The above, although not exactly word for word, is what I wrote in the spring of 1976, while sitting at a long wooden table on the second floor of the hotel I was staying in in Barcelona. I didn't get any farther than that first paragraph, because I was interrupted by the hotel manager who wanted to know if I had thought of anything, anything at all, that he could do for me to brighten my mood.
The reason I was in Spain was because at that time in my life I was a self-illusionist who thought a back-packing trip through Europe by myself would repair my broken heart, lead me to my third chance at love, and give me inspiration to write a best-selling novel.
Self-Illusionist
An illusionist fools others. A self-illusionist fools themselves.
-Wikidikipedia
At twenty-nine what I knew about love came from fairy tale books, romance novels, and movies. You would think that I would be able to separate reality from fiction but that was not the case. In the real life movie I starred in, I was attracted to strong, cool, always in control, leading men. Handsome was required as well. Aren't all leading men in fiction good-looking? Even though I'd spent many years trapped inside Hans Christian Andersen's 1843 fairy tale The Ugly Duckling playing the role of the ugly duckling, as soon as I realized that Handsome was available to me, I choose it over Ugly. Oh, don't grimace at my shallowness. You would do the same thing; you know you would.
I had missed my train from Barcelona to Nice, France, but the hotel manager, who was very handsome by the way, came to my rescue by letting me stay at the hotel at no charge. I wanted to use the extra time to write, but the manager's constant concern for me was a distraction.
That evening, my last night in Spain, I went to dinner with my self-appointed guardian, and afterward we walked along the boulevards at midnight, yet, at such a late hour, the streets were alive with music and singing and laughter. Every single person around me was full of joy and in love. I envied them. When my caring companion reached for my hand, I noticed for the first time that he wore a ring on his left hand, and I asked if he was married. Up until that point, he had spoken perfect English, but with my question he began to stutter and search for words. After some thought, he said that he did have a wife, but their marriage was over. They had separated that morning, and they were getting divorced. I couldn't believe it. This gorgeous man, who was so demonstrative with his concern for me, had become available on the same day I missed my train out of town. Call it fate. Call it destiny. Call it God's plan, but whatever you do, don't call it self-illusionary. Hey! I said don't call it that!
My illusions about love and romance had nothing to do with sex and one-night-stands. Sex might fulfill the physical aspect of passion, but only for a minute or two. No. My illusions had a formula not unlike romance novels and Hollywood movies. There was the attraction, chemical reaction, passion, the games, the push and pull, the drama, the insurmountable problem, the pain and suffering, passion again, and in the end...happily-ever-after. In the six hours that I had remaining in Barcelona, there was not enough time for my formula romance to work. Unless, that is, he wanted to pursue me back to the states, show up at my door with a dozen red roses, and profess his undying love for me, I was leaving in the morning, and we would never see each other again.
Tap Tap Tap (Oh, my. Someone's at the door. Who could it possibly be?)
It was one o'clock in the morning. My train was leaving the station at seven a.m. sharp. Sleep would be good, but then again...
Tap Tap Tap
I opened the door. He looked sad. He was going to miss me, he said. He reached for my hand and that's when I noticed the ring was gone. But, but, but, there's no time. In order for the formula to work, it needs time. He said I looked beautiful from the glow of the hallway light. (Really? I thought I might be considered cute, but beautiful? Really? Even without makeup?). I blushed at his compliment and looked down at the floor. The sheet that I'd hurriedly pulled off the bed to cover my nakedness was beginning to slip. He took his free hand (the one without the ring), and put it under my chin, slowly pulling my face up to within inches of his. We stared into each other's eyes. Did I believe in love at first sight, he asked. No, not really, I thought but didn't say. Love has to cook; love takes time, and then there's the formula, but then again...
Normally, I would stop right here and let your imagination finish the story, but since I'm dedicating my next book, which is a compilation of stories from my blog, to my granddaughter Siena, I am going to tell you the ending.
Could he please come in, he asked. He wanted us to spend my remaining hours in Spain together. I stepped back and allowed him into my room. Once the door was closed he put his arms around me and held me close. I could feel his beating heart through the sheet. My handsome leading man in this story led me over to the bed. He shuttered and his shuttering made me shutter. The first part of the formula, the chemical reaction part, was beginning to percolate, but I continued to clutch the sheet. He took my clutching hand in his and tried to loosen my grip. I refused to let go. The light from the street below accentuated my beauty, he said. I know, I know I thought. But I'm still not dropping the sheet.
And that was the game we played for the next twenty minutes, until he decided he might not love me after all. Nothing happened. I don't believe in one-night stands. I think they are damaging to the soul. I know, I know. I was stupid for letting him into my room. I'll know better next time I'm in Spain. And that's my story and I'm stickin' to it.
That evening, my last night in Spain, I went to dinner with my self-appointed guardian, and afterward we walked along the boulevards at midnight, yet, at such a late hour, the streets were alive with music and singing and laughter. Every single person around me was full of joy and in love. I envied them. When my caring companion reached for my hand, I noticed for the first time that he wore a ring on his left hand, and I asked if he was married. Up until that point, he had spoken perfect English, but with my question he began to stutter and search for words. After some thought, he said that he did have a wife, but their marriage was over. They had separated that morning, and they were getting divorced. I couldn't believe it. This gorgeous man, who was so demonstrative with his concern for me, had become available on the same day I missed my train out of town. Call it fate. Call it destiny. Call it God's plan, but whatever you do, don't call it self-illusionary. Hey! I said don't call it that!
My illusions about love and romance had nothing to do with sex and one-night-stands. Sex might fulfill the physical aspect of passion, but only for a minute or two. No. My illusions had a formula not unlike romance novels and Hollywood movies. There was the attraction, chemical reaction, passion, the games, the push and pull, the drama, the insurmountable problem, the pain and suffering, passion again, and in the end...happily-ever-after. In the six hours that I had remaining in Barcelona, there was not enough time for my formula romance to work. Unless, that is, he wanted to pursue me back to the states, show up at my door with a dozen red roses, and profess his undying love for me, I was leaving in the morning, and we would never see each other again.
Tap Tap Tap (Oh, my. Someone's at the door. Who could it possibly be?)
It was one o'clock in the morning. My train was leaving the station at seven a.m. sharp. Sleep would be good, but then again...
Tap Tap Tap
I opened the door. He looked sad. He was going to miss me, he said. He reached for my hand and that's when I noticed the ring was gone. But, but, but, there's no time. In order for the formula to work, it needs time. He said I looked beautiful from the glow of the hallway light. (Really? I thought I might be considered cute, but beautiful? Really? Even without makeup?). I blushed at his compliment and looked down at the floor. The sheet that I'd hurriedly pulled off the bed to cover my nakedness was beginning to slip. He took his free hand (the one without the ring), and put it under my chin, slowly pulling my face up to within inches of his. We stared into each other's eyes. Did I believe in love at first sight, he asked. No, not really, I thought but didn't say. Love has to cook; love takes time, and then there's the formula, but then again...
Normally, I would stop right here and let your imagination finish the story, but since I'm dedicating my next book, which is a compilation of stories from my blog, to my granddaughter Siena, I am going to tell you the ending.
Could he please come in, he asked. He wanted us to spend my remaining hours in Spain together. I stepped back and allowed him into my room. Once the door was closed he put his arms around me and held me close. I could feel his beating heart through the sheet. My handsome leading man in this story led me over to the bed. He shuttered and his shuttering made me shutter. The first part of the formula, the chemical reaction part, was beginning to percolate, but I continued to clutch the sheet. He took my clutching hand in his and tried to loosen my grip. I refused to let go. The light from the street below accentuated my beauty, he said. I know, I know I thought. But I'm still not dropping the sheet.
And that was the game we played for the next twenty minutes, until he decided he might not love me after all. Nothing happened. I don't believe in one-night stands. I think they are damaging to the soul. I know, I know. I was stupid for letting him into my room. I'll know better next time I'm in Spain. And that's my story and I'm stickin' to it.
Barcelona, Spain April 1976
Broken hearted, sad and lost in thought
Call it fate; call it destiny, call it God's Plan,
but don't call it self-illusionary.
The handsome Spaniard did bring out the smiles.
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