The Spy Wore Red: Nazis, bullfights, and sequins oh my!

WARNING: This is a fun read. If you don’t like to have fun while you read*, stay far far away. It’s so awesomely fun that Erica is taking this book on her upcoming honeymoon–and we all know that it’s got to be major league entertainment for her to actually pay attention to a book when there are bound to be so many distractions about.

“The Spy Wore Red” is the first of three autobiographical books by Aline, Countess of Romanones in which she chronicles her adventures as an American woman who worked as a spy in Spain in the aftermath of the 2nd World War, rooting out Nazis from their hiding places in high-society Madrid. I wish I could remember who introduced me to these books, because they are fantastic and this person deserves a firm spank on the butt a nice pat on the head. There is an added fascination for me, having grown up in Spain, to see the country in such a different light, as it was under Franco’s regime. It’s kind of familiar … and also not. The balance does swing more towards the exotic side since she navigated the elite society, which was full of dangerous, classy folks with hidden agendas. The only hidden agenda in my life during the Spain years belonged to my brain-damaged cat Foca–we could never quite fathom the mystery that was her knocked-about little cerebellum. Oh, and boys. They were, like, super confusing.

Aline writes in the first person. She is elegant, smart, gutsy, and has tons of perilous capers—and she never sounds stuck up about her mad spy skills, which is an added plus. Because if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s feeling down about my underpar spy skills. I mean, who doesn’t want to be the girl that surprises the bad guys with the gun that was perfectly concealed in a smokin’ hot holster/garter belt which in turn was perfectly concealed under a skin-tight red-sequined gown? I count it as #1 on the list of the many, many disappointments in my life. If you’re with me on this, you don’t have to worry–Aline totally doesn’t rub it in.

And in case I’m projecting the wrong image, these books aren’t just for girls. My dad loves them, and my husband would really like them if I could get him off the historical stuff–more on this disturbing preference of non-fiction over fiction tomorrow. Anyway, I’m sure there are many more men out there who are confident enough to read a paperback with a woman in a sparkly evening gown on the front! It’s all about the confidence.

But the cherry on the pie for these books is: it’s all true! Read “The Spy Wore Red”. It gets off to a rip-roaring start with the whole “going through spy school” thing. Once you’ve finished, read the other two: The Spy Went Dancing, and The Spy Wore Silk. There’s also a 4th book fictional book written by her called “The Well-Mannered Assassin”; not quite as good, but worth it for the fans.

You can buy these books used online for cheap. I checked. Or you can probably find ’em at your library. Either way, be thou boy or girl or beast or alien, get your mitts/paws/claws/tentacles on a copy.

*Return tomorrow for an in-depth report on my husband’s chronic non-fiction loving preference disease. Parental guidance definitely required, as this will shock many young novel lovers and possibly drive them to read alarming things such as Kierkegaard or Nietzsche.

Our wedding and the Whore of Babylon

You may not have known this, but it’s Embarrassing Story Monday today! Aren’t you excited? On the menu today: a classic tale of love, embarrassment, revenge, and a dueling death.  Minus the revenge and dueling death parts.

Overall, our wedding—almost 5 years ago!—went smoothly. It was cheap, which was a plus since we had no money at the time, and a ton of people came together to help out and make it happen—bless your hearts fruit-chopping, church-cleaning members of Eagle Creek!

My husband and I didn’t care enough about the details to really supervise anything— we were just interested in the soon-to-be-had marital freedoms. Of the bedroom persuasion. Just kidding! Or not. Hey, it had been a long courtship, OK? And hormones were raging. Raging, I tell you.

The 70's effect, via many Photoshop maneuvers.

Here we are, looking quite calm—but raging inside.

Anyway, to this day I’m surprised it all actually happened. I don’t remember organizing half the things that went down. I was 22 (21 during most of the planning) and just couldn’t bring myself to care about flowers, or colors, or logistics, or my hairdressing arrangements (hence the “plastered hair” look), or really anything except tying the actual knot. This lack of focus on my part led to an interesting situation during the ceremony.

We had 4 Scripture readings, 1 for each of my current roommates.  For your edification and to set the record straight for posterity, here is the reading from Hosea that was supposed to happen. It’s not your typical wedding reading, but to this day those last couple verses give me the chills (Hosea 2:14-23):

Therefore I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the desert and speak tenderly to her. There I will give her back her vineyards, and will make the Valley of Achor a door of hope. There she will sing as in the days of her youth, as in the day she came up out of Egypt.

“In that day,” declares the LORD, “you will call me ‘my husband’; you will no longer call me ‘my master. ‘ I will remove the names of the Baals from her lips; no longer will their names be invoked. In that day I will make a covenant for them with the beasts of the field and the birds of the air and the creatures that move along the ground. Bow and sword and battle I will abolish from the land, so that all may lie down in safety.

I will betroth you to me forever; I will betroth you in righteousness and justice, in love and compassion. I will betroth you in faithfulness, and you will acknowledge the LORD.

“In that day I will respond,” declares the LORD—”I will respond to the skies, and they will respond to the earth; and the earth will respond to the grain, the new wine and oil, and they will respond to Jezreel.

I will plant her for myself in the land; I will show my love to the one I called ‘Not my loved one. ‘ I will say to those called ‘Not my people,’ ‘You are my people’; and they will say, ‘You are my God.’

We thought it was beautiful because it shows that marriage is a reflection of God’s relationship with his people—God wants to be a “husband” instead of a “master”, and gives them a place of peace and safety where they are reconciled to him perfectly, and where they sing for joy. Aaaaah.

Alackaday, there was a hefty miscommunication about the stopping point in the above passage—and yes, I take full responsibility since my mind was occupied by “other things”. My roommate—bless her heart—sailed right past the end of chapter 2, diving headlong and with no regrets into the following:

The LORD said to me, “Go, show your love to your wife again, though she is loved by another and is an adulteress. Love her as the LORD loves the Israelites, though they turn to other gods and love the sacred raisin cakes.” So I bought her for fifteen shekels of silver and about a homer and a lethek of barley. Then I told her, “You are to live with me many days; you must not be a prostitute or be intimate with any man, and I will live with you.” For the Israelites will live many days without king or prince, without sacrifice or sacred stones, without ephod or idol. Afterward the Israelites will return and seek the LORD their God and David their king. They will come trembling to the LORD and to his blessings in the last days.

My extended family cackled in the pews. My raucous male cousins cackled in the pews.

My brain started overheating. The flush that comes when a woman is called “prostitute” to her face spread across me like the Red Sea. I briefly considered wrenching the microphone from my uncle (our pastor) and sobbing “I swear I’m not a prostitute! I’ve remained pure for my wedding day despite the raging hormones! Anyway, how can I be an adulteress if I’m not even married, guys! Come on, I don’t even like the sacred raisin cakes!” Plus, I wanted to ask if anyone in attendance knew what a homer or lethek of barley was, and where one could obtain such a thing in modern times.

I like to remember the ordeal as the “whore of Babylon incident”. And so does my extended family.

I’ve finally gotten to the point where I can laugh uproariously crack a smile at this memory. Aren’t you glad I’m making progress? I have a special drawer just for my therapy bills.

On a side note, those raisin cakes must have been something all right.

Happy Monday, one and all!