Letters from the Terrace
When Fiction Becomes Reality: Our Shadow of the Wind Pilgrimage
Yesterday, Gina and I lived inside a book.
It began with a cryptic letter from me to Gina. A calling card with only the number “32” on it. The letter asked her to meet me for a clandestine meeting with an overnight bag (be sure to pack sexy lingerie) at Mirablau, a cocktail bar perched high on Tibidabo with Barcelona sprawling beneath us like a constellation of secrets. I brought roses. Gina was sitting at the best seat in the house looking absolutely stunning—the kind of beautiful that makes time stop.
When I handed her the second letter, her eyes widened. She’d already solved the mystery of “32”—it was the Aldaya mansion address from The Shadow of the Wind. But she hadn’t realized we were actually staying there.
We walked down the winding path to Hotel Mirlo at 32 Avenida del Tibidabo—the actual Angel of the Mist from Zafón’s novel. The gate swung open. We crossed a threshold where fact faded into fiction. We’d entered liminal space.
The mansion is everything you imagine: a library with leather-bound books, gardens with statuary, that peculiar October light Zafón writes about. We were escorted to Suite 32 Tibidabo on the top floor—a sanctuary with in-room sauna and hammam, a massive jacuzzi with mood lights, a tiled mosaic fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling windows framing panoramic views of Barcelona and the Mediterranean. Directly across the street: the White Friar mansion, exactly as described in the book.
Champagne waited for us with a note that made her melt. Complimentary chocolate cake. Sumptuous robes. We spent the afternoon in our private spa, lost in conversation and each other.
Dinner in the garden under string lights. Spanish wines. The kind of romance that makes you understand why people write novels.
Back in our suite, I read aloud the chapter where Bea and Daniel meet at #32, the Angel of the Mist for the first time—where she tells him the mansion’s dark history and they make love by the fireplace. Spanish guitar and jazz played softly in the background. The city glittered below. Life became literature became life.
We slept like children in that incredibly comfortable bed. Made love the next morning with Barcelona stretched before us. Breakfast in the garden. One last long round in the sauna, steam bath, and jacuzzi because leaving felt impossible.
Gina kept saying how special she felt. How spoiled. How romanced.
And then, at checkout, the manager told us something that stopped us cold:
Carlos Ruiz Zafón wrote The Shadow of the Wind in our room.
He worked in Suite 32 Tibidabo for seven years, creating the very story we’d just lived inside. The room where Bea and Daniel came alive was the room where we’d just slept. Where they made love, where we made love. Where I had read his words aloud while living inside them.
My friends joke that I have a golden horseshoe stuffed up my ass—that I live a charmed, enchanted life where magic finds me. Yesterday proved them right once again.
We’re still glowing. Still processing. Still pinching ourselves.
If you’ve ever wanted to walk inside a story you love…
Next April, we’re leading a small group on “Shadows and Stories“—a literary pilgrimage through the Barcelona of The Shadow of the Wind. We’ll visit the real locations that inspired Zafón’s masterpiece, stay in the neighborhoods where his characters walked, drink vermouth where Fermín would approve, and yes—we’ll visit the Angel of the Mist.
Because some books aren’t meant to just be read. They’re meant to be lived.
Details: https://randyelrod.com/shadow
“This city is a sorceress, you know? It gets under your skin and steals your soul without you knowing it.”
— Carlos Ruiz Zafón, who wrote those words in the room where we slept last night.
Leave a Reply