT? Who cared? Here next to me was a true Renaissance man, cultured, wealthy and looking to spend his future with someone on a boat, heading for everywhere and nowhere, and who was not to 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 off into the sunset, romance was positively in the air, but somehow it all just seemed too contrived. I did not feel ready to make love with this man just because we were the two singles. Less than one half hour had passed when I said goodnight and went to the bedroom I shared with Rosalyn.
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The next morning, I awoke early. With the shutters closed, it was very dark in the room, but I was able to discern Rosalyn’s sleeping form on the other bed. Suddenly, as though the elixir of love that I drank the night before had finally begun to work, I discovered that I wanted to make love with Manuel that very instant. I quietly got up out of my bed and tiptoed across the room down the hall past the snoring Anil and through the living room to Manuel's door. Manuel's room was currently being redecorated and, as such, there were no curtains on the windows. Light was streaming in, and though 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 communicating the deep breath of the sleeping. In his tank top undershirt, and with his partially graying hair, he suddenly looked like my father and whereas two seconds before I had been ready to join him under the sheets, I now waved my arm and mentally said “naaaah” and tiptoed all the way back to my own bed. After a few minutes, I realized I was being ridiculous. Just because Manuel had gray hair, he was not my father, and I decided to go back and pounce. Once again, I walked lightly across the house to the brink of my about-to-be lover’s door and again stopped short. After contemplating the not even remotely romantic scene once anew, I waved my arm and said “naaaah” and dashed back to my room. This little performance went on a few more times until I finally exhausted myself and just snoozed for a while. In time Roz woke up and I shortly heard the three of them speaking in the living room.
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“Amy is sleeping quite late, I'll go wake her,” said Manuel.
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I shut my eyes and feigned sleep. When Manuel bent over my bed in my kasbah-like room, I reached up and pulled him to me, a gesture to which he responded willingly. Finally, Manuel had become my lover and with that surrender was released all my passion for him as a man and as a companion. Instantaneously, I was in love with Manuel. Completely inebriated, I had entered a different realm, that microcosm that exists for those in the first stages of attraction and love.
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The afternoon was spent lazing around the pool. I was initially taken aback to see Manuel in his moderately small bathing briefs, which revealed his attractive and firm physique, which also surprised me. I really needed to overcome my ridiculous and unfounded prejudices that sophisticated businessmen could not wear skimpy bathing trunks and be in fine shape. I think Manuel's quiet sophistication and gray hair caused 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 faculty and savoir-faire. And so began our little affair which was 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.
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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 some nerve-bending mountainous roads - on which I earned a few stripes on my driver's uniform - and some compelling stops along the way, the first of which was Cascais on the Atlantic coast, the westernmost point on the European continent. From this Portuguese fishing village, someone from the sixteenth century could look west and dream of the New World. All I could do was look into myself and fantasize my life with Manuel on our yacht. I will never forget our brief pause in Sintra with its Moorish castles on hilltops that, with just a little imagination, allow you to entirely forget modern times.
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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 tile roofs atop the stucco houses around me and I was able to observe the daily activities of women hanging their wash, and birds’ rests from 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 area, where we anticipated the requisite cafés, shops, and plazas such as we had seen in other old cities we had visited. Our stomachs reminded us of their relative emptiness, but we were holding out to have our dinner in some enchanting, 200-year-old restaurant, surrounded by mournful Fado singing. Frustration overtook us when none of our expectations were satisfied. Today, there is apparently a trendy café on every corner, but perhaps it was not as true 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 the less-than-detailed map, both of which indicated that 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.
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“Do you speak English? where is Alfama, please?”
“You are in Alfama,” was the response.
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This was not the first or the last time I felt like a stupid tourist. Blinded by our hungers for both food and an image that Americans have of old Europe, we had failed to observe the special persona of this old city’s uniqueness that is Alfama. By this time, it had become dark and, we really were 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, from that moment on in our travels together we adopted the word Alfama into our vocabulary as anything that is difficult to find, that is unclear, frustrating or unattainable. When looking for a particular cathedral that took us more than thirty seconds to locate, we would say it was “like Alfama,” when a person was guarded, difficult to understand, we might say “that guy was totally Alfama.” When someone gave us directions that were unclear we would say they were “Alfama.”
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Manuel showed up for an evening in Lisbon, as he had promised. He invited me for dinner alone and I remember dressing carefully, selecting the most appropriate outfit from my slim selection of backpacker’s travel clothes. Even as a budget traveler, I always managed to have something that was versatile enough to embody more than long days walking the streets of a city, or 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 really learned about what I needed and what was important to me. It allowed me to learn which amenities I could give up fairly easily and those I tended to cling to, even if it meant I had to bear the weight. Even now, alternating between a backpack and a rolling suitcase, I still need to manage the load. I appreciate a decent selection of clothing. I like having more than a few pairs of underwear and I like having perfume or scented oil. I don't need tons of makeup, blow dryers or five pairs of shoes - okay, maybe three. Nevertheless, I hate when my luggage gets too heavy. So, I have learned to be quite adept at packing light, yet with an array that will satisfy my bourgeois weaknesses by selecting pieces that mix and match quite easily. 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.
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Manuel picked me up at the pension 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 obvious skill of wine selection 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, and satisfy so much more than the palate and stomach. Manuel and I discussed how we would proceed with our romance. We would be separating the next day, and though we talked about meeting again at another destination in Europe, because of his work and frequent trips to Angola, Manuel could not confirm anything. He came up with a plan and shared it as he reached his hand out to take mine.
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“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.”
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I knew Manuel was divorced, so I asked, “Why can’t I call you at home?”
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“As you know, querida, I have more than one home and am often traveling. My work number will better and if I am not there, my secretary will know where to reach me,” he replied. I accepted that explanation.
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After our seafood dinner, followed by regional sherry, we returned to my room at the pension for what was to 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.”
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Manuel stimulated my mind and we shared many of the same dreams about how we wanted to spend our lives, and even though he grew up in an old-fashioned European Catholic environment, which so opposed my upbringing, we even agreed on world politics. He was erudite, well-traveled, moderately affluent, aristocratic, and from a world far from my own, all of which contributed to my attraction to him. And I know that the ingredients that endowed his attraction to me were my receptiveness, bright wit, and “free spirit,” so far from the societies of business and Old-World family of which he was a part. 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 relish from either of his wives. He did not appear to be selfish, but rather almost like a virgin who did not have a clue that sex was much 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 sexually is a sure contributor to messing up a relationship. Why not instill confidence, a far better arena for further exploration and education?
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I followed Manuel's plan and called him from Florence in Italy, Salzburg in Austria, and Skiathos in Greece. Nothing kept me from a telephone on the appointed days. Manuel was never free to break away and meet me. I concluded, at last, that perhaps Manuel was not divorced after all and like other men I had known in my life, was just another boy, pretending to live a fantasy that 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 Manuel once again. He asked me to come to Portugal to be with him. The cynic in me says that he gambled, knowing that 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 will be on tomorrow's flight to Lisbon, arriving….”
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Manuel, like his Iberian brothers, lavishly applied his considerably richer version of the same general cologne, a remnant of which he left on the pension’s pillowcase. He departed early in the morning, and I clutched that pillow, hoping to breathe in not only the essence of Manuel, but also this moment in time, never to be again. When packing for our departure from Portugal back to Spain, I slipped that pillowcase off its pillow and put it into a plastic bag, secured between my clothing, so that I could pull 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.
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