I was born and raised in a small German town, not far from
the French border. My origins have deep roots in the peasantry of
middle Europe. My mother, a Slav (Yugoslavian), completed her
eight grade of schooling before emigrating to Germany as a young
woman. My father, a German, completed the ninth grade before entering
an apprenticeship, training to become a locksmith. I grew up needing to be frugal.
We had little money, but we were rich in many other ways. In my early years, my
family's only mode of transportation was a bicycle. During my middle years, the
bicycle was replaced with a moped. I can remember how embarrassing it was for me
to have my father pick me up at school on his mofa, as my family called it, while many
of my friends were driven away in Mercedes Benzes. Despite our material poverty, my
home was filled with love. I was may mother's and father's little princess, and they
spoiled me with affection. Although my father had a limited formal education, he was a
bright and curious man. He and I spent endless hours wandering the German
countryside, where he delighted in pointing out the thousands of little mysteries our
tiny planet provides. I am sure that I inherited my curious nature from him. I am not
sure where it came from, but I am also blessed with a very good memory. I still have
almost every phone number that I ever knew rumbling around inside of my head.
Despite my shyness and embarrassment about being poor, I still did well in school,
finishing each year at, or near the head of my class. When I turned sixteen, a distant
family member, suggested to my father that I complete my education in the United
States. She was relatively well to do, and agreed to pay for transit, tuition, room and
board, and any other necessary expenses.
The thought of going to America was irresistible. Until that time, I had not ventured
over a hundred kilometers from my hometown. Filled with both excitement and
trepidation, I was bundled up and shipped off to the United States, where I completed
my last two years of what Americans refer to as high school. After graduation, I
returned to Germany, not having a clue what was next. I spent a few weeks visiting
with family and friends, and then started looking for work. During my first job
interview, I was delighted to encounter an old friend, who had just returned from a
two week holiday, visiting Spain's Costa Brava. She had returned with a newspaper, in
which she had noticed a small ad, soliciting a language instructor with fluencies in
English, German, and Spanish. I called, and within a week, was on a bus bound for
Lloret de Mar, a beautiful village, situated about ninety kilometers northeast of
Barcelona, Spain. How little did I know how much my life was about to change.
We departed from Frankfurt on an icy-cold January day. My departure from
Frankfurt was chaotic, at best. I missed the bus that I was scheduled to take, but
fortunately caught another one the same night. Frankfurt to Spain is a long, exhausting
fourteen hour journey. That night, the skies emptied buckets of sleet and rain on our
jam-packed, little bus. But like I always say, there is a little bit of magic everywhere.
When we reached the French border and began our descent, winding our way down
the face of the Pyrenees, the clouds lifted, and by the time I stepped off the bus, the
sun was shining bright, illuminating the beautiful coastal village of Loret de Mar.
I was enthralled. Spain's Costa Brava is a wonder. Here, the Pyrenees descend to
rugged cliffs that cascade downward, to touch their faces into the beautiful blue waters
of the Mediterranean. Throughout this coastal region, rustic Spanish homes and
businesses hug cobblestone streets that wind along the rugged mountainsides. Almost
every village inhabiting this region has palatial promenades that meander along the
edges of beautiful golden beaches. It was love at first sight.
I loved teaching, but won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, the school
was a small, quaint, private academy, where I taught English and German. Although I
enjoyed my curricular activities, it wasn't the teaching that caught my fancy, but the
life itself. The Spanish are a warm and colorful people, filled with a gusto for living.
The phrase Viva La Vida has real meaning to a Spaniard.
I met my husband, Ronald James, a somewhat hermetic painter and poet, in
Barcelona in 1986. A friend and I had gone to an art show, and I was instantly
captivated by his work. Fortunately, he was equally captivated, and we were married
two years later. He is a most unusual man, and true to the old adage, he travels to the
tune of a distant drum. He likes to say poetically that he was born on the back of a
burro while crossing the Sonoran Desert. He spent his early adult years working as a
merchant seaman, which probably accounts for his nomadic ways as a young man. He
has completed both undergraduate and graduate degrees in fine art and psychology.
Since our marriage, we have traveled the world, living in Germany, Spain, Japan,
Mexico, and the United States. Despite our nomadic years, we both consider Spain our
home. Now that my other half has gotten on in years, he is perfectly content staying
home, playing with our animals, tending his garden, and living within the inner world
that he has spent a lifetime creating. Amidst our wonders, work, and travels, I have
had the good fortune to complete baccalaureate and graduate studies in Spanish and
German.
For the past seven years, I have spent a good deal of time editing and rewriting,
The Leaves of Lore, an epic journey of almost 500,000 words, first penned by my
husband in the early seventies. I have just completed book one of six: The Calling, and
hope to have it published later this year. Oh! The painting is of me, painted by my
husband about ten years ago.
Viva La Vida: Zanna Z
the French border. My origins have deep roots in the peasantry of
middle Europe. My mother, a Slav (Yugoslavian), completed her
eight grade of schooling before emigrating to Germany as a young
woman. My father, a German, completed the ninth grade before entering
an apprenticeship, training to become a locksmith. I grew up needing to be frugal.
We had little money, but we were rich in many other ways. In my early years, my
family's only mode of transportation was a bicycle. During my middle years, the
bicycle was replaced with a moped. I can remember how embarrassing it was for me
to have my father pick me up at school on his mofa, as my family called it, while many
of my friends were driven away in Mercedes Benzes. Despite our material poverty, my
home was filled with love. I was may mother's and father's little princess, and they
spoiled me with affection. Although my father had a limited formal education, he was a
bright and curious man. He and I spent endless hours wandering the German
countryside, where he delighted in pointing out the thousands of little mysteries our
tiny planet provides. I am sure that I inherited my curious nature from him. I am not
sure where it came from, but I am also blessed with a very good memory. I still have
almost every phone number that I ever knew rumbling around inside of my head.
Despite my shyness and embarrassment about being poor, I still did well in school,
finishing each year at, or near the head of my class. When I turned sixteen, a distant
family member, suggested to my father that I complete my education in the United
States. She was relatively well to do, and agreed to pay for transit, tuition, room and
board, and any other necessary expenses.
The thought of going to America was irresistible. Until that time, I had not ventured
over a hundred kilometers from my hometown. Filled with both excitement and
trepidation, I was bundled up and shipped off to the United States, where I completed
my last two years of what Americans refer to as high school. After graduation, I
returned to Germany, not having a clue what was next. I spent a few weeks visiting
with family and friends, and then started looking for work. During my first job
interview, I was delighted to encounter an old friend, who had just returned from a
two week holiday, visiting Spain's Costa Brava. She had returned with a newspaper, in
which she had noticed a small ad, soliciting a language instructor with fluencies in
English, German, and Spanish. I called, and within a week, was on a bus bound for
Lloret de Mar, a beautiful village, situated about ninety kilometers northeast of
Barcelona, Spain. How little did I know how much my life was about to change.
We departed from Frankfurt on an icy-cold January day. My departure from
Frankfurt was chaotic, at best. I missed the bus that I was scheduled to take, but
fortunately caught another one the same night. Frankfurt to Spain is a long, exhausting
fourteen hour journey. That night, the skies emptied buckets of sleet and rain on our
jam-packed, little bus. But like I always say, there is a little bit of magic everywhere.
When we reached the French border and began our descent, winding our way down
the face of the Pyrenees, the clouds lifted, and by the time I stepped off the bus, the
sun was shining bright, illuminating the beautiful coastal village of Loret de Mar.
I was enthralled. Spain's Costa Brava is a wonder. Here, the Pyrenees descend to
rugged cliffs that cascade downward, to touch their faces into the beautiful blue waters
of the Mediterranean. Throughout this coastal region, rustic Spanish homes and
businesses hug cobblestone streets that wind along the rugged mountainsides. Almost
every village inhabiting this region has palatial promenades that meander along the
edges of beautiful golden beaches. It was love at first sight.
I loved teaching, but won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, the school
was a small, quaint, private academy, where I taught English and German. Although I
enjoyed my curricular activities, it wasn't the teaching that caught my fancy, but the
life itself. The Spanish are a warm and colorful people, filled with a gusto for living.
The phrase Viva La Vida has real meaning to a Spaniard.
I met my husband, Ronald James, a somewhat hermetic painter and poet, in
Barcelona in 1986. A friend and I had gone to an art show, and I was instantly
captivated by his work. Fortunately, he was equally captivated, and we were married
two years later. He is a most unusual man, and true to the old adage, he travels to the
tune of a distant drum. He likes to say poetically that he was born on the back of a
burro while crossing the Sonoran Desert. He spent his early adult years working as a
merchant seaman, which probably accounts for his nomadic ways as a young man. He
has completed both undergraduate and graduate degrees in fine art and psychology.
Since our marriage, we have traveled the world, living in Germany, Spain, Japan,
Mexico, and the United States. Despite our nomadic years, we both consider Spain our
home. Now that my other half has gotten on in years, he is perfectly content staying
home, playing with our animals, tending his garden, and living within the inner world
that he has spent a lifetime creating. Amidst our wonders, work, and travels, I have
had the good fortune to complete baccalaureate and graduate studies in Spanish and
German.
For the past seven years, I have spent a good deal of time editing and rewriting,
The Leaves of Lore, an epic journey of almost 500,000 words, first penned by my
husband in the early seventies. I have just completed book one of six: The Calling, and
hope to have it published later this year. Oh! The painting is of me, painted by my
husband about ten years ago.
Viva La Vida: Zanna Z