A ROYAL HOMECOMING

by Chad Patrick Osorio (France)

I didn't expect to find Spain

When I traveled to Europe in the summer of 2015, I wanted to discover our colonizers. The Philippines was under Spanish rule for 333 years; its influence still shows. Up to now, we count in Spanish, and many of the words that we use everyday are derived from theirs. Some of our best dishes are Spanish derivatives, and a majority of Filipino surnames are Hispanized. It would be interesting for me to visit the country where our introduction to the Western world all started. But before the trip was over, I was to unearth an intriguing question: Was I descended from the conquerors themselves? FIRST ENCOUNTER A month and a half in Europe was an exciting exploration, a collection of quaint stories where even daily life was an adventure. To cap it all off, Spain was the last leg of my European tour before going back to the rigors of law school. I flew to Barcelona and spent the night, where I met Antoni Gaudi. He’s been dead for nearly a hundred years, and yet I felt his spirit in the city, as if he were my personal guide. I love exploring on foot, without guidebooks or anything of the sort. Around every corner or two, I’d encounter some of his magnificent works of architecture. Seeing Casa Milá for the first time convinced me I was in love—with Gaudi the artist, with Barcelona, with Spain. Such sweet sorrow, departing by plane the next day. I promised myself I’d be back. RETURN TO MY KINGDOM It was my friend Iris who came to fetch me at the airport at Vigo. We met in the Philippines the previous year, at the party of a common friend. She was a visiting marine scientist, and I was an environmentalist. We clicked instantly. When they were about to leave, she told me she was sad. “Why?” I asked, perplexed. “Because it might be a long time before we see each other again,” she said. “Who knows?” I smiled. The next year, when I visited Europe as a surprise, I planned that my last stop will be her home province in Spain: Galicia. We were both happy to see each other again. Iris brought me around her town, and it was a funny feeling that I felt so at home. I figured it was because of the immense hospitality of her family and friends. I don’t speak Spanish or Galician, except a few phrases, but communication was never a problem. I have loved dragons, too, ever since I was young, and draconic sculptures were everywhere in Galicia, part of its myth. What a coincidence, I thought. Iris lived a few minutes away from the sea. At every high point in the city, the waters of the Atlantic were visible. We visited the furancho, a winery in some seasons of the year but which becomes an organic, home-cooked restaurant in others. Cies Islands, a nature reserve, was truly worthy of its fame as one of the world’s most beautiful beaches. An older friend of hers, introduced to me for the first time over dinner and wine, was surprised to hear when he heard my full name. “You do know you’re royal family in Galicia?” he asked me directly. TRACING ROOTS According to him, the Osorios were formerly Galicia’s ruling family. “I can’t possibly be related,” I replied. From my grandmother’s accounts, our great--greatgrandfather was a Portuguese soldier. Galicia is in Spain. “Read your history again,” he said, smiling. Apparently, Galicia used to be Portuguese territory, but for political and economic reasons is today now part of Spain. So it is a possibility, however remote, that I am related to the Galicia royals. Could it be why I felt so at home in this strange land whose language I don’t speak? He raised his glass. “All hail the King of Galicia,” he toasted, and my newfound friends cheered. YEARS AFTER Every so often, my friends from Galicia would message me. “Rei de Galicia, when are you coming back?” I would smile at the fond memories of my royal home, a week of Spanish warmth and hospitality, nature and culture, and I’d always reply, “Soon, my people. Soon.”