Spain 2019
Travel Notes from Spain, March 2019
Good teachers, beginning fifty plus years ago, served up my first course in Spanish language and culture. I found something personally meaningful in it and have used and expanded on what they taught me in travel and cultural explorations ever since. These notes are random impressions from my most recent sojourn in Spain, which I hope will bring a smile and convey some of the richness of the experience!
My route followed roughly the shape of a question mark, starting with arrival in Madrid, proceeding in a broad curve northwesterly through Castilla y Leon, up to the Basque Country, southeast to the Mediterranean coast (el levante), then bending southwesterly to Sevilla and Ronda in Andalucia. The question mark could refer to why am I traveling solo through Spain for three weeks? Well, just because, I guess. I had a lot of frequent flier miles and thought perhaps I should use them. I couldn’t think of a better use than this. Traveling solo that long is not for everyone, or even for me most of the time, but Spain has a lot to see, and I don’t cross the ocean very often, so three weeks seemed about right. I count myself the richer for the experience and am glad I did it. So let me tell you about it.
Castilla y Leon
Madrid
The taxi from the Madrid airport dropped me at an airbnb address in an ancient street near the Museo del Prado in Madrid about 9:30 AM, on Wednesday March 6. I was lugging a giant suitcase packed for three weeks of travel. I called Patricia, the owner, from the sidewalk, standing in cold wind and rain. She said she couldn’t let me in, even to drop off my suitcase, for another couple of hours. “What do you suggest I do with my luggage until then,” I asked. “There are lots of places around there where you can put it,” she answered vaguely; I think she probably had a mental image of carry-on luggage, not the rolling mini-closet I was hauling. I’m conspicuous clattering down the street with it, it won’t fit into small spaces, and I surely can’t walk away from it for more than a minute.
Flustered by the dilemma of waiting it out in the cold wind and rain, I walked toward the Avenida del Prado and there in the second block ducked dripping wet into the modest lobby of the Hotel Mexico. It wasn’t the Ritz, but there it was, earnest and clean, with room to spare in the luggage closet. “How much for a room for a couple of nights?” I had written off the prepaid rental on the airbnb the moment I stepped into the lobby. “70 Euros la noche,” replied the strawberry blonde 50-ish desk clerk. “Esta bien entonces,” and I stashed the luggage until I could check in, after 2:00. With a tip of my dripping hat, I left for a long walk, northward along Avenida del Prado.
Here already I learned lesson #1: Don’t do airbnb for at least the first night when you’re traveling to Europe from the U.S., unless you have perfect assurance of early check-in. Later experience in Valladolid (described below) led me to generalize this, for my own particular purposes: don’t screw around with airbnb at all, because while it will be good some of the time, it’s too risky, and comfort and service along the way too important to gamble on it. Experience has made me more risk averse where lodgings are concerned. Hotels of at least three stars, preferably four (if the price is right), are my go-tos now. To me, comfort and service are worth paying for, but choose what best suits you.
The Hotel Mexico didn’t come close to rating three stars, but was well located and served its purpose for two nights. It was five minutes walking from the Museo del Prado, and 15 minutes in the other direction to the Plaza Mayor or Puerta del Sol at dead center of old Madrid.
I crossed the Avenida del Prado to the museum, where there was a long line waiting. Not a good idea to jump in there now, though the museum is the prime attraction of this brief stay in the capital. I had been to Madrid several times before, so I stayed only long enough to put feet on the ground and revisit the museum before heading northwest, to Segovia, then Salamanca. I decided to dedicate tomorrow to the museum and headed off toward the Plaza Mayor.
Anything you want in the way of Spanish stuff can be found in these narrow streets – ham, swords, religious artifacts, wine and cheese, fans and fancy clothing, old books and maps, guitars, as well as the ubiquitous cheap souvenirs. The Plaza Mayor, built in the early 1600s, has seen burning of heretics by the Inquisition, bullfights, and all manner of other public spectacles through four centuries, but now is just for strolling and relaxing over food and drink al fresco while watching a world of passers-by. I paid my respects to the mounted statue of Philip III, during whose lame and corrupt reign this was built, and headed back to check into my room at the Hotel Mexico.
The next morning, when I walked into the Prado gallery that has Goya’s The Second of May and Third of May depicting the horrific street violence of the Napoleonic era War of Independence, the one-two body blow virtually knocked the wind out of me. The fame and familiarity of these fierce images magnify their savage power. I had to wipe a tear as I stood there gazing at the faceless French fusileers executing a young, impassioned local patriot (Third of May). Just then a class of preadolescents marched rambuctiously through the room. They had no idea whatever of the hallowed ground or pervasive electricity of otherwordly genius where they passed. I wished them an opening of eyes and hearts, then asked a docent where to find Hieronomous Bosch and made a beeline there.
Goya
I found a crowd of maybe eight deep gawking at The Garden of Delights, but few around the smaller but still magnificent tryptych The Haywain. Fame is a powerful magnet. I could spend a day or a year in front of either and still not quite see the forest for the kalidoscopic trees. There’s too much in his archetypal firmament to integrate easily into a single take-away. He had a very fertile and cosmic imagaination! But for the milling crowd I could stand here entranced for hours.
I took my time through large salons and small galleries, Raphaels, Titians, Tintorettos, rooms of El Grecos, and over to the central salon where all is Velasquez. Las Meninas greets you across the room, holding court even among the court paintings the artist did of Philip III, Philip IV, and their families. The sight of Las Meninas at the center of the gallery gripped me and shook. It’s partly the fame effect, from seeing it in books since high school and in derivative works, such as those of Picasso in the Picasso Museum of Barcelona. But despite the mundane (albeit regal) subject matter, it transcends to the divine. Though I’ve seen it here several times before, I’m still thinking “I can’t believe I’m seeing this!”
Velasquez’s court paintings of Philip IV and all of his family, mainly on horseback or in hunting scenes, all hang in this room, as does the mounted portrait of the Count-Duke of Olivares, rendered with baton of command on rearing horse, as if he himself were a royal. He served as all powerful valido for the king, until he lost both Portugal and royal favor, as European fragments of the Spanish Empire crumbled away. As for King Philip, he preferred hunting, women, and wine over matters of state, and thus ceded responsibility to the Count Duke. In the end, Philip considered himself a failure as king, and largely was, but he was also a very great art patron and collector, as his grandfather Philip II also had been. For these collections, we owe them great thanks; their legacy looms large here!
As great as it is, to me all of this is prelude to Goya’s black paintings – scenes of dark mystery, legend, myth, and ritual, that he painted on the wall of his residence, Quinta del Sordo. They were transferred to canvas after his death. The same artist that rendered the stately court paintings, the brilliant portraits, country scenes for the royal textile shop, the majas, and the religious paintings also gave us these dark archetypal treasures. In my view, he is the greatest of artists. He brought out the souls of his subjects and didn’t spare the darkness. His Family of Carlos IV verges on being a lampoon of the royal family – in the official court portrait. He paints the king as prime fool, naïve and clueless, surrounded by his unfaithful scheming wife, Queen Maria Luisa, and his hollow, vicious heir to the throne, Fernando. Though these depictions seem unmistakeable, there is no record of royal pushback over it. Hundreds of works across the spectrum of Goya’s genius grace the museum.
The next morning, I rolled my giant suitcase a quarter mile to the Atocha train station, bound one hour northwest to Segovia. But I learned from a very inarticulate shouting woman at the ticket counter that the Segovia train leaves from Chamartin station on the northern fringe of town. The cab driver who took me there feared that Day of the Woman festivities would block streets and cause delays, but it was yet morning, and I easily made it to the station and the train.
Segovia
This is old Castile-Leon. The airbnb I had reserved in Segovia was a studio just across a cart-path-wide street from the largest and best Roman aqueduct in Spain, two thousand years old. It supplied the city well into the nineteenth century, and can still carry water today. Roman engineers fitted the giant stones without mortar, and the labor necessary to construct so many miles of aqueduct is staggering. Forefathers of Segovia were obviously a hardy, civic-minded bunch. The centurion’s whip must also have cracked right around here. The epochal construction was underway right outside this window a mere 2,000 years ago. It’s considerably more tranquil now!
Along the trail, I’m trying to keep my sensors out to detect commonalities between Spaniards and Spanish New Mexicans. Some of my New Mexican neighbors trace their lineages directly back and even have Spanish colonial titles to their property. Those who do have uniformly seen their landholdings reduced drastically by American settlement, as new laws, lawmakers, enforcers, and lawyers cut them up and divvied them out to the new arrivals. You can see in their faces the same visigothic bones and brightness visible everywhere around here. Some crossed the ocean, others didn’t. Of those who did, the seed took root in the new land and still grows.
After a good night’s sleep, I walked down to the plaza beneath the aqueduct, wandering in search of breakfast, and found groups of costumed elves, princesses, and mischief and merry makers gathering. Naturally I wondered what was going on. Most of the characters were adults, some quite advanced in years. I had to ask someone, only to be told, duh!, it’s carnaval in Segovia!
As day wore on, costumed revelers filled both of the big plazas, though it seemed there were nearly as many selfie-stick-toting Chinese tourists in groups, each with standard and colors, as there were local revelers in the plaza. I found a good table from which to observe the unfolding spectacle in the Plaza Mayor. Vino tinto, ensalada de atun, and a sunny March afternoon at the party make Segovia rock. It’s daytime and there are a lot of kids involved, so it’s not a Baccanalian thing like New Orleans or Rio (except for at a couple of tables of carefree Germans and Italians sitting near me).
Just beyond them, I see a full-size bronze statue of a very short man, which piques my curiosity. Paying up and walking over, by gosh, it’s none other than the great poet Antonio Machado! Spaniards venerate their poets and authors, as do I. Machado distinguished himself even among his renowned contemporaries of the “generation of ’98” (e.g., Unamuno, Juan Ramon Jimenez, Garcia Lorca, many others). He wrote about nature, Castilla, Andalucia, love, and human nature in elegantly simple verse, with harmonic minor key undertones. Further on, I saw a sign to the House/Museum of Antonio Machado and followed it into a side street. Machado had boarded in this centuries-old house for 13 years while teaching French at a local colegio. I breathed deeply, hoping that the spirit of the place, where so many had been written, would inspire a good rhyme. Wood stove in the kitchen, modest table where meals were served, white iron-frame twin size bed where the bard slept, small writing desk in the library. It made him seem close and accessible, and nada presumido. I bought a couple of books in the gift shop, which filled some airport waits, train rides, and sits in sidewalk cafes with earthy musings.
When I was a kid on driving trips from Phoenix to vacation in San Diego or Long Beach, I would urge us not to look like tourists. It was cool to be from California but not so much from Arizona, and maybe that was it. Or it might have been a more deeply ingrained existential otherness, or something like that. But I still don’t like to look like a tourist, or feel like I am one, even though I am. I’m struck by how at first sight so many Spaniards label me as “not from around here.” Obviously I don’t have the visigothic visage I was just talking about. But they’re often surprised when I start rolling my rs confidently. Though far from perfect, my Spanish can nearly always transact the business at hand, in pretty much the normal way. I enjoy this a lot as I travel, learning and improving; my thanks go out to many good teachers from many lands!
I can’t explain the aversion to tourist identity. Why not just dive into it? Guide book, maps, binoculars, beanie hat, big camera, whatever. No thanks, I’m just a stranger on your sidewalks, collar to the wind; now you see me, soon I’m gone. Breathe the air, drop some cash, shoot some photos; then it’s check out time, and I’m down the road. Yeah, they call me the breeze, I ain’t carryin’ no load.
Not being a good tourist is why I only saw the Segovia Alcazar (imposing fortress castle favored by medieval kings of Castile and Leon) from the outside, by night. I would have arrived sooner and gone in, but I took the low road out of the aquaduct plaza when I should have taken the high one, and instead of coming to the Alcazar I found a long, beautiful, quiet terrace plaza overlooking the winding road up into town and a majestic panorama over the Castilian countryside, with the snowcapped Sierra de Guadarrama in the background. Back up some stairs from there leads through the ancient Jewish quarter to the Cathedral and Plaza Mayor. That well worn path compensated somewhat for missing the interior of the Alcazar. But I suspect restless spirits from old medieval courts may yet lurk inside there. So maybe next time.
I was trying to adapt to siesta schedule, relaxing through late afternoon, then joining townspeople and tourists on a paseo through the plaza at dusk, and eating dinner late. Restaurants don’t open until 8:30, but you can enjoy a selection of tapas in the bars, along with a good, cheap glass of wine, much earlier. Sometimes a tapa, like aceitunas (olives) or something more, like ceviche, comes gratis with the wine. But as days elapse, I gravitate more towards tapas or bocadillos (little sandwiches, often of jamon iberico) early in a bar or sidewalk café. My internal dinner bell keeps ringing out gringo supper time. Just like a tourist.
On one early paseo I got lost and confused walking back in what I thought was the direction of the airbnb place, despite the fact that the apartment was right next to a low stretch of aquaduct. You probably wouldn’t think you could mistake such a landmark, right? but in fact I didn’t realize I was walking along the very same stretch of it, only from the other direction, on the other side. It didn’t look the same to me, although the aquaduct per se is unmistakeable. I was starting to get anxious when I saw a rock outcropping that looked familiar at the base of the aquaduct. Then I thought perhaps I heard it speak: like “hey bonehead, it’s right here!” Sure enough, I turned around and saw the apartment right behind me, across the narrow street on the other side of the aquaduct. What stupid relief! And all thanks to the rock. It pays to listen!
Salamanca
Salamanca was just another hour northwest by train. The taxi drove me through an attractive, modern, mid-sized city to the old core and dropped me in a narrow street just behind the cathedral, down the street from the 800 year-old univerity. I had looked forward a long time to seeing Salamanca, and the elegant, convenient apartment was the perfect base from which to do it. This was my luckiest airbnb hit. My interest related mostly to the university, one of Europe’s oldest and arguably Spain’s best, even now. I’m also interested in the life and work of Don Miguel de Unamuno, a leading figurehead of the Generation of ’98, who served as rector of the university from 1900-1914. He wrote both of and with Spanish/Basque soul, in fiction and non-fiction. An outspoken opponent of strongman dictator Primo de Rivera, Unamuno left the university for exile in the Basque region of France. When he could finally return, in 1930, he famously began his homecoming lecture in the grand aula at Salamanca, where I was standing, with “como deciamos…,” (“as we were saying”), as if but ten minutes had passed, when it had in fact been years!
Somehow it came to my attention that there was an Unamuno house/museum in town. I asked at university administration, where they directed me just around the corner. But in late afternoon the massive wooden portal was closed and locked. I put the museum front and center on next morning’s agenda. The posted hours indicated 10:00 opening, but when I returned around 10:30 the next morning, I found it still locked. I knocked on the portal and was surprised when a thin fifty-ish man opened it and asked what I wanted. “I’m interested in Unamuno,” I said, which brought a smile. He said he had a group tour starting at 11:00, and I asked if I could do the museum solo, without a tour. He said, “well, you can look at things, yes,” which I interpreted as unequivocally positive. To pass time before I could come in, he directed me further northward toward the Plaza Mayor to the house where Unamuno lived with his large family from the time of his return from exile in 1930 until his death in 1936. That house is a private residence now, but outside in a small plaza is a statue of the writer.
I returned to the house/museum at about 11:20; I pushed on the portal and went in when it swung open. The thin fifty-ish man was lecturing to a group in a little classroom, so I quietly viewed the modest exhibits downstairs and went up to the living quarters on the second floor. Library, bedroom, writing nook, all brimming with his artifacts.
I heard the group coming up the stairs. Upon seeing me, the slim fifty-ish guy flashed immediately hostile, like a reflex. “How did you get in?” he yelled. “Very simply, I said, “I pushed the door and walked in when it opened.” “Well, you have no right to be here,” he said. I said, “don’t you remember, I talked to you an hour ago?” I was already heading toward the stairs down, not able to get out fast enough, but I still felt as though Don Miguel would have welcomed my homage.
I can now, first-hand, concur with Rick Steves that Salamanca has the grandest Plaza Mayor and best paseo in Spain. Madrid’s is really grand, but this is grander. I watched well dressed seniors strolling arm-in-arm, small groups laughing and discussing business, children running around playing, and legions of Chinese tourists rallying around their standards and colors, all while sipping a vino tinto at a sidewalk café. I didn’t expect so many tourists in early March. More are from northern Europe and China than from the U.S., but the University of Salamanca makes a substantial business of Spanish language programs for foreigners, and students dominate the sidewalk cafes around the university, lots of Americans in the mix. It’s a beautiful town, but two nights here is enough.
Valladolid
Another hour on a fast train, north by northeast, takes me to Valladolid, the wild card on my itinerary. I don’t know if it will be interesting and worth the time. It has seen great historic moments – Ferdinand and Isabella were married and first met Columbus here, and Cervantes lived here for a while – but myopic city planners in the 1960s demolished historic sites to raise these non-descript buildings.
The wild card quickly turned unfavorably. My airbnb was located in a very uninteresting area (so much for the online reviews!). Though spacious and clean, it was not particularly attractive, and both times I went out walking, I got very lost trying to get back. The surrounding streets were a medieval tangle, albeit lined with non-descript modern buildings. The Plaza Mayor had a sandy construction site through the middle that discouraged paseo. The second time I got lost, I thought I was close to the apartment but hailed a ride when I came to a taxi stand. It ended up being fifteen minutes. The stairwell up to the second floor apartment was pitch black and I couldn’t find the light switch. I thought I might end up breaking my neck, but managed to grope my way to the second floor landing and the apartment door. That was when I decided I had had enough of airbnb for this trip. I cut my stay in Valladolid from two nights to one and booked a four star hotel in Burgos for the next night.
Burgos
Burgos had not been on my itinerary, but I was looking for someplace on the way to the next planned stop, Bilbao, and there it was, calling from the map, easy decision; so I reserved a room at the NH Palace of Burgos and checked the next morning’s train schedule. The desk clerk at the hotel checked me in early, into a gigantic, luxurious room, which was not really all that expensive. I knew then that curtailing Valladolid for this was right. Travel stress drained out quickly beneath the canopy over the bed.
The Burgos cathedral, just across the river, is very ancient and grand, like many, built on top of the old Moorish mosque. The oldest Christian part dates from the 900s. Burgos was home to medieval kings of Castile and Leon, and, according to El cantar de mio Cid, also the birthplace of the epic hero. His real life biography is not precisely known, but most experts speculate that he was a non-noble mercenary, paid by Christian kings to spearhead the reconquest. A minority believes he came from more noble lineage. In the epic, King Alfonso VI expels El Cid from Castilla (why we’re never told), but, remaining loyal to the king, he proceeds to regain favor by conquering Valencia and holding it firmly in bloody battle against Moslem hordes from Spain and Morocco. He then sees his two daughters married to the counts of Carrion, which turns out very badly. The cowardly counts deem the girls unworthy of their nobility and leave them for dead in the wilderness. But in the end, justice and happiness prevail. The king grants El Cid a reckoning with the counts in the Cortes of Castilla, which results in their repudiation – and freedom for the daughters to marry new suitors, the kings of Navarre and Asturias. And it all started right here in Burgos!
While looking for a lunch spot downtown, I came across a fellow shouting a mad political diatribe in a large plaza. He kept at it quite a while because I passed the place a couple of times with him still bellyaching. I couldn’t honestly tell what his position or problem actually was, other than anti-government. A few people were gathered to watch and listen, or just see a fool make a spectacle of himself. Another fellow then started heckling him with y que?! (so what!). They ultimately confronted each other face to face, point blank, but no fisticuffs ensued. I wasn’t going to hang around to watch; any sort of political controversy seems to rankle my nerves these days. There’s little truth and no peace to be found in it, and fewer and fewer positive values of any kind. I found a good bar for lunch, and the shouter and crowd had dispersed when I came out.
Basque Country
Bilbao
I woke up feeling great after a four-course dinner at the Palacio de Burgos and a deep sleep, ready to ride three hours north to Bilbao, in Basque country, where the Pyrenees slope down to the coast. The pre-eminent attraction here is the Guggenheim Museum, a spectacular architectural achievement by Frank Gehry, opened in 1998. The museum has transformed Bilbao from a grimy industrial city to prime touristic destination. Perhaps jaded by the hype, or not having someone to ooh and ah with about it, I took it right in stride. It’s so huge and unusual that I couldn’t take the whole thing in at once (like the Bosch tryptychs in the Prado). I had to see each part at a time then try to puzzle them together into a gestalt view. This is not to disparage it though, as it is by far the pre-eminent work of art at the museum – transcendence in metal, glass, and stone.
Inside, the first floor is dedicated to large contoured spaces that you walk through, and video demonstrations of movements of natural creatures that inspired these contours. This did not do much for me, especially the contoured shapes. The second floor, however, was a knockout, with great pieces by great modern artists, from Degas and Manet to Basquiat and a few living artists. But compared to great museums, there really isn’t all that much in total. The collections have a long way to to go to rise to the level and impact of the building itself.
Bilbao is a good walking city. The old core (casco viejo) stretched out just across the river from the hotel, and there I joined multitudes for an evening paseo. I came into an especially lively plaza scene, where mainly young adults were hanging out and having fun. I bought an ice cream cone at a stand and listened to a black busker with a small p.a. performing songs in English on guitar, making a very good show of it. I looked up at the bust statue, raised high to overlook the large plaza, and realized that it was none other than Don Miguel de Unamuno again. The plaza is little more than a block away from his birthplace. Unfortunately, I don’t know in which direction that would be and don’t believe the house is still there. Nevertheless, I give Don Miguel and his work another appreciative salute and turn back toward the hotel.
Guernica
The next morning I took a bus to Guernica, the Basque capital, about an hour west from Bilbao. I had seen Picasso’s earth-shattering painting previously in the Museo Reina Sofia in Madrid, and spent a long time there inspecting every tortured face and facet of it. Here now is where it happened that infamous day of April 1937. The road there through the Pyrenees is jagged, green, and beautiful, and the town itself attractive and pleasant. There are beautiful parks and meadows in textured green hills, sloping down to an inviting center of town.
The Museum of Peace sets the scene and retraces the tragic steps to the mass murder from the sky that forever marked Guernica. Heroes and martyrs are remembered. I cried to think of that desperate need. To the outside world, Guernica is known for what happened that one day, but for many centuries it has been the center of Basque culture and governance. If the Basque people had it their way, this would be a bigger deal than it presently is, or is likely to become in the foreseeable future. I had a quick bite to eat at a fine café downtown and returned to Bilbao, where I walked around, had sushi with tinto in the casco viejo, and with a last tip of the hat to Don Miguel in the plaza looked forward to seeing San Sebastian the next day.
San Sebastian
After a couple of hours by bus east through more craggy, green peaks and valleys, you come to the Cantabrian beach resort of San Sebastian, or Donastia to the Basques. It has a Belle Epoque charm, in stately old buildings and white filigree ironwork along a sweeping beachfront promenade. I join thousands of people out strolling along the beach and promenade on a sunny March afternoon with light breeze. Thousands more jam oxcart narrow downtown streets browsing shops or sipping a refresco al fresco. I put on a few pleasant miles around the cove and town before settling in to a corner table at a bar in the next block over from the hotel. There I read in El Pais that the current liberal government of Pedro Sanchez is planning to move the remains of Francisco Franco from the Valley of the Fallen, a shrine northwest of Madrid, honoring Civil War dead, to an old cemetary in the heart of town. The government is pushing this initiative in the face of Franco family resistance. Spaniards since the death of Franco have refrained from reviving remembrance and discussion of the Civil War, to avoid fanning still smoldering embers of passion. This move by the Sanchez government and the rapid growth of the far right Vox party seem to suggest renewed polarization is in progress. After one pleasant night in San Sebastian, I returned to Bilbao to catch a plane for Valencia on the Mediterranean coast the next morning.
El Levante
Valencia
Upon arrival in Valencia, the cab driver told me he couldn’t take me to the Excelsior Hotel as I requested. It was highly rated for location and comfort on the website, but they failed to mention that the Las Fallas celebration would be going on just then, and all the streets in the central city would be blocked off. It’s a mega-celebration of St. Joseph’s day for the city’s patron saint. He could only drop me off about a kilometer and a half from the hotel, and from there I would have to walk, with the huge suitcase through the humongous crowds and unfamiliar city. On the face of it, this just didn’t seem feasible. I called the hotel from the taxi to cancel the reservation, but they refused to refund the first of two nights. “Then I’d like you to take me to another hotel,” I told the driver. He immediately started flicking through possibilities on his phone with the right hand while steering through traffic with the left. He said, “I recommend this one, just up ahead, would you like me to call?” “For sure,” I said, and he punched the green button and handed over the phone. Reservation made, easy as that. Inasmuch as we didn’t crash, I’ll call this exceptional service.
After a bite at the hotel, I set out to explore the chaotic scene. Even outside the closed off perimeter, multitudes swarmed, coming and going, mixing, drinking, laughing, talking, lining up for a parade, in the middle of the afternoon. The celebration on that second day of the fiesta was in full swing, but the crescendo, the lighting of Las Fallas, big aerial fires in every neighborhood, wouldn’t happen until the following night. Men, women, and children in baroque costumery, gigantic floats of Disney-like creatures, and thousands of revelers in every street. Not by any means the everyday Valencia; interesting, amusing, stimulating, for sure, but I would have preferred the ordinary. It was electrifying at first in over-the-top exuberance, until a creeping claustrophobia left me anxious and short of breath; then a firecracker popped at my feet and sent me looking for open space to gather myself, and I got lost. It was a fair distance to anything like open ground, and I lost the trail. A passerby I asked how to get back to the Gran Via shook her head sadly and said I’d have to cross at least five bridges to get there. How do I get so lost, I wondered. It took me twenty minutes to find a taxi for a 15-minute cab ride back to the hotel. I thought it was much closer than that, but a full five bridges it was.
With little enthusiasm for another day of this, I resolved to take a train out the next morning; but to where? Ah, Alicante is down the coast; I’ve heard of it, that’s where Sonia, the Spanish teacher I met at Instituto Cervantes is from. She was telling me about it during a break at the Institute, and I had no clue where or what it was. But hey, great, it has a beach. I’m going to buy a good book and relax for a couple of days by the beach before returning to Valencia for the Thursday flight to Sevilla.
The book I ended up with was Cinco rincones, by Mario Vargas Llosa, which I hardly put down for the next few days, a dark spicy tale of fake news and character assasination for political advantage, in early 90s Lima. Intertwined stories from top and bottom echelons of society develop separately toward a reckoning where the bottomless depth of most vicious official corruption comes to light, through an unsuspected source. No philosophizing, just action scenes strung together like a black pearl necklace. I finished it in Sevilla and ducked into a nice bookstore downtown to buy another, La fiesta del Chivo, also by Vargas Llosa, an exhaustive blending of research and imagination that also fathoms profound depths of official corruption, in the last stages of the Trujillo dictatorship in the Dominican Republic. Again, no philosophizing, just rich pallette scene painting, but excessive at times here, and lacking in the dark humor of Cinco rincones. Its density and length make it a more challenging read than the first, but about half way in I’ve taken the bait and swallowed the hook. (I predict conspirators are will kill him, and few are going to mourn.)
Alicante
The posh beach hotel and spa in Alicante was balm for frazzle from Valencia. The full glass wall at the back of the lobby faced the Mediterranean, and from there at breakfast the next morning’s sunrise exceeded any I had ever seen, with lasers of sun shafts shooting out of deep rose-colored cumulus clouds, like a voice from a burning bush. In Spanish this stretch of coast is el levante, “where the sun comes up,” but I never grasped the connected meaning of that until this morning. El levante indeed! The name was dry fact until I saw that burst of super-luminous sunrise.
The hotel was full of northern European tourists down for a weekend on the beach. English, Dutch, Germans, and Swiss, in significant numbers. But I had no urge or agenda right then to seek the soul and flower of Spanish culture and was happy just to chill out for a couple of nights, speaking English with other guests in the hotel. I can generally guess from accents where they’re from. My brushes with other tourists lead me to this working hypothesis: northern Europeans come for sun and beach, whereas the Chinese go in more for guidebook sightseeing. Alicante favors the former, Segovia, Salamanca, etc., the latter. Empirical observations support the hypothesis, but the conclusion seems rather obvious. More research is needed.
Alicante is a beautiful, bustling little town with a fine selection of restaurants along a long arcade by the marina. An old fortress high on a steep promontory spies out to a far distance at sea. Wind was blowing hard off the water, and I was glad not to have paid the extra 30 euros per night for a sea-facing room, as the exterior deck would have been too gusty to use on that side. My deck had the marina view, and I sat there enjoying the Vargas Llosa book with a glass of Caceres Reserva through changing colors and shadows of the sky. The building itself was the perfect windbreak, which made the premium for a sea view seem misplaced. But then again this is el levante, and daybreak must be the real attraction on the sea side.
Andalucia
Sevilla
Pushing on to Sevilla the next day involved backtracking to board an early afternoon flight from Valencia. The chaos of Las Fallas had by then subsided, and I made the transit and boarded the flight, no problem. Arriving in Sevilla, a plugged in and friendly cab driver dropped me in a narrow street lined with sidewalk cafés and pointed to the end of the block, which he couldn’t reach by car, saying with a wave, “that’s your hotel.” Rose-colored, small and modest, but extremely well located, right outside the Alcazar Gardens, a short walk from the Plaza de Espana. A sign on the wall of the garden dates it from Moorish times, which in Sevilla means before the Reconquista, in 1248. Five good restaurants had sidewalk tables within steps of the hotel entrance, with still more around the block, their promoters inviting you in from the doorway.
One engaged me and waved me to a sidewalk table with a menu. After a few minutes I couldn’t make up my mind what to order and asked her for a suggestion. She said the surtido iberico con machego was quite good. Though it sounded a bit heavy, I also thought a little ham and cheese might be good and said “okay, I’ll have that.” My eyes popped when she brought out a platter that could have fed four football players. Slices of jamon serrano, jamon iberico, and salami lined in rows on a large oblong plate, with manchego cheese slices laid over the top. My first thought was how do I get out of this gracefully, but realizing I couldn’t, I started to think of it as a communion with soul and substance of Spain. I chewed each bite deliberately, reverently, extracting essence, slice by slice until I’d eaten the whole thing. It took three glasses of vino tinto to wash it all down. I felt a touch of macho pride at having eaten the whole thing, and as though I had packed some essence of Spain into my bones and bloodstream. I also felt like I needed to lie down as soon as possible. Luckily, the hotel was just around the corner. Timber!
Growing from deep historic roots, Sevilla is a busy, happening city, the fourth largest in Spain after Madrid, Barcelona, and Valencia. Having been Moorish much longer than northern regions, the footprint is everywhere, in designs, architecture, flavors, gardens, and spaces. The cultural mix is rich and diverse, a bottomless stew. Given time, you could keep discovering interesting places, people, and factoids for a long while along these ancient streets. A secret garden of delight might surprise you around any corner, ghosts of artists, writers, and empire-builders still holding court from centuries past.
This is the epicenter of bullfight history and culture, as it is also of gypsy soul, best expressed in pride and power of flamenco. You encounter flamenco performances on streets and plazas in the old part of town, as well as in flamenco clubs at night. The guitar players are nylon-string virtuosos, the singers and dancers expressive, strong, and graceful. I didn’t go into a club on this trip (though might have if I’d passed one), but I watched a troupe perform in the Plaza de Espana shortly after I arrived. The performance pulsed with soul and style; about twelve performers, just busking in the plaza, but every one reaching for the stars. They passed the hat around the good-sized crowd after every number. I dropped my contribution into a cup being passed to me from behind, but when a male dancer saw this, he leaped up to where I was standing and grabbed out the coins I had put in the cup – from the freeloader who was passing it. That performance was almost as impressive as his real dance! The freeloader skulked away, but was soon seen again on the other side of the crowd, after the next number. One gypsy trying to gyp the others, I thought!
I found the cathedral by walking toward its tallest tower, which I could see a half mile off over the tops of ancient buildings of the juderia. The Sevilla Cathedral challenges Toledo’s for grandest in Spain. Toledo, with El Grecos encircling the sacristy, usually rates the edge, but this also is sublime. What cavernous space and thrust toward heaven! On the long walk around the interior, I see a huge gilt casket being carried on a bier by four great knights, ornately sculpted and dressed, and say to myself, “Oh, this must Columbus’s tomb!” – which indeed it is. Talk about a guy who rocked the world! And the grandiosity of his resting place does full justice to his impact, though there is no allusion here to the darker side of his discovery (i.e., the smallpox, slavery, and other miscellanea of black legend).
On spur of the moment, I decided to join the continuous procession up to the top of the tallest tower for a commanding view over the city. While the view was surely striking, whether it was worth the long winding ascent through jostling crowds was a judgment call. It turned out to be 31 claustrophobic staircase levels up. After a quick look around, because it was really crowded up there, the 31 levels down went considerably faster and easier. I gave thumbs up to people climbing up for encouragement, like “hang in there, it’s going to be worth it!” but in my heart of hearts I wasn’t so sure. They can arrive at their own judgment when they arrive.
This grand and holy place dates back at least 1,200 years to the Moorish mosque beneath one of the finest gothic cathedrals. The conception and the sustained effort over several centuries to build it inspires wonder and awe. There’s too much to take all in. The architects and builders four, five, six hundred years ago, achieved transcendence in stone, wood, and glass, for Church and pueblo.
Ronda
The many fantastically interesting and beautiful cities in Andalucia – Cordoba, Granada, Malaga, Jerez, Cadiz, Arcos de la Frontera – make difficult choices for travelers. There’s too much to see in a brief stay. After two nights in Sevilla, I was ready to travel out, and chose Ronda, the largest of the so-called white hill towns, a couple of hours east of Sevilla, as my destination. I made a reservation at an NH hotel there, the Reina Victoria, and caught the morning bus. Sipping a second cup of coffee at the station, I read in the Rick Steves’ guide that it was not quite two hours on the road. I failed to note that that was the direct bus, and this particular bus would be making several stops along the way. That second cup of coffee ended up causing real agony, as the bus driver wouldn’t let us off, even for a quick pit stop. I didn’t think I was going to make it – but at last we arrived at Ronda. Grabbing my bag, I cut through a scrum of Chinese tourists gathered in front of the restroom like a running back to the goal line, and just in the nick of time.
Refreshed, and not finding a cab at the bus station, I set out without a clue on foot in search of the hotel. After some misdirection, I found it, a white Victorian building about a half mile north of the famous Ronda new bridge. After checking and settling in, I came down from my very comfortable room in search of something to eat and found the patio restaurant at the back of the building. The view from there took my breath completely away. From the streets you might think you’re on more or less level ground – until you arrive at this precipice, where you suddenly realize there’s a sheer thousand-foot drop to the gorgeously textured countryside below. I saw four eagles flying high – below me, as I stood high at the edge of the patio. I thought it was just about the most beautiful setting I had ever seen. I ended up having another surtido de ibericos with two glasses of vino tinto. By the time I was done, the scene on the patio had transformed from just me and a German couple to a crowded gathering of local gentry, clinking glasses and laughing. It was the most incredible al fresco experience I’ve had.
I walked south on the road paralleling the precipice, past a manicured park with the greatest of scenic overlooks, and past the oldest bull ring in Spain, right in the center of town. This is where modern bullfighting began. In the early 1700s, Pedro Romero codified procedures for what had hitherto been a formless and rough execution of a bull. Romero turned it into a more artistic, scripted, and ceremonious execution of a bull, right here, maybe 150 meters from the precipice. A great aficionado of all of this, Ernest Hemingway, is memorialized outside of the bullring for saying that his writing was like a Ronda bullfight, simple and methodical.
Past the bullring lies the new bridge, built of course on top of the old bridge, and the new bridge is not really all that new. Anyway, 1,000 meters down the sheer cliffs, the Tajo River babbles in a narrow channel through the rock. A very impressive number of Chinese tourists shoot snapshots with their selfie sticks, and who could blame them? The view is stupendous. Even so, I wanted to get out of the crowd and just walked around town, bought junk, jotted down notes, mailed a postcard, and gave thanks for comfortable shoes.
The next day I did not have a second cup of coffee before boarding the bus back to Sevilla, to fly back to Madrid and return to the U.S. But this time the trip was easy – this was the direct bus and the ride 30 or 40 minutes shorter than the trip out. My hotel this time was non-descript, though comfortable, and not at all well located, as far as touristic attractions are concerned. This was workaday Sevilla. There was nothing remarkable about it, but a long walk finally brought me to the Infanta Margarita Park, where locals were congregating on Sunday afternoon around a pop-up restaurant where meat was being carved and served with wine. I was in the middle of Cinco rincones by Vargas Llosa and ordered aceitunas with vino tinto to sit and read. It was as nice as anything I had enjoyed along the way, and not much like a tourist.
Back in Madrid the next evening, I ordered a 3:30 AM wake-up call for 6 AM flight to Zurich, then to London, and direct from there to Houston, prayerful of making it home with my luggage, in one piece. Two more days of pure travel, airports, planes, and a motel in Houston, back to the end of the road in New Mexico. I considered the real adventure concluded, but little did I know that it was literally just beginning. But those further adventures are another story for another time. Perhaps I’ll call it dealing with unexpected shit in New Mexico. Is that too negative? Probably so, seeing as how the best part of the journey is still getting home!
