The Pasty, Cars, and Cider

I'm here to debunk three myths about traveling across England.

Myth #1: the English can't cook. All I've ever heard about English cuisine is that the cheese is great, but the food is bad. The latter must be a rumor started by a French chef. For example, the English have honed the simple Shepherd's Pie to a fine art--it's not your mom's shepherd's pie that consisted of browned hamburger meat spooned out over canned green beans and covered with instant potatoes. No. They begin with sliced carrots sauteed so that there's still just a hint of snap. Add three types of mushrooms, sliced red potatoes, and fresh green beans. Large pieces of lean pot roast nestle down amongst the veggies, and the whole pie is covered with garlic and parsley, whipped potato. Ladle on clear, brown gravy and serve with a fresh salad. Mmmmmmm. If beef isn't you dish, try the fish and chips. Sure, you've heard about this staple of the English diet, but you can't imagine what I mean. Seaside towns like Berwick-upon-Tweed, Portsmouth, or Bristol have access to cod fresh from the Atlantic or the North Sea. The other day, after having skipped lunch because a tour went long, we ordered the "Large Portion" of cod for dinner at a fish house. The 13-inch-long piece of white cod that arrived was an inch thick in the middle. No one who has ever stooped to eat a meal at Long John Silver's could complain about such a meal. Ah, but then there's the pasty! A pasty is a light, tasty pastry filled with almost anything imaginable--chicken, beef, fish, cheese, onion, mushrooms, sliced or whipped potato, carrots, peas, beans, or any combination of these and more. Almost every rail stop and large underground hubs boast a shop called "The Original Cornish Pasty." These sell deluxe pasties about five inches long and an inch thick, filled with premium ingredients--all for four to five buck each. Every small town had at least two or three pasty shops along its main street: some selling rectangular pasties filled with mashed potato for as little as 65 cents. In Salisbury, we found four pasty shops on one square. As a matter of quality testing, we tried two of them one day, and the other two the next. I never met a pasty I didn't like. And I tried them all.

Myth #2: driving in England is crazy. Well, this one's a little more difficult to discount. As much as I told myself "drive on the left . . . drive on the left," I turned out onto my first street and had to swerve from the right to the left side. I made a second mistake by deciding to pick the rental car up in downtown London, one of the world's most traffic-congested cities. It would have been a simple matter to take the underground to a suburb where a rental car would have been waiting. Live and learn. Actually, driving on the left side of the street isn't the most difficult adjustment to touring by car--it's a combination of the lack of signage and the dreaded traffic circle. The English paint directional information on the street surface. Good idea, you think? No. Circling a "roundabout" at 40 mph while trying to make out a worn highway sign painted on the road surface is a recipe for confusion. Having said all this, once you drive for a week or so, things do become a little easier. The motorways (multi-lane highways are designated "M" for "motorway") are fast and open, and the views afforded by small, country roads are not available any other way. Plus, the cars are uniformly compact, easy to maneuver, and get great gas mileage. Our Vauxhall gets about 43 miles per gallon, and we've been touring countless side roads.

Myth #3: English beer is warm, dark, bitter, and generally nasty. Well, truthfully, I can't say one way or another about this. I'm not much of a drinker, and less so when travelling. Nevertheless, I can say that the English love their cider, and it's very tasty. Only about 3% alcohol, this is a type of drink even an Oakie could love. Almost any fruit is fair game for conversion into a sweet, smooth cider, and most of the small pubs where we stop in the early evening for dinner offer a variety. I do see plenty of dark beers being passed around, but for me, a diet-coke with food and a "small cider" (about half a glass) after dinner makes for a relaxing break.

The Author and The Preacher

One of the pleasures of travel in England is the opportunity to visit the homes of persons whose lives I have heretofore followed from afar. For more than a week I have been carrying the memory of two such places that I visited in London. For several years now, I have voluntarily allowed a monthly deduction from my checking account to support, among other charities and organizations, Channel 13 and National Public Radio. I am, thus, a self-acknowledged geek, so it should come as no surprise that I have also been a member of the Dickens Fellowship. Members are mostly people whose level of boredom is such that they devote their spare time to reading and discussing the works and life of Charles Dickens. In the Fellowship (not to be confused with J.R.R. Tolkien's Fellowship), we habitually refer to Dickens simply and reverently as "The Author." At the February meeting each year, the customary final toast is always made to the memory of The Author. Little wonder, then, that I took the opportunity when I was still in London to visit 48 Doughty Street--Dickens' first residence which he shared with his wife, Catherine, and a place where they lived for about three years. The home has been a museum owned and operated by the Dickens Fellowship since 1925, and it houses an impressive collection of Dickens' manuscripts and memorabilia. In the lower level, a kitchen during Dickens' stay, the Fellowship has gathered the most complete library of editions of Dickens' works in the world. In fact, the remainder of the home is filled with artifacts that Dickens described in his novels, personal items, proof pages from his novels, and original personal letters. In the study on the second floor, Dickens completed "The Pickwick Papers" and "Oliver Twist," and he began work on "Nicholas Nichleby." In a bedroom on the third floor, his wife's sister, Mary, died in Dickens' arms; she was stricken by heart disease at the age of seventeeni and became the inspiration for the character of Little Nell in "Old Curiosity Shop." I walked the streets surrounding the house, passing the law courts, Grey's Inn and Lincoln's Inn, and walking through Lincoln Park to the Chancery Court. These places figured in three of Dickens' novels. The next morning, I visited a home and a chapel less than a mile away from Dickens' residence. Beginning in 1779 and for the final eleven years of his life, John Wesley lived in a small Georgian home at 49 City Road, London. He had built the chapel according to his own design in 1778, and he and his wife moved into the home on the same lot the following year. Almost all of the furniture and all of the books in the home belonged to the couple. Wesley's writing desk, his favorite chair (a gift from a convert who had been a slave auctioneer), his clothing chest and a robe in which he preached, and his small prayer table at which he spent an hour each morning were all in the building. His last portrait was painted in the second-floor sitting room; he died in his bedroom on the third floor. The chapel at the center of the courtyard was constructed of honey-colored limestone, and still has the original doors and windows. Wesley intended the sanctuary to be a classroom for the training of his circuit preachers; he placed the pulpit in the middle of the horseshoe-shaped structure so that the practicing preachers could be evaluated by their peers. Wesley himself delivered sermons from the elevated box, and he served communion from the rail that he designed against the back wall. The building also housed the small organ at which John's brother, Charles, composed over 600 hymns. A small museum beneath the sanctuary held a number of artifacts including the first list of circuit preachers, their destinations and dates along their respective routes were inscribed by hand. There was a pen with which Wesley wrote one of his sermons, and a bonnet owned by his mother, Susanna, along with one of her own manuscripts concerning childhood education. I never encountered any ghosts on my walks through London, nor did I ever sense strange fluctuations of temperature or an eerie breath that might indicate the presence of anyone long dead. But I did gain a clearer understanding of the day-to-day lives of individuals--and perhaps a keener sense of why one under-paid legal clerk became a famous novelist, and how a child plucked from the window of a burning house was destined to light the fires of faith.

The West Country

For the last several days I have been driving (!!!!!!!!) through the "West Country." Internet availability is almost non-existant here. Right now, I have 14 minutes (it took a minute of my time just to log in) at the Salisbury Public Library in which to make an entry on this blog--oops, make that 13 minutes. Here's just an overview of travel since last Saturday.

Windsor--stayed two days in the small town that is home to the largest occupied royal residence in the world. Visited the castle, of course, and saw its fabulous art collection, collection of gifts from around the world to the English crown, and the royal reception areas. The changing of the guard came with a full regimental band because the queen and royal family were spending the week here too.

Winchester--the ancient capital of Enland, the cathedral keeps the remains of Anglo-Saxon kings of the past. Really a fine city tour with a guide who lectured on subjects from the Iron Age settlements to the Medieval through the Renaissance. The 12th-century hall has been home to King Arthur's Round Table for more than 600 years--it's mounted on the wall. A huge table weighing several tons, it was painted in green, red, and white (the Tudor colors) in 1522 when King Henry VIII wanted to impress the visiting Pope with a connection to this famous king. Poet John Keats once walked along the River Itchen--we took his path. Jane Austen lived right outside of town, and died in a house near the cathedral--the visit to her home was splendid, of course. Lots of other great sights to see in Winchester--the old city gates, bishop's house, Medieval mill house, old coach houses, the oldest pilgrim's hospital in Europe--many buildings and locations dating to the age of King Alfred the Great in the 870s--could have spent a week.

Salisbury--the cathedral has the tallest spire in Europe--we walked to the top of the tower for a wonderful view of the Medieval city. The entire cathedral surround was filled with historic homes, buildings, and an archeological museum. Found the little church in which poet George Herbert preached and wrote--the rectory in which he lived and died is just next door.

I'm timed-out for now. Going to Stonehenge and Avesbury today.

Canterbury

In my last blog, I said that henceforth I was just going to write topically as I was impossibly behind in any sequential description. Here's an overview of what I mean. Just in the past few days, we've visited the historic site of Edward I's palace and castle on the Thames river that later would become home to an early Parliament House. The remains included the impressive Jewel Tower, a stronghold that once housed the royal collection of valuables and crown jewels. In the 16th and 17th centuries, it was home to the records of Parliament. We spent more than half a day in the British Museum, enjoying a tour lasting just over an hour and a half that covered the most ancient relics in the collection. Yes, this included the Elgin Marbles, the Portland Vase, and the Rosetta Stone. While in the neighborhood of Westminster Abbey, we, of course, had to visit Methodist Central Hall, London's largest venue for Methodism and the first meeting place of the United Nations.

Taking a little trip to the east of London, we visited Leeds Castle, a splendid fortification the main body of which sits in the middle of a picturesque lake. Rare birds, art treasures, and Medieval excavations kept us running all over the adjacent countryside. Then, we saw those white cliffs. There are no bluebirds native to England, so I didn't sing the song (do you know "There'll be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover"?), but Dover is just as lovely as the pictures. We ate lunch atop one of the chalk cliffs and then went down into the port city to wade in the channel foam and enjoy the vista that included Dover Castle, called the "Key of England," and a Roman lighthouse four stories tall, the tallest Roman structure in the country.

And then there is Canterbury. In my last entry, I wrote that Westminster seemed more a ceremonial/historical shrine than a church. Canterbury is a shrine that nevertheless retains the best qualities of a church--connected to a past of religious worship and veneration and of political intrigue. If you don't know the story, in the late 1100s Henry II was emerging as a powerful king whose struggle to gain control of his country, courts, and tax structure led him into direct confrontation with the Pope in Rome. When Henry installed his friend Thomas Becket as leader of the English Catholic church--the Archbishop of Canterbury--the king thought his problems were over. Until Thomas became religious. In 1170, Henry told four knights that he wished someone would rid him of "this troublesome priest," so the knights rode to Canterbury and entered the cathedral. They caught Thomas as he was climbing the stairs to the alter for Evensong service. Thomas fled downstairs but was caught at the entrance to the crypt where three of the four knights struck him across the head and shoulders. He died in just a few minutes. His monks took his body and placed it in between two columns in the crypt. Miracles associated with Becket blossomed, and the faithful began to arrive on pilgrimage to see where this martyr had shed his blood. By the late 14th century, Chaucer memorialized the pilgrimage in his "Canterbury Tales."

With the catherdral over 600 feet in length, I had trouble capturing the entire structure in a single snapshot. It is constructed in the form of a Greek cross, which means that there is a long, central nave that is intersected by two crossbars. Few side alters or monuments obstruct the view of the entire length of this tall, gothic nave. In fact, the cathedral is an interesting combination of styles. An older cathedral in Romanesque style on this site left an under-croft of low, semi-circular arches, while the newer gothic construction of the 13th and 14th centuries created the 120-foot-tall, peaked arches of the primary nave. There is a lovely inner harmony--the sort of place that you could sit and just look up to marvel at the genius of the stonework. A monastic chapter house in gothic style and a beautiful yard enclosed by a peristyle complete the serenity the infuses the church.

And the pilgrims came. There is a single candle lited each day on the spot where the shrine to Becket stood until the Reformation. Four twisted stords hang over the place where Thomas fell. Also interred in the cathedral are Henry VI, his queen, and the Black Prince, but the pilgrims came to see Thomas. There were so many that the monks built a special tunnel underneath the main alter to take them to the site of his martyrdom without disrupting customary services. I came as a pilgrim too. Brought by the story of the argument between two friends--Henry and Thomas--and impelled by Chaucer's sometimes irreverent pilgrims, I wanted to see where the martyr's blood wrote itself into history, literature, and legend. And I found what I came for.

The Abbey

I'm four days behind in describing travels in and around London. Coming to the realization that I won't have enough time to cover everything until I fly home, I've decided just to blog about a few highlights as they occur to me (you did know that the word "blog" could be used as a verb, didn't you?).

On Monday, I entered Westminster Cathedral for the first time. I'd traveled around the place many times now but had been waiting for Dianna to join me before going in. We arrived early, just after the opening at 10 o'clock, in the hopes of finding a lessened crowd--those hopes were soon dashed. Passing the 15th-century church of St. Elizabeth, we could see the crowd four abreast stretching about 60 feet back from the north portal. A little disappointing, but what a portal! The great, gothic arch extended 30 feet upwards to where a stone stature of Christ was surrounded by a peaked gathering of angels playing ancient instruments. Admission is £10 (almost exactly $20) per adult, and the guided tour is another £5--a total of $30 apiece for the whole fee--pretty pricey. We paid our money and entered inside. Dianna's first comment was, "My gosh," followed by "What a clobbered up mess!" What she meant was that on first looking up, the rose window in the south transept is stunningly beautiful (that's the "My gosh"). One the other hand, the press of human flesh almost overwhelms the senses. Additionally, what should have been the beauty of a long, slender gothic nave was obscured by the countless--literally countless--memorials which seem to fill every possible space available in the church (thus we get to the "What a clobbered up mess!").

More than 3,300 people are buried in Westminster Abbey, and their interments are marked by everything from a simple diamond-shaped stone to a large stone scultpure 30 feet high on a base larger than my living room at home. Additionally, the war dead from every English conflict since the 1600s have some type of rememberance in the church. These do not include, by the way, the individual statuary and plaques mounted to honor the deeds of the individual dead--the ship captain who died just as his vessel overcame a French frigate at heavy odds or the general who fell in a cavalry charge during the Crimean War. Sculptors, hoping for a sizable fee from the families I'm sure, frequently represented these fallen heroes in the form of Greek gods clad in martial finery struggling against centaurs or some other such fanciful creatures. Some of the side chapels are so choked with busts covered with laural, angels with outstretched wings, or soldiers with sword in their raised fists that visitors duck and weave their way around, under, and through--often taking several minutes just to make their slow way into and out of a small area.

Happily, our guide, a church verger named Benjamin, took our group into the enclosed, central alter for an orientation. A verger, by the way, is an Anglican Church official who is responsible for leading all processionals and for assembling the Eucharist materials. To my great joy, we gathered around the tomb of Edward the Confessor, an early English saint and the king who in 1065 built the first cathedral on this site. Edward's tomb was a primary site for pilgrimage in England until Thomas a Becket's maryterdom at Canterbury Cathedral in 1170. Surrounding this alter were the crypts of Henry III, the king who had the current gothic cathedral built on this location in the 13th century, and Henry V, England's great warrior king and subject of Shakespeare's play of that name. Benjamin also made touring the cathedral a little easier by clearing our way into such tomb areas as the chapels where Mary and Elizabeth I, the daughters of Henry VIII are buried together, and where Mary, Queen of Scots, is buried.

Certainly for me, one of the highlights was the so-called "Poet's Corner" which is not actually a corner--it is simply the south chapel. A statue of a reclining Shakespeare dominates one end--even though he's not buried there. Several great writers are likewise honored, but not interred, in this location. Chaucer actually is buried there--he was the first to be placed in this area, though more for his service to the king and because of his friendship with the Black Prince than because of his writing. Charles Dickens is there--against his wishes; he had actually expressed a desire to be buried in a quiet service elsewhere. The church also serves as the final resting place of many great scientists (Newton, Darwin, Faraday, and Lyell--to name a few) and composers (a towering statue of Handel and a little plaque of Ralph Vaughn Williams--one of my favorites).

Clearly, Westminister Abbey has become a ceremonial certer for the nation. You may know that it has served as the place of coronation for every English monarch since 1066 in the age Harold. However, with plaques and memorials to Churchill, Roosevelt, Monty, Eisenhower, the Korean War Dead, and a capsized tourist boat from 1989, the place feels more like a monument and less like a church. Nevertheless, Westminster is a site of considerable history--even if it is "a clobbered up mess."

London, Inside and Out

Again, I'm pressed for time--less than half an hour--to make a blog entry tonight. I'm just going to make a few notes.

SHAKESPEARE'S GLOBE
Located just past "The Clink" (a museum dedicated to one of London's earliest prisons), Vinopolis (a wine warehouse and tasting room), and the ruins of King Stephen's abbey (nice 12th-century rose window left from the great apse) lies the reconstruction of Shakespeare's Globe theater. It's less than 100 years from the historic location of the original Globes. Yes, that's plural because there were two previous theaters. The first was built in 1599 and burned to the ground 15 years later when a canon fired from the "heavens" (the canapy covering the stage) set the tatch roof on fire. The theater was reconstructed in 1615 only to be closed and dismantled by the Puritans (spoil-sports!) in 1649. The latest Globe was opened in 1990 and is a "faithful reconstruction" of the originals--at least as close as we know based on sketches and diary discriptions. They used great, hand-hewn beams held together with wooden pegs and hand-cut board nailed with wrought-iron nails. The thatched roof was considered a fire hazzard (go figure) by the fire department, so a sprinkler system was installed along its apex and the whole place is sprayed with a fire-retardant material each season. The only other concession made to modernity was the use of a concrete floor where the "groundlings" would have stood--they actuall tried a dirt, nut shell, and ash floor in the first theatrical season, but it raised too much dust. In any event, just being in the facsimile of Shakespeare's theater rendered a memorable experience.

MILLENNIUM BRIDGE
After catching a bite at a wharf-side cafe, we strolled Millennium Bridge which connects Bankside which was once the disreputable (those theater folk!) side of the river to St. Paul's on the north bank. It's a suspension bridge and allows for a dramatic view of the river and most of Central London's sites. When it was originally opened, the Queen took the inaugural stroll--and then officials closed it for several months. The structure swayed dangerously up and down on the suspension cables and engineers were called in to stabilize the thing.

EASTER
Saturday evening we attended the first "Easter" service of the season at St. Paul's. This was actually the Confirmation Service that began outside the cathedral, processed to the baptismal font in the narthex, then moved to the main alter for Eucharist. The Bishop of London presided and the cathedral choir provided the joyful noise. Just one part of the pleasure of attending involved the treat of seeing the interior of St. Paul's illuminated for the evening service.

HAMPTON COURT PALACE
The country estate of Cardinal Wosley, this 15th-century palace is located about 15 miles outside of London. All I have time to say is, "Wow." Henry VIII took the place over--William and Mary made expansions and added a garden. It's on the Thames River--the monarchs could boat into The Tower when they were needed for state ocassions. They had costumed actors playing famous historic characters--including a fire-eating jester. Food was cooked on site in the way it would have been prepared 500 years ago. It was really like stepping back in time. And the location with its vast gardens held us until near nightfall.

Okay--no time to proof--check for type-o's or nothin'--this place is closing and I'm only up to what we did Sunday. Sigh. May never finish this blog.

Too Little Time--Too Much To See

I haven't made a blog entry for four days, both because the internet cafes tend to close before 10:00 and because Dianna and I have been trying to fit 14 hours of touring into 12 hours each day. I'm happy that she is finally able to experience the non-stop wonder that being in a city like London offers the diligent traveler. I'm not going to try to compile a nicely developed prose narrative--just a list of some of our stops for future use.

CABERET
Well, we haven't been spending all our time with ancient history or literature. We've taken in our share of the local entertainment including a trip to the Lyric Theatre for a performance of Caberet. Along the way, we've tried to experience the local cuisine, including fish and chips and mushy peas (the last is really quite good) down at the warf and a nice chicken pie with mashed potatoes and steamed veggies all covered in thick, brown gravy.

THE TOWER
This was an entire day's excursion. Americans tend to think of this historic location as "the" tower, but, in fact, the white stone tower and wall built by William the Conquerer in 1084 was subsequently surrounded by a secondary wall with 13 additional towers in the 12th century. In the 13th century, another wall was added with six more towers; thus, when you visit "The Tower of London," you'll actually see 20 towers--the white tower rising above the others in the center of an elaborate fortification. And what history! Not only did the early Norman kings settle here as their primary residence in England, but also Henry VIII and the Stuart kings used this location as well. Famous prisoners such as the two princes (see Shakespeare's "Richard III"), Sir Thomas More, two of Henry's wives, and John Stuart were murdered or executed within these walls. Ann Boleyn and Catherine Howard are buried under the alter in the Royal Chapel within the walls. Many prisoners left graffiti in their cells which were located mostly among the 13 towers of the inner wall. For those of you who care little about history, there's always the gross display of opulence known as the Crown Jewels. Yep, we saw them--several times. The display of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires and gold scattered like so many rhinestones on crowns, swords, canes, and clothes was pretty astounding. Also on the grounds is the museum of the Royal Fusiliers--very nice--and a fun changing of the guards ceremony.

SHERLOCK HOLMES
Yes, I realized a boyhood dream and visited the rooms of The Detective and the doctor at 221b Baker Street. The Baker Street metro stop is the oldest in London--first opened in 1863--and it would have, of course, afforded Holmes rapid transit throughout the city. On the street above, there really is a 221b address where an enterprising company has constructed "The Sherlock Holmes Museum"--strictly a tourist trap since old Sherlock is purely fictionally--but for me a fun hour. The rooms are decorated with period elements that replicate descriptions from the stories, and an actor playing Dr. Watson greets you as you are shown upstairs. He asked who I was, and I, of course, replied, "Mycroft!" (I'll just let you look that up if you don't know.) As you continue to climb the stairs up the apartments, you'll see scenes from the stories depicted using wax figures from Madame Tussaud's (pretty campy). Just a little up Baker Street from 221, by the way, we saw the work room and living quarters of a real person--author H. G. Wells.

KENSINGTON GARDENS
Dianna and I took a stroll across this natural marvel in the middle of a bustling city. Stopped to see the Elfin Tree--an acnient oak tree with figures of the wee folk carved by a 19th-century artist into its trunk and branches. At one end of the gardens is the impressive ALBERT MEMORIAL, a tall, neo-Gothic tower and monument erected to commemorate the passing of Queen Victoria's consort.

KENSINGTON PALACE
Located at the west end of Kensington Gardens is the city get-away of British monarchs William and Mary. A country house in the 1600s, the royals purchased the residence in order to have a home removed from the center of London. Christopher Wren (of St. Paul's fame) expanded the home into a palace, and it has remained in the royal family ever since. All four Georges lived there for a time during their reigns, and Victoria was born there. Indeed, Victoria was awakened in her bedroom there on the day that her uncle, George IV, had died, and she was told that she was the queen of England. More modern residents included Princess Margaret, the current Queen Elizabeth's sister, and Prince Charles and Princess Diana--right up to their divorce, of course. The rooms of William and Mary have been restored to late-17th-century spleandor, and the art work throughout the palace makes the spot worth the visit.

HMS BLEFAST
Resting at dock along the Thames River is the light-crusier HMS Belfast. Commissioned in 1938, she saw action in the North Atlantic, was part of the Normandy invasion bombardment, and supported British and American troops during the Korean Conflict. We climbed to the Captain's Deck, ducked our way into the forward batteries, and visited below decks where the crew lived and worked--a fun, floating museum.

BANQUETING HOUSE
Located just down the street from number 10 Downing (Tony Blair's current digs), the Banqueting House is the only surviving building from a great palace build by Cardinal Wolsey in the early 16th century. The poor cardinal was forced to surrender the place to King Henry VIII (it is good to be king!) who expanded the location into his primary London residence. Queen Elizabeth entertained ambassadors and saw dramatic perfromances on the location, and current Banqueting House was built by James I in order to house the elaborate court masques that he enjoyed. Designed and executed by Inigo Jones, the Banqueting House introduced Italian Renaissance design to England. The lower floor consists of row on row of beautiful low arches after the style of a monastery; James and Charles likes to bring close friends there for drinking parties. The upper room boasts a single, cavernous ballroom decorated with white stone walls and gold-gilded columns and a gold, coffered ceiling. Charles I commissioned the Flemish artist Rubens to paint eight vast works to decorate the ceiling--they were allegorical works that validated his divine right of kingship. Ironically, in 1649, following his capture and trial during the English Civil War, Charles I was marched through this room and executed on a platform built onto the Banqueting House just for the ocassion. William and Mary held court from the room, and, much later, it became a museum for the display of militaria taken during the Napoleonic Wars. Today, it is used for official state dinners. Several American presidents--to say nothing of diverse diplomats from around the globe, have dined there.

And now, a final anecdote. So, what's one of your greatest concerns when traveling? Of course, where can you find a clean bathroom!? Well, we're in the Banqueting House where heads of state are entertained, and Dianna says, "I have got to go to the bathroom." She goes downstairs, and I follow her down where another husband is already waiting. Dianna heads in through a marble doorway with a great carved door festooned with elaborate appointments. In a minute, a woman comes out, walks immediately to her husband and says, "It was just beautiful--I knew it would be." A couple of minutes later, Dianna appears at the door and says, "You should go the the Men's room just to see this." Okay, I'm game. I enter. It was heaven. To begin with, it may be the only clean bathroom open to the public in London. Marble walls and busts gleam white, while the tile floors mix grey and light blue. I'm nearly faint with the dazzling display and take a seat--you know where. Afterwards, I wash my hands at the polished fixtures using designer soap available in clear dispensers. I dry my hands on one of the thick, folded towels stacked beside each sink. I didn't want to leave. Finally, as I stagger out, I walk over to Dianna who says, "Do you realize that I might have just sat where Laura Bush once sat?" The thought is just too much for me to fathom.

This list brings us up to yesterday--but this internet location is closing. More later.

St. Paul's, Southwark, and The Author

Okay, so some of you are curious about what Dianna and I are seeing now. I'll just gloss over a few highlights. Yesterday, we spent half a day in St. Paul's Cathedral. The towering work of Christopher Wren, this is a 17th-century church built on the foundation of a 12th-century structure that went up in flames in the Great Fire of London (1666). A great mathematician, Wren had been given the job of renovating the old building that was practically falling down, built scaffolding all around the church that he said should probably be knocked down, and low and behold, the whole thing is consumed in fire presenting Wren with a blank slate. Personally, I think that Wren started the fire himself, but then, I've been reading a lot of Dan Brown. Its cavernous interior is gleaming white stone--gleaming because the whole thing has been cleaned in the past three years, having been covered by a layer of grey-brown London grime over the past three hundred years.

Since that other church--the Abbey over by Parliament--has been filling up with famous dead people since the 1200s, St. Paul's has become home to artists, composers, and statesmen since it opened. The crypt holds Admiral Lord Nelson, the Duke of Wellington, poet John Donne, Holman Hunt (the Pre-Paphaelite painter), and Arthur Sullivan (of Gilbert & Sullivan fame!) to name a few. What you really need to know is that Dianna and I climbed to the very top of the cathedral following the tour. Yes, past the "whispering gallery" that looks down on the nave, beyond the dome porch, she kept going up until we stood at the tower overlook. She was stunning with the wind tossing her hair. London was nice, too.

Today, we crossed the Thames River to Southwark. We visited the catherdal that has been much rebuilt since a Christian church was first founded there in 606AD. There are several nice sculptures including a 12th-century, wooden crypt carving of a Crusader knight. It holds the burial crypt of Lancelot Andrewes, bishop and scholar whose claim to fame is that he worked on the 1611 translation of the Bible that became know as the "King James Bible." Additionally, the church is the home parish of one of London's most famous suburbs. John Gower attended, died, and was buried there. Gower wrote "Coffessio Amantis" and other Latin works in the mid-14th century that proved early English writers were capable of high art. Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Dickens were also known to have attended services there; in fact, Shakespeare's brother, Edmond, and friend and fellow playwright, John Fletcher, are buried in the transept.

Having visited the hub of the neighborhood's culture, Dianna and I wandered the streets of Southwark. We passed the one remaining wall of the prison where Dicken's father was held as a debtor and saw the street where Dickens' lodgings once stood. A park wedged between streets is called "Little Dorrit" after the Dickensian character. We walked down Tabard Street to near the spot where the Tabard Inn stood until a 16th-century fire. The Tabard is the location where Chaucer's 29 pilgrims are supposed to have gathered for their trip to Canterbury to see the grave of Thomas Becket. In fact, Tabard Street is crossed by Pilrgrim Street and Becket Alley. That's the way of walking in London--a little history around every corner.

P.S. To Kathy N.--I forgot to mention in my last blog that the Norwich Cathedral has just opened a stone labyrinth that they laid in the southeast yard of the church. Monthly walks have been very popular, and I had to think of you as I took a turn around the stones.

P.S. to Bonita--thanks for the quote from your comment. I had never read the passage, but I found it accurate to the word to the sights and feelings of my walk to and from Holy Island. Don't mean to be too sentimental, but it literally brought a tear to my eye.

Norwich: One Cathedral and One Saint

From the far north in Northumbria, I took the GNER (Great North Eastern Rainroad) train to Ely (pronounced "e-le," not e-li) where I made the change to local rail so I could continue through to Norwich (pronounced "nor-ridge"--ain't those English folks funny?). I arrived late in the evening, past seven, and had a little trouble finding a hotel. The small, private hotels were already full, and the Old Maid's Head, the historic hotel built in the 16th century, wanted the equivalent of $220 for a one-night, single. So, I settled for the Travel Lodge at the rail station; pretty boring, I know, but I am almost at the end of my travels and my reasons for coming to town had nothing really to do with hotels.

Usually, my first stop in a town in the tourist information office to pick up a list of opening and closing times for attractions and places of historic interest. In Norwich, however, I had one clear destination, and it didn't matter to me that I was sure to arrive before any doors were open to me. I went directly to the tiny church of St. Julian of Norwich. It's located in a poor part of Norwich, down the river and near where the tidal sweep of the ocean can reach up the fresh waters of town. The neighborhood still preserves a pair of timbered merchant houses built in the 14th century among the dilapidated apartments. Turning up St. Julian's Alley, a street that has been on city maps for 600 years, I came to the churchyard wedged between an auto shop and what had once been a grocery store. And there it was--St. Julian's Church.

At 10:00, a caretaker arrived to open the church door. I went immediatly inside, walked to the south wall, and opened the door of a small room. I settled quietly onto a prayer bench against the wall. This is where my idea for my Faculty Development Leave had begun. In a way, I felt like this is where it ended.

We don't know the name of the woman who spent 40 years living and working in this small cell sometime late in the 14th century. She is called "Julian," but her name is really just that of the location where she chose to devote her life as an Anchoress--a Medieval woman who lived alone in order to engage in spiritual exercises. She is so self-effacing that she never names herself in her work "Sixteen Revelations of Divine Love." What she accomplished is nothing less than the first work know to have been written in English by a woman. She survived a series of plagues that racked her country and saw her efforts to discover a self-directed life reined in by male mentors. Nevertheless, she produced this remarkable book and became a sage whom other women and men sought out by pilgrimage. Most notably, Margery Kempe writes in her own autobiography that she met Julian just before the latter's death around 1416.

In fact, three years ago I began reading these two women's works with an eye to developing a paper discussing how women discovered avenues of rhetorical power between the 14th and 15th centuries. They both mentioned the power accrued through pilgrimage; Kempe had, indeed, walked the Camino de Santiago. And that set me to thinking. Both Chaucer's Wife of Bath had also been to Santiago, and I began to wonder why pilgrimage offered women not only a path to holiness but also a road to self-expression and community esteem. I decided to make this the starting point for my Faculty Development Leave.

And so I sat in Julian's cell. I've read her works, but now I have touched her life with a visit to these few square feet. Inside this cell, she became one of the most powerful religious figures of her time. Norwich has a beautiful cathedral begun in 1094 that boasts the second-highest tower in all England, and the town is home to 30 churches that remain from the Gothic period. Streets are cobbled from flint stones, and 14th-century houses still reveal their oak timber skeletons. But I spent my morning with an un-named woman in a small, single-naved church with an 1,100-year-old foundation.

Today, I'm in London where I have been joined (after all this time!) by my wife, Dianna. We plan to augment the tourist economy. I'll try to make a few more entries--perhaps not about seeing "Cabaret," although we already have tickets for tomorrow night. I'll write about Canterbury and Salisbury, perhaps, but for me the last day of my pilgrimage will always be the day I spent in Norwich.

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¡