I could become a Spanish citizen.

Under a law passed in 2007 designed to make amends for so many of the wrongs committed in the Franco era, the Spanish government has opened the gates for as many as half a million people (as much as 1% of the total population of Spain) around the world to claim Spanish citizenship. Anyone who was forced out under the Franco regime for political or economic reasons between 1936 and 1955, or their descendants for two generations, are eligible. Because my grandfather was forced out, as was my father when he was 2 years old, that means I am eligible. The Spanish citizenship would not require me to forego being American, so I could have dual citizenship. Those who wish to apply have until December 2010 to do so. Reportedly, the Spanish embassies and consulates in many countries are swamped with applications.

It would be an interesting option–at the very least, it couldn’t hurt (though I do want to check out tax laws to see there are any obligations there, and what they might be). It would make travel to Spain to see family, and to Europe in general much easier, and could potentially open up a possible venue for retirement in the future.

At the very least, simply the idea of dual citizenship is in itself somewhat of a draw. Gives me another reason to start studying Spanish at some point.

Sorry for the hiatus… On to Day 4.

In the morning, we took some time to shop, looking mostly in the old town. Karen and Dad wanted to find a silver spoon for Mom. Having heard we were looking for something like this, the cousins had picked one up for us–but it was a souvenir spoon with the Pontevedra crest on it, and Mom wanted something simpler. So we went to a few silver stores (there seemed to be quite a lot of them), and found something nice. In addition, we went to a pottery store where we picked up a nice coffee set, as well as some pins. The pins said “Non a Guerra” (“No to the War”) and “Nunca Maís” (“Never Again”).

Afterwards, we walked around town for about an hour before we went back to the hotel to meet Charo. Charo is another cousin; his father was jailed after the Spanish Civil War, and my grandfather helped support their family, sending money whenever he could. Charo said that one of his early memories was when Papa Hernan came to visit, and bought the family a lobster meal–an extravagance he had never seen before.

We ate lunch at another restaurant near the estuary, this time closer in to town; during that time, we enjoyed conversation and again, very good food. Charo told us about how we could get to the cathedral at Santiago, then showed us the way back into town before saying goodbye.

So off we went to the north, pretty much clueless about our destination beyond knowing that a big, old stone cathedral was somewhere in the town we were driving to. Naturally, we got kind of lost in the town, but as usual, the locals were very friendly and helpful, and pointed us in the right direction. By this time, the rain that had been predicted for our whole stay (which we had been lucky enough to avoid so far) caught up with us–but not too badly. We walked down the old-yet-touristy streets to the cathedral.

When we got there, we first looked around the square, appreciating the majesty of the cathedral and the surrounding architecture. When we approached the building, there was a guy dressed in what looked to be some quasi-Celtic gard, with a tray hanging from his shoulders, apparently selling the hard-to-identify items. I tried to wave him off when he approached me with his spiel, but he recognized that we were Americans and switched to English–and I still did not understand what he was selling. As I politely declined and tried to walk away, I caught the only sentence I understood: “You’re going in there looking like that?” I still have no idea what he was about.

As it was, we couldn’t get inside–a mass had just started, and no one was allowed to tour the cathdral until it was over. So we headed to one of the side streets to find a place to wait the hour. We found a little hole-in-the-wall cafe and had some churros and hot chocolate. The hot chocolate was like the kind my grandmother made for my father when he was a kid–very thick. We finished and headed back to the cathedral.

We got there and went in just as the mass was ending. It would be hard to explain what we saw, so I will leave you to view the photos in the photo page (see the end of this post). Suffice it to say, it was not hard to be impressed by the opulence of the interior. Sam and Will, not surprisingly, were most impressed by a certain metal grate protecting a display; the grate was mildly electrified, and by placing your hands in particular places, you could feel a low-level shock. They loved it.

At the end of the day, we headed back for Pontevedra, to make our way back to Madrid the next day. We had light all the way back–since Spain is both on daylight savings time and on the western edge of a time zone, it stays light out until 9:00 pm.

— Photos from the day are thumbnailed on the Day 4 Photo Page.

Coming Soon: Day Five: Back to Madrid, with a spectacular lunch on the way.

April 11th, 2003

The next morning, we woke up and felt somewhat refreshed. The hotel (the Hotel Galicia Palace, a very nice place despite the relatively low price) served a buffet breakfast including scrambled eggs, sausages, bacon, fruit, cold cuts and cheese, various breads and croissants. After taking our time and having a good meal, we were in a much better state to see the city.

In addition, the weather cooperated with us nicely; despite a predicted forecast of several days of thunderstorms and rain, we got partly cloudy weather with only scattered rain here and there. So when we started out, it was a rather nice day. My father’s cousins, Mellie, Margot and Maria Carmen, along with their husbands Amelio, Melucho and Chano, who joined us later, gave us a wonderful tour, and afterwards, took us to lunch.

One thing I noted about Spain is that there are quite a few ruins. Even driving on the highways around Madrid, you can spot many buildings in various states of disrepair or ruin, some looking like they’ve been that way for a few centuries; Pontevedra is no different. Some of the major attractions of the city are the architectural remains from 500 years past. The first we saw was the Santo Domingo convent, but soon after and much more spectacular was the Santa Maria Basilica, a wonderful and ornate structure both inside and out. During our walk through this place, Karen quipped that the word “ostentatious” probably came from the Latin “ostentador,” meaning “I think we can cram one more angel in here.” Much more true in what we saw at the cathedral at Santiago the next day. From the basilica it was on to my grandfather’s old school.

A word here about my family history. The Poza clan, it is thought, originated from the Valencia area, and by the start of the 20th century my family line of the clan had settled in the Galicia province, in the town of Pontevedra, at the mouth of a beautiful estuary leading to the Atlantic. Pontevedra is some 50 km north of Vigo, which itself is just north of Portugal. The Pozas had the reputation of being the intellectuals of the town, and though not rich, were relatively well-off. They were also liberal, and were anti-fascist and anti-clerical (the Church of Spain had aligned itself with the fascists).

My grandfather, Papa Hernan, established and ran a school in town that, though small, was very highly regarded. There was one issue he had to decide on, however: whether or not to allow a cleric to teach courses in religion at my grandfather’s academy. In the end, my grandfather decided to do so. The reasons could have been both practical and ethical. Papa Hernan was a great believer in civil liberties, in freedom of religion as well as all the others we now accept; from a more practical angle, however, allowing these courses would help business, as the influence of the church was strong. This did not sit well with the family, however, and caused a bit of a rift.

The Spanish Civil War, however, swept over everything else. When the fascists took over, the Poza family went through somewhat of a Diaspora, those who survived the conflict and its aftermath. Being anti-fascist and anti-clerical, most had to run for their lives and resettled in Mexico and, as in my grandfather’s case, the United States. My grandfather, who had spoken and written openly against the fascists, almost didn’t make it. He was put into prison and would have died, thrown into the back of a truck and driven to the mountains where he would have been shot in a ditch. This was prevented, however, by some of the parents of the students at his school; some were soldiers and guards in the new fascist regime. They respected him to such a degree that they took shifts guarding his cell at the prison, making sure that he was not killed.

Eventually, he was released, but he heard that there were plans to re-arrest him, this time taking him to a prison elsewhere, a place where he could not be protected. So he fled through Portugal and eventually settled in New York, where his family (his wife and four children) followed a few years later.

So here we are, nearly 70 years later, a hundred years after his birth in this town, and we visit the site of that school he ran. It now houses some agricultural ministry office, and unfortunately we were not able to visit inside, as it was Holy Week when we came. Still, it made an impression on me just to be there and contemplate the history that happened there, punctuated nicely by the children in school uniforms playing soccer in the plaza in front of the building.

A little later, we were shown a third-story window that was the apartment my grandmother moved into less than a day after my father was born; we learned a story about it. My grandfather had been taken away by then and so my grandmother was alone with her three children and the newborn. On the day before, there was some kind of water damage in the building. People in the damaged apartment, apparently on a grudge, blamed the Republican family living above and got them kicked out. My grandmother had to scramble to find a place to live on that of all days.

We also saw the sanctuary of La Peregrina, standing tall above a plaza, another of the very old buildings of the city on the estuary. All of our tour so far was in the old section of town, kept consistent with the old styles very well.

After the walk through the old town, we got into our cars and drove out on the peninsula to have lunch at a very nice seafood restaurant. Later, we walked off the meal along the beach, finding shells to bring back home (dad found a good cuttlefish bone for his canaries), and then we took a scenic drive back into town, where we retired for the evening.

— Photos from the day are thumbnailed on the Day 3 Photo Page.

Coming Soon: Day Four: Lunch with another cousin, and the cathedral at Santiago.

April 10th, 2003

So we wake up on time and have a lovely breakfast. The plan is to get out by 8:00, drive to the train station where my sister Karen, her husband Randy, and their two boys Sam and Will are scheduled to arrive at 8:58, then start our drive up to Pontevedra in northwestern Spain (just north of Vigo and south of Santiago).

When we leave the apartment, Vicente and Berta call out to us from the 7th floor window (8th floor by U.S. terms, in Europe there is a ground floor before the 1st) and tell us that we have forgotten the Chorizo and other items that they had packed for us. So Vicente tosses the baggie down and, by startling chance (it seemed highly improbable), the bag gets caught in the branches perhaps 30 feet above us. I get out a Ziploc I have with some lotion and deodorant, which I figure is compact and heavy enough, and toss it up to dislodge the most excellent chorizo. As you can guess, there are soon some toiletries keeping the food company up in the branches. We all have a good laugh, but time is running out, so we leave the industrious Vicente to rescue the trapped items as we leave for other parts. (A sad note: I had a wonderful series of photos showing this sequence of events, including one of the chorizo coming down–and they appear to be lost. Ah, well….)

My father and I navigate successfully to the airport to discover two things: the Hertz rental van we got has a near-flat on the back right side, and my sister’s train is late by three hours (a train worker’s strike somewhere in Spain, apparently). So my father and I take advantage of the time to exchange the rental car at the airport and then go back to Berta and Vicente’s to see if the bags have been brought down from the branches yet. Vicente has approached his 3rd-floor neighbor and convinced him that deodorant is hanging outside his window, and has successfully gotten the chorizo down, but apparently the toiletries are all too happy where they are and refuse to budge. OK by me, the chorizo is great stuff.

We get back to Chamartin Station just as Karen and the gang walk out, and after various small chores and trips, we get it all together and are off to the province of Galicia. We stop for lunch (not the best place we ate to be certain) and carsickness (not necessarily cause-and-effect) along the way, and eventually arrive in Pontevedra; I’ll spare you the details of how Spanish highways do not mark exits or provide directions well, suffice to say we had a few small detours and asked for directions a lot, but by God, we got there.

Then began what we later jokingly dubbed the “death march.”

Understand that we were all traveled out. I had just flown from Japan, had gotten just six hours sleep (four hours the night before), was jet-lagged, dehydrated and felt like I was getting a sore throat. My father, having arrived a few hours before me (though he always upgrades to first class, so he was in better shape), was not in too much better shape–but Karen and her family were the most haggard, having traveled from Paris by train from 7pm to noon, then directly piled into a crowded van for an 8-hour trip–well, you can imagine how everyone felt, especially the kids, who were amazingly well-behaved throughout.

We expected to just meet and say hello to our cousins (children of my grandfather’s siblings and their families), get a quick bite to eat and then get right to bed. But the cousins, being very generous and proud of their hometown, wanted to take us for a bite to eat at one of their houses, just five minutes away on foot, they said. But the cousins decided on their own to take us on the tour of town just then, without waiting for the next day when we planned, and before we knew what was happening, we had taken half an hour to walk in a very roundabout fashion through the streets of the old town. I was exhausted and feeling sick, but was not in nearly as bad shape as my nephews, who despite their good behavior were starting to fall apart. Finally we got through to our relatives that this was not the time for the tour, and at least the my sister and her kids got guided back to the hotel. My father and I were taken then to the apartment, where we found a several-course meal waiting for us. It was lovely, but we really were not in shape for it, especially not the great deal of wine they wanted us to try. Begging off for a phone call from my mother we were expecting (truth), we walked back to the hotel, unfortunately for me, at a frantic pace (we were late for the call).

By the time we got back, I was practically dead on my feet. Things had gone rather unwell that first day and evening. But fortunately, the worst was over, and the trip got very much better from then on.

— Photos from the day are thumbnailed on the Day 2 Photo Page.

Coming Soon: Day Three, where we actually see stuff.

Finally got around to it!

April 9th, 2003

All goes well, save for the few hours of sleep that night. But I wake up, have a bite to eat, finish packing, and then I am off. I expected to take a larger suitcase, as the luggage allowance I am used to (trans-Pacific) is two times 70 lb. Suitcases. It turns out that to Europe, on Air France at least, you are only allowed one bag, and a limit of 23 kilos (50 lbs.). Seeing as how even my small suitcase is 5 kilos by itself, I repack into the smaller one, but there’s enough room.

So it’s out the door to the bus, then the train, then the express to the airport, then to wait for the flight. At the airport, I try to use the wireless Internet access points they have set up, but it seems that you have to sign up for some kind of roaming service to get on the Internet proper. But I do find out that they have power outlets, and if I bring my charger, I can use my laptop as I wait for my flight without draining the batteries.

The flight goes well–the food is good, and time flies despite the cramped seats. At least Air France has little touch-screen videos on the back of all the seats so you can watch the movies, TV shows or other things at your convenience (on rotating schedules), along with game-playing and the ubiquitous where-is-the-plane-now chart. The couple next to me is from Japan (Koji and Ryoko, newlyweds), and we chat amicably; Ryoko even gives me a nice origami star box, which she made during the flight, for my family in Spain (which they later enjoy).

At Charles de Gaulle airport I have to change planes, and it’s the usual madhouse rush to figure out where you go. None of the flight boards has my flight posted (the main board is about 6 hours behind, in fact), and I am not even sure which gate to go to. When I arrive at the (unmarked, of course) gate which I think is correct, I ask a gentleman sitting in the area if I am in the right place. “I’m so sorry,” I begin, “but do you speak English?”

It is time for my first rude Frenchman it seems, as he looks up at me and, sighing and rolling his eyes as if to say “this is the tenth time I have told you will you just go away you annoying person,” he answers, “Yessss, I speak Eeenglish” (with an “isn’t it obvious, you moron?” attitude), after which I ask and he resentfully tells me that this is where I catch the flight to Madrid. I swear, I am not exaggerating.But it all goes well from there, everyone is lovely and I get to Madrid on time and in one piece.

I expect customs, and was not aware that when I passed through passport control in Paris, that was customs, so I just have to walk out of baggage claim in Madrid. Okay. My father (who preceeded me into Madrid by 4 hours), my aunt Millie, and my very vivacious and gregarious uncle Vicente (married to my aunt Berta) greet me warmly, take me to the car and drive me to Berta and Vicente’s place for the evening. We gnosh on cold cuts, particularly some excellent chorizo Berta got (the Iberico chorizo is the best!). My father and I must get to sleep soon, because we wake up early tomorrow. The plan is to go to our ancestral home of Pontevedra, a 6- to 8-hour drive from Madrid, from early the next morning.

— Photos from the flight are thumbnailed on the Day 1 Photo Page.