11. Café Alameda

  It was absolutely pouring out. The torrential rain wasn't expected, but even those with an ounce of prevention were finding the means they had for fending off the sheeting, pelting drops were useless. The upturned market baskets that protected heads were leaking, the capes and other garments wrapped around shoulders were soaked and only made it easier for the dampness to penetrate to the skin. Still, this was Galicia and it was Santiago, the city where some people, in an acccusatorial tone, said it always rained the hardest. The residents weren't comfortable being dowsed in that manner, but neither did it faze them much.

  One way to ward off being drowned while outside was to seek the stone arcades and the cafés. There were libraries and a bookstore as well. If necessary, one could take shelter in a tiny shop selling dry goods, needles, thread; or in a chocolatería selling chocolate in various forms from former colonies. As the persons running an errand, calling on a family member or friend, or traveling to or from work knew, it would eventually clear up. Everybody accepted the dampness and humidity and there were more than enough popular refrains about the weather. After all, there would be no 'lettuces' growing out of the cathedral façade otherwise, and people wouldn't be saying the rain was the 'sauce of life' or, in less literal translation, it spiced things up. Local humor or local resignation to the many gray days throughout the year.

  There was one good thing, however: the fact that the stone streets didn't have a lot of muddy areas, so people wouldn't need to scrape off footwear that got soaked. The shoes and boots dried quickly by the fire. This lack of mud was also fortunate when taking shelter during a downpour, because floors in cafés were only wet. Rosalía thought about this as she shook her bonnet and cape to get rid of some drops and entered her favorite establishment in the city. It wasn't too far from the Praza where she'd gone to get fresh fruit and vegetables for the weekend. She wouldn't have to keep her heavy bag of purchases on her lap while she had a coffee, and this in turn made it possible for her to get out her journal.

  Rosalía had been going to this café for several years and liked how it had small tables in the back for one person to sit and read or write, while there were larger tables for groups to gather in tertulias and watch passersby from the large windows that provided a vew of the street. The xente de atrás [the people in the back] didn't go to socialize and yet they were just as welcome in the establishment. While waiting for her coffee and a piece of bica, Rosalía set her materials out on the tiny table with a marble surface and opened to a blank page. She was anxious to write. A Alameda, the little café, seemed to welcome her.

Journal:

  I’m lucky I brought this journal as I wait for the downpour to pass. This is my favorite place for an afternoon café, so I’m actually glad it’s raining so hard. I like to write in places like this because it’s different from sitting at my desk at home. At home I can choose moments when nobody is near, whatever time that might be be. Here, in the café, the noises and smells of people sometimes give me ideas for writing. Today, though, I want to write down some ideas I had after finishing up at the praza. I like going there and talking with people who come from the aldeas nearby to sell their wares. They have interesting stories. Once in a while somebody sings a few lines from a song and everybody looks, smiling.

The coffee arrived, accompanied by an enormous square of bica that looked as if it had just been delivered from Ourense. After paying minimal attention to her order, Rosalía continued writing.

  I heard from my friends in the States that in and around Boston there are groups that get together for polite discussions about literature and the like. I know about the bluestockings and the salonniéres, but nobody had mentioned much about groups in America. Then I started hearing the word transcendentalism and want to know what it means. I think it has something to do with Protestantism, so want to be cautious about asking people here what it means. They already make fun of me for wanting to be a literata; I don't want them thinking I want to convert. George Borrow had more adventures in his effort to sell Bibles than I wish to have.

  The last letter I received mentioned this transcendentalism and two more writers with whom I might like to exchange letters, maybe send them more of my work. It surprises me that I hadn't thought of them before, because they've published things I want to read: Margaret Fuller and Louisa May Alcott. Margaret Fuller, poor thing, she drowned off the east coast when she was 40. That was in 1850. I read about it because she had been a correspondent in Italy and the obituary might not have been extremely flattering due to her political views and her being a professional writer, which always makes people suspicious. Still, it said she knew several languages, plus she was considered the best-read person in ... Boston? New England? I don't recall, but it's certainly not normal to say that about a woman.

  The other thing I remember about Margaret Fuller is that she held conversations at a bookstore called the West Street in Boston. I was envious, because she had groups of people to hold discussions with. I read they talked about fine arts, history, mythology, literature, nature and other things. I have a copy of La mujer en el siglo XIX [Woman in the Nineteenth Century], but haven't read much of it yet. It makes me think of Mary Wollstonecraft and her essay. It's definitely something to discuss. My friends the Grimké sisters want me to send them news about what women are discussing here, what concerns we have, so we can see how to improve our situations. Yet it's not as easy here as it is in other countries, maybe. The 'ladies' won't give me much attention, so maybe they're more like Elizabeth Montagu and her companions who were, after all, from the upper class. I need my own group.

Here Rosalía paused to ask for water and another coffee. It was so damp and she felt chilled now.

  So that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll get a group together and we’ll talk about literature. Because after all, they were doing it decades ago in France. We can also discuss other topics like women’s clothing, women’s right to education. Someday I'd like to write a novel about girls' and women's education here. We know we are taught so little. Nobody thinks we need to know much. I'll show them. I'll create a silly little character who is stuck on romantic ideas of love and is very uncertain of her ability. I can put her in a cemetery where she'll cry and be really sentimental, passionate about a man just because he's very elegant. She'll be the perfect example of what women shouldn't be like. I think I'll call the fellow she falls for something like "the Knight in the Blue Boots." 

  I wish I could tell my friend Eduarda Pondal about it, because she'd want to help me. That's impossible, because although we both got very sick in Muxía when I was visiting her, I recovered but she didn't. She died and I lived. It still doesn't seem fair. 

  I'll talk to other friends here in Santiago. Surely some would like to read and discuss. We can study books in other languages, just like they did in the bookstore in Boston. I think five is a good number to start and if all goes well, more can join. We just need to organize things well. What should we read? Well Fuller, Wollstonecraft, and a novel by George Sand. I could try to get a copy of something by Alcott. Maybe one of her stories. I'm not sure about poetry, but there might be some that we can find.

  We need to figure out how everybody will read the work? How often do we want to meet for discussions? Should we meet secretly? Can we ask women who’ve organized clubs or circles how they did it? What about women’s groups in Spain or Portugal? The ladies in Britain and maybe in France might be from a different social class than we are, but we need to learn too, and to express ourselves, especially in our language, Galician.

  It's stopped raining! I'd better get home in case another huge cloud comes in. But the things I've just written need more time. Hopefully not too much time.

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  Rosalía, once more bundled up, although her outer garments were more soggy than dry, turned toward the door of the café. She had been there for two hours without realizing. When she went through the door and emerged into the bright sunshine, she had a thought that she immediately realized was not very creative, but she thought it anyway:

  It looks like the heavens approve of my idea!

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Researcher's Note:

Rosalía did write the novel she talked about in her jourmal: El caballero de las botas azules. The knight or gentleman confused a lot of people, who didn't understand what she meant by having a main character who dressed in high blue boots and seemed to appear and disappear with the swirl of a cape. The poor little girl was encouraged to leave the graveyard and develop healthier ideas about love.

It's going to take some digging to see if the reading group actually did get organized and who belonged to it. Maybe the journal will provide some information. Otherwise, where should I look? Nothing was preserved, unless we return to the idea that there were more journals hidden where they wouldn't be found. We won't stop looking, however, because the idea of a group of women getting together wasn't impossible. Juana de Vega had a salon in A Coruña, so perhaps there is some record of contact between her and Rosalía or with Concepción Arenal, who was also in Coruña. The thing was, these two women weren't very interested in literature, although they did write about social inequity. I'm not sure if there's much of a connection and it could mean a lot of work for nothing.

  Still, I'd give anything to know what the group read and what they thought about the books. Who were those brave women, since they have been all but invisible?