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.