I thought it would take a weekend. Two, tops. Couple cups of coffee, a few clicks, some Ellis Island manifests — bing, bang, boom, I find Fernando sipping Manhattan cocktails in 1920 and I close the file like a man who knows what he’s doing.
Right.
You ever tried to search U.S. immigration records for a Spaniard named López de Castro? It’s like trying to locate a single sardine in the Bay of Biscay while blindfolded, drunk, and using a spaghetti strainer as your fishing net.
How Many López de Castros Can One Man Handle?
First problem: spelling. In the early 20th century, American clerks had about as much interest in Spanish orthography as I have in TikTok dances. Half the entries are butchered into “Lopez,” “DeCastro,” “Lope Decastro,” or—my personal favorite—”Mr. De Castor.” I’m not sure if that was a transcription error or if he briefly dabbled in the beaver trade.
Second problem: there are many Fernandos. And many more Lopezes. Combine them, and suddenly you’ve got a phone book’s worth of possible candidates. Every time I narrowed one down, another three popped up. Like genealogical whack-a-mole.
Third problem: dates. My Fernando’s letters spanned 1918 to 1926. But was he traveling before? After? Visiting? Immigrating? Smuggling cigars? I don’t know. The passenger lists offer little help.
The One Lead
Then I stumbled on it.
S.S. Aquitania, 1921. Arriving from Southampton.
A “Fernando L. Castro,” age 29, occupation: musician.
Destination: Des Moines, Iowa.
Musician? That… didn’t fit my mental image. I was picturing some velvet-suited aristocrat writing flowery love letters under orange trees, not a violinist gigging his way across America like some early 20th-century Ed Sheeran.
But here’s where it gets unsettling: Lillian’s church community had a small Spanish-language ministry. They sometimes brought in international musicians for cultural nights. Coincidence? Maybe. But genealogy doesn’t run on coincidence. It runs on paranoia dressed up as research.
Contacting the Cousins
I sent the manifest scan to my cousin back in Iowa. She replied within minutes:
“Grandma used to mention a Spanish violinist once. I thought she was joking.”
That’s it. No further detail. I could feel my blood pressure spike.
I’ve since asked her to dig through old family albums, church bulletins, anything. She promised to check. But you know how family promises work—they arrive on no schedule you control. Which leaves me here. Waiting. Grinding my teeth in this hot Madrid apartment that smells faintly of fried anchovies from the neighbor downstairs.
The Madness of the Hunt
Genealogy, for those of you just joining the party, is not a hobby. It’s a madness politely disguised as a hobby. You tell people you “do family history,” and they nod, imagining a cozy pastime involving scrapbooks and old photographs.
No. It’s obsession. It’s 2 a.m. rabbit holes. It’s blurry microfilm reels. It’s waking up with fresh ideas about ship manifests from 1921. It’s trying to prove your great-grandmother may have once dated a Spanish violinist and left no paper trail except a box of letters and one wildly unreliable family rumor.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.