ALEX CARR

Deep in the heart of Catalunya, far from the ribald delights of the Ramblas in Barcelona, across dry, rocky hills that once served as a backdrop for Clint Eastwood in his poncho, I am the person who has traveled the farthest. A writer’s group, not large, is being feted by the city government of Zaragoza. Spain adores its writers, has dozens of literary prizes. Tonight an American, Noah Gordon, is getting their historical novel prize (his book, The Last Jew, is set during the Spanish Inquisition) but the rest of us are merely getting happy on their free food and wine.

The writers hail from all over Europe: Iceland, Estonia, France, Denmark, Britain, Germany, Switzerland. Next to me is a Bulgarian who speaks little English, and his son, both lawyers. Next to my husband is another Bulgarian who grew up in Russia, married a Swiss, and lives in Berlin. She tells us sadly she has no home.

I am from the American West, remarkably like this arid spot. The other Americans have attended before but this is my first foray into international waters and I am fascinated – amazed – by Spanish generosity. What city in America would host a group of unknown (truly not famous anywhere) writers a lavish dinner in City Hall, under a decorative 18th Century ceiling with trumpeters announcing our arrival up the golden stairs?

The Bulgarian looks like a miniature Boris Yelstin in his double-breasted suit and shock of white hair. He raises his glass and toasts: “Tchin, tchin!” When another American at the table speaks, mini-Boris grins and announces: “United States of America!” Over the weekend this becomes his way of connecting with us -- and perhaps something more? Of saying it is so obvious we are Americans, so different from Europeans? Of ever-so-subtly putting us in our place?

Zornitsa, the Bulgarian/Russian, speaks good English, and five or six other languages. She has lost count. I am ashamed, with only my high school French. Except for mini-Boris, even Paul from Estonia, all speak English. Paul, big and friendly, wears a t-shirt that proclaims: “Crime Writers are People Too.”
Zornitsa is called Zora for short. The American writer at the table tells me, “Like Zorro. In America,” he tells Zora, brandishing an invisible sword, “everyone thinks of the masked hero on television.”

Not everyone. I have been in Europe for a month and I was thinking of the ubiquitous Spanish women’s store, Zara. I tell Zora this, and she smiles. Better tasteful yet inexpensive sportswear than Don Ameche.

The salad arrives and with it the knowledge that mini-Boris knows more English than he lets on. When he sees me attack my lettuce (it is the fashionable Spanish dinner hour, eleven o’clock, and I am starving) he says, “Aggressor! Terrorist!” We have a good laugh. As long as lettuce is our enemy, all is well.

The Aragonese cultural people send us on winery tours, serving lovely, if odd, meals such as bowls of bread crumbs topped with fried eggs. They show us Goya’s birthplace and his brutal etchings and the forensic lab. With only five murders a year in Zaragoza, pop. 700,000+, the place is spotless.

At lunch we sit by two Austrian couples. One woman served in Parliament, now she’s a writer. With Austrian and Americans the inevitable rises, that famous accidental American, Arnold Schwarzenegger. The former politican talks derisively of Arnold’s Nazi past, how his picture was taken down from the sports stadium. The other couple, quieter, begs to differ on facts and shows us the Arnold stamp they carry with them. Arnold, with the American flag behind him, proud and strong. An Austrian stamp, with an American flag. More wine, please.

On the last night, another free dinner. As we do our final toasts it is left to mini-Boris to say: “Tchin, tchin! Ciao, ciao!” Never to be confused with an American.