A Room With a View

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” - Virginia Woolf

Obradoiro Square, Santiago de Compostella

My first night in Spain, in Santiago de Compostella, the endpoint of the many official pilgrimage routes, was spent at the Royal Hospital. At least it was a hospital in the 15th century. It was commissioned by the Queen out of mercy for the pilgrims who were sometimes at death’s door and, unlike us, had to walk or ride a horse all the way back home.

The Parador de Santiago - Hostal Reis Catolicos - is now considered the oldest hotel in the world and a luxurious way to end any pilgrimage, in the heart of the action, overlooking the cathedral and Obradoiro Square.

Cathedral of Santiago de Compostella.

I’d originally thought to have the opening scenes of the screenplay here, but decided against it for two reasons. I knew it would increase the shooting budget, and I wanted the audience to experience Farren’s arrival in the square with her.

My arrival was more fitting of a comedy. I’d walked through a torrent of rain with two suitcases click-clacking over cobblestone streets, ducking into store doorways, having saved myself the cost of a cab from the bus depot. My carry-on was soaked through to my travel journal. I wondered if that might be an omen.

The room was small, but the hotel was the most beautiful place I’d ever stayed in. I’d only chosen it because of the research opportunities. Well, that’s how I justified it.

I woke with the roosters in a panic though, unsure for a moment of where I was, something that had never happened before. As I lay in bed, I took composing breaths and reminded myself that I was in Spain, the name of the hotel, the city, and my reason for being there. It helped. This would happen disturbingly often as I made my way, waking up on the wrong side of my brain. But this morning, in the most historic room I’d ever been a guest in, I got out of bed and faced the day.

Before the restaurant opened, I was able to enjoy the rare, near-deserted state of the square. My room with a view cost a small fortune and didn’t include breakfast, but it was well worth it. I wonder what the Queen would think of her hospital’s use as a luxury hotel now.

Breakfast bliss!

I must have been in a food-induced fog - or still suffering from startling awake - because I ended up at the train station having forgotten my passport, credit card, and backup Euros in the room’s safe, all neatly tucked into my neck wallet.

Sometimes, writers have to “kill their darlings” - the scenes that slow the pace of a story or bloat the pages of a screenplay - and the budget.

What travel fiascos might you fictionalize?

What darlings have you had to kill in your writing?

Remember to keep the dead darlings - in a resurrecting file.

Ultreia! Forward, together.