Yesterday (5/26), on our way from Cordoba to Seville, I got Liz to stop the bus for a short break at a small hotel/gas station along the highway. Nothing spectacular, but just such a relief to be off-schedule even for these few minutes.

Inside, we found the same kind of roadside place that would be selling walnut bowls along I-70, and a restaurant with 3 local guys vaguely astonished at this surge of strange visitors.

We tried the tapas--those small portions displayed in a glass case at the bar, then scooped up in 5 inch shallow bowls. Robert got the pork-in-brown sauce which we had the night before at dinner. I asked, but couldn't make out what the white stuff was, so I got it anyway. It turned out to be what they call Russian salad--some vegetables, perhaps lumps of potato and tuna, and a lot of mayonaisse. Great stuff. David got a plate of churrozos--spicy sausage chunks drowned in oil. And a round of Alhambra draft beer. A perfect afternoon break from the bus.

Just now, I ventured out for a snack. I didn't wind up with expresso, but picked a second outdoor cafe in the Plaza de los Venerables--an open space filled with orderly cafe tables, postcard racks bright and inviting, Spanish fans on one wall, a display of colorful skirts, and an out of place Ben and Jerry's.

The waiter asked if I (just) wanted tapas, and pointed me to the no-tablecloth table, a bare plain table that wobbled on the cobblestones. From the list of tapas, I didn't choose the "Spanish raw ham," nor the "Manchego ewe Cheese," nor "Small croquettes of ox-tail." I was tempted by the "Chick-peas Andalusian style," and could have gone for the baby squid, or the squid, or the sliced hake. But I stuck with the Seville veal stew (I know, I know--not PC), and the Sevillian Olives and a glass of red wine. The olives turned out to be pickled along with chunks of green and red peppers, lemon peel, and whole cloves of garlic, which I peeled and ate along with the rest. 2.40 euro each for the tapas, 3 for the wine, and .90 for the bread I didn't order, but ate anyway. Very nice.

Meanwhile, a group of 4, then 6 German tourists arrived. I heard "trinken," "olives" in English, and soon they had a few snacks and large glasses of beer. Not long after this forward expeditionary group, there was a crowd surge from one of the narrow corriders that make up the old city, and 25 more Germans arrived. They all chose to sit under the umbrellas of the adjoining business, the one that had the tables already set with olives and glasses and napkins. The guitar player over at the side went back to work, the volume of the plaza increased, and the head waiter at my place glared out at all the business he had lost. I felt vaguely guilty, as if he blamed me as the jinx, rather than the bare tables he offered.

I finished my wine, and left the Plaza to its odd cacaphony of Spanish chords and German verbs.

bob

Thursday, May 27

This is our first full day in Seville. We got to sleep in past 7, had an almost leisurely breakfast, then started the morning's activities. A few folks stayed at the hotel, under the weather, or some, like John, "churched out," or someone else who was "burned out on cathedrals," or Taylor, waiting successfully for his cell phone to be shipped from Costa del Sol, where he didn't pack very well.

We're staying in the city center, the old city. We had a short walk through the Murillo Gardens to the bus. Impressive, lush--American magnolia trees, one still in bloom, but with corded trunks some 10 foot thick, pink and white azaleas reaching 8 or 9 foot tall, lantennas growing as a woody perennial, not as a quick summer flower in Missouri, and trees whose name I didn't catch, full of crayon blue-purple blooms hanging down like clusters of paper lanterns. Other trees from Asia, eucalyptus from Australia, white doves released by Argentines in 1929--now both a nuisance and a spectacle. Not a native landscape, but rich. We are in Oz.

Our bus took us past various pavilions built for a 1929 Spanish cultural exhibition, which I think didn't quite take place because of hard economic times. Glad we're past that kind of chaos. The Peruvian pavilion catches the eye with its mahagony balcony, a white dove perched on it as we passed. The American pavilion had once been our consulate here. The Colombian is topped with a stone-sculpted pomegranate, split open to show its red seeds. (And pomegranate = granada in Spanish, I think I heard). But the Spanish pavilion was, obviously, the most elaborate--an impressive facade surrounding a large open circle, stone pillars, four ceramic bridges into the center, and 48 ceramic benches, each representing a Spanish state, with its history and contributions set in mosaic--with the addition of the not-actual, but necessary extra that features Don Quixote.

And of course, the open area filled with gypsies, some selling fans and shawls and trinkets, others agressivesly pushing sprigs of rosemary at everyone, "free," but requiring then a donation.

Back on the bus, we returned to the center, and toured the Alcazar, a Moorish influenced building that echoed the Alhambra, and served as a palace for various dynasties since the 14th C. I was most impressed with the Ambassador's Room, where the King received Columbus on one of his returns.

Others can write more details about this palace. I did stay and snap pics of sections of the enormous tapestries near the exit--enormous, hmm, 30 by 50 foot each? Full of scenes of struggle, travel, conquest--and a dog.

The rest of our morning we spent at the Cathedral of Seville, the 3rd largest in the world. Rich, elegant, but being just a bit "churched out" myself, I most enjoyed the tomb of Columbus--bronze statues of 4 soldiers bearing the body, over the marble tomb itself. There is some dispute whether Columbus rests here, or in the Dominican Republic. Our guide said that DNA tests prove that there is at least 150 grams of Columbus himself here.

Several left from there to go visit the semi-traditional Arabic baths, the hamman. "Semi" because these are not sex-segregated, and are not in the nude. Swimsuits and massage. A few of the guys instead went to a military surplus store, and others are off to an old bullring, now a museum.

And I'm about to go look for an expresso.

bob in Seville

Tuesday, May 25--

Our excursion from Costa del Sol to Morocco made for another very long day—a couple hours of bus ride to the port, not much waiting around time, since that bus driver took us slightly to the wrong place, an hour on the ferry, another bus, two border crossings, and of course, reversing all that to return to a late dinner. But still, our afternoon there gave us a good slap-in-the-face introduction to North Africa.

We had a lively guide who knew how to put on a show, including his claim to have 3 wives already, and his flirtatious, funny, just-shy-of-sexual-harassment proposals to Ericka. When her brother, Steve, offered to barter for her, our guide gallantly said there weren’t enough camels in all of Morocco to buy such a beauty. (In Egypt I was offered first camels, then a whole silver shop for my niece. Might have been a good deal).

We stopped for quick camel rides, 1 euro a ride, without the problem we had in Egypt of being semi-kidnapped and having to bribe the camel guide to let us return. I didn’t need to repeat this experience. (I’m still working on trying out all modes of transport—car, bus, train, planes, ox-cart, camel, elephant, hot-air balloon. Still haven’t made it onto a dirigible. Is there still a dirigible at some of the MU football games? Can anyone sneak me aboard?)

Robert has already written about the markets, the open-air stalls in the winding streets which create a kind of community very different from our more rigidly separated lives. What seems a barely-contained chaos to us is highly structured, personal, traditional. And we were much out of place, taking pictures that were sometimes resented, sometimes welcomed, rushing in our long string through the close walls, our guide, his helpers, and several security guards in dark sunglasses and leather jackets making sure there were no “problems” with this lucrative tour.

And so, we rushed through the markets (I managed to buy a couple loaves of bread to pass through the group, but no time to pick up a bag of dates or select from the dozen different mounds of olives), stopped for a Berber woman to dress Ericka in a traditional costume, saw the locals kick too-slow cats out of their way, saw no dogs at all, and listened to our guide’s very good explanations of the market and the principles of Islam. For instance, he talked about each district in the market having public access to water, a Koranic school for very young children, and a mosque. We also learned the outer facade of buildings may be very plain, while once past the outer door, each household is oriented inward, toward a central courtyard, and often very richly kept for generations.

And so we arrived at the rug shop, certainly, yes, plain outside, but huge and ornate within. We were quickly ushered upstairs, and a new show began. The head salesman, at least for English speakers, explained the quality of the rugs, their Persian style, the way to examine both sides, how they will not burn with a lighter, the value of such an investment. Then he began unfurling rugs, the largest first in a dramatic fling, then more and more. When he finished, he began asking who might be interested in each rug, and at the slightest hmm... a rug would be stacked at the lucky person’s feet, for later pricing. Well, this took a while. It was an early day without sufficient coffee for me, and I nodded off a few times. The same for Ann and a few others. But rugs did pile up, and several people made purchases—and from what I could tell, these really are high-quality rugs. In some richer life, I might bring home a Tree of Life or one of the brilliant red rugs.

While all these negotiations went on, I tried on a white gellaba (traditional loose robe) downstairs, and felt ready to walk onto a movie set, but at 180 euros, well, no. And just as well, no pictures of me in my gellaba have yet surfaced. Then the group began to disappear down through the market for dinner. I saw Kelly still in the dark corners of the rug-domain, and then Dennis leaning over the balcony upstairs, so I waited on them. They had been almost ready to buy, but were about to turn them down, when the real pressure began. The sales folk weren’t at all happy to see me, and tried to steer me away. Fortunately, we managed to escape and find the rest of the group.

Lunch consisted of soup, beef-kebabs, cous-cous with carrots and chicken, a coke, sweets and hot mint tea. A nice touch was the cake and candles for Kristina’s birthday.

Our last stop was at an apothecary shop. The main, um, doctor, showed us various remedies—sniff this bag of black methol for lungs, snoring; rub orange-and-something-else oil on your temples for stress; an aphrodisiac; skin creams and musks. A quick demonstration and quick sales, while Robert and Kelly got back massages, and Chrissy and Liz had henna designs painted on their arms, the thick paste “dried” with a shower of glitter that spread everywhere by the end of the day.

And then back on the bus, through the two borders—while the poor people on the ridge above stared down at all of us.

bob

May 24, Day 6
Ah, but it’s not really May 24 just now—it’s Sunday morning and I’m back at the Heidelberg in Columbia, in my corner booth with both sunlight and electricity, having the buffet breakfast—all-American mashed potatoes, green beans, biscuits, pulled pork... This all keying in to Liz telling us one reason for the immense popularity of pork in Spain. Back after the Moors had been pushed out, and the King and Queen—Columbus’ patrons—had kicked out all the Jews, with that low-pressure choice leave, convert or die, eating pork in public was one way to demonstrate good Christian loyalty. The more slabs of ham, the less likely to visit the friendly folks of the Inquisition. And the Spanish do like pork. I could have gotten an appetizer plate of “raw ham” somewhere we stopped, but couldn’t quite get past that American injunction, never eat undercooked pork. Might have been in religious trouble there, but the bacon bits in the green beans and that second plate of pulled pork should keep me out of religious dungeons.

But Granada...

Strangely, one highlight was a transportation glitch. We got off the not-bullet-train in Granada, in our transit from Madrid to Costa del Sol, and the bus hadn’t arrived. It had a fan-belt problem somewhere, and as the minutes drug on, Liz urged us to go look for a cafe. That failed, but even better, I found supermarket. You know, a non-restaurant food place for real people. Suddenly we’re off the menu, and there were mounds of plums and bananas and pears, stacks of bread, cheese, and no longer 8 or 10 euro bottles of wine, but decent wine for 1 or 2 euros. Much of the group made pilgrimages over to this amazing Spanish invention, the supermercado.

Granada is itself a beautiful city, but the focus for our tour was the Alhambra, a massive Moorish palace built among the hills where cold water could flow down. It’s hard to describe all the aspects of this place—started in the 9th Century, expanded for the last great Moorish rulers over centuries, a Christian palace added later. So there are Renaissance courtyards and gardens, strangely mixed with Arabic mosaics and arches. One small courtyard centered around a small pool, bordered by orange trees in bloom. Whole rooms, walls and ceilings, are carved with intricate lacy patterns, the remnants of brilliant blue and red still showing faintly.

One room, facing an arch and a long outdoor pool, was built of 8-sided geometric tiles. The ceiling was formed of hundreds of shaped pieces of wood, in 7 concentric rings, to show the seven layers of heaven. Our large tour group had divided in two, and my half-group’s guide was Nick. In this room, he began to talk about the natural appeal of mathematic structure to the human mind, how such structure engages our sense of order. Alas, Ann was not in this group.

Another small sky-open courtyard was in itself rather plain, but at the center set another working fountain, still gently flowing with very cold water from the springs far uphill. After a loud tour group of Spanish women left, Nick urged us to listen to the sound of the water, that the sound of water is the sound of life, the basis of life. This space would have been meant to invite quiet contemplation, the rim of the basin where the water spilled out evenly on all sides once inscribed with mystic poetry. (And I thought of my across-the-ocean dogs, our nightly walks to the creek, which always has its own voice, a different voice every day, even when it is silent.) Fred B. was much taken with Nick’s sense of how the architecture itself invites reverie. I can’t think of a good edition/translation, but I suggested he might look at Rumi’s poetry someday.

Well, there is a great deal more to the Alhambra, which others need to describe. I perked up at the literary link—a plaque on one wall inside the palace dedicated to the American author, Washington Irving (you know—“Rip van Winkle,” “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”—that guy). In his travels through Europe, he had lived for a while in Granada, haunting the then-decayed and nearly abandoned palace. His 1832 book Tales of the Alhambra inspired interest and sudden tourism, which led to the palace’s restoration. Irving remains a celebrated literary hero in this dusty center of Spain.

Amy was intrigued by Nick’s odd accent—which we eventually determined was an ex-pat Swedish. She revived a bit of her college Swedish lessons and chatted with him, and is more dreaming of a school trip to Scandinavia. I’d vote for that, though wish it could include a week in Iceland on the way. So much world to see.

Outside the palace are the extensive gardens, including the sculpted-labyrinth hedges—grown of some kind of cypress (?). Evie and Roger kissed over rose bushes, and everyone posed in a green archway with a long fountain behind, or at the garden wall overlooking a panorama of the city. There was enough garden we could have walked for hours along the winding paths.

And leaving Granada, in the hillsides not facing the palace, the caves are full of gypsies, who cover the entrances with canvas or plastic sheets, and make a home.


bob

May 23, Day 5

We visited Toledo as a day-trip out of Madrid. The medieval capital sits above a winding river, with a Roman bridge (I think I heard that), houses of the rich outside the city, old city walls, and the seeming chaos of winding stone streets. A hot day, it made sense of the decorated cloths that hang through the center of streets—sunscreens, or equally a break from bad weather.

In the Cathedral itself, we couldn’t take pictures, a shame, since this was one of the early, over-awing visits. (Great place for others to chime in with their impressions!). I much liked one ceiling vault which combined painting with sculpture that spiraled up to a scene of heaven. Strange depths and illusions in that.

Then there was the barred Cripta, which led to some dark-tunneled depths we couldn’t enter (but why should I be surprised? All these years, and I’ve still never gotten to visit the tunnels under Columbia College...). And the Sacristia, full of ornate robes, vermillion and gold and jeweled, stiff elegance from generations of bishops. And just before that, another room lined with paintings—so much that it’s hard not to be flippant: a Titian, a Greco, a Caravaggio, a Rafael, another Greco...in the first 15 feet inside the room. Dennis noted that beyond church figures and saints, so many paintings would retell stories from the Bible, that other way to teach (just like Online now wants us to be more visual and multi-media in our courses.) Thorough Christianity—though one almost wishes there had been a century of sincere, devout pagans in the middle of this, to tell some of the world’s other great stories.

I much liked another chapel inside the Cathedral. This one had wooden choir seats on both sides, with bishop’s chair elevated between the two rows. The chairs were the most interesting—each carved with unique facings, hand-rests, backboards, with unlikely figures—a unicorn and maiden on one, two demons quarreling on another, deer, trees, gargoylish figures, and a sleek dog. I really wanted a photo of the dog.

Still in Toledo, we also visited another chapel where Greco’s “The Burial of Count Orgaz” decorates a high wall—a surreal, to me, flow of spirits and watery ascension. Lee and Abby should probably talk about this in more technical art terms.

And a visit to a sword-maker (that “Toledo steel” thing) and a demonstration of making the black-and-gold damascene jewelry and plates, which led, inevitably, to a gift-shop full of earrings and pendants and swords, and the only “free” toilets anywhere nearby.

We ended the evening back in Madrid at the Museo de Vino, not a museum at all, but a nice restaurant where we had a tapas dinner.

bob

Sunday, 5/23.

We got up early in Barcelona, to get through morning traffic to the train station. So early, the hotel gave us a cold breakfast in a sack, and no coffee. Big point loss for that hotel.

But the train--we rode the high speed bullet train to Madrid. Fred R. kept watching the digital velocity display--and we did finally top 300 km/hour. Smooth, fast, efficient--so pleasant. Hard to believe we won't do this in the U.S. One woman in our group wondered--"they have so many good ideas here--why don't we?" Huh.

Later, we loaded up and bussed over to the Prado. We focused on Spanish artists in our very brief visit, though the collection there is extensive. Lee, one of our art pros, will have lots more to say here. Me, I enjoyed the "black paintings" from Goya's kitchen wall, especially the witches, and the iconic image of Saturn devouring his children. I also liked the painting of the dog's head, sticking up just behind a sand dune, barking at empty space.

Later, we zipped past a collection of Velazquez's jesters--the dwarf, the "simpleton" shown with the gourd, others. I rather liked the one we didn't stop for, the Bacchus, crowned and shirtless, at the center of a peasant crowd. And we spent quite a while with the intriguing Los Ninos--the artist himself looking out at us, his subjects mirrored in the background. And then a quick room of El Greco's religious paintings, the unreal images, flames dancing from the heads of apostles--the "tongues of fire--, strong colors, El Greco himself painted in as a disciple in one place.

But no stop is complete without our human drama. This time, Kelly left behind. Liz stayed to find her, and met us not too much later. We drove past Madrid's center--a huge medieval plaza. There was a protest going on. I could read the in-English sign, "Stop All Animal Abuse," but don't know more about its focus. We also cruised past the church where Simon Bolivar married his Spanish bride, and past the Museo de Jamon, which is not a museum at all, but a trendy restaurant. Our local guide said the Japanese tourists often stop by and try to pay an entrance fee. Ah, cultures.

We had stopped at the Royal Palace for a photo op (and to give them time to catch up). A huge palace, no longer an actual residence. The curious thing, we got out, and the nation's military band, gathered at the main entrance, at that noon moment began to play the score from Phantom of the Opera. Shelley and Fred were delighted--they have seen productions of this several times. Shelley said this made the whole trip for her. But then, she will be saying this several times more.

On to Toledo.



bob

Well, my apologies that all of us are behind on posting. Liz, our tour guide, cleverly left off the times on the early version of the itinerary we started with. There are quite a few early mornings, fast breakfast, immediately to the bus or train, a full day of walking and sights, and dinner often at 9 p.m. Sometimes that involves leaving in the morning, sight-seeing, traveling to another region, and then getting to our hotel by 8:30 pm., quick check-in, fast jog to dinner. All good, but a little rushed. And our hotel in Costa del Sol didn't have wi-fi, which collapsed all our high-tech sensibilities.

So, catching up...

On Saturday, 5/22, our excursion to Montserrat. A beautiful, if again coffee-deprived ride into the northern mountains--very different landscape than we would see later when we headed south. Rivers, winding mountain roads, lots of grafitti on bridges and overpasses, mostly having to do with the Catalonian difficulties with the rest of Spain. Though there was one nice triple-mansize grafitti of Bart Simpson on a slab of concrete near one river.

History bits--that the Abbot of Montserrat sailed with Columbus and became the first vicar of the New World. That, our guide claimed, the statue of the 12th C. Virgin at Montserrat, whose image appeared in the vision in the cave to simple shepherds, had weathered from its original white, and now is the Black Virgin. The line to go kiss the icon was too long, so I didn't see it directly, but the postcards show her quite black. The part I somewhat doubt is that here they claim the notion of the Black Virgin of Montserrat directly "caused" the image of the dark Virgin in Mexico. I've heard alternate versions which talk about the vision of the Virgin of Guadelupe by a humble Native in Mexico. I rather more like this American-continent version, which stresses the synthesis of the Native world with the "alien" Catholics. But alas, I'm not a historian.

And yes, if you read Kristina's post, the walk out of Montserrat was lined with vendors of local foods--I bought some honey, a block of quince jam, John got some strong, tasty goat cheese. All good. But not enough coffee!

Free time! Afternoon off in Barcelona. We had lunch at a cafe beside a hostel. Cheap, and delicious. Taylor and John had sausage sandwiches, I had pork, with a dish of fresh olives. Nice, though John was somewhat offended at the no-sound, America-critical music videos playing on the big screen. Later, walking around La Ramblas, souvenirs, the street full of interesting people [I didn't encounter the "Elephant Man"--I'll leave that for someone else to comment on...]. Tried the Xocolate amb churros--thick chocolate, somewhere between syrup and hot chocolate, in which you dip deep-fried, sugary donuts shaped like oversized Twizzlers. It's a customary food here. Interesting. Not something anyone health-conscious should develop a taste for.

We visited a big department store. Not so much of interest there, though while John shopped for his girlfriend, I browsed souvenirs on the 5th floor. Lots of trinkets that reference Gaudi, authentically or not. More strange, a row of statues, bobble-heads without the bobble. Instead, each figure has dropped his or her pants, and is "sqatting down." The figures represent political figures from Spain I didn't much recognize, various soccer players, and then the Americans--Mr. Obama, Hillary Clinton, some Republicans... Just odd encountering such political commentary in the form of tacky souvenirs.

A nice day, despite swollen feet, various blisters, not enough coffee...

Chrissy's quote of the day: "We're all falling apart!"

bob