When I was a young man, I began searching for the meaning of life. Along the way, I wrote a travel journal, a mix of prose and poetry, and labelled it Fool’s Odyssey.
I was young and in love–with whatever I could find to be in love with. I was lost on purpose, having chosen to run away from answers that were frighteningly large to look for ones that were just my size. True, my lives of happy materialism and decadent sensualism had failed, and yet…
I’d come to Barcelona because I’d met a carefree California beach girl who turned out to be a passionate Spanish revolutionary. And suddenly there I was–searching for the meaning of life again.
After settling into my tiny papier-mâché hotel room, I called Gabriella, and we had lunch at her home. I soon discovered she was an espresso-guzzling communist from a family of intellectuals who’d drunk champagne the night Franco died. They lived in a rambling city-view apartment with woody walls the color of walnuts and olives (you could see the Palau Nacional from there). By comparison, the room I was staying in was so flimsy I kept expecting a hand to reach in and fish around for a prize.
That evening, Gabriella took me down an alleyway past bustling mercados and crumbling cathedrals to a tiny cafetería de comunistas.
There was a sign there that said, “There is no future, there is no past—there is only the present.” And suddenly, I knew it was true…ish. I began to grow excited again. Had I finally found a my-sized passion? There was only the present! I wanted to open my present, to reach inside and fish around for the prize! I wrote in my journal:
“The walls were scaly with sickles and hammers,
and words to Catalan marching songs.
It was like church!
There were holey sweaters and cigarette censers,
and holy manifestos of liberación
that made everyone’s eyes
flash like shorts in a wall socket.
We laughed as we passed around the pourón,
a glass pitcher with a long, holey stem,
from which we extracted holy streams of wine
to pourón our palates.
It like was an anthill of anarchy,
a singing, jolly mess of Marxism!”
Did I have doubts? Of course. But I swept them under that raggedy rug, and sang! Why? Because, as full of holes as their ideals may have been, they fit like a warm, baggy sweater. And because…
Gabriella was just so damned pretty.
To read the next episode, click here.
Mitch Teemley 
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Did you find the meaning of life? if you did, please do let me know because I’m still questioning.
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I did indeed, my friend. I write about it in this three part series (and in quite a few other posts): https://mitchteemley.com/2019/12/02/why-i-believe-c-s-lewis-and-me-part-one/
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awesome! Will check them out.
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Reblogged this on Die Erste Eslarner Zeitung – Aus und über Eslarn, sowie die bayerisch-tschechische Region!.
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? Michael, when I click on the link above it leads to a page that says, “Coming Soon.”
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What a great lifeline, Mitch! Thank you for sharing! Have a nice rest of the week! Michael
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Thanks, Michael, you too!
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What a great description of the mentality of that stage of life! I remember when I was dying to be a hippie, because they were so cool, but thankfully I had sense enough not to want to make any choices I couldn’t un-make – like get pregnant or destroy my brain with drugs. Imagine my delight when I learned “Jesus freaks” were a thing. 😏
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;>) Yes! I had a similar path, Annie.
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gabrielle is fenale
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female o unsex name
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I hope you stretch this series out as long as possible
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Why, thank you, Eric.
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So interesting!!
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Mitch,
This series was fascinating. I loved watching your faith come to life with each episode even though you didn’t know it yet. Look at what God has done. Your story is History.
Thank you for sharing your odyssey with us.
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Thanks, Debi. “Look what God has done indeed.” There are eight or nine episodes left to post.
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I was hoping so. You’ve left me hanging, which of course is a good sign of a great writer.
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Are you going to publish your story? It is too good to leave as a blog post thread.
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Thank you so much, Debi. I’m thinking of including it as a section of my in-the-works memoirs. By itself, ‘Fool’s Odyssey’ isn’t book-length; it’s more in the range of a longish short story.
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