Discovering my Family History in Spain
An ancestor can survive wars, epidemics and three generations of creative spelling, only to be defeated by a street name. You find him living at Calle de San José in one record. Five years later he appears at Calle de la Libertad. By the time his daughter marries, the family has moved to Calle del ...
I had absolutely no intention of spending my Tuesday afternoon looking at marriage witnesses. The plan was simple. Find the marriage record. Confirm the parents. Move on. Genealogy rarely respects plans. The marriage itself was straightforward enough. Madrid, 1887. Names matched. Ages close enough. Occupations ordinary. Nothing unusual. I was halfway through copying the details ...
I spent most of Monday trying to prove two men were not related. By mid-afternoon, I was less certain. The first thing that bothered me was the godparents. Same pair, twice. Not unusual on its own, but then one of them reappeared as a marriage witness a few years later. Then again, slightly misspelled, in ...
There is a particular kind of stupidity that only arrives after three hours of looking at the same parish page. Not dramatic stupidity. Not the sort that ruins your life. Just the low, dusty kind where your eyes keep moving, your pencil keeps going, and your brain quietly clocks off and goes for a walk ...
I had been staring at the same Spanish baptism record for about twenty minutes when I realised I was no longer reading it. Just looking at it. The handwriting itself was not even that bad. A neat, slanted hand. The priest had clearly been in a hurry, but not in a mood. I could read ...
I used to think parish records were tidy things. Shelved neatly. Indexed. Possibly guarded by a helpful man with glasses who enjoyed explaining the past to strangers. This belief did not survive Spain. My first encounter with a Spanish parish archive involved a locked door, a handwritten sign that said Vuelvo luego (which I would ...
I thought I had it this time.A tidy little parcel marked 214 on a 1912 cadastral map from Guadalajara. My great-grandfather’s name was pencilled beside it, so I convinced myself it had to be right. The map showed a gentle rise, a bend in the road, and a well called fuente vieja. Looked simple enough. ...
The Madrid death record is from 1891. The witness line says born in Xàbia, Marina Alta. I underlined Xàbia, checked adjacent years for the same name, and booked the trip. Train to Valencia before first coffee, bus to Xàbia, uphill to the municipal archive. I kept the request short. Padrón 1880 to 1900, municipal minute ...
I took the 10:12 bus into town because my knee behaves better after coffee. Brought the stupid heavy notebook, the soft pencil that smudges, and a photocopy of a ship manifest that’s been living in my desk like a dare. The plan was small and bossy: go to the Archivo de Villa, stop guessing, see ...
Correos left the orange slip. I hobbled down, signed three times, and carried the thick envelope home like it might bite. It smelled of old envelopes and furniture wax. Good sign. Upstairs the pharmacist called me “Profesor” again as I passed. I’m trying not to like it. Knees complained the whole way to the desk. ...