Calling a Writer Back Home
By Elyn Aviva
Once upon a time, my husband, Gary White, and I moved to Girona, Catalonia, Spain, where we lived for eight years. After an unexpected “Covid gap year” back in the US, we moved to Portugal. Life was pleasant in Sintra, a small town near Lisbon. We did research for Powerful Places in Sintra – The Magical Mountain of the Moon, the latest in our guidebook series.
Once that was accomplished, however, we found ourselves wondering what else to do. We had new friends, an agreeable lifestyle, and an apartment with a view of the sun setting into the Atlantic eight miles away. Life was comfortable, but routine.
One day, we met our expat friend Jane for a cup of coffee in a nearby beach town. Somehow, we ended up reminiscing about living in Girona. Gary became surprisingly animated.
Leaning forward in his chair, he asked me, “Remember that novel you were writing, the one set in the Garden of the Angel in Girona?”
“Also known as the Kabbalists Garden? Of course I remember.”
“You need to finish it.”
I frowned. “I started writing it six years ago. The plotline just petered out.”
Gary waved his hands excitedly. “You have to finish it! We have to go back to Girona and do more research so you can finish it!”
I watched Gary with a mixture of amusement and puzzlement. He hadn’t been that excited about Girona when we left. In fact, he had struggled with his lack of fluency in Spanish, which had led to discomfort, withdrawal from social engagement, and isolation. What, I wondered, was fueling this unlikely burst of enthusiasm?
“Ok, ok,” I said reassuringly. “I’ll look at the manuscript again. Maybe I’ll get inspired.”
He nodded happily, leaned back in the chair, and visibly relaxed. The conversation returned to desultory topics, including a comparison of different bakeries’ pastel de nata custard pastries, the pros and cons of riding with Uber, and Jane’s upcoming travel plans.
Back in Sintra that afternoon, I found the Word file of the unfinished manuscript and re-read the first 20 pages. Inspiration did not strike. I still had no idea how to continue the story. I made a few editorial corrections, closed the file, and hoped Gary would forget about it.
Two days later, I received a Facebook message from a woman whose first name was Nuri. She was writing (partly in Spanish) to ask if I was the woman she had known 53 years ago in Ames, Iowa. If so, she wanted to say “hello.”
I recognized her first name but not her last—like me, a divorce had intervened. I remembered that she was from Chile and had come to Ames with her then-husband, who was in a graduate program at Iowa State University. Surprised to hear from her after 53 years of no communication, I immediately replied that yes, I was the woman she had known. What, I asked, had made her contact me again?
Nuri explained that the night before, she had had a dream. A woman had come to her in her dream and asked if she remembered Ellen Reynolds (my married name when she knew me). When she woke up, she felt compelled to find me, but she had no luck because my names had changed. Then she remembered my mother’s last name. My mother had taught her English as a Second Language, so Nuri thought perhaps she could find me using my maiden name, and she did.
Curious and curiouser. I messaged her, “Sooo… why do you think you had this dream?”
Nuri replied, “I have no idea. By the way, I read in your online bio that you lived in Girona.”
I messaged back, “So?”
She replied, “Well, my father and grandfather came from Girona.”
I messaged back, “I thought you were from Chile.”
“My father and grandfather fled Spain in the early 1940s because of Franco’s dictatorship.”
I shook my head in wonder. After 53 years of no contact, she contacts me to tell me that her family came from Girona?
Was Girona calling me to return?
I decided to look for a hotel for our possible return visit. Just in case. Although my Booking App always opens in “hotels,” this time it opened in “apartments.” And the apartment at the top of the list was Rosa Street Apartments, with this highlighted information: “Not usually listed so grab it while you can!” I looked at the apartment’s location. It was two blocks from the Garden of the Angel.
An hour later I received an email from Vueling Airlines, informing me that the company was running a special the next month on select routes, including from Lisbon to Barcelona.
What, I mused, was going on? What strange energies were conspiring to create such unlikely synchronicities? And why? Just so I could finish a novel I had started writing six years ago?
Over the day, more synchronicities occurred, more unlikely messages…. I consulted with Gary, who eagerly agreed we should book the apartment, make the airplane reservations, and return to Girona as quickly as possible.
A few weeks later, we flew from Lisbon to Barcelona, and the next morning we boarded a fast train to Girona, 62 miles to the north. As we sped through the countryside, I suddenly burst into tears. I had a strange feeling in my body. In my bones. A combination of immense longing and overwhelming joy, as if I had been holding my breath for years and now, at last, I was able to exhale and take a deep, soul-satisfying inhalation. I had come home.
Sobbing, I turned to Gary. “This makes no sense, no sense at all. As far as I know, all my ancestors came from Belarus or Ukraine. They fled the Bolsheviks. They fled the pogroms. Nobody came from Spain. How could this place feel like home?”
He wiped away my tears. “I don’t understand either, but I’m with you for the ride, wherever it takes us.”
I stared quietly out the train window until we reached Girona. A short taxi ride later, we were standing in front of Rosa Street Apartments. Soon we were walking down Rosa Street to the Street of the Angel and to the garden at the end. I stared up at the angel perched over the wrought-iron entryway. Had it called me home? Or perhaps the battered, glittering angel (some say it’s Metatron) inside the garden was responsible?
That evening we strolled through the well-preserved medieval Barri Vell of Girona. Gary reveled in the ancient buildings and cobblestone streets, the impressive cathedral, the sidewalk cafes, the drifts of conversation floating through the air.
“It’s beautiful. So beautiful,” he sighed. “Let’s move back. Let’s move back home.”
And so we did.
Have I finished the manuscript? Not yet and maybe never. What we are here for remains to be revealed. But I am confident it will unfold.
Elyn Aviva is a transformational traveler, writer, fiber artist, and co-author (with her husband, Gary White) of Powerful Places Guidebooks. She lives in Girona, Catalonia. She has written numerous books on pilgrimage and several novels. To learn more, visit www.pilgrimsprocess.com, www.fiberalchemy.com, and “Elyn Aviva Writes” on Facebook.
