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Hemmingway introduced me to Spain. Hemmingway’s powerful descriptions of the “Corrida,” the wine, the food, and the women of Spain filled my head as a young reader, and I yearned to go to Spain. One would think that Spain would be my objective when I made my first trip overseas, but it didn’t happen that way. My first trip to Spain began just after I donated seven portraits of Duke Ellington to the Schomburg Center For Research In Black Culture in New York City. While waiting for the center's Curator, I explored the exhibition room in which I waited. There displayed in a glass case was an original type written page by Langston Hughes. The words-literary floated into my mind’s vision, and, in that moment, my writing career was revived. Later, on my way home on the subway, I wrote the first paragraph of my first novel. But that wasn’t enough. I decided that if I were to become a writer, I would have to go to Africa to establish identity. I asked my Administrative Assistant to call TWA and book me a flight to Marrakech, Morocco. She called me and said that TWA didn’t fly to Marrakech. Later, after several calls, she informed me that she could book me a flight on TWA to Madrid, where I would take Iberia Airlines to Casablanca and take Air Moroc to Marrakech. My next question was could I layover at each stop? The answer was yes, and I was on my way. I found what I was looking for in North Africa, but it was in Spain where the excitement really began. I am a Jazz Musician, and I took my saxophone with me to Spain. I practiced in my hotel room, and that led to some wonderful experiences. One was meeting Marcos Valentim a drummer from Brazil. I had been in the hotel for about three days, and I spent my mornings traveling around the city on the Metro and the afternoons in the bar of my hotel. I found a Spanish/English dictionary and managed to learn enough Spanish to hold a conversation. The bartender was impressed and gave me a new name, El Sevilliano. He said that I appeared to be more like the Spanish people than Americans who stopped in the hotel. Later I would learn what an ugly American is. A new tour group of Americans arrived every Thursday, and some of them didn’t seem to care about what they said about Spain and its people, assuming that the staff didn’t understand English.

Author Cliff Chandler is truly a renaissance man. He was born in New York City during the thirties, and spent part of his life in Macon, Georgia. Cliff returned to New York as a teenager, attended school at night, and worked in various occupations. Like most artists he has worked as a taxi driver, hospital aide, paramedic, professional photographer from the German School, Jazz Musician-- The New Muse, and an editorial writer for a local newspaper. Chandler was trained and served as a Special Officer in the New York City Police Department. His education includes: Fine Art Major, Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, New York, Masters Writing courses at New York University, and Editing classes at The New School.  His photograph hangs in private collections all over the world and in museums here in America. He has written a book of poetry titled, "Chants, Rants, and Raves," and ten novels, two of which are published, "The Paragons" and "Vengeance Is Mine." .. Additional Resources Living Overseas  Unique Lifestyles  International Jobs Marketplace  Moving & Living Overseas  World Reference Desk  Articles on Living Overseas EscapeArtist.com Homepage  Moving to Europe  Moving to Europe  Contact Cliff Chandler  .

One afternoon, when I returned from a day of exploring Madrid, Jose said that he wanted me to meet someone. It was Marcos. Marcos was playing at the Pub Dallas jazz club, the club no longer exists, but at that time, it was in full swing. Marcos said that he had heard that I was a musician and invited me to come to the club to play later that evening. I agreed, after which he asked me to join him and a few friends at another local bar around the corner. Marcos introduced me to Castro, the owner of the bar, as a jazz musician from the United States, and from that moment on, the drinks were on the house. The owner asked Marcos what time would we be playing, and he told him we would start at Midnight. 
 

Pub Dallas was tops, it reminded me of the Playboy Club in New York City. The waiters dressed in tuxedos and the customers were elegant. Marcos and his partner Urano were well known in Brazil and Spain. I was impressed. In the middle of his first set Marcos said, “Cliff” and that was it. He beckoned for me to join them on the stage. I did, but I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Every table in the club was filled. There was a long staircase that led to the dining room and the stage. The staircase was empty when I joined Marcos and Urano on stage. When I turned around Castro and his customers had arrived and filled the staircase; it was standing room only. I called the tune “Georgia.”

In New York clubs there is a lot a activity: people talking, glasses rattling, the cash register ringing, and that was what I was accustomed too. The room at Pub Dallas was silent, so quiet I could hear myself breathing through my sax while playing. I had been to the bullfights (Corrida) earlier that day, and I knew what the Madridlinos could do to a performer if they weren’t happy, but I continued and finished my tune. There was a pregnant moment of silence followed by screams of “Otra! Otra vez!!”  I was a hit. I played two more tunes, after which I was invited to join the crowd at a swanky disco near Pub Dallas. In an instant I had become a star.
 

Sambrazil disco was a fancy disco full of Madrid’s best. During our short walk to the disco my new-found friends were discussing politics. It was amazing! In the group of ten there was every political view one could imagine, yet they were all friends. I had remained silent during the discussion, but the Scotch got the best of me. We made a grand entrance to the club, conversation in full swing. I stopped, lowered my head and made the Black Power salute. Marcos almost fainted, but the guys in my group lifted me to their shoulders and paraded me around the room. That was my introduction to Spain.

James Michner motivated my next trip to Spain. His descriptions of Torromolinas captivated me. I had met the woman that would become my wife, and I wanted her to visit the places I'd visited on my first trip to Spain, but this time I wanted to start at Costa Del Sol. We traveled to Malaga. We rented a car and drove to Torremolinas. Our hotel was located at the water’s edge. We took an apartment with a view of the beach. It was dynamite. The Hotel Don Carlos was beautiful. We had everything we needed within walking distance. My passion is Flamenco. I asked the bartender where I could find a nice club, and he suggested that I wait until midnight and go to Bar Tanos. He said that the dancers who worked in clubs around the city gathered there at midnight and danced.
 

The club was simple, an elegant kind of simplicity. The customers appeared to be locals. We were given a ringside seat. I ordered my favorite beer Aguilar Muy Especial and just as our drinks arrived the room darkened, the music filled the room, and eight dancers danced into the room. I have never seen dancing like that before or since. Raphael De Cordova is a friend and a great dancer, but there in the little club something different was in the air, and it filled the room. One of the dancers flirted with me, and I asked my girlfriend to give me my dark glasses. Two dances later the same young dancer came to our table and reached for my hand; her partner extended his hand to my girlfriend, and we had a ball! There are no words to describe the love of the Spanish people. Their spirit lifts you, and it is very difficult to leave Spain. I have been to Spain three times. I hope I have at least one more trip left. Mi corazón pertenece a España.