Chapter 23
TANIA
The voice on the PA system announces our flight is now boarding, so Carlo and I get up from the bar we’re sitting at to get to our gate nearby. I’m a riot of nerves over taking my first international flight, but Carlo keeps his free hand on my lower back for reassurance as we walk through the airport. He has my small carry-on looped over his little rolling bag in his other hand, with our neck pillows he insisted we needed attached to the bags as well. There were no issues getting through security or anything, thank goodness, so we had time to sit and relax with a drink. Hopefully the drink will help me conk out during the overnight flight. We’ll reach the Barcelona airport 8am local time.
When we find our row, an older woman is already seated in the window seat, so we can settle in without worrying about having to get up. Poor Carlo looks like he has no room for his legs. We should have upgraded to have more leg room but wanted to save the money. He catches me looking at him in concern.
“Don’t worry, I’m used to this,” he tells me with a little wink, making a show of stretching his legs. He’s about 6inches taller than me and I feel cramped, so I admire him for being so cool about it. I know I’ve been on a plane before, but it was so long ago that I forgot what it’s like. I think it was a trip to Florida with my foster parents way back when I was 10, hazy memories of sweet treats and that famous mouse suddenly filling my mind. At 14, Cece felt she was too old for the parks and mostly hung out at the hotel pool under the supervision of the staff. She was so happy that she didn’t cause a lick of trouble. Then our foster parents took us to tour some condos on the coast, because they wanted to maybe buy one. Cece and I both got quiet and upset then, and they didn’t understand why we thought it either meant we were moving down here or they were ditching us. We were silly, according to them, for worrying about getting abandoned or moving. Like Celeste always says though, they tried their best.
My thoughts drift to her as the plane gains momentum on the runway before lifting into the air for takeoff. Before we left, I made sure we checked in with each other. She sounded the most hopeful she’s ever sounded, letting me know that a new trial with a new judge is set for June 4, thanks to Damian. The only details she could tell me were that he is building a strong case to lessen her charge and sentence. She also informed me how proud she was, because both the woman who was attacked by the guard and the woman who caught them bravely stood up and made statements. It was enough to get the guard dismissed for good. There was so much relief radiating in her voice that it broke. She could feel safer there until all of this is sorted out, no matter how it ends.
The flight is pretty uneventful, and I manage to sleep for about 4 hours before we’re touching down in my parents’ homeland. The customs line is long, but I’m almost giddy about getting my first stamp in my passport.Then we manage to find our luggage and pile into a cab from the orderly line outside the airport. I get to pull out my best Spanish to greet the driver and give the address, showing it to him on my phone too, and he nods before winding through the streets of Barcelona northeast toward Alella. I watch with rapt attention as the scenery becomes more rural, with farms and vineyards all over the place, interspersed with the occasional shops and restaurants. Before I know it, we get to a residential section with pretty, well maintained villas set against the backdrop of the sparkling Mediterranean sea. Everything is colorful and cast in soft, golden, morning light as the sun hangs low in the sky.
My heart begins to pound a frantic rhythm as the car slows down to park in front of the most charming little villa I’ve ever seen. It’s slightly overgrown, but still clearly cared for. I can feel my parents and grandparents here, two generations who adored this house and its history. It has red Mission style tiles for the roof that may need repairs soon, a white stucco exterior with gravel pathways that look in good condition, and brown trim for the doors and windows. I’m frozen as I take it all in, staring at the house like it’s a ghost. I can barely swallow around the lump quickly forming in my throat. Carlo is there in an instant, wrapping an arm around my waist and squeezing, dropping a kiss to my temple.
“This is absolutely gorgeous, sweetheart. I’m really glad we came. Your parents would be so happy we’re here.” I was so unaware of anything else that I didn’t even realize Carlo had gotten our luggage out of the car and paid the driver. All I can do is nod dumbly and squeeze him back. This is incredibly overwhelming, and I swipe a couple of stray tears from my cheeks. They’re tears for the time I lost with this place, and my parents not being hereto show me everything about the house. I wish they could tell me all of the little stories for each room, like maybe where my parents had their first kiss or where my grandma liked to sit and read. They’re tears for the fact that I get to be here and see it anyway, and discover so much about my family history. They’re tears over the man who is being steady as a rock at my side while I have a mini breakdown. We stand there for a good 5 minutes quietly taking it all in, before I find my bravery and grab my bags to head inside. The lock takes a little work to get unstuck, but the key I have from the estate attorney works.
It smells of dust and old wood as soon as I open the door, but everything still looks in decent enough condition. I see covers on all of the furniture in the living room immediately to the right, and the dining room to the left. It’s all hardwood flooring that flows through the entire space, and it’s gorgeous, if not a little old and worn. Following the narrow hallway, we pass through an arched doorway into a rustic, lovely, galley kitchen with wood beams lining the ceiling and terracotta accents. A brown, 4 burner, old world style range sits beneath a copper hood with a lovely cream mosaic pattern in between, and hooks where there are copper pots hung up. Cream colored counters lie atop dark wood cabinets, with dark wood shelves above the counters that hold some plates, glasses, and other odds and ends. The entire first floor is an ode to cream, brown, with copper and red accents. I’m falling more and more in love with its charm every second I look around.
There’s a backdoor off of the kitchen that goes out onto a gravel patio with more covered furniture. It looks like there’s a chaise, and a table with chairs underneath the tarps. In the very back, beyond the gravel, is a small patch of grass that’s fairly long but not too bad. Two trees arethere, with a hammock hung in between them that’s seen better days but is easily replaced. Carlo fusses with the fencing that encloses the entire backyard, making sure it isn’t about to fall over. Luckily it is still pretty strong against his shaking and prodding. Going back in, we head up the narrow staircase to the second floor where we find the 3 bedrooms and two baths. They’re all small but in a cozy way. One of the baths is an ensuite to the main bedroom, with another little one in the hall. Everything in the bedrooms and baths is more cream, with lovely tiles for the bathroom floors and more hardwood throughout the bedrooms and hallway. We remove the drop cloths to check out the main bed so we can see if the mattress is fine to sleep on. It’s a little soft and lumpy but it’ll do for now. I strip the bed right away and put the sheets in the washer/dryer combo that’s downstairs in the kitchen with the travel detergent I brought with me. It takes me and Carlo a minute to figure out how to use this washer since it’s very different from ours, but we manage. I watch to make sure the water runs ok since it’s been so long. The lawyer for the estate assured us that they made sure the water and electric for the house were turned back on and working.
As the washer gets going, I hear a soft knock on the front door. Carlo and I both go to see who it is, and on the other side is a stooped, lovely, elderly woman. A cloud of black hair streaked with plenty of gray is piled on top of her head, she’s shorter than me and the definition of adorably stout. She gasps at the sight of me, covering her mouth as tears fill her big brown eyes. Then she breaks into rapid Spanish. I can catch most of it, but Carlo is more seasoned than me, even though the dialect here is slightly different from El Salvador.
“She can’t believe the daughter of Paola and Vicente is here, she adored your parents like they were her niece andnephew. You look exactly like your mother. Her name is Yolanda and she lives next door, she and her family have been watching over the house for the last 25 years,” Carlo translates. She nods approvingly at Carlo as I attempt to tell her how happy I am to meet her and be here, and thank her profusely for looking after the house all of this time. She smiles hugely and grabs my hand to pat it, searching my face. She slows down her Spanish enough for me to understand her better when she says my young man is handsome and good at Spanish, which will be helpful while I’m here. The cheekiest grin breaks out on her face as she lovingly pats Carlo’s cheek. He honest to goodness blushes and it’s adorable.
“Now that I own the house, we’ll be here every year to take care of it and make memories. I’ve already fallen in love with it. I hope we’ll become close like you were with my parents,” I tell her in the best Spanish I can manage. She smiles again hugely and nods, squeezing my hand. Then she asks if we’d like to come to her house for dinner tonight since she doubts there is anything to eat in the house. We accept readily and she claps, telling us to be there at 8, pointing at her house from where we’re standing. I hug her goodbye and so does Carlo. When she’s gone, Carlo pulls me into a hug.
“That was quite the warm welcome, huh? I bet she can tell you loads you didn’t know about your parents.” I nod against his chest, unable to speak through my thick throat. Her family will be able to fill in a lot of the blanks in my history, and the thought is both so healing and terrifying that I have no idea what to say. I kiss him instead, communicating how much I appreciate him that way. We squeeze each other one more time to gear each other up to get to work. Inside, the process begins of deep cleaning, starting with wiping down all of the surfaces. He tackles the floors,bringing new life to the old hardwood and tiles. The house slowly starts to smell like citrus and lavender as we clean and dust, removing all of the drop cloths to take an inventory of any furniture that needs replacing. We decide right away that we’re getting a new bed, because having sex in the same bed as my grandparents did is a line I refuse to cross. Otherwise, the majority of the furniture is in good shape, simply needing a good dusting and polishing. No one makes gorgeous, durable furniture like this anymore.
After a few hours of work we decide to clean ourselves up and change before we head into the city for a lunch break, a new bed, some basic groceries, and other odds and ends. Carlo looks so delicious and relaxed in loose tan linen pants with a breezy white button down. His wavy hair is all tousled from the breeze, and I’ll never not want to run my fingers through it. We walk a half mile to the station that will allow us to take the train for the hour long ride into Barcelona. Our hands stay interlaced the whole time while we take in the scenery on the way. The second we get into the city, it’s love at first sight for me. The sun is shining overhead, bathing everything in a bright glow. I’m living for all of the shops and restaurants. We find this little hole in the wall place right by the Picasso museum called Fast Eddie’s that has a limited menu of burgers, chicken sandwiches, and fries. It is one of the best things we’ve ever tasted.
“How is this the most incredible burger I’ve ever tasted in my life? This is sorcery,” Carlo marvels.
“It’s the ingredients for sure. This beef is incredible, like it’s freshly ground and perfectly seasoned. Cheese that definitely is not individually wrapped. Fresh lettuce, tomatoes, and onions that are likely from the local market. Something so simple should not taste this damn good, I’m ruined for other burgers now. It’s not fair.”
“It’s really not. The little holes in the wall are always the best places,” he says before taking another big bite and closing his eyes in bliss. We finish up the perfect meal and check out the shops in the area. There’s a vintage place where I find a few pieces that will brighten up and personalize the house a little more for us. We find a gorgeous wrought iron bed frame and new mattress as well, and they will thankfully be delivered tomorrow. That’s one of the practical perks of Carlo and I living together, having more money leftover per month since we’re splitting the bills.
After our marathon of walking around and shopping, we collapse on the train back to Alella with our shopping bags. First, I make sure to get the sheets drying, taking forever to figure out how to switch it over. Then I find spaces for the pieces I got that fit in so well with the rest of the house. The framed art piece I bought looks perfect in the living room, and the vintage vase with a new table runner is so pretty on the dining room table. It’s starting to feel more homey. I’m no domestic diva, but I feel accomplished with everything Carlo and I got done today. We have some time, and exhaustion is kicking our asses. I make sure we set a bunch of alarms to go off in an hour so we don’t miss dinner with Yolanda and screw up our entire sleep schedule in the process. Flopping on the unmade bed, we drift off instantly into a lovely nap.
We feel better when we wake up, and still have 30 minutes before dinner, so we decide to walk down to the beach that’s fairly close by and see what the Mediterranean sea is all about. It’s starting to become golden hour, and the sand glitters like a million diamonds while the sea gently undulates and glistens, the waves gently brushing the shore. Gulls cry out overhead, trying to find some food to steal from people walking the beach. There are a handful of couples walking at this time, enjoying the gorgeous weatherand perfect light. Carlo and I snap a few selfies in front of the sea in different poses like a couple of sappy teenagers and I adore every second of it.
“We are going to have so much fun exploring this place, baby,” I tell him, looping my arm through his. He drops a kiss to the top of my head.
“Absolutely. I’ve never been here, and only passed through Barcelona briefly once before, so there will be a ton to see and do. Just think of all the amazing food there is to eat,” he says dreamily. I laugh and lean into him as we walk, because it’s adorable how food motivated he is. Before long, we’re heading back to the house to clean up a little before we walk over to Yolanda’s for dinner. We arrive with a bottle of wine we picked up in the city that we thought would be nice with the tapas she mentioned she’s making. She opens her door with the biggest smile and coos over the wine we brought. Introductions are made to her husband, her daughter Paz and son-in-law Sal who would be about my parents age, her grandson and his wife who are just slightly older than me and Carlo I would guess, and her great-granddaughter who is the cutest little toddler.
The table has the most incredible spread. I see the gambas al ajillo that my parents loved so much, with the necessary crusty bread to mop up all of the goodness. Shrimp with garlic is truly my biggest weakness. There is a huge platter of croquetas de jamón y queso, and croquetas de papa. A large tortilla espagñola sits in a cast iron skillet, ready to be sliced. Another platter houses an insane amount of chorizo meatballs. Carlo looks like he’s died and gone to heaven, and I’m right behind him. This is such a fun way to eat, sampling a whole bunch of little bites with delicious wine to wash it down. Everything isabsolute perfection, and the whole family worked on it, with even the toddler helping to make the meatballs.
The family asks us about life in the US, and Carlo and I tell them about our apartment, the cats, our jobs, our artistic aspirations. We of course try to absorb all of the information we can about the way life works here, things to do, places to visit. All of the family live within a 10 mile radius, so they’re quick to offer to show us around. The conversation flows easily in slow Spanish that I’m able to pretty much keep up with, and I tell them I plan to become much better at it, that I hopefully will become fluent someday. Naturally, they offer to help me with that, too. It’s such a culture shock from the NJ/NY area, where you’re more likely to be given the finger than helped by someone you just met. After some flan for dessert, the grandchildren leave with their daughter to get the little one into bed. Yolanda beckons me into the living room to sit with her on the couch. She pulls out an old photo album and hands it to me with a big smile. Carlo sits on my other side and takes my hand.
“Go look through it, see your family,” she tells me in Spanish. I suck in a breath, bracing myself as I open it. The first page shows 4 kids on the beach, goofing around in several poses.
“Will you please tell me who everyone is in the photos?” I ask her.
“Of course! Those are your parents with my daughter and now son-in-law. They spent a lot of time together when they were growing up.” she says fondly. “Your parents were my best friends,” her son-in-law adds wistfully. “I missed them a lot when they left, but I understood they needed a fresh start. We wrote each other from time to time, and it was always so good to see them when they did come back for a visit.” My throat constricts, processingthis whole life here that my parents had, with good friends and neighbors who loved them.
“Then I’m very glad that we’ve met. I want to hear all of the most scandalous stories about them and their adventures with you,” I tell him and Paz. My Spanish is getting easier to just spit out as I sit and talk with these wonderful people, and Carlo jumps in to help when I get lost. Paz gives me a mischievous grin. “Oh there are a lot of stories to tell you, they loved getting into a little bit of trouble.”
“I get that from them, I guess,” I tell them self deprecatingly, which makes them laugh. The entire album goes like that. The pictures progress to the two couples in what must be high school, leaning against a car, a cigarette in Sal’s hand.