Holy Island

Holy Island is located just off the coast of England's northerly-most town, Berwick-upon-Tweed. If you look at a map, the town is in the upper, right corner of the country just a mile or two from the border with Scotland. The largest of the Farne Islands, Holy Island is important for several reasons. King Oswald, ruler of the tribal kingdom of Northumbria in the early 600s, sent a request to the monastery of Iona on the far western coast of Scotland to send someone to build a Christian monastery in his land in order to convert his people. By 635, an Ionian monk named Aidan (later canonized a saint) had built a "Saxon-style" church of heavy oak timbers on the island and founded the monastery called Lindisfarne. The type of Christianity practiced in Lindisfarne followed that of Iona; namely, they both performed "Irish" or "Celtic" rites. These were different from Roman Catholicism in a number of specific ways. For example, and most easily seen, they used the Celtic tonsure for monks; instead of shaving the little spot at the back of the head as did the Romans, the celtic church shaved the front of the head to a lateral line reaching from ear to ear. The celtic church used a different liturgical calendar, and, therefore, celebrated important holy days and events on different dates from he Roman church. Most importantly, they calculated the date of Easter using a unique formula. The Irish church claimed to have the right to follow these and other practices because their version of Christianity had actually been evolving since the second century (Thomas Cahill writes about this conflict in his entertaining book "How the Irish Saved Civilization"). The monastery at Lindisfarne and the monasteries just 35 miles to the south at Jarrow and Wearmouth where Bede would write constituted the front lines in the battle to see which practice would prevail among Christians--the former being Celtic and the latter being Roman. It's strange to me that many modern Christians seem simply to accept that elements of their religious practice have always been in existence--in fact, these elements were hammered out over centuries, and Holy Island is a seminal site in this process.

Another reason why Holy Island is so special is because of St. Cuthbert. By nature a hermit whose only wish was to live out a life like that of St. Jerome (a great saint--drafter of the Latin Vulgate--who had preceded Cuthbert by less than 200 years), Cuthbert was elected by his peers to be the Prior and Bishop of Lindisfarne. To Cuthbert fell many of the negotiations between the Celtic and Roman Catholic churches. Bede writes that Cuthbert was both a holy saint whose life brought many miracles and a scholar whose compromising spirit kept the church together and "catholic."

Finally, there is that famous illuminated manuscript called the "Lindisfarne Gospels." A Latin text of the four Gospels, this may be the single most famous illustrated book in European history. If you have ever seen a page from an illustrated text, chances are that it's this one. It is a treasure of art and devotion; the illustrations are clearly inspired by the celtic tradition with the letters, figures, and border art being filled with the, now-traditional, Celtic knot configuration. Sometime around 700, a monk named Eadfrith, its primary if not sole artist, oversaw the creation of the Lindisfarne Gospels in the scriptorium of the monastery there.

All of this is a lot of history, I know, but I wanted to explain the importance of the place. So, I went. Holy Island is a tidal island--that means that twice a day when the tides are in, it is a true island and cannot be accessed from the mainland. In order to get on the island, you have to have a look at the tide chart for the month and carefully time a visit. I had to rise at 5:45 in order to catch a bus to Berwick. Once there, I rode a city bus down to the causeway that leads to the island and was dropped off at the end of its route--leaving me just about one and a half hours before the sea came in. Then, I walked the six miles across the sand to Holy Island just as Cuthbert must have many times. The day itself was full of cold fog, and visibility was about two miles on the coast. The way to Holy Island is marked with tall, pine poles stuck deep in the sand of the tidal basin. At three places along the way, the locals have constructed the notorious "white houses"--little elevated, covered platforms that serve to rescue anyone caught on the sand when the tide comes in. The tide quickly floods the area, and every year two or three people are trapped--sometimes because the tide comes in with a wind and actually fills the basin more quickly than predicted.

Lindisfarne Abbey was abandoned in 1537 at Henry VIII's order disbanding all fraternal organizations. The skeletal walls of the old abbey and the collapsed walls of the monastery living quarters leave you to wonder what life was like for these men. The remains of most of Aidan's 7th century church have been covered by the newer (11th century!) Church of Saint Mary, but some of the original outline is in evidence. On a hill a mile away rests the fortress built by Queen Elizabeth I in 1560 to protect the northern reaches of her kingdom; it attracts far more visitors that do the abbey ruins, yet what transpired within its quiet walls was far more influential in Western culture. From a little hill next to the abbey, you can look to the southwest and see a much smaller island with a cross on it. Late in his life, Cuthbert retired from his elevated post as bishop and, against the pleading of his peers, moved to a small, stone hut on this unnamed Farne Isle where he died. About six hours after I arrived, the tides receded--I was no longer trapped by the sea, and I walked off the island. About half a mile away, still on the wet sand, I turned around for a farewell glance at Lindisfarne as a late afternoon snow began to fall.

History, Art, and Shopping in Newcastle

Once again, the challenge of finding internet access has raised its head. Funny, I had thought that England would be easier than Spain--especially since in London there seemed to be an internet cafe or workpoint on every corner. But here in the north, public internet is limited to libraries, all of which are closed by 5:30 just as I'm finishing with the day's touring. Well, I'm taking time this morning, a travel day for me, to make an entry.

Two days ago, I stayed mostly in and around Newcastle. I visited the Roman Wall Museum at the suburb of Wallsend. This is the location where the Romans built a fort that anchored the eastern end of Hadrian's Wall. If you're not familiar, the Romans conquered the English mainland early in the second century AD, but those pesky Scottish and tribesmen kept making trouble, so the Roman emperor Hadrian ordered that a wall should be built streatching across the Tyne valley all the way across England. At Wallsend, archeologists have uncovered the largest fortification of the wall and reconstructed a part of the remaining wall. I wish that I had time to do the "Wall Walk"--about 90 miles. It's supposed to be historically interesting but also a lovely view of the Penine Mountains and the English countryside. No time this trip--maybe next time!

In the afternoon, I spent time in downtown Newcastle. First, I visited the Laing Art Gallery which features Brisith painting from the 18th to the 20th century. What this means, to my delight, is that they have several works by Pre-Raphaelites. Look them up if you're not familiar--they painted sensuous works often using mythological allusion. Four works by John Martin were there--one, "The Bard," I've used in World Lit I in the past. Even better, there was William Holman Hunt's "Isabella and the Pot of Basil," a haunting work made more poignant because the model for Isabella was Hunt's wife who died just before the painting was completed. For me, the highlight was Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones' "Laus Veneris," a richly colored painting of reclining female figures taken from the German Tannhauser legend.

To round out the day, I stopped by Grainger Market, an indoor shopping market built in 1835. There were antiques, fruit and veggies, butcher shops, and an optical shop that has been in that location since 1852. In 1882, a pair of entrepreneurs named Marks and Spencer opened a penny goods shop; today "Marks&Spencer" is one of England's largest retailers, but they still maintain a shop in Grainger Market. At one shop I bought hot "Northumberland Stew"--corned beef, carrots, white potato, sweet potato, onion, and celery. As Andy Taylor would say, "Gooo-ood!" There were used book shops where I spent some time sorting through dusty books until I found treasure! I bought British editions of "Something Wicked" and "Buried Secrets"--both Silhouette novels by Evelyn Vaughn, who is better known as Tarrant County College's own Yvonne Jocks! As I was leaving I tried a Scottish Bap. This one had pork, dressing, and pease porridge on it. Now, when the woman making this up asked, "do you want your pease porridge hot or cold?", how would you have responded?! I wanted to say something like, "Ummmm, nine days old?" Anyway, I had it hot, and it really was delicious.

Yesterday, I visited Holy Island, my next to last pilgrimage. I think I'll write about it tomorrow--I need a little more time just to think about the experience. In the mean time, I'm heading south.

Newcastle

In order to find internet access in Newcastle, I'm in the Philosophical Society Library. Founded right around 1800, Lord Grey (Brisith politician who was involved with the Reform Bill of 1832) was probably its most famous member. There are three stories of books towering above me; they do not, however, seem to be having any effect on my overall intellectual capacity. Well, here's what I've been doing for two days.

Sunday, I wandered into town only to find the Tourist Information folks closed. A helpful woman on the train suggested that the community of Jesmond was know for its hotels, so I bought a ticket on the Metro and headed up the river Tyne on the underground. At the Jesmond stop, another helpful person suggested a general direction, and fifteen minutes later I was dropping my backpack in the B&B otherwise called the Osbourne Hotel. By the time I had come downstairs, the owner had my first day planned out for me. I had told her that I was traveling to see pilgrimage site, and she gave me Metro directions to the town of Tynemouth--it's so-called because it's located where the mouth of the Tyne River empties into the North Sea. After a brisk walk to the ocean, I found the remains of Tynemouth Abbey and Tynemouth Castle on a cliff overlooking the harbor. Founded around 980, they had stood against Scottish and Danish invasion only to be left abandoned when Henry VIII ordered all monastic groups out of the country in 1539. The ruins of the abbey and the graveyard with over 700 vaults and gravestones made for spectacular viewing on a cold, sunny day at the edge of the North Sea.

After inspecting the ruins, I toured the little seaside town and picked up some fried, fresh cod that should make anyone's mouth water. I walked up the beach to the 18th century church of St. Nicholas where I found a trustees' meeting just breaking up. One of them insisted on giving me a tour of the church in which he, as he put it, "began as a choir boy and will be shrouded for burial here." Nothing really out of the ordinary about the church itself, but I enjoyed his obvious pleasure in showing someone around a place to which he had devoted a lifetime of labor.

Today, I started in the town of Jarrow where I found the Church of St. Paul's. This is the location of the Venerable Bede's monastery and a pilgrimage site for the late Medieval period. Bede, as you may remember, was a local Saxon boy who became, by the late 600s, a great scholar and author of many works including a history of the English church that is the only such book describing the spread of Christanity to England. A 19th-century chruch, built in the style of the chapel of Bede's monastery, is currently on the site. The back section of the church, however, is original to the 7th century. Additionally, walls of the monastery itself and the outlines of the adjoining farm still remain. Also on this site is a museum opened in 2001: Bede's World. It offers a look at life in the 7th century and has a working farm adjoining the museum. The curators operate the farm using 7th century impliments and have even bred or maintained animals--cattle, goats, sheep, geese, chickens, pigs--that are as close as possible to those acutally common to the era. All the buildings--from the houses to the pig's hut--are based on archeological digs in the area.

Having made my way around Bede's World, I walked what will be one of my final pilgrimages for a while. There is a 12.5-mile-long path crossing over the River Don and following the River Wear that leads to St. Peter's, the sister monastery of Bede's St. Paul's. In his works Bede remarks that he traveled this path many times in order to guarantee the working relationship between the two locations that he claimed were but one monastery. It's fairly well marked and at times passes through a nature reserve. So, I walked Bede's path. The frequent incursion of modern industry (it lies along a busy port city, after all) was disruptive, but from time to time, the wildflowers and linnets (song birds typical to the area) reminded me of some of what the Venerable One must have seen. About three and a half hours later, I arrived at St. Paul's and saw the tower and part of a wall remaining from Bede's original monastery. A fine way to pass an afternoon.

I rode the bus back to Newcastle where I visited the New Castle. Yes, an "old castle" was built in 1080 by William the Conquerer's elder son on the site of a Roman fort, but the castle was replaced in 1164 by a "new castle" (now only 843 years old) after which the town is named. I saw the 16th century cathedral--nice. But most of the rest of the afternoon, I was really wondering what it would have been like to run into Bede strolling his pathway 1300 years ago. It's funny that I have read his autobiographical introduction to the History many times, but it never seemed real to me until today. He actually was just a seven-year-old kid once upon a time who was placed in a monastery to learn a life from which he never wanted to waver. I suppose that's why traveling to these places is so important.

A Fine, Soft Day

When it's not actually raining, but the overcast skies constantly drizzle or mist enough to fog my glasses, the locals say, "It's a fine, soft day." I was distracted from my way to the cathedral this morning by the noise of a Saturday market on the square in Durham. There were little shops set up offering food, crafts, candies, home-made fudge, and import goods. They were aligned so as to lead the stroller down into the Durham Market, an indoor facility built in 1851 and filled with more, mostly local, goods. I tried the fudge (very buttery) but avoided the "Scottish Bap"--a sort of puffy hamburger bun with three scary-looking sausages inside. Folks from surrounding towns came in for the market, and I heard a variety of forms of the English language being spoken. I'm so near the border with Scotland that many clearly have a Scottish turn in their locution--in fact, yesterday I bought a potato and corned beef pastry from a chatty young fellow at a pastry shop. He just talked and talked, and I nodded and laughed when he laughed--but I didn't understand a word. I managed to offer the correct change because I could read the price on the window. The pastry, by the way, needed no translation.

When I finally did arrive at the cathedral, I was again offered an unexpected treat. Like many churches I've visited, the Durham Cathedral prohibits the taking of photographs because they find that such activity disrupts the many services during the day. I explained to a proctor, easily identifiable because cathedral staff wear long, blue robes, that I am a college professor and wanted the use of the pictures for presentations and class demonstration; moreover, I added that my camera had a silent mode and that I had turned off the flash. He asked that I wait a moment and ran off. Three minutes later, he introduced one of the cathedral historians; she explained that the only way to take pictures would be in her company--and she offered to give me a personal tour while I took my snaps! For the next forty-five minutes, I had the joy of being ushered about by someone who had made the study of the cathedral her avocation for twenty years. She pointed out the anomalies in the archways, showed with a laser pointer where a flying buttress had been added in the 13th century to support a wall, indicated places where the workmanship was particularly fine, and chuckled about places in the south transept where someone clearly goofed with the carved patterns. She invited me back for Evensong at 6:00 and promised me a seat with the proctors in the Quire (choir stall). So, here's an important travel tip: if you're ever in one of those cathedrals where you can't take pictures, just tell them you're a teacher and you NEED these pictures. I left the cathedral with some fine pictures and a promise to return at 6 o'clock.

Immediately after my longer-than-expected cathedral visit, I walked across the square, past the pilgrim hospital founded in the 14th century, past the bishop's library founded in the 15th century, and right into Durham Castle and joined the guided tour. I felt like I had just entered the world of Harry Potter and Hogwart's. The castle is now the University of Durham--a part of Trinity College, Oxford. About 600 students attend this branch, about a quarter of whom live inside the castle. Right now, the university is out on Easter break (our Spring Break), but a student guide was still on hand to conduct the guided tour. We saw the great dining hall where professors sit on a elevated platform and are served first. The kitchen is touted as the oldest continuously operating kitchen in the world--it was built into the castle in the 11th century and has served food to residents ever since. The dining hall also had a fine display of armour, pikes, and swords from the English Civil War (1642-47). A great, winding staircase leads to the students' quarters, but they are not allowed to use it except on special occasions; the stairs were originally built as "flying cases"--they were attached only to the wall, but they began to collapse. Pillars were added, and they still slant inwards--they still felt a little creaky to me. Different groups of students have their own doorways with student leaders being offered a special set of rooms. It's not too difficult to see where J.K. Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter books which are set in the north country, found her material.

I'm on my way to Newcastle. The Hadrian's Wall Walk is next.

Darlington and Durham

With names like Darlington and Durham, this must be England. Actually, I'm in the cold north country and a computer has been difficult to find since I landed. I flew into Tees Valley Airport where I caught the bus to Darlington. The weather is cold and too typically Enlgish--about 36 degrees, foggy, and misting all day my first two here. I had reserved a room at the King's Head Hotel (so very British!) through the website, venere.com. The hotel was built in three sections; I was placed in the "Victroian section," constructed in the 1860s. In order to reach my room, I had to wind up tall staircases and down hallways with ornate ceilings. After throwing my backpack down, the first thing I wanted was a pint of milk. In Spain, few people drink milk that isn't steamed and made the latter half of the expression, "Cafe con leche, por favor." The Spanish don't keep cold milk at all; groceries stock wax cartons of soy milk right on the shelf beside the potato chips. So, I found the local Sainsbury's, England's answer to Tom Thumb, and found a cold pint of semi-skim milk; I staggered down the street taking swigs from the plastic carton like a sober man who didn't want to be.

And then the town rolled up its sidewalks and went to sleep. No kidding, all the shops, including the Tourist Information Office, in Darlington close at 5:30. I asked the hotel clerk what I could see, and her response was, "Dinner?" Back on the street by 6:00, I found that most of the restaurants had just closed--even the Burger King on the corner. I ran into an Italian place and ordered a pizza; by the time I finished, the owner let me out with his key. Oh well, at least the TV programs are in English.

Pop quiz: what's Darlington famous for? Time's up--it's the home of the first passenger train. Yes, there's a train museum with, among many other exhibits, that initial transport that began the passenger train revolution. Friday, I went to the Train Museum in Darlington after having been to the tourist office and aranging for a tour of the local historic church at noon. In fact, there were three church members happy to greet me on the steps of St. Cuthbert's in Darlington. Built between 1180 and 1240, this dark, steepled church is in what is called Norman style; that is, it's laid out in a typical cross with two low naves on either side of the single high nave. My three docents were happy to point out the war memorials, and Victorian alter screen of the Last Supper, and the relics which are remainders of the 7th-century, Anglo-Saxon church on that same location. They even opened the pastor's library, a collection of some 45 books from the 17th to the 19th century, for me to inspect at my leisure. They even gave me bus directions to Durham Cathedral.

I have, in fact, been in Durham for a full day. The cathedral is easily the finest that I have seen on this half of my trip. It is Norman Romanesque, which means that the central nave and the alters at either end make the whole length quite longer than a football field. Nevertheless, there are only two slender side naves, so the body of the church is slim. The pillars attract your attention the moment you enter; they are great, fat structures with geometric designs carved into their midsection. Other that that, there are few other adorning ornaments--one element of the Norman style is its simplicity. For me, this was a special pilgrimage because Durham cathedral is the resting place for two great saints--Cuthbert and Bede. The 7th-century Cuthbert brought a particular brand of Catholicism to England and helped establish the monastery at Lindisfarne as the nexus of Christian faith in this country. The Venerable Bede, monk at Jarrow, wrote the first book by a native Englishman, Ecclesiastical History of the English People--a work that includes a chapter on the life and works of Cuthbert. I stayed in the cathedral yesterday through Evensong service which lasted from 6 to 7 o'clock. This was, by the way, simply a spectacular concert; the choir at Durham Cathedral has made many recordings on classical labels and performed, among other works, a composition for Evensong by Brahms.

Today, I go back to the cathedral once more, tour the church of St. Oswald, and have a look at the castle on the hill. Tomorrow, on to Newcastle and the Hadrian's Wall Walk.

A Farewell to Spain

This is my second posting today; the first was up this morning at about 5am Texas-time. I am nearly to the end of my last day in Spain. After almost three months in this country since the end of August, I am moving on without immediate plans to return. There are still towns I´d like to visit--Vitoria, Alicate, Tarragonia, and especially towns in Navarra like Tudela, Olite, Sanguesa--the list goes on. There are towns along the Camino I´d like to return to--some to visit again, some to feel again a place I loved, and some because I missed a thing or two along my tired way last Fall.

Today, I visited the 17th century fort on the hill overlooking the harbor and went to the Picasso museum. The latter followed the artist from his earliest painting at age 8 right through to the end of his life. In the afternoon all I really did was wander the streets, shop, and try to soak in a few last moments of Spanish culture before tomorrow. Early this evening, I mailed 24 pounds worth of travel books, guides, maps, and brochures home and spent the rest of the time walking along the docks. I just needed one last look at the Mediterranean. There were several large cruise ships docked. One was unloading--I didn´t realize that the lower section of these towering ships was filled with busses. The flat stern of the ship was backed up to the dock and bus after bus loaded with tourists was rolling out to hotels around the city. Farther down the dock, a ferry was loading sixteen-wheelers for the trip out to the Spanish islands of Majorica and Minorca. I was ready to stowaway, but another destination entirely awaits me.

Like a condemned man, I figured that I had the right to a last meal, so I went to a fairly expensive restaurant and sprang for the three-course dinner-of-the-day to the tune of 16€. For my first course, I chose the bean soup, Catalan style--a tasty mix of lentils, garbanzo beans, and black beans with pieces of ham. Since it is so near Easter, I felt it only fitting to choose the roasted rabbit for the main course. This browned bunny was served with garlic new potatoes in a clear-brown sauce. Finally, the house speciality for dessert was flan--lightly whipped egg custard with a swirl of caramel on top. I am a happy feller.

Well, it´s 10 o´clock in the evening here, and I should go back to my hotel to do a little laundry. I fly Ryan Air out of Girona Airport at 12:10 for Tees Valley Airport in England. I´m back to my pilgrim ways following in the footsteps of the saints. Durham cathedral in what was once England´s northern kingdom of Northumbria is the final resting place of St. Cuthbert and the Venerable Bede. I plan to walk a little along Cuthbert´s path and to visit the church that served as home to Julian of Norwich. But more on that later--when I find an internet connection in England. Right now, I have to look up at Mt. Tibidabo one final time. Thanks again to all those family and friends who prodded me along with notes on the blog over these many weeks across two semesters in Spain. Some of you will never know how timely and helpful your comments were. G´night and adios.

! Barcelona es Hermosa ¡

I hope you avid readers weren´t disappointed, but I was unable to make a blog entry last night because I was at a concert until after the time that the internet place closed. Oh yes, here in Beautiful Barcelona there always seems to be something worth going to for an evening´s entertainment. But let me start at the beginning.

Monday, I arrived in this sprawling metropolis (cliché) just after noon. I rode the metro to the monument district and then began the seemingly endless task of finding yet another hotel. Why didn´t you just call ahead or look on-line, you ask? I´m too cheap. Only rated hotels offer on-line reservations, and those start at over a hundred bucks a night and can easily be $150 and up in a city like Barcelona. I prefer to spend an hour wandering the old town until I find a hostal with a room available--usually between 35 and 55 dollars a night--and family run with a more personal touch and plenty of recommendations about where to eat and what to see. The discovery process took a little longer on Monday simply because Barcelona is currently over-run by Spring Breakers from America, France, and England (oh, those pesky kids trying to get an education). After settling in Hostal El Pi, I went right to the Gothic Quarter.

The title "Gothic Quarter" is a little misleading since it´s a segment of the city in that offers a Roman wall and the underground ruins of the Roman city of Barcino. While digging to reinforce the foundation of a 16th-century home a few years ago, city workers discovered the remains of the Roman town. Barcelona promptly opened the City History Museum that preserves the city under the city and offers artifacts dating back to the founding of the city by its namesake Carthaginian, Hamilcar Barca--probably more famous as the father of Hannibal. The cathedral, begun in the first years of the 14th century, is a beautiful Gothic structure with a peristyle around the apse instead of the usual and obtrusive alter retablo. There is a fine display of Gothic stained glass and the type of open atmosphere too often closed off by later building in other churches. Plus, you can climb the tower! Yep, you can go up one of the towers and both have an interesting look at the stone roof (the negative image of the Gothic tracery that you see from below) AND have a great view of the city from smack in its middle. There are other fine buildings in the Gothic Quarter including the 13th-century Basilica Santa Maria del Pi (a true basilica structure with one, wide nave) were I found out about the concert on Tuesday. I finished Monday off with an evening stroll around the winding streets of old Barcelona that are filled with tapas bars and ceramic shops.

Tuesday started with a climb up Mount Tibidabo. Okay, I rode the bus to the funicular. What´s a funicular? It´s one of those slanted train thingys at the bottom of a hill that´s attached by a cable to another slanted train thingy. While one goes up, the other comes down. Six minutes later, you´re standing at the top of the mountain that looks down onto this second largest city of Spain, the surrounding mountains, and the broad expanse of the blue, blue, blue Mediterranean Sea. On the very top of the mountain sits the 19th-century church of the Sacred Heart. Small, with a single round nave, it is dedicated to Christ´s donation of his human self--literally, "Tibi dabo" in Latin means "This, I will give to you." On the top of the chruch stands a huge bronze statue of Christ with his hands outstretched, offering himself to the city of Barcelona. And what could be even more cool?--you can climb to the top of the church and stand on a small observation platform at Christ´s feet. What a view. On the way down the mountain, I stopped at the Monastery de Pedralbes. Founded in 1326 by Queen Elisenda de Montcada, the monastery had a Gothic chapel and several works of art including a painting by Fra Angelico! A beautiful image of the Madonna and Child done in his characteristic streaks of vivid gold that seem to glisten and flow down the canvas as you move from side to side. The monastery also had works by Rubens and Caravaggio--all from the Thyssen collection, the bulk of which is in the museum in Madrid.

The remainder of Tuesday was mostly consumed with Touristy things. I went to the unfinished Church of the Holy Family (Sagrada Familia), designed and begun by the famous architect, Antonio Gaudi, in 1884. The hope is to have this huge, neo-gothic structure finished in about another 20 years. You shold look at a picture on-line; its twisted towers have been compared by locals to lobster claws. I also visited a pair of houses designed by Gaudi and a museum didicated to his and other innovative Barcelona architects´ works. I went down to the docks, shopped the Fishermans´ Wharf (not a Klingon, if you´re wondering), and walked down to the beach where I could take off my boots and splash in the Mediterranean. A park designed by the surrealist Miró was nearby and featured great twisting sculptures and a fine way to walk the day to darkness.

And then evening came. At 8:15, I was seated six rows from the front alter of the Basilica of Santa Maria. The concert with Manuel González didn´t begin until 9:00, but all seating was general, and I wanted to be right up front. González is a a "maestro" of music for the Spanish guitar. The program included my personal favorite work for guitar, Isaac Albéniz´ "Spanish Suite." You´ve heard Albéniz on commercials or on movie soundtracks even if you don´t recognize the name. Albéniz is a landscape composer; that is, he wants you to see the features and feel the textures of his native Spain as you hear the music. The first movement, "Asturias," is, to me, one of the most atmospheric pieces of Romantic music ever composed--look it up and play a bit on Amazon.com. Well, the concert was perfect. Gonzaléz sat in front of the alter, nine steps above the floor. Yellowed marble, the alter was carved in front with the figures of nine female saints that included Eulalia, Veronica, Justia (patron saint of Sevilla), and others. I´m certain that I saw one smile a bit during the concert; holding a harp, she was Cecilia, patron saint of music. Above the alter stood a lighted statue of Mary. Gonzaléz played two encores and then autographed copies of his CDs in the narthex of the church. I´m coming home with two new CDs.

Holy Toledo?

I´ve tried twice to make a blog entry at inferior computers (missing keys, blurred screens--you name it) in the corners of smoke-hazed cafes; both times the computer lost the entry before I could post it. Perhaps now that I´m at a genuine "Locutorio" (internet/game room), this will come through. Since I´ve misses a couple of days, I´ll just run through a few topics to catch up.

A LAST NIGHT IN MADRID
I was so wrapped up in my second visit to El Escorial´s library and the Cantigas that I failed to mention how beautiful Madrid is in the evening. Friday night, thousands of people came out to stroll the streets between the Prado and the river by the Royal Palace. This path runs right through my neighborhood of Opera Plaza and included, of course, the Place Mayor. It includes dozens of blocks of shops, cafes, historic buildings, and lovely plazas. Music was literally in the air; I passed a duet playing guitar and keyboard, a quartet of accordion players, an 11-piece brass band, a solo tuba player, a violin playing with cello, a trio of recorders, and couple of puppet handlers performing to Beatles hits. Now, I know that in the past I have complained about too much ham or olive oil in Spanish food, but if you can´t find a tasty gourmet treat in Madrid, you´re not trying. There is every good thing to eat in the hundred or so cafes and restaurants I passed. One advertized 100 different tapas choices and 300 different wines. I chose a Greek/Turkish place and had Kabap--that´s shaved, roasted chicked breast, lettuce, tomato, red and green bell pepper, onion, and two different sauces all laid out on toasted flat bread. Mmmmmmmm. Afterwards, I stopped at a pandelaria for a slice of chocolate mousse cake. Ambling back to my hotel, I couldn´t help but hope that I return to this wonderful city in which walking is an entertainment in itself.

TOLEDO
I rose early Saturday morning in order to catch the 8:10 bus to Toledo. My romantic notions and of this venerable city had been formed by El Greco´s famous paintings and by the fact that it is the seat of Spain´s religious belief. Officially, Toledo is Spain´s prelacy; that is, the cardinal in charge of the cathedral there is the Prelate, or head, of Spain´s Roman Catholics. My expectations turned to apprehensions the moment I stepped off the bus. The Plaza Mayor was crowded with tourists; both the Burger King and the McDonald´s had over-flow crowds. Yes, there were quaint, Medieval streets, but they were packed with more souvenir shops than I have seen anywhere in Spain. Ever heard of Toledo steel? Oh, make that "steal." Sure, they still sell swords--made of stainless steel, plastic chrome, and rinestones, they were mostly replicas from movies like "Lord of the Rings," "Beowulf," and "Highlander." For the more modern collector, they even had plastic guns from "Last of the Mohicans." There were whole shops filled with plastic "Majorica" pearls alternating on necklaces with loops of 24K fake gold, and since this is, after all, La Mancha, there were those goofy tin statues of Don Quixote or little wooden send-up`s of a pudgy Sancho Panza--both with "Made in China" stickers on the base. The cathedral was little better. There was a 6€ charge to enter, 2€ for a brochure, 3€ to enter the cathedral museum, and 8€ to join a guided tour. They funnelled you out through the cloister which featured the longest souvenir shop in town festooned with more guns, swords, knives, Spanish flags, and Panzas on their donkeys. As I pushed past a crowd of kids with plastic Samurai swords, I couldn´t help but think that some bold someone with conviction should throw these money changers out of the temple--oh, but who would be that foolish?

Actually, that evening, Toledo did restore a little of its former glow. I walked through a park that wraps around the city. Looking up, I could see the three rings of walls that once defended this throne of the king. The city planners have recently opened a restored synagogue in the old Jewish quarter. In the distant past, both Moors and Christians lived side-by-side with talented and thriving Jewish craftsmen and traders. The community in Toledo once had five synagogues; the new exhibit includes a museum dedicated to Sephardic culture--a real treat. You may know that after kicking the Moors out of Granada in 1492, Ferdinand and Isabella ordered the Jews from the land as well. Another synagogue has survived in Toledo, but it is currently used as the Christian church of Santa Maria la Blanca. Oh well, tolerance only goes so far, I suppose.

ZARAGOZA
Just a short note because this blog is really long. I rode the bullet train from Toldeo back through Madrid to Zaragoza, the capital of Aragon. Sooooo cool. Traveling along at about 120 miles per hour, I was there in an hour and a half. Put Zaragoza on your "be sure to visit" list. There are two cathedrals--one has 11 great domes and houses Santa Maria la Pillar. A Medieval pilgrimage site just a little less important than Santiago de Compostella, Zaragoza was the site where, standing on a pillar of stone by the river, Mary was supposed to have appeared and told the Apostle James to build a church dedicated to her on the spot. Even more impressive was the other cathedral, La Seo. A 14th-century church, it is the most beautifully decorated church I have seen since Burgos. Helpfully for the lay person, all of the art works are explained on kiosks tastefully placed around the church. Unlike in Toledo, both cathedrals indicated to visitors (in the free brochures) that they are houses of prayer and required quiet with no pictures. The La Seo cathedral would be a great teaching tool for illustrating artistic shifts from the 14th to the 17th centuries--I´ll have to take my students there someday. By the way, Zaragoza also had Roman ruins, a Moorish/Christian castle, beautiful plazas and fountains, a Medieval bridge, and stunning mountains. I´d go again.

If you´re so bored that you actually finished this long blog, congrats. I´m in Barcelona today--more on that later. !Hasta luego¡

Holding History / Embracing Life

This morning, I rose early, caught the metro to the bus station, and rode the bus back to El Escorial. At the monastery, I by-passed the tourist entrance and walked around the immense quadrangle of the monks´ quarters to a door where, at 10:00 sharp, a guard allow three of us to enter. My bag and camera (darn it!) were placed into a locker by an attendant, and I rounded the winding stair to the fourth floor where the private reading room is. Volume One of the "T" manuscript of the Cantigas de Santa Maria was waiting for me on a silk pillow with a silk-covered page weight at my disposal. It was a leather-bound book about three inches thick, 15 inches wide, and 22 inches tall. Its pages are made from vellum--the treated skin of an animal, usually a calf or a sheep. Let me give you a little background. The Cantigas were collected at the court of the scholar-king Alphonso El Sabio ("the Wise") in the latter half of the 1200s. There are exactly four manuscripts of the Cantigas dating from Alphonso´s reign. The "To" manuscript held in a library in Toledo contains only about 100 of the Cantigas and is considered an early, incomplete edition. The "F," held in Florence, is a late, hastily complied version with many omissions and poor art work. The "E" version, also called "codice de los musicas," is fairly complete, but with few illustrations and is at the El Escorial library. And then there´s the "T" version, the gem of them all. This one has 400 songs with complete, illustrated text, musical notation, and framed drawings (much like a modern comic book page) that illustrate the complete story narrated in the text of the song. The Cangtigas themselves are folk tales, miracle tales, and saints´ stories surrounding the Virgin Mary. The "T" manuscript represents the single, largest Medieval compilation of both folk literature and music that exists in the world. Were it to go on auction (someone at El Escroial just gasped!), it would probably draw something in the many tens of millions of dollars--it is difficult to access how much more. A partial Chaucerian manuscript from 1400 sold for $76 million in the mid-90s.

The "T" version represents one of humanity´s great books. Dating from about 1280, it probably had two illustrators that worked on the bulk of the art within. The detail of tiny figures, the gesture of their hands or expressions of hate, envy, or devotion in just their eyes reflects the high degree of skill that the artists must have had. Although the musical notation is present in a 5-bar staff, exactly how to play the Cantigas is a source of ongoing debate and experiment. Although the stories reflect the Christian heritage, both Muslim and Jewish artists and musicians worked on the compositions. Everyone agrees that most of the rhythmic patterns are Arabic, but no one can agree just which rhythms go with which songs. There were at least four basic Arabic patterns from the period, and these were subject to endless variation. Indeed, the attraction of the compositions for many musicians is the freedom to extemporize (as we know they did in the court of Alphonso at the church of Santa Maria la Blanca) around the basic notation. If you want to hear a modern interpretation, click on the website "Cantiga" that´s to the right of this blog, or go to www.cantigamusic.com.

I was allowed access to both the "T" and the "E" versions, but the former consumed most of my attention and time. In fact, I was promised one hour, but the curator allowed me to remain from 10 until the library closes to outside use at 2:00. So, I had four hours. I suppose there are many ways to think of the Cantigas. I did have millions of dollars at my finger tips, but I didn´t really consider that at the time. Yesterday, José Luís de Vallé, the director of the library, called these volumes "Spain´s greatest literary treasure," and I thought at the time that that was limiting their value. These songs are a window into three cultures; they are our distant, and hazy, memory of an active folk and court life that once flourished across Europe. They represent not only how Medievals worshipped, but also how they sang, played, danced, ate, loved, and related to a broader world of the supernatural than moderns imagine.

Oh, that´s all I did today. I arrived back in Madrid a little after four in the afternoon. I walked this beautiful city for one last evening before leaving tomorrow for Toledo. I found myself humming Cantiga 108 as I turned for the internet cafe to write this blog. In my old, junior high school Latin class, I once had to memorize Latin phrases; here´s the first one I ever learned: "Ars longa, vita brevis"--Art lives long, life is short. Good-night, Metroplex.

To Honor the Dead

After tomorrow, the rest of my trip here is just wandering. I can hardly think what to write about today. I rolled out early in order to take the bus trip up to San Lorenzo, the little town that is home to El Escorial. After moving the capital of Spain to Madrid in the 1560s, the very wealthy and staunchly religious Philip II started looking around for a place to build a monastic retreat and family burial vault. He was important, so the place where his family would rest for years to come had to match his grandeur. It does. El Escorial is a gray, granite giant with family rooms, a cloister for Heronimite monks, a huge church with a dome based on that at St. Peter´s in Rome, and the royal family vaults. In a granite and jaspar vault deep under the alter in the church, all the kings and queens of Spain since Charles V (Phil´s dad) have been shelved in chronological order. Moreover, all their kids and family members--150 or so in all--are likewise buried in adjacent vaults.

Now, here´s the source of my elation. The monastery has one of the finest collections of manuscript books in the world. It contains Europe´s earliest copy of the Koran, an original copy of the Islamic legal codex from the 700s, AND it contains two of the four original copies of Alphonso "El Sabio´s" Cantigas de Santa Maria! If you have read this blog at all, you know my admiration (veneration) for these great works of poetry and music (click on the link to Cantiga´s music). After 45 minutes of wrangling with various docents and guards, I was shown to the monk´s quarters where I was able to speak with José Luís de Vallé, the head librarian. I gave him my card. I pleaded. I reasoned. I begged! Finally, he agreed to give me exactly one hour with both copies in the monastic reading room tomorrow beginning at 10:00. I can´t bring a camera or a bag. I may have paper and one pencil. Sound the bells throughout the Metroplex!

Later that afternoon, having risen from my sobs of joyful expectation, I rode the bus from San Lorenzo to El Calle de los Caidos--The Valley of the Fallen. This is Franco´s El Escorial. Located in the Guadarrama Mountains, this is the monument to Spain´s war dead from the civil war of the 1930s. In the 1940s, when José Rivera (the founder of Franco´s fascist Falange party) died, Franco laid his mentor´s body to rest in El Escorial. This caused a national uproar--not only was Rivera not royal, he had opposed the king. Partially of spite then, Franco built this cavernous mounment a couple of valleys over from El Escorial. His original intent was to honor only the dead on his side; again, a national outcry caused him to allow both sides to be honored--thus the title, Valley of the "Fallen." On top of an outcropping called the Rock of Nava, they built a 500 foot-tall cross decorated with giant statues of war dead and the four Apostles. Into the literal side of the mountain, they dug a great cathedral--an elongated, banded-in-granite tube that flairs out into the shape of a cross. On entering, I felt like I had wandered onto the set of Lord of the Rings. Gargantuan statues in a combination of neo-Gothic and art deco guarded the entrance. The a stone leviathan of a tortured Christ lay twisted above the yawning doors of the cathedral. The enormity of the thing consumes you--yes, Lloyd, you feel like somewhere in a corner, there should be a small man behind a curtain saying, "I AM THE GREAT AND POWERFUL OOOZZZZZZ!"

The Valley of the Fallen still causes quite a stir. Many in the government want the place closed down. Rivera lies at rest right in front of the alter, and Franco is buried in a crypt behind the alter and the place is indelibly associated with his, now unpopular, cause. We have the same problem of political correctness associated with anything honoring the Southern Cause for our own Civil War. Well, let them argue; it´s still the most powerful war memorial I have ever visited.

But who cares about war. All I can think of is tomorrow and sublime music.

CORRECTION: In yesterday´s blog, I mentioned only having been to one strip joint. The truth is that some few years ago, to honor another unnamed friend´s (J**f) forthcoming nuptials, M**K and I went to the Sapphire Club in Las Vegas--the self-advertised "Largest Strip Club in the World" (hey, it´s Las Vegas). For the record, we stayed just about 40 minutes.

Madrid--The Naked City

What´s the use of living on the Plaza de Opera if you don´t go hear some music? Last night´s concert with the Madrid Men´s Chorus was perfect--just the right combination of classical with Spanish traditional. In fact, I´ve loved living in this area; the musical theaters and clubs in the area add a little excitement in the evening, and during the day, it´s fun to browse the many shops in this locale that offer music and musical instruments. I saw a nice Manuel Rodriguez guitar I´d like--only $5,200; or how about an E-flat, bass recorder?--cheap at $1,800.

Today began at the Royal Palace; built during the 18th century, it is packed full of expensive stuff--furniture, glass, paintings, painted ceilings, and thrones. There´s an armory filled with what they called the largest collection of Spanish weaponry in the world--guns and swords, old and new. To top it off, of course, there were guards in snappy Spanish uniforms. Really, this sort of sight-seeing isn´t to my interest (could you tell by the flippant tone?). I moved on to the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Renia Sofia. Wow, that´s a lot to type. The "Nacional" is Spain´s premier museum of modern art. There were many fine works by 20th-century artists, but everyone goes to see Picasso´s "Guernica." This is one of those works I´ve shown in class and looked at many times, but in no way can it be fully understood until its sheer size is factored into its interpretation. At 11.5 feet tall and 25 feet long, it is simply huge. It depicts an incident that occured during the Spanish Civil war in which German bombers struck the Basque town of Guernica on behalf of Spain´s Franco and his fascist party. The slaughter of so many politically and ethnically isolated people led to this painting that carries a profound anti-war message. The fury and death--the overlaying of maimed animals and humans, old and young--literally envelope you as you stand in front of this massive work. This work was reason enough to stop in Madrid. It also stood in stark contrast with the armory from which I had just come. "Guernica" makes you ashamed that we keep weapons on display where children can walk by looking at them in fascination, without really touching the possibility of death dealt on the tip of every blade on display. "Guernica" has that kind of power.

Early this evening, I went to the Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales--that would be the Monastery of the "Shoeless" Carmalites in Madrid. This is the same monastic group begun by St. Teresa of Avila. After her death, this monastery became THE place for wealthy families to send their younger daughters. Of course, you don´t get to just enter a convent; you have to send along an offering, in money or in objects, that promised to help sustain your child. Ironically, St. Teresa reformed her sisterhood to minimize possession; nevertheless, Descalzas Reales became one of the wealthiest convents in Spain. By the 20th century, however, the convent fell on hard times. It had no cash. Oh, sure, piles of gold objects and great works of art--just no money. The pope allowed a special dispensation for this convent to open its doors once a day to show its art collection to help sustain the order. So, there I was at 6:45 waiting for the doors to open. Inside, I found countless liturgical objects in gold and silver--one reliquary is reputed to hold a piece of the True Cross, and another contains bones from St. Sebastian. Additionally, there were works by artists like Titian, Breughel, and Bosch that are never put on public display or allowed to be copied. Really a treat to peek behind the cloister.

This evening at 9:00, I attended Mass at the Church in the Monastery of the Trinitarian Monks. Did I just feel the need for a religious observance?--well, maybe. But mostly, I was there to see the burial place of Miguel Cervantes. Yes, the author of Don Quxiote lies in the church, and it is not open to the public--except at mass each evening at 9:00. I suppose you could say I was there to venerate one of my own, personal saints.

So, I was on my way back to my hotel--passing club after club with alluring music floating or bursting out into the street as doors would open and close, and I figured I had been fortified against the vanities and excesses of the world, so why not stop in for a little music? You know, check out the Madrid dance club scene. Right in front of me was Club Cosmos--a promising name. I paid the 5€ cover charge and walked on in. It was a strip joint. Hummmmm. Now, I´ve only been to a strip joint once in my life, and that was for a good friend´s bachelor party (John--remember "The Lodge"?!). Well, I just sort of stumbled backwards out. My one thought was, "Wow, this will spice up tonight´s blog!" It also gives me the right to paraphrase the tag line from an old TV show:

There are eight million stories in the naked city. I have been one of them.

Madrid--Big City, Bright Lights

Well, yesterday morning, the bus from Segovia stopped at one corner of the University of Madrid campus, and I stepped off. We had been driving through Madrid for twenty minutes. It´s the first Spanish town or city since Granada that actually had a suburb. One of the unique elements of Spanish urban planning is that the edge of town really is an edge; that is, the town just stops and mountains or green farm land just starts.

Madrid is big. I mean millions-of-people-with-its-own-subway-system big. It is a little scary just walking out onto a streetcorner and realizing that you have fifty pounds of stuff on your back and no hotel--not even a good city map. I found the city center on the subway wall map, rode there, and walked around for a couple of hours until I found a nice hostela for the next few nights. I´m right across from the Madrid Opera and in the theater district; just around the corner, The Producers and Mamma Mia are playing. I visited Madrid´s famous Plaza Mayor, a four-hundred-year-old gathering place. I stopped at a bar in the corner of the Plaza where Hemingway liked to drink (of course, he liked to drink a lot of places). The old boy would probably have been disappointed in me because I only had a mineral water and a chocolate torte (soooo good).

Here´s your short list of what´s hot and what´s not in Madrid. First, soccer--there are two major league soccer teams in town; "Real Madrid" is hot, "Athletico Madrid" is not (this is like rooting for the Yankees vs. the Mets). Kids play soccer everywhere, and everynight on TV there´s some story about some soccer player or coach somewhere. On any given street corner downtown, you will see one of the following: Burger King, MacDonald´s, TGI Friday, or KFC. Everything Cuban is hot. There are Cuban dance clubs, Cuban cigars, Cuban music plays on the street, and kids wear Cuba tee-shirts. There are ¨Cubanito¨ cafes that serve Cuban food, and there´s even a woman on TV named ¨La Cubana¨ who will tell your fortune for a dial-up fee. What´s unusual about Madrid as opposed to other Spanish cities I´ve visited is that it has continued to modernize. Few buildings are older than 400 years (relatively new for Spain)--it´s the art and culture that people come to see.

Today, I have been touring two of the world´s great art museums, the Prado and the Thyssen. When I was eleven, my sixth-grade teacher Mrs. Gefritch pointed me to a copy of Granger´s History of Art. I´ve been hooked ever since. Many of the world masterpieces I saw in a book years ago were inches from my face today. There were rooms full of Spanish masters--Murillo, Goya, El Greco, or Velazquez. I loved the Goya ¨Black Paintings¨--look at ¨Saturn¨ by Goya on the internet; it´ll give you nightmares. Of the Spanish works, my favorite was El Greco´s "Adoration of the Shepherds." It has a swirling motion and a sense of simplicity that matches the shepherds as subjects--the rich wonder on their faces juxtaposed with the poverty of their attire provides a perfect contrast. If I had a choice of favorite periods in art, I´d take anything Italian Renaissance or anything from the Flemish School. Dozens of works by Raphael (and other Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) were on display; two painting by Andrea del Sarto seemed to shimmer in darkness--what a talent. But of the Italians, Fra Angelico´s "Anunciation" was nothing short of amazing. This was one of those works in Granger´s that I attracted my attention long ago. It´s a work I´ve returned to in books or on the net. There is no reproductive method that duplicates standing in front of this work. The blue of Mary´s gown is far lighter, deeper, and richer than I had ever imagined. The gold halos and streaks of gold from heaven are comprised of strokes from a bursh heavily laden with paint. As you move, the gold flickers with a three-dimensional glow--the effect is dazzeling.

Oh, there were too many great works to completely describe. Allegorical works by Brueghel, Albrecht Durer´s self-portrait, Rogier van der Weyden´s "The Descent from the Cross"--all beautiful beyond those thousand words a picture is supposed to be worth. Finally, if you want to look just one up on the net, try Hieronymus Bosch´s "The Garden of Earthly Delights." Man. This IS a nightmare. I´ve used the work in class to illustrate allegory and use of symbolism. It´s larger than I´d have imagined and certainly drew a crowd. I went back to this and to Fra Angelico several times before I could finally leave the museum.

Tonight, I have tickets to hear the Madrid Men´s Choir perform at the opera; the first half of the program is Bach, the second half is 18th-century Spanish traditional. !Olé¡

Segovia and the Serranos

Segovia rests on a limestone bluff in the mountains above Madrid; two sides of the city were surrounded by snowy peaks, making all the tourists in town happy almost wherever they pointed their cameras. Why go to Segovia? Three monuments make this another UNESCO World Heritage City (tired of hearing that?): 1) the aqueduct; 2) the cathedral; 3) the Castle. Yep, there´s a towering Roman aqueduct running right through the center of town. Fourteen miles long, this dry-stone structure (they used no concrete or mortar) still carries 30 liters of water per second to the city. The Cathedral is touted as the last Gothic church built in Spain. Begun in 1515 and finished around 1571, it has the merit of being fairly pure in style; that is, it is Gothic through and through rather than being a strange mix of styles over several centuries. And then there´s the castle. Begun as a Christian stronghold after they took the city from the Moors in the 13th century, the castle has been built and re-built over the centuries, serving variously as the kings´ palace and as a Spanish military academy. Historically, its greatest moment may have come in 1476. That was the year in which Isabella I´s brother died and left her the only heir to the kingdom of Castile y Leon. Many opposed her coronation, and she took refuge in the Segovia castle. The cardinal of Segovia crowned her queen in the square before the castle; she went on to marry Ferdinand, King of Aragon, and the two united Spain. I say that this may have been the castle´s most important moment--for Spain. In American history, it´s also important. Early in the twentieth century, Walt Disney saw the castle and decided to use it as his model for the castle at the original Disneyland. Yes, this is the castle on the Disney logo.

Last night, a little tired of eating out, I was shopping in a local grocery for some sandwich makings. A family of five blew by me--a short, stocky dad and mom who could have been locals, an older daughter, and two big, teenage boys who looked as though they were twins. The boys surprised me when they began arguing in English over what kind of chips to buy. I said "Hello," and that´s almost the last word I had with the Serrano boys. "Oh, man! You speak English!" They were big kids--still in high school, both were about 6'1" tall with round faces and broad chests.

"You from America?"
"Dallas."
"Wow! Hey dad--someone from America--from TEXAS!" The dad looked around and smiled.
(Now, you just have to imagine the boys talking in rapid trade-off:)
"We´re from San Antonio--the Serranos. We´re, like, neighbors!"
"Hey, do you hate the food here, too?"
(Jerry: "Well . . . )
"It´s, like, all oily and stuff."
"Yah, I mean, our mom is a great cook--Tex-Mex--you know."
"More Mex than Tex." (laughs)
"Shut up!"
"But it´s good--you know!"
"Here, tortillas aren´t really tortillas, you know?"
"Yah, we got tired of the food here so we talked dad into a grocery."
"My sister likes it! She goes to Trinity University--you know it?"
(Jerry: "Yes, in San Antonio.")
"Anyway, she says it´s like all cultural and stuff here."
"It´s Spring Break, and dad made us come to SPAIN!"
"Yah, it´s like--'Spain will be good for you.'"
"Four years ago he made us go to Mexico City."
"Three years ago, Stupid."
"Whatever, he´s always making us go places to 'expose' us to things."
(Jerry: "That´s pretty great.")
"Yah, I guess--it´s all pretty interesting. We got to drink wine last night at dinner."
"Yah, tomorrow we go to Madrid--at least that´s going to be a big city."
"But mom says we´re going to spend like a whole day in an art museum!"
(Their dad called them from the cash register.)
"Well, we gotta go."
"Yah."
"Nice meeting you and all."
"Yah."

The older one shook my hand; both waved from the door. And the Serranos blew out of my life. It was fun to meet fellow Americans on the trip--not that many take the time to spend a night in a town like Segovia. The two boys were big, sweet kids, and I think that they are luckier than they know now. I never got a good look at Mr. Serrano, but I imagine that he´s been hard at work on those three kids for many years now--and doing a pretty good job.

This morning on my way out of town, I made one more stop--the Church of San Millán. On the edge of town, it´s a parish church, not really on the tourist trail. That, in fact, may be the reason why this 12th-century church has undergone only one addition, a tower, since it was completed 850 years ago. It was a pleasure to sit through morning mass and admire the three, columned apses and the fine sculpture at the tops of the un-retouched columns. While the priest was finishing the service, I couldn´t help but wonder if the Serrano boys finally had a good meal.

Ávila and The Saint

I´ve lost a couple of days of blogging simply because I spent two days in Ávila and never located an internet connection. But what a beautiful two days. As the bus first winds around the hill, you realize that you are looking at a Medieval city as it must have appeared to any traveller hundreds of years ago. The Wall interposes itself between you and the city that lies beyond. Literally, a 2.5 kilometer-long wall is one of the reasons why Ávila is a UNESCO World Heritage City. It is the only complete wall still entirely encircling a Medieval city in Europe. With an average height of 33 feet and bristling with 88 towers and only 6 original gates (3 additional have been opened for modern traffic), the wall is the work of 12th-century Christians who wanted to use the old Roman and Moorish fortifications and strengthen them as a launching point for further action against the Moors. They really are imposing--great double-towered gates with a crosswalk from which defenders could drop stones or hot oil onto attackers. I walked entirely around the walls, and, looking up, I can see why there was never a successful attack against Ávila after the walls were completed. They´re not only high, but they´re also located on the summit of a rocky cliff; any soldier brave enough to climb even to the base of the wall would have to call "time out" and catch his breath.

And then there´s what´s inside the city. A fine, Gothic cathedral with a pair of Romanesque doors since it was actually begun in 1170. The soaring Gothic umbrella pillars are lovely; unfortunately, an earthquake in Portugal a couple of hundred years ago destroyed most of the stained glass in this particular cathedral. The town also offered a half-dozen Romanesque churches and a nice Basilica in the ¨French style¨--that means that the tops of walls are highly ornamented. The main tympanum (carved illustrations over the doorway) of the Basilica had a detailed representation of Resurrection and Last Judgement--needless to say, I took loads of pictures.

I spent most of Saturday in the footsteps of St. Teresa. As someone keenly interested in the lives of female saints, particularly those who wrote autobiographically, I had highlighted Ávila on my itinerary. Teresa had visions of Christ (hence her modern appellation, Teresa de Jesus) who spoke with her in, as she described in her book, "intellectual dialogue and disputation." She shares several qualities in common with other visionaries whom I´ve studied: 1) entered a spiritual life at an early age; 2) had on-going physical illnesses and at least one near-death experience, 3) frequently prohibited from intellectual musings, reading, or discourse by a male mentor. What´s unique about Teresa is her place in the Catholic Reformation. In the late 1500s there was a movement within the Catholic Church to correct perceived problems. Teresa wrote extensively about the need to renounce ownership; she wanted a convent (and a church?) that owned no property and took a vow of poverty. She founded a reformed group of Carmelite nuns called ¨the Barefoot Carmelites¨ because she required them to wear only cheap, leather sandals instead of shoes. Initially supported by the Pope, she was later forced into ¨retirement¨ (imprisoned) in a convent in Toledo.

I tracked Teresa in and around Ávila. I went to her first convent, to the church where she had her first vision, and to the first convent of the Barefoot Sisters. I went to the convent outside the city where some of her relics are kept. And there´s the rub. I certainly understand veneration of a person who has lived an exemplary life. Without influential, self-sacrificing people such as Jana Greenway, my high school Latin teacher, or Dr. J. Don Vann at the University of North Texas, I wouldn´t be the person I am today. I venerate my parents and my wife whose steadfast love and support have been the very soul of my life. Exemplary lives are rare and deserve recognition. But everywhere I went today, I saw pieces of Teresa. One convent had her ring finger of her right hand; another had her left clavicle (no kidding). A convent just outside Ávila featured a statue of Teresa with a little glass case right in her chest. In this reliquary, this little glass case, was Teresa´s heart. Brown and desiccated, there it was.

I honor Teresa´s experience and her writing, and I still need help understanding the veneration of that part of her that I think she would find least worthy of notice--her physical form. Isn´t this an essential irony--or am I missing some point of faith? Tomorrow, Segovia!

Zamora and the 12th Century

First, let´s get this cleared up. I do not exaggerate (much) on my blog. Remember in October when Hurricane Gordon came ashore just 30 miles from my hostal? So, if you were wondering about yesterday´s story concerning the high winds--look up the weather in Spain on a good internet search engine. When I woke up this morning, the first story I heard on the news was about the high winds plaguing 10 provinces in Spain. They showed all sorts of the usual damage we see after a bad thunderstorm or a twister--downed trees, torn off roofs, dogs and cats doing unnatural things. Apparently, we had gusts of over 145 km/h--that´s 84 mph to you Americans. And I was 200 feet in the air!

Today, the weather was moderate with a light breeze from the southwest (do I sound like Troy Dungan?). I hopped on a bus early in the morning to ride 60 km north to the town of Zamora (pronounced tha-moh-rah, of course). Oh, it had the usual collection of 15th-century civic buildings, and a castle built in the 13th century on the ruins of a Moorish castle. What makes Zamora particularly attractive to me is that it had 22 churches and monuments that dated from the 12th century or earlier. The town is considered a museum of Romanesque architecture with its low, rounded arches and allegorical decorations. Thus far, most of the towns I´ve visited have had few buildings of this age that weren´t Moorish. Since Granada didn´t fall until 1492, the Moorish influence in southern Spain is profound. However, a town like Zamora which is just 50 km or so off the Camino de Santiago has been Christian since the 11th century.

Actually, the fact that the town is mid-sized also helped preserve the buildings. In a larger town like Salamanca, the few 12th-century sturctures have been "improved," which is to say that most of them were rebuilt. If you figure that the Great Plague hits about 1350 and halts construction until population and resources can recover--say about 1500--then, larger towns have the wealth to rebuild churches or town squares by 1550. This is about the time work began on the "New Cathedral" in Salamanca. What happens, of course, is that the old Romanesque elements are replaced by late Gothic or Neo-Classical styles. In a small town like Zamora, this doesn´t tend to happen as much simply because they don´t have the money. Instead, they make do with the old Romanesque buildings--because they knew I wanted to come along in 2007 and photograph them!

There were no fewer than eight Romanesque churches in Zamora--two with transverse vaults. Usually, the vault runs West to East towards Jerusalem. Two of the churches still maintained the West-East nave, but the arches ran counter to this orientation--really beautiful. Additionally, three of the churches were actually from the 11th century--one may have been started as early as 980AD. Their decoration were decidedly Celtic with the Celtic Knot ornamentation, stylized lions, and enlarged heads in human figures typical of Celtic art. All of this was very different from the Moorish-influenced Mozarabic architecture I´ve seen up to now. Finally, one of the churches--really a small chapel just outside of town and away from the fortress on the hill--was used by El Cid as a place for overnight vigil and prayer. It is the Chruch of Santiago of the Caballeros because El Cid´s horsemen are supposed to have stood guard outside while he was at prayer.

What I enjoyed most about Zamora was the intimacy of the church environment. These were parish churches, not soaring cathedrals. Somehow, lacking the need for grand public ceremony or ostentation, these sanctuaries, each with its unique feature, speak more clearly about the nature of Medieval life and worship than a great edifice. The subtile variations in decoration or style stand witness to the personal voice that the local parishoners wanted to include in their worship. Unfortunately, that voice is trapped in fading stonework and can be subtile indeed.

I´m back in Salamanca tonight, and eager to venture on to Avila. Those who want extra-credit will look up St. Theresa of Avila--I´m going to see her tomorrow (well, parts of her). !Hasta luego¡

Blown Away

Today, I closed down one of Salamanca´s major tourist attractions. But more on that later. I began the day with another trip to Salamanca´s two cathedrals because yesterday, the older of the two wasn´t fully open to the public. Cathedral Vieja was begun in the late 1100s as a Romanesque church, but it was completed about 100 years later at the beginning of Gothic influence; thus, it offers an interesting fusion of forms. The lower part of the columns and the west portal are clearly romanesque--thick bases and rounded arches; however, as the walls and columns rise, you see the thinning and peaked arches typical of early Gothic. What really sets this cathedral apart is the excellent state of its murals and paintwork. Typically, the Medieval cathedral reveals brown stone or gray granite, but in the height of use, these walls and especially portals and burial crypts would have been painted. Because Salamanca has had the good fortune to be relatively untouched by conflict after 1200 and because its monuments have been in constant use and repair, several old murals remain. Most notable, in the south transept--if the church forms a giant cross, this is the branch to the right, looking from the back--there is a stunning mural of Christ with various Biblical scenes. It´s dated from 1150 to 1200 and is easily the oldest and best preserved I´ve seen. Crypts dating from the same period have murals of Lazarus emerging from the cave and Christ rising--really an expression of both art and devotion that demands several minutes of study for each panel.

The old cathedral´s shining glory is the alter piece. It consists of 53 panels depicting Biblical scenes and saint´s lives. Vivid light blues and rosy reds dominate the color scheme quite unlike most Spainish retablos--this is because the work was painted by Nicholas of Florence late in the 1400s and has been called the finest representation of the Florentine School of painting outside of Italy. The alter is topped by a half-dome that shows Christ floating in a sky of deep blue surrounded by angels, Mary, and the writers of the Gospels. I did not expect to find such a gem of the Italian Renaissance this near the Portuguese border. Nevertheless, the University of Florence decided in 1505--even as Nicholas was finishing his work--that the old cathedral could no longer accommodate its growing student body. Thus, the Cathedral Nueva was born. The two are actually side-by-side; the latter almost twice as large and in the plateresque style (stone carvings at the tops of doors and columns are decorated with grotesque figures that blend human and animal forms). I spent three times as long going through the older of the two--the new cathedral being a showpiece that lacked the artistic and spiritual air of the earlier church.

So, what´s this about closing down a tourist attraction? The brave (or foolish) can climb the tower of the old cathedral and take a catwalk across the top of the joined buildings to one of the towers of the new cathedral. The weather forecast this morning predicted bitter cold with high winds of 30 to 40 miles per hour, gusting to 60. No kidding. So, this German guy and I climbed the tower--because we are men! Now, I really don´t like heights, and I clung to the hand rail the whole way across the tops of the cathedrals. On arriving to the second tower, you go out onto a little platform. There was a guard there who said, ¨Very bad--very bad.¨ The German guy took pictures from an archway. I figured I´d come this far, so I went out. I turned around to take a picture of the dome. Just as I was snapping the camera, a gust of wind literally knocked be backwards off my feet. My head popped on the granite, and I could hear the guard call to me: ¨Come out! Come out!¨ (his English is about as good as my Spanish). I could just imagine the front page teaser in the Star Telegram: "TCCD PROF BLOWN OFF CATHEDRAL: Hand of God, or Sheer Stupidity?, more on page 12A." I rolled over an crawled--I´m not exaggerating--back to the door. The guard closed and locked the door after me and said, ¨Close now.¨ My German friend and I agreed and made our slow, white-knuckle climb across and down off the roofs with the guard in the lead.

Oh, the excitement just never ends. The university buildings themselves offer a trip through history, and four churches in the town were worth a visit. The Convento de San Esteban housed a museum of New World exploration and conversion. Many of the Benedictine monks who traveled to the New World were educated at the University of Salamanca and dispatched from this monastery. Some of their bodies were interred there, as well.

Finally, and on a personal note, I ate at Burger King today! BK de Espania offers a fried chicken breast sandwich that´s as good as any American burger. Plus, if you ask nicely, they will give you little packages of salt! I went back twice. I have a little secret hoard of four packs. I have salt. "It is precious to me" (Lord of the Rings).

Salamanca and Those Americans

Today, I made the three-hour bus trip from Carceres to Salamanca. We crossed over another chain of mountains in passing from Extremadua into Castile y Leon. The day was cold--in the low 30s--and light snow swept across the road and dusted the peaks. We moved from olive trees to oak and onto rolling plains. In Andalusia and Extremadura, it´s purning time for the olive groves. Row on row of trees line the hills, and here and there smoke rises as the grove tenders are pruning the trees and burning the gathered branches. How they decide which branch to leave and which to cut is an art or a science that I cannot fathom. The opposite of a bonsai tree which is trimmed to create a perfect shape and balance, the olive tree seems hacked and whittled on so that the end product looks like a broken old man. It´s a millennial tree; that is, it can live for hundreds of years. Some of the ancient plants I passed today were bigger around than two people might have reached. They frequently have multiple trunks or have great rotten holes in the mid-trunk large enough for a person to step through. Some have just a semi-circular husk of a trunk remaining, yet silver leaves and the promise of another year´s fruit still cling to the twisted branchs.

And then there´s Salamanca. I´m going to run out of hyperbolic phrasing before this trip is over. In the late Medieval period, there were four great universities--lights in a dim world. They were Oxford, Paris, Bologna, and Salamanca. Founded in the 1200s by Alfonso IX, the university still draws scholars from all over Europe. I saw the two cathedrals today--simply stunning. The older of the two was built in the 12th century, and the ¨New Cathedral¨ was begun in the 16th and took 200 years to complete. There are also four Romanesque churches of note, but they´re only open during mass. I went to one at 6pm, and will visit the others tomorrow (yes, I´m going to be in mass three times tomorrow). More on the city later.

Both Carceres and Salamanca are populated by a substantial number of Americans. College students. Boy, I came to Europe to get away from college students, and what do I find? The University of Extremadura in Carceres has an articulation agreement with Iowa State University, so I kept running into Cyclones (the ISU mascot, in case you didn´t know). Several American universities have agreements with the University of Salamanca (I met students from St. Bonaventure, the University of Deleware, and UMass to name just a few). One of the students I met today is working on a Master´s Degree in history while teaching English in a local high school. What a deal! So, where do you meet Americans off campus? I´m sitting next to four of them right now. All you have to do is find the local internet cafe or cyberbar, and those Americans will be hanging out. If this fails, stop by the Burger King or a MacDonald´s--most of the larger towns have one of each. When is Tarrant County College going to start its ¨study abroad¨ program? Sign me up!

Cáceres and Other Travel Notes

Yesterday, I was in ancient Rome; today, I took a stroll through late Medieval Spain. Cáceres is pronounced Ká-ther-eth. Imagine that, when I was in elementary school, I spent two years in speech therapy learning how NOT to lisp a ¨th¨ for my ¨s,¨ but now, I´m corrected when I don´t. Thith thure ith a funny world. Anyway, Cácaeres has a familiar linage--Roman-Visagoth-Moorish-Christian; what´s unusual is that after the Christians took over the town in the late 1200s, the royals moved a number of important administrative offices and ducal families into the town at the top of the hill. The offices and houses that resulted in the ensuing three centuries have remained basically unchanged since about 1580. Caceres is, therefore, one of the best preserved Medieval towns in Spain. Even today, the buildings house governmental branches--the Extremadua Court, the National Guard headquarters, the Catholic Records Office, a research library, the antiquities center for the University of Extremadura. Caceres is a UNESCO World Heratige site not because of one building but because all of these building collectively construct a walk through Spain´s past. Additionally, the Cathedral de Santa Maria has a beautiful Romanesque nave with Gothic additions--the sort of church in which it´s easy to just sit in the back and stare up in wonder.

So, I just strolled along glaring at 700-year-old buildings this afternoon. In the mean while, I´d like to get two or three other things out of my notebook.

BREAKFAST
Lots of places serve ¨desayunos,¨ but breakfast here isn´t what we´re used to. The average Spaniard has a half cup of bitter coffee and tostada--toast. I prefer café con leche--and I´ve become addicted. The tostada is usually a hard roll toasted fresh, but the topping depends on the region. In southern Andelusia, they like a very flavorful, dark-yellow butter with a slightly bitter orange marmalade. In northern and eastern Andelusia, they like tomato and olive oil. Here´s the recipe: take two fresh tomatoes, toss them in the blender and hit high. Take the resulting red slurry and chill it in the fridge. Then, take your toast, put spoon full after spoon full of the chilled tomato mash on it and cover with olive oil. Eat. Really, you should try it--I don´t use the olive oil like the locals (they pour it on), but the tomato is really good.

SALT
This is a particular point with me. I don´t like salt. Like most Americans, I LOVE salt. I put salt on eggs. I put salt on french fries. I put salt on chicken. Sometimes, I put salt on salt because it looks like there´s not enough salt already on the salt. In Spanish eateries, they do not put salt or pepper on the table. Oh, they´ll bring you vinager and olive oil enough to slick a pig, but there´s no salt and there´s no pepper. If you ask for salt, you get one of three reactions. #1. The confused reaction. The waiter looks at you as if he or she couldn´t have heard you right. ¨What could you possibly want with the salt?¨ they would seem to ask. #2. The angry reaction. They tighten their eye lids and their lips turn slightly down. ¨Are you saying the food is no good!?¨ their expression glares. #3. The hurt reaction. This is the worst. They glance furtively around as if they were searching for what to do--as if a small child were drowning and there´s no life preserver at hand. "I´m so sorry that the food is that bad,¨ they would say while fighting back the tears. Look, if you go to Spain, just eat the food. Don´t ask for salt.

THE BUS DRIVER MAN
Last trip to Spain, I walked. This time, I´m taking the bus. The bus station is a culture unto itself. Most stations have a cafe that serves good food, cheap--they don´t jack up the prices as we usually do at airports or bus stations. They love to play American music in bus stations--this morning I listened to one hour of Elvis before my bus left. Two days ago, I was listening to a CD of a Spanish woman singing America standards like ¨Killing me Softly¨ and ¨The Way We Were.¨ My ears really perked up when she tried a version of ¨Tennessee Waltz¨ including a sort of Southern/mountain-gal accent. Clearly, the King of the Bus Station is the bus driver. You don´t put your bag in the baggage compartment until HE says you can. You DO NOT close the cargo hatch. You don´t get on the bus until HE tears a little notch in your ticket. You DO NOT touch the outside of the bus. If he has already closed the door, you must NOT knock or bang on the door--that will bring a sneer to his lips as he backs the bus s-l-o-w-l-y out. If late, you must stand there with your head bowed and keep your eyes DOWN and hope that he notices. If you ask, you may take a bottle of water on the bus--but try just walking onto the bus with a bottle of water in your hand! You´ll be lucky to make the trip. Ever see the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld? It´s sort of like that.

Still, I love Spain. And the best parts of the trip are still to come.

Mérida

I´ve been in ancient Rome all day. But let me explain how I got here. Yesterday, the bus ride from Córdoba to Mérida was supposed to take four and a half hours, so leaving at 10:30, I figured to have the evening to begin my tour of the latter. But this is Spain. About two hours out of Córdoba, the bus broke down, and as the replacement didn´t arrive for almost two hours, most of my day was spent looking at the mountains of northeastern Andalusia. I suppose if I had to spend two hours at the side of a road, that was about as nice a spot as I might have chosen. About 20 miles back up the road on a hazy hill sat a fifteenth-century castle that taunted me--I think it wondered how or why I had allowed the bus to pass it by. In fact, we passed several castles on several hills, a couple of crumbling Moorish towers, and an interesting abandoned monastery. I almost jumped off the bus at the town of Mansilla; though small, it had a couple of interesting 15th-century-or-so churches and, yes, a castle on the hill. But my destination was more distant in time.

Mérida was founded late in the first century BCE as the capital of Lusitania--the Roman province of Portugal that also included the modern Spanish state of Extremadura. As a provincial capital, Mérida had all the conventional attributes that made Roman life unique. There are the remains of not one, but two aqueducts--one a towering, three-tiered structure. They draw water from a reservoir that the Romans constructed in order to supply the city--completing a three-mile-long dam across the local river. Other remains are equally impressive in size--of two Roman bridges, one is over 800 meters in length. A forum graced the center of town, and for the devout, a temple to the goddess Diana stood nearby (I´ve always worshipped Dianna). For entertainment, there remain two decks of a three-level colosseum, and the archetype of Roman entertainment--a circus. By ¨circus,¨ I mean a racetrack--think Charleton Heston as Ben Hur and Stephen Boyd as Messala whipping each other. This was grand--a great, elongated oval longer than a football field. Most impressively, there was an almost intact Roman theater. Originally comissioned in 17 BCE by the Consul Agrippa (does the name make you think of Inigo Montoya telling Wesley in The Princess Bride, ¨You should have a-studied your Agrippa¨?), the theater has a double row of columns in the proscena, a half oval orkestra for the chorus, and three levels for the audience. Additionally, the Roman museum in town is the best collection of Roman statuary and mosaics I have ever seen; more than 40 statues of gods and those who worshipped them were typically realistic for Roman art.

As much as I enjoyed these fine mounments, the remains of Roman private life enlivened the long-dead inhabitants. Several homes have been excavated with household items--buttons, fishhooks, cooking utinsels, family idols and relatives images. Many such personal items have come from the graveyard that is at the edge of the city. The necropolis--covered with statuary and inscriptions of the dead--offered to humanize these so distant from us. There were several pairs of statues. They were husbands and wives who, like us, prefer to lie together in death just as they had pleasured each other in life--side by side. There were old men--some in their seventies--who had served their community and drew special attention on their passing. Young men and women were plentiful--lost to their families in their twenties and thirties. And there were children. One statue of a boy with hair down over his eyes and ears--his name and exact age are lost. One marker, about three feet high and two feet wide, bore a farewell to Luvia from her parents. She loved music, but all her art expired after sixteen years. She is framed on the marker--a young girl holding a lute, her fingers eternally on the strings and a half-smile on her face.

Well, tomorrow I go to Cáceres and jump back into the Middle Ages. I´ll leave Rome behind for now, but not forgotten.

Córdoba

Sitting in the Plaza de la Corredera on a cool Spanish evening and having just devoured a local meal called ¨flamancillo,¨ I sighed and realized that I am just about the luckiest guy currently not in the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex. I decided I´d better walk over to the cafe with the internet connection and try to explain why.

In the past two days, I´ve run all over Cordova, this UNESCO World Heritage City. I arrived about noon and found a beautiful little hostella in the old Jewish quarter of the city. My second-floor room actually has a patio with a low, wrought-iron grate ($38 a night). I sat for a few minutes to catch my breath, then ran to the nearest monument--the Mezquita Cathedral. I should stop being surprised at seeing history on history in Spain, but this mosque/church astounds. It was the site of a Roman temple--archeologists don´t know to which god; then, it became the Church of St. Vincent around 450AD (archeological remnants were in a museum), perhaps simply using part of a converted Roman basilica as part of its structure. In the mid-8th century, the Moors conquer Cordoba, and decide to build a mosque on the site--and did they build. The Mezquita mosque was the largest such structure in Europe. More than its size, its construction makes it dazzling. It has the usual tower for the call to prayer, and the beautiful ablution yard with fountains for washing, but the interior of the covered prayer hall overwhelms on entrance. Aside from simply being caverous, its ceiling is held up on more than a hundred double-columned, two-tiered arches. Moreover, the arches are striped in white and red--the builders used alternating bands of white stone and red brick to construct the zebra-like arches. Did I say it was amazing? However, in the 1230´s the Christian King Fernando III (¨the Saint¨) took Cordoba. Amid controversy then and now, the Catholic Church decided in 1509 to build a cathedral right in the middle of the mosque. It took 150 more years, and the result is a cacophony of style. You´re walking through this mosque with striped arched, and suddenly, there´s a baroque cathedral. Additionally, the original enclaves for prayer have been filled over the years with special chapels dedicated to specific saints or used as burial crypts. Walking the area, inside and out, took more than four hours--curious with its shifting styles, but colossal in size.

Today is Friday, and on Fridays in Cordoba, entrance to most museums and monuments is free, so I ducked back into the Mezquita Cathedral, for one last look, and then went on the the Alcazar de el Reyes Christianos--the Castle of the Christian Kings. Built in the 1200s, it was Fernando´s lauching point for an assault on Granada; later, it served as the site where Columbus received his final instructions from Isabella and Ferdinand. Inside the reception hall, the kings had collected Roman floor mosaics for display. They were easily the most beautiful and detailed I´ve seen since the Pompeii exhibit. The defensive wall that extends from the castle still encompasses about a fifth of the city. I also visited the archeological museum (lots of great glass, pottery, and brass items from the Moorish era) and the Museum of Art. Housed in a 16th-century ducal palace, it was really a treat just to walk around inside, but the 18th through 20th-century art added a bit--several nice Goyas (I´m going to be an expert on Spanish art when I return).

Late this afternoon, I took the special bus seven miles outside Cordoba to visit the still-active archeological site called Medina Al´Zahara. In 974, the local Caliph decided to build a palace and a small city to support his staff some distance from the city of Cordoba. His reasons for doing so are still debated. A later Capiph abandoned the city about 1017. For nearly a thousand years, the city disappeared, though some documents mentioned its existance and tantalized historians. Finally, about 50 years ago, the Medina came to light; it was a treat to be allowed to walk around this giant jig-saw puzzle. In some places, archeologists had laid out thousands of fragments of plaster-work or other wall art or floor patterns. There had been a palace, a royal residence, guard quarters, servants area, reception hall--and all of the pieces aren´t together yet. Evening was just falling as the last shuttle bus took me reluctantly from this site.

Have I mentioned this lately--I´m the luckiest guy not in Dalla/Ft. Worth. Thanks Tarrant County College. I´m receiving an education and compiling a photo log that will benefit me and my students for years.

p.s. ¨Flamancillo¨: first, the waiter brings out hard, twice-baked sesamee bread and pickled, green olives. Then, the main course appears--bread, ham rolled into a sausage, breaded, and deep fried in olive oil, salad, and fried eggplant and squash. For desert, bread pudding covered in cold tomato sauce topped with half a boiled egg. I´m absolutely serious.

Jaén

The bus trip from Granada to Jaén was almost more interesting than the town itself. It takes about an hour and a half to drive through the Sierra Haranas--the southern end of the Sierra Nevada range. Every once and a while a mountain or a cliff would be topped by a Moorish watch tower or a monastery; all such monuments were falling to ruin, melting in the elements of southern Spain. Just at the end of the trip, we seemed to emerege from the mountains and suddenly low-rolling hills covered with olive trees extended for as far as the eye could see. Jaén is the gateway from Andalusia to Castile, and the topography must have gathered the attention of generations of travelers. The town is situated at the bottom of a crested butte, and for at least 20,000 years, people have lived in the area. Rock carvings in caves along the cliff line and on the hill bear witness to human habitation before history can recall their names. In the 2nd century BCE, the Romans built a small fortress at the top of the hill, only to find themselves supplanted by the Visigoths in the 5th century AD. These Germanic invaders, in turn, gave way to the Moors who built a town with impressive bathes below the hill and a fortress--sort of a smaller version of the Alhambra--looking out into the precious land of Castile. By the mid-1200s, Christians had taken the area, and Alphonso X (El Sabio--remember!?) built a wall around the town as well as making improvments to the hill. In 1808, the French under Napoleon occupied Andalusia and improved the fort to become their southern headquarters. Today, the hill is a picnic spot for locals and home to one of Spain´s Paradors--luxury hotels usually located on historic sites.

There´s your thumb-nail sketch of the hill, and the ruins on top were truly impressive, but the remainder of the town was a little lackluster. Only about 150 feet of Alphonso´s wall in town remains. No street or monument can be seen that dates before 1500. In fact, two churches that were dated prior to that period turned out to have collapsed in the last 150 years and are rebuilt with nothing like their former glory. The only elements of the town that didn´t disappoint were the Museum of Anthropology and the Catherdal. The museum held a number of artifacts that traced the town´s long history--and enabled me to provide the description above. The cathedral was magnificant--a 16th century work in Renaissance and early Neo-Classical style that took over a hundred years to finish. The interior walls were the tallest I´ve seen in a church on this trip--so tall as to be difficult to photograph. I literally suppressed a gasp when I first entered the church. At the end of the central nave was an ornate alter dedicated to Veronica´s Veil. If you´re not familiar, according to legend Veronica used a cloth to wipe the face of Christ as he was on his difficult way to Golgotha. The image of Christ´s face was left in the cloth. For the Spanish, this cloth rivals the shroud of Turin, and the cathedral was intended to be a fitting tribute to such an important relic. Just before mass that evening, the cloth was brought out and shown to a crowd of about 200 people. Usually, it´s only on display for Friday mass, but the bishop himself called for bringing out the relic because it´s a special day (see below). Watching the veneration engendered by this cloth--the clear adoration and amazement on the faces of those gathered there--certainly brought me closer to the world of writers like Chaucer, Kempe, Langland, and Julian of Norwich. It´s one of the reasons why I made this trip.

I had to stay in a very poor pensión (rooms offered by locals) because every room in town was taken when I arrived. I had no idea, but today was Andalusia Day--a time of provincial pride for all Andalusians. EVERYTHING was closed--even most of the cafes. Just my luck, Jaén was the Andalusian city chosen to host this year´s celebration. That meant that there was a free concert of Andalusian folk music in the City Center featuring the talents of José Luis Caño!--you know, Andalusia´s formost singer! I did listen for about 45 minutes, but I was too tired to stay for the fireworks. I had walked up the hill--a distance of about 4.5 miles--and back down that day aside from wandering throughout town. I was leg-weary and happy to go to my little room (and shared bath) in the pensión. This entry is actually a day behind--there was no computer in Jaén, so I´m already in Córdoba. But news of this stop can wait until morning. I´ll be here a couple of days--it´s a UNESCO World Heritage city, and there´s lots to see. ¡Hasta luego!