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Just a few days after my high school graduation, my mother and I left our home in southern California to reunite with my father in Spain, where he had been stationed on a joint US/Spanish Naval base in the small Andalucian town of Rota for nearly a year. The first day that I stepped off the plane on to the sizzling tarmac on a sweaty June day and got my first look at the unimpressive base, I was more than a little disappointed. I had been so excited to come to Spain, dreaming of all the things I would do and see but so far this didn’t look much different than any number of crappy little towns in California. We were hot and exhausted from the long trip so my dad took us to his quarters so we could rest – sightseeing would have to wait until tomorrow. I don’t know that I’ve ever appreciated air conditioning and fresh, clean sheets as much as I did that night. I showered and tucked my exhausted and over-heated body in to bed and slept for what seemed like 18 hours. When I woke up, I was ready to check out my surroundings. My dad piled us in to his little Seat sedan (a Spanish made car) and took us first on a tour of the base, which didn’t look nearly as scrappy as I had first imagined. Then we drove through the small town of Rota, which consisted mainly of shops that catered to the base clientele but redeemed itself with a couple of nice plazas. Next we drove through El Puerto de Santo Maria, a small fishing village that looked much more like what I had imagined a little Spanish village to look like: whitewashed homes with tiled roofs, lovely little shops, young people on mopeds. My dad told us that until we could get housing on base, he had rented a house for us in “El Puerto” – it was a 4 bedroom townhouse within walking distance of the beach. From the first time I saw it, I was in love. We had our own small gated courtyard in both the front and back of the house and tile everywhere. That first summer, I’d leave the windows open on the balcony of my second story bedroom and the scent from the flowering vines was intoxicating. I remember thinking that I felt at home: a profound thought for a Navy brat who has spent her life on the move, never really putting down roots anywhere.
We lived in Spain for three years, although for part of that time I left my parents’ home to attend college at an American university in Germany. While I was away at school, Spain was home and I returned there for holidays. During these trips home, I took the train from Germany to Spain, which gave me the opportunity to see more of the countryside. I love each of Spain’s larger cities: Barcelona, Madrid, Bilbao, Granada, Cadiz…but Sevilla holds a special place in my heart. I spent many happy hours wandering through cathedrals and plazas there, the scent of orange blossoms filling the air, and although it has now been nearly 20 years since I was last there, the memories are as fresh today as they were then. In fact, every year when the orange trees in my backyard are in bloom, I am reminded once again of my time in Sevilla.
I have been thinking recently that when my son goes off to college, I would like to return to Spain. For years, I have wanted to live abroad but it is so complicated to do when you have a young child to worry about. If I had it all to do over again, I might have just gone ahead and moved overseas and homeschooled him the whole time through a virtual charter school – traveling the world probably would have provided the better education. But I thought providing him with stability in his education was the best thing and now he is entering his junior year in high school so it’s too late to change course. So anyway…I’d like to travel so I’m thinking of completing a certification for teaching English as a foreign language so that I’d have that skill to offer. Between that and travel writing, I should be able to support myself and fund my travels. Now all I have to do is just do it.
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