After that meeting, the whole tenor of the journey changed for me. Annette and I went south, and had a wonderful time. My great event had happened, I had something to bring back with me. My energetic journaling fell away, and I abandoned myself to simply having a good time. Annette noticed a difference in me but said nothing about it until later. I felt, I think now, a bit of shell shock. Insofar as I was aware of it then, I gave myself permission once more to let it all just happen that way.

We went to Toledo and Córdoba, Seville, Málaga, along the Costa del Sol and north again to Granada, giving at least a day to each. The countryside is wonderfully dry like southern California, and covered as far as the eye can see with olive trees. My eyes were full, with places that were more than ever like my home and yet with a difference. The days were sunny and warm, the air caressing.

The people are friendly everywhere in Spain, but even more carefree in Andalucía - and proud of it. More than one Andalucian told us, with a touch of joyful smugness like a little kid with a toy that others secretly envy, they don't worry about tomorrow. We heard authentic flamenco in Córdoba and spent a night out with the musicians, and in Nerja we ate luscious seafood, swam in the Mediterranean, sunning ourselves on the topless beach amid the British and German tourists, who did the same. "Who avoids sin in Andalucía," said St. Teresa, "is a saint indeed!"

For several days I had missed a camera lens, so in Granada, where we were able to park closer to where we stayed than usual, I brought up every bit of luggage, bags, books, postcards, purchases to consolidate. That evening I went through it all, bit by bit. The lens didn't show up. I must have left it wherever I changed it out the last time. Oh well, an expensive but not irreplaceable loss.

It was then it dawned on me I likewise hadn't seen the blue binder for a while. I went through things one more time thinking I must have overlooked what didn't resemble a lens, but Gerd's documents were gone.

I had no idea where they might have been left. A camera lens is one thing, but I don't lose things I'm especially paying attention to. I also hadn't enough Spanish to hope to track them down without help. The funny thing was, after tossing for a while, I didn't lose much sleep. After the initial dismay, what I recognized myself to be feeling was relief.

I had the funniest feeling that Gerd's books, these descriptions of her life with St. Teresa, had been shown to me, then withdrawn, for some reason. It already seemed to me that I had been carrying the burden and responsibility of someone else's story. The next day, I resumed my journal. Perhaps La Santa was watching over me the whole time. ¿Quién sabe? The next few days, our last in Spain, were even freer.

I will be writing to Gerd soon. I held back some Spanish money to send her to cover the cost of the copies. Thank goodness, no originals. I feel more strongly as time goes on that had I been able to bring them back with me I would have been very scrupulous about preserving the integrity of Gerd's story. It is part of my nature as a person and an artist that I have a curious love and respect for the gestalt of documents that inhibits me from mining them for what is meaningful to me alone. Gerd's story would have become the central and defining story of my journey.

I feel inspired by Gerd, and by her marvelous artwork, which is still in my eyes, and now, my imagination. But the story is once more my own, and I'm grateful for that. I don't know how that story will end. These reflections may sound sober, but Gerd helped me deepen my experience of La Santa in ways I haven't begun to figure out.