A Good Deed

On Monday afternoon I called our youngest daughter, who is spending some time in Manhattan. A man answers the phone. For a split second a dark cloud takes over my brain. What the...? But in a moment I understand: our little knucklehead had left her phone in a taxi. The driver was very kind and helpful. He explained that our 15 year old had been his last fare of the day and that he had just dropped the car at the garage and was now headed home on the subway. He offered to return the phone the next day and would call when he ended up near Lincoln Center. And it worked: he met Daniela down on the street and returned the phone. It would have been so easy for this guy to just blow it off, but he didn't. He was polite and accommodating. So, three cheers for New York cab drivers! It reminds me of a driver from West Africa we had on a recent trip. Very nice. And this guy, a good man! I trust our daughter gave him a very sincere thank you. And hopefully a good tip.

Speaking of tips, at the time I was trying to call Daniela on Monday, Asun and I had just checked in to a very nice Bed and Breakfast in Oxford, Maryland. Beautiful! Right on the water. An extremely relaxing setting. Anyway, one little detail I couldn't help noticing was the envelope/note suggesting we leave a tip for the cleaning lady. I suppose there are two ways to look at this: one is, if you can afford to stay here you can certainly afford to tip the help. True enough. On the other hand, and I subscribe to this latter mentality: hey Mr. Innkeeper, if you can charge really luxury rates, you should be paying your help a living wage. Or just charge even a little more if the balance sheets are really so tight, but tipping is, in most instances, an undignified custom that we should be working to end. Our "housekeeper"? We were at this inn for one night. Why would you tip someone just for doing their job? In any case, we did have a most enjoyable stay and had fun discovering an area that was completely new to us. Outstanding.

Plaza Garibaldi

Overall I'm not much for "virtual travel". I have met people, especially in Spain, who have become real experts on certain countries or cities without ever having visited the particular place of interest. Typically I'm not interested in acquiring greatly detailed familiarity with the geography, history and customs of specific places by surfing the web. It's a curious phenomenon. Well, now I have an exception: Plaza Garibaldi in Mexico City. I can add it to my list of "must" do peregrinations. Until I do get there, however, I will continue to read about this fascinating plaza, most famous as the epicenter of mariachi music. OK, so in some regards it's just a tourist trap. But it still seems like a compelling place, rich in history, architecturally interesting, and culturally significant. We'll get there before too long. And don't ask me where this interest came from, it's just one of those little mysteries. One detail for today: if I were still a drinking man, I'd head for the corner of Plaza Garibaldi where you find La Hermosa Hortensia, a famous watering hole for pulque, the traditional, pre colombian Mexican drink made from the fermented sap of the maguey plant. Well, we'll go there anyway, but I will pass on the pulque. (In the photo, inside the pulquería La Hermosa Hortensia.)

Back in Málaga

Wonderful to be back in Malaga! Towards the end of a very quick visit. The conference in Antequera was interesting; there were some excellent presentations. My paper went well, but towards the end I realized I had gone past my alloted time. My conclusion was a little abrupt; not my best ending, but overall it was fine. Was sorry I couldn't spend more time with some of the other participants. Very warm weather! This kind of travel is a little tiring. Wow! Last night I followed the Sox one-strike-away meltdown on Yahoo. Now I just read about it. Baseball is great fun in its unpredictability. It's not over until it's over. Ain't it the truth! It's also true that Papelbon had given many indications this year that his dominance is not what it was in the past few years. Oh well, let's be happy for the Angels.

Green Pennsylvania

On our way back from Ithaca yesterday we took the slower route, coming down route 14, which parallels the interstate-like 15 a little to the east. Beautiful! A seemingly endless green valley, with the classic Pennsylvania ridges to our sides, running on and on. Along the way we stopped and bought some good Paula Red apples. We passed through some interesting little towns: Alba, Ralston, Roaring Branch... I can imagine that people from these (disappearing?) communities have a very strong sense of place, and feeling the enchantment of the valley, I was reminded of an observation of Washington Irving's that I read when we visited Sunnyside a couple of weeks ago: Irving wrote of the importance of growing up in the shadow of a major natural wonder, and believed in the advantages of having a connectedness to a shore, a mountain, a lake, etc. Perhaps this is a significant deficit many of us suffer, a weak or non-existent relationship to a major natural feature. I grew up in the suburbs, with no natural wonders anywhere in sight. Little by little, however, I did develop a feeling of connectedness to "the woods". That might just be my "natural" environment, a New England woods. Shadowy, cool, inviting. You can smell it. Hear the murmur of a small stream. Our poets and essayists have so defined it that one easily becomes trapped in the idealized version of it. Another of my many, many bits of good fortune: the natural feature most dearly connected to my imaginary Arcadia is hardly disappearing; to the contrary, the woods are expanding and here in Pennsylvania there is a miraculous abundance. Lots of space to get lost in!

And incredibly, these seas of green have some impressive islands. Cayuga Lake, for example. Our paella picnic on the water's edge was great fun. Jay and Karen brought a big salad to accompany the rice. Fortunately, there was a very large bush to protect us from the breeze coming in off the water. It would have been impossible to keep the gas going without that shield. More good fortune: Alma and Cristina brought friends with appetites, so a paella that could have served 25 people was almost completely consumed by just 16. It was really a lovely evening.

Far From the Sea

For the first time since being back in Carlisle I woke up feeling momentarily confused. Where's the sea? The sun? Maybe it's because yesterday I saw Fernando and Luis, who are in town for a brief visit. But it's ok: looking out the window at our little garden, the quiet neighborhood... this is a good place to be. We've been in NY twice in recent weeks and the excitement of Manhattan is an experience I enjoy tremendously, but I'm not complaining about being here. Walking through the Dickinson library yesterday afternoon with Fernando and Luis reminded me just how lucky I am. (And curious to think that Steve and Noah were walking through the same library just hours earlier. It was great to see them here, even though it was so briefly.) Places... what an incredible luxury to have the time to even consider the advantages of one over another. And how about all those expansive, mainly-empty-of-human forests between here and Ithaca! (Good luck finding anything remotely like that in Europe!) Every time we drive up there I get such an urge to just veer off to the west a little, spend a few days exploring the great Pennsylvania wilderness. One of these days... As Asun and I were driving back to Carlisle, having dropped off Cristina and visited too briefly with the Ohlstens (Arcadia north!), we talked about how lucky Alma and Cristina are: the opportunities! Yes, they are fortunate indeed. Higher education in this country is quite a universe. It's so easy to criticize! True, many of us have had the experience of speaking with a college graduate and thinking, wait a minute, a college graduate? Did this person learn anything? Etc, etc. And it's so easy to make fun of college course catalogues. And we pay good money so they can study... this? But, the opportunities are truly fantastic. Young people, but certainly not just the young, in this country have spectacular opportunities, and you sure don't need to go to Cornell or other elite schools to get them. Even community colleges can be impressive gateways. I guess what I'm getting at is the notion that we live in a society that is impressively fluid in terms of socioeconomic mobility. Elites are not predetermined. Well, we talked about that for a while and it helped overcome the sadness of saying bye to Cristina.

(Last night I saw Peg and Mac for the first time in two years. Poor Mac had a major stroke ten months ago, but he seems to be recovering well. He's walking, talking, and it was just great to see him. Mac, you're right, in spite of it all, it keeps getting gooder and gooder!)

Memorials

A week ago I took Daniela and Elisa to Washington for a quick visit. Our first stop was the Lincoln Memorial. I've been there at least a dozen times, but it never fails to move me. In general I'm very leery of grand memorials or monuments of any kind, but I've always admired Lincoln and his way with words, so I feel tolerant as I look up at the massive figure in his big armchair. The Gettysburg Address is a real gem, a marvel of concision. On the other hand, when I look out from the Lincoln Memorial to the Washington Monument and, way back there, Congress, I feel it's unfortunate that some of the more intellectually interesting figures of our past get such short shrift in the capital, and in our collective memory generally. Where's the monument to Thomas Paine? Benjamin Rush? Hamilton? After paying homage to Abe we went by a very different kind of memorial: the one dedicated to those who died in Viet Nam (and Southeast Asia generally). Always sobering. Then it was a superficial museum tour: Air and Space, the new Native American museum, and Natural History. Impressive places, that's for sure. On the way home we stopped by Gettysburg and so Elisa got an extra dose of US history and was able to connect the words inscribed inside on the right hand wall of the Lincoln Memorial to the place where they were pronounced.

Yesterday a different kind of memorial: the funeral service for Rod Hough. Lots and lots of people. Rod died quite unexpectedly, so I was a little surprised at what a "festive" atmosphere seemed to dominate. I stood in line for over an hour to make my way to the family to offer condolences and during the wait got to greet lots and lots of folks, mainly from AA, who I hadn't seen in a couple of years.

And today it's up to New York to bring the young malagueña to JFK. Another little detail for my memory: as I write my forearms feel on fire: the itching of poison ivy. Oh man, am I stupid! Know your weeds!

Transitional moment?

Yesterday Asun, Daniela and I drove up to Little Compton from Carlisle. We stopped in Manhattan and had lunch with Alma and Jake. Very heavy traffic on 95. Peter and Widgie prepared us a wonderful dinner. Peter grilled swordfish and chicken and there was salad, fresh peas, and corn on the cob. And rasberry crunch for dessert! All wonderful! During the dinner conversation our little "Western Leone" adventure came up and Peter said I had to write about it, as it was like a transition experience for our return to the US. True! On the way back from Almeria we took the interior route, as opposed to going along the coast. Soler, Maria del Mar and Murphy were in one car; Daniela, Asun and I in another.  In the middle of the Almeria desert we stopped at a classic tourist trap: "Western Leone". This is an area where many spaghetti westerns were filmed in the sixties and seventies. You can visit some of the sets, but I doubt the place we visited, right off the highway, was an actual set. Maybe. It seemed more like a mini-theme park built specifically for tourists. Just like in the movies: bank, saloon, general store, sheriff's office... even a stand for public hangings right in the square! Well, the theme park had clearly gone out of business and now four locals were trying to make a go of it. Well, it was four guys and a woman (girlfriend?) who sold the tickets at the entrance. We were accompanied by about a dozen other tourists, all of us looking pretty stupid being outdoors in the 100+ degree heat. We were just in time for the 'big show'. The four guys running the place did a standard scene on horseback: the bad guy comes and robs the bank, the sheriff and his trusty but none too bright assistant put on the chase, and it all ends with a classic shoot out. The good guys, of course, win. Audience participation encouraged! How many times can you be threatened with a gun in twenty-five minutes! It was all very silly, but these guys had a good sense of humor and everyone seemed to laugh off the fact that we'd just been had. Well, that's what the old west was all about, no? But all for a good cause: keeping five people gainfully employed. We had signed up for lunch before the show, so after pictures with the 'stars' we trudged over to the restaurant. The actors got mainly out of character and morfed into restaurateurs. The ticket taker doubled as the cook, the sheriff became our waiter, etc. The food was pretty bad, but what else could be expected? After lunch we drove off, but not quite into the sunset. It was still scorching hot. That night, good food in Pedregalejo, where Julián and Fernando joined us. Good byes. Bittersweet.

Back in Carlisle

We made it back to Carlisle, Waldo survived the marathon, and on Sunday we had a very, very brief family reunion. (Alma took the train down from NY and spent a few hours with us before having to head right back.) The first time we'd all been together since Christmas. Splendid!

When switching countries after an extended time it's impossible to avoid being comparative. I can't help it and I think I've written about this before. On this occasion, one of the little details that really struck was an observation I made at our local Comfort Suites, where we stayed Sunday night. The rooms at this hotel are quite large and very nicely appointed. By European standards you'd think you were in at least a four star hotel. The spaciousness and nice furniture were what you'd find in a five star hotel. So what's with the giant coke machine in the hallway? Then, at breakfast the next morning we have to serve ourselves with plastic plates, plastic utensils and paper cups for the coffee. I found the contrast rather startling. And what did we actually eat? Several carbohydrate options, including do-it-yourself waffles, that you could top with a variety of flavored corn syrup products. That's another very American characteristic: the idea that having "options" is absolutely requisite in every phase of life. But until you become used to this little cultural tic, it's terribly annoying. I better not get started... 

It rained last night here, what a wonderful sight! The lush vegetation is overwhelming. Also overwhelming is the sea of boxes that has occupied our house. Very slowly we are making progress. And trying to paint the living room at the same time. Help!

Córdoba

Daniela arrived Wednesday night and yesterday we took her to Córdoba, as she hadn't been there since she was a little girl. Córdoba, birthplace of the stoic philospher Seneca, the physician, Torah scholar and philospher Maimonides, and many, many great poets, including friend Pablo García Baena! But yesterday we focused our time on the famous Mosque-Cathedral, where we had a great visit. It is one of the world's truly extraordinary structures. It was built in the VIII century, then expanded in the IX and X centuries. Then the Christian temple was plopped down in the middle in the XVI century, but not finished until the latter part of the XVIII century. That's a millennium project! There's so much to see, including the spectacular Mihrab. (Asun and Daniela in front of the mihrab in the top photo; a mihrab is a niche in the wall of a mosque that points the faithful towards Mecca), but perhaps above all it's the size and the endless arches that most impress. Córdoba was a world center of wealth and power in the ninth and tenth centuries; today it's a pleasant provincial city, living mainly from tourism, services, and the wealth produced in the surrounding country side by olive oil. After lunch we visited the fortress-palace (Alcázar) created by Alfonso XI in the XIII century. It's not nearly as impressive as the Alcázar in Seville, for example, but it has much to recommend it, including its wonderful gardens, along with an extraordinary collection of Roman mosaics and sculptures. The mosaics were discovered right in Córdoba in 1958 and are the most impressive I have ever seen. They also have a marvelous III century Roman sarcophagus, discovered in another relatively recent excavation (see photo, above), of beautifully sculpted marble. Family size! The door in the center represents the entrance to Hades. On the right we see the family patriarch, who must have been an important local jurist, indicated by the scroll he holds, and in profile a sage is perhaps indicating to him the True Path. On the left is an image of the patriarch's wife. The sides of the sarcophagus have elegant reliefs of Pegassus. We ended our visit with a wonderful treat: the Arab baths! Fantastic hydrotherapy in a most pleasant setting. Massage included. Mens sana in corpore sano! In addition be being really quite relaxing, the occasion afforded an opportunity to discuss briefly with Daniela, while lounging in the warm water pool, the meaning of "civil", "civilized", etc. Civilization! (Workers, unemployed, retired, children, etc. of the world unite! You have much to lose, but get your societies organized to provide all its citizens with very high quality footwear and good hytrotherapy, and we'll all break free of some really stinking chains!)

A Day in the Country

Yesterday we enjoyed a beautiful afternoon out in the country, back at Rosalind and Chris's place up behind Frigiliana. It was yingyangy weather –hot when the sun came out, chilly when the clouds passed over. Rosalind made another very nice paella. We brought some boquerones (anchovies) that I had prepared on Friday: cured in vinegar and lemon juice for twelve hours, then drained and covered in olive oil with some salt, garlic, and parsley. (See top photo.) Very good! What a wonderful spot: quiet, spectacular views, an unbeatable climate. Enviable. Photos are better for this.

Antequera, Again

Yesterday we took Danny and Mark Steele to Antequera and had a really fine visit. We started with the megaliths, then lunch at El Angelote, where I had truly one of the most outstanding steaks I've ever eaten. Had I known it was going to be so incredible I wouldn't have ordered it because post-consumption I had to deal with the guilt. But forgiveness is always but a step away: after lunch is was the ecclesiastical tour -- the church of Carmen, the Teressian convent, and the church of St. Sebastian. Finally, on the way home we stopped at El Torcal and had a beautiful hike. The church of Carmen is always amazing, but what most got my attention on this trip were the little porcelain baby Jesus's in the museum of the Teressian convent. They are mainly 17th and 18th century figures, with a few from the 19th century. It's quite strange how the artists depicted Jesus in so many different "poses" and how the nuns dressed him up in all kind of manner. (Just like Barbie and Ken - an outfit for every occasion!) One of my favorites was Priest Jesus, depicted consecrating the host. Hey, the little kid is about to eat himself! Crybaby Jesus was also interesting (a tad more understandable, no?), and Sleepyhead Jesus was one I could definitely identify with. And I saw an image I'd never seen before: the Virgin represented as a little baby! And another: a painting of "Our Lady of the Book"! Now there's a good vocation, assuming, of course, we mean books in general. All these strange representations got me thinking about the strong emphasis here in Southern Spain on the most human aspects of their religion. The Counterreformation was no doubt for the most part a thoroughly awful undertaking that created unspeakable suffering for people around the world, but if there's a sliver of light to be found, apart from its superlative artistic legacy, perhaps it is in the peculiar transformation of religion that took place, in my view, in Southern Spain: the biography of Jesus becomes an elaborate drama designed to generate empathy and identification, and the importance of belief in "the one God" seems to dissipate. Belief becomes belief in ourselves. Humanism ends up winning anyway.

Our hike through the Torcal was quite memorable. We spotted several mountain goats high up on the strange rocks, and also saw two foxes (plural of fox? One fox, two fox; one fox, two foxes?) one of which was quite large. In the phot0, a carefree kid on the edge of a cliff.

Mascletá!

Valencia in Fallas! Can it get any better? We eat wonderfully, wander the streets, set off lots of firecrackers and a handful of some pretty big rockets, Daniela and Asun go to the bullfights, we see lots of fallas, enjoy the processions, don't sleep too much. A city on fire! This is a fiesta. Our journey started over a week ago, back on Tuesday the 17th. A full day on the rails. It was actually rather pleasant to experience again a "slow" train that had long stops at some of the stations. The train itself was comfortable enough and had a nice cafeteria, it just took its time about things. We got to Valencia around 5 pm and after getting checked in at the hotel, we made the 25 minute walk over to the Fallas Museum. This was a good introduction for the students and gave them a little more context for what they would be experiencing over the next three nights. Asun and I had a late dinner, which was very nice, but it sapped us of the energy needed to stay up for the fireworks. (The sea bass I was served was exquisite.) It was almost midnight when we left the restaurant, but the fireworks weren't until 1:30. Yes, 1:30 am. How many cities in the world start their fireworks displays at that hour? And the children stay up, too. Young families with little kids (firecrackers in hand!) and babies in strollers fill the streets at these crazy hours. Wednesday morning we took the students to see the huge "flower Virgin", a reproduction of the city's patroness, Nuestra Señora de los Desamparados, outside the Basilica where the original image is. 500,000 flowers! Then we visited the gothic cathedral next door, where one can see the incorrupt arm of St. Vincent, a third century martyr (yuukk!), and, yes, the chalice used by Jesus at the last supper! (The Holy Grail?) Well, that's what they claim, but apparently not too many people actually believe it. I mean, you'd think it would be a huge deal, but it's really not. The church is an old, old institution, so it's not surprising that it has lots of dubious history on display. For the most part, harmless superstitions. After a visit to the wonderful central market, it was time to get ready for the day's Mascletá, as always at 2 pm. Asun and I took our spots at around 1:15, so we were quite close, third row. It was a good one, launched by Pirotecnica Valencia. Postmodern. The rhythms were playful and innovative, not your typical maslcetá, but the thunderous finale did not disappoint. Very satisfying. But the next day was going to be Ricardo Caballer, the Maestro. And did Caballer ever come through! Asun went to the morning bullfight with Manolo, so I took Daniela, who had arrived Wednesday night, to the big show. Front row. The wait was fine and went by fairly quickly, a good chance for Daniela to fill me in on school, ballet, etc. In the security zone between us and the "cage" from where the mascletá would be launched, a perimeter that varies in width from about ten to thirty yards wide, I estimated there were about 200 or 250 firefighters, red cross workers, EMTs, Civil Defense volunteers, cops, etc. A couple of big fire trucks and a dozen ambulances. This does contribute to the sense that something BIG is about to happen. At around 1:50 the crowd is starting to get a little worked up. 100,000? 200,000? Who knows. Then, ka-boom! The ten minute warning. A few minutes go by: KA-BOOM! The five minute warning: the firefighters and others put on their helmets and ear protecters. We're just a few yards away, but we're going to let our ears get blasted! A few people in the crowd around us have had to be taken to the ambulances. Heat exhaustion? Daniela is just a little nervous and I joke to her that last year only six people died. I ask the woman next to us for confirmation, she gets the joke right away and says, no, it was sixteen. Finally, what we've all been waiting for. From the balcony of City Hall, the mayor hands the microphone to the Fallera Mayor. It's a corny little ritual, but it sends a chill running up my spine every time. Always in Valencian: "Senyor Pirotecnic! Pot començar la mascletá!" ("Mr. Pyrotechnic, you may commence with the Mascletá!") A roar from the crowd. And the madness is underway. For the first thirty seconds or so we are still within the realm of the earthly, but then things get... different. The blasts get more intense, the drum beat faster, louder. What the hell is going on? More, more more... The rhythms keep changing, varieties of cadences, back and forth between the crack, crack, crack of the big firecrackers and the heavy Booms of the mortar fire. At about three minutes you think maybe this is it, it's reached a peak. But no, we're just getting started. The true thunder hasn't arrived yet, but it's almost here. Celestial music. Transcendent. Transportive. And total, utter, madness. Four and a half minutes in: this city has lost its collective marbles and it's absolutely marvelous. An explosion of adrenaline. Pólvora! Dynamite! The world is coming undone. The ground is shaking. Louder, louder... Daniela can't believe it, but she loves it. We all love it. Overwhelming. The nice man who let Daniela slide into the front row, who's never been here before, can't believe it. Has it ever been this intense? Caballer has gone crazy. Screaming, lots of joyous screaming. I spy tears of joy around me. Five and a half minutes: the thunder is here, totally deafening, the Plaza completely filled with smoke, momentarily darkening the sky. And then one last jaw-dropping, bone-rattling series of blasts. Chaos, apocalypse, the END. Unbelievable. The railing breaks open, we all run over to the fence of the Cage to applaud the smoke, to cheer Caballer. Lots of people with stupid smiles, euphoric giggling. The anthem: "Valencia in Fallas!" And we all agree we'll be back next year! Watch the video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXAnNAvaMpA

Barcelona

Still working backwards: Saturday was a full, fun day. We started with a visit to the Picasso Museum, whose main interest for me is the 1950s series of paintings dedicated to Velazquez's Las Meninas. I never tire of admiring Picasso's obsessive homage to the master. (One of the Fallas in Valencia this year played with the idea of a Time Machine and included among its many 'sketches' Velazquez jumping forward to the XX century to strangle Picasso for his 'heretical' interpretations of his work.) From the museum it was a stroll through the "barrio gótico" and a failed visit to the cathedral- something going on with a bishop, so it was closed to tourists. Then we walked over to La Rambla and up to La Boqueria, the famous central market. Tourist madness! It's just incredible what a tourist magnet Barcelona has become ever since the 92 olympics; that's old news, but this year seemed worse than ever. I thought we were in some kind of huge economic crisis? After the market we sent the students off to explore on their own and Asun, Daniela and I took a taxi up to Parc Güel, the Gaudi designed park. More tourist madness! Then a quick stop at the hotel before starting our stroll in search of lunch. We lucked out again: La Botiga, a simple, contemporary kind of place with excellent food. I had black rice with a dab of ali oli that was wonderful, but I admit not as incredible as the one we were lucky enough to have late last summer at Estado Puro in Madrid (see "Madrid", 9/15/08). Daniela's cod was fantastic, and Asun's monkfish was apparently exquisite. After lunch we continued our walk down La Rambla towards our destination, El Liceu, the famous Barcelona opera house where we were going to see Nederlands Dance Theatre. The Liceu suffered a devastating fire back in 1994 and had to be completely rebuilt. Well, they did a fantastic job, that's for sure. It's quite reminiscent of the Teatro Real in Madrid, but a little bigger and with all kinds of contemporary comforts. It has a good sized orchestra section with layers of vertical u-shaped rings going straight up to the ceiling. I would guess it seats about 1500, maybe 2000. The dance was interesting. We enjoyed the first half of the program ("Silent Screen") very much, but the second piece ("Tar and Feathers") was hard to figure. It was inspired by a very late poem by Samuel Beckett, "What is the Word?" Dance? The whole experience to me seemed rather pretentious and ultimately unconvincing. Charlotte Kasner, in a review from a performance last year, called it "a real downer". My evaluation was pretty much the same as hers: "much slapping of flesh against flesh and frantic flapping of arms and hands to no particular avail. It all became far too much when dancers ran on in a parody of ballet tutus that rattled like dried bones. Too long, too empty and too, too self-indulgent... The music was murdered Mozart."And what's with the title? Absolutely nothing to suggest it, neither in the Becket poem nor in the dance. Nonetheless, we had a grand time and it was a satisfying experience. Back to Friday, very briefly: we visited Gaudi's Sagrada Familia and Casa Milá, a modernist apartment building that is actually quite interesting. And another spectacular lunch at a place whose name now escapes me. The perfect cod! And we finished Friday in fine fashion: Mozart's Requiem performed by the Prague National Chamber Orchestra and Choir at Santa Maria del Mar, a huge, beautiful gothic church with seating for a good two thousand people. That was Mozart. Sublime. (In the photo, Daniela and me at the Liceu.)

Back in Malaga

Six days on the road. It was a wonderful trip, but it's good to be home. I'd like to comment on so much of what's happened, but I think I'll just start from the end and little by little work back as time allows. Yesterday in Barcelona we began the morning with a visit to the Miró museum with the students. Miró's work really doesn't say much to me. I guess more than the work itself I feel curious about how he became the famed figure he did. After that visit, Daniela, Asun and I walked over to the Art Museum of Catalonia in the Palau Nacional. I had never been inside before and was quite surprised by the size of the collection. It's huge! We limited our visit to some of the Romanesque, Renaissance and Baroque art. Two works impressed me especially: a XII century polychrome wooden Christ on the cross and an Immaculate Conception by Zurbaran. The anonymous Christ figure is quite curious because the artist has him dressed in a colorful tunic that is rather oriental looking. Jesus on the cross, but triumphant, and no sign of suffering save the touch of sadness on his frowning face. And more than suffering, the artist seems to have captured a look of disappointment: look at what these dopey humans are up to! It's a very different story here. The sculpture's geometric harmony is also quite impressive. And the Zurbaran painting is wonderful. Even though it's an icon I've seen treated a million times, there's so often something interesting, something different. As usual, Zurbaran uses really young models, and I think in this case he's using the same model he used for the Sleeping Virgin painting I saw in Malaga (see "Sweet Dreams", 10/21/08). The colors are fantastic. The girl looks happy, worry free. Unfortunately, no image available. This museum also has a wonderful collection of late 15th century Hispano-Flemish painting, a really curious style in which faces, in particular, are depicted with extraordinary realism. After spending close to an hour wandering through what seemed like endless galleries, we decided an early lunch was in order, as Daniela had to get the 3:30 train back to Madrid. The Palau Nacional is a huge edifice constructed for a World's Fair in 1929. It was beautifully restored for the 1992 olympics. Well, our luck was good as we found a very nice restaurant right in the museum, and with a beautiful view of the city below us. The food was excellent, but a complete review merits a separate entry, as our time in Barcelona was marked by a trio of truly outstanding lunches. It was sad to say goodbye to Daniela, but we'll see her here in Malaga in a couple of weeks.

Lisbon

Everyone says Lisbon is a beautiful city. I guess I'd agree, but I don't buy into the contem- porary Romantic vision of Lisbon as a city that's managed to preserve some sort of stamp of authenticity because it's seen less urban renewal than other European capitals. Tourist nonsense. What struck me on this visit was how amazingly uncrowded a city it is. Maybe some of that impression was due to the fact that we were there on a weekend and the locals were staying off the streets. Still, Lisbon on a Saturday evening is nothing like Madrid, where you can barely move on some of the downtown streets. After visiting with the students the big monastery built during the reign of Manuel I in the early 16th century and the Bailem tower on Saturday afternoon; then Sintra on Sunday morning, Asun and I had a nice walk around the Alfama neighborhood, followed by a walk down to the Plaza del Comercio right as the sun was setting over the mouth of the Tagus. In the photo, the Bailem tower, built to defend the entrance to the city in the 16th century. 

Santiago de Compostela

Last night we got back from our trip to Santiago and Lisbon. It seems that all went well. Asun and I certainly enjoyed ourselves tremendously, and I believe the students did as well. The weather could not have been better. It was a long drive, but not nearly as bad as last year. Using two vans worked out quite well. We had our lunch break in Tordesillas, where Juana la Loca, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabelle, was locked away in a convent for thirty-four years. The convent is still there, but it had closed for lunch and we couldn't visit. In Santiago we made the usual visits and spent time just walking the city's enchanting Ruas. In the cathedral's museum I admired an image of the Virgin I don't recall having noticed on previous visits. How could I have missed it? Quite strange: imagine representing Mary as a pilgrim on her way to Santiago, as if she were out for a Sunday stroll! I was rather touched, as this image, which I've certainly never seen anywhere else, corresponds to a very high degree with a mental image I have of a possible assumption, described in an entry back in August (See the entry for 8/16/08). But in this case it's a horizontal journey. Asun and I really lucked out at lunch time. With dozens and dozens of restaurants to choose from, we just picked one somewhat randomly. Good choice! The octopus was perfect, the barnacles exquisite, and the turbot Asun had wonderful. The old town of course is in most ways always the same, but many of the stores, bars and restaurants have been refurbished in recent years and overall the place is a lot more prosperous looking compared to years past. In the photo, the baroque main facade of the cathedral, as seen from the Alameda park, looking through the filter of a just flowering tree. Notalgia madness: I had that view with Asun twenty-seven years ago; could never have imagined then we'd return all these years later, and much less in the circumstances that surround us!

La Candelaria

This past weekend we had an interesting trip to El Rocío, the site of the famous Spring romería. Our students joined Manolo and his big group for the Candelaria, a minor celebration. We had bad luck with the weather, to say the least: lots of rain, strong winds, cold... The hotel was "interesting", full of senior citizens participating in Inserso trips (in itself worthy of an entry!) In any case, the Flamero is a classic example of the kind of building being done in the 1960s and 70s: cheap and ugly! This hotel needs some serious restoration work. Many guests woke up Sunday morning to find lots of water in their room. Asun and I were lucky in that regard. On Saturday morning we visited the monastery at La Rábida, the place where Columbus waited for Isabelle and Ferdinand to finalize their conquest of Granada, after which Columbus was hoping for some attention from the Queen and, ultimately, support for his adventure. The key connection here was one of the monks who had been Isabelle's confessor. Chris didn't go there to pray. We had planned to visit the reproductions of Columbus's ships, but they were closed, so we had to content ourselves with a view from the distance. Lots of sitting around the hotel Saturday afternoon, then a visit to El Rocío that night. It was odd: we fill a bus and make the twenty minute trip from the hotel and in theory we do this because there is a religious service in the church. But no one is interested in that, so we've made the trip to go hang out in the one bar that's open and listen to Manolo's group sing songs. Oh well, at least there wasn't too much rain that night. And the bar had pretty good coffee. Sunday morning was another story. A deluge of water. More sitting around in a bar. The "presentation" of the children to the Virgin was a curious ceremony and it was certainly interesting from a sociological perspective. Parents held up their kids and thrust them at the image of Rocío, a true goddess. Some seemed almost overcome with emotion, tears streaming down their cheeks. A people's temple: it was loud! Rather striking to be inside a catholic church and see people talking on their cellphones, for example. There are signs everywhere saying no photos, and some pleading for silence and respect. Hopeless. In the photo above, a recent dawn as seen from our terrace.

El Acebuchal

Yesterday Asun and I went up to the Acebuchal, a fascinating place in the mountains behind Frigiliana. We were joined by Fernando, Antonio, María del Mar, Chris and Rosalynd. After the Spanish Civil War there were some small groups of guerilla fighters who tried to keep the cause going. They hid out in rural mountainous areas around Spain. The tiny, isolated village of El Acebuchal, really just a tight cluster of eight or ten very modest homes, was shuttered by the Civil Guard shortly after the war. They feared that the village was too sympathetic to the Maquis, as the rebel holdouts were known, and that it was too isolated for them to control. And so for decades the Acebuchal was a ghost town that fell into complete decay. Then in 1998 the children and grandchildren of one of the families that had to abandon the place began to rebuild. And it kept going. Apparently they have been quite faithful to the way things were before the war in their restoration efforts. I believe five or six families live their full time now. The result is quite charming. There is one little restaurant and that, of course, was our destination. Lunch was superb: salad, lamb in mint sauce, goat in almond sauce, and wild boar. Coconut cake for dessert. 

Recent Readings and Travels

It would be nice if I had more time to comment on some of my recent reading. Over the Christmas holidays, in addition to the Richard Price novel Bloodbrothers, I read Gabriel García Márquez's short novel, Memoria de mis putas tristes. (It was translated to English by Edith Grossman with the title Memories of my melancholy whores.) Garcia Marquez writes beautifully, but the story didn't say much to me. An old man who has just turned ninety decides he wants a virgin before he dies, so his old friend the local madame sets him up with a fourteen year old girl. His initial desire is thwarted but he ends up falling in love with the girl. I've also been reading Luis Garcia Montero's most recent essay, Inquietudes bárbaras, and Paco Ruiz Noguera's just published collection of poems, Arquitectura efímera. Paco's book has been a real pleasant surprise. There is a definite change in tone and style with his earlier work; the language is simpler, more direct. I owe him a note. Bloodbrothers was good, the first novel I had read by Richard Price. It's rigid determinism reminded me of Zola. The Garcia Montero essay is rather frustrating, heavy on argumentation, but sparse with examples that might give some weight to his line of thought. Maybe I'll come back to that another day, but right now I want to jot down a few notes on yesterday's little excursion to Comares, a very small village up in the Axarquia, the eastern most part of the province that includes some coastal towns and mountain villages that are at altitudes of over 3,000 feet in spite of their very close proximity to the sea. Yesterday Comares was de fiesta, celebrating their patron saint, St. Hilarion of Poitiers. Odd for this little village to have a fourth century French bishop as their main man, and I don't know how that came to be. In any case, our little group was welcomed by the mayor himself and his wife just before the mass that would be followed by the procession of Hilarion down to the square and then back to the church. I hadn't been in a church for a service in a long time and I guess I was reminded why: the priest very earnestly explained to the faithful that our current economic mess was completely due to the fact that we had turned away from God. Oh well, people didn't seem bothered, they were just waiting for the procession. So Hilario was marched down the very narrow street to the plaza where the ten or twelve men carrying the throne were served beer by... the mayor himself. (This guy was everywhere, and with his amazing toupée was easy to spot!) Then it was back to the church for the saint. And an open bar for the two thousand or so people in attendance. Yes, it was all on the house, or should I say, on town hall. All the beer and wine you could want. At 4 pm the soft drinks and water were all gone, but the beer and wine was still flowing. And there was plenty of free food, too: chorizo (served by, yes... the mayor himself!), blood sausage, wonderful olives, and, of course, paella for everyone! The serving of all this food and drink was appropriately chaotic, but the students who were stoic enough to wait in line very kindly brought me a plate of paella. And it was actually quite good. And of course, music: two or three pandas de verdiales, a good banda de charangas, and finally the "orquesta", consisting of a female vocalist and two men with those computerized keyboards that produce whatever you want, in this case, mainly a very heavy bass thumpa, thumpa, thumpa. I'm not exactly sure why, but I had this sensation that the leader of the group was on a weekend furlough from the provincial prison. Then shortly before five pm we had a truly esperpéntico moment: the band was ordered to stop the music. A funeral procession. Right through the square they marched, even breaking the line of the people still waiting for paella. The lack of solemnity, of respect for that family's drama, was, for me, observing from a distance, while not surprising, nonetheless rather stunning. Well, it was a beautiful, sunny day and I'm sure a memorable experience for the five students who joined us.

The Holidays are Really Over Now

Yesterday Cristina and I went to Antequera to do a little tourism. It was a cold day but we had fun. This was my second visit to the Church of Carmen since its restoration and I found it just as amazing to see as the last time. Always new details to admire. The photo above is a little detail from the pulpit. After that taxing visit we went into the Poor Clare's convent to get some of their baked goods ("Ave Maria Purisima" I greeted the nun hidden behind the "lazy Suzan". "Sin Pecado Concebida" she responded. Then we could get down to business.) After a quick cup of coffee at a nice little bar, we visited the city museum and were fortunate enough to have a great guide. She pointed out several details I had missed in earlier visits, including a chasuble that was created in the early fifteenth century from a flag of the Moorish kingdom of Granada. Incredible! There is lots of other liturgical paraphernalia and art that I find fascinating, including a 16th century life-sized sculpture of St. Francis carved from a single piece of pine by Pedro de Mena. And lots of other amazing "stuff". Our visit had begun with the megaliths just outside town and in the one with the deep well at the center, a "modern" work, I couldn't resist contributing a little of my spit to the pool at the bottom. Plip! And I couldn't help being reminded of Basho's famous frog haiku, which for some reason I had come across a few days ago in an essay. Here's Allen Ginsberg's translation: The old pond / A frong jumped in / Kerplunk! On our way out of Anequera I slammed on the brakes when I saw that the church of Santiago had its door open. Fortunately there was just a little space to leave the car on the side of the narrow street. I had never been inside and didn't want to miss this opportunity, as it seems to usually be locked up. Cristina stayed in the car and I told her I'd be just a minute and to come get me if there were a problem with the car. There was just one elderly lady in the church. She was sitting in the back pew, praying. I wandered up towards the main altar, which was presided over not by Jesus or Santiago, but my a huge Virgin, in this case Our Lady of Good Health (La Virgen de la Salud). I was just standing there when the old woman startled me by tapping my lower back. She was about four feet tall and looked to be well into her eighties, if not nineties. She asked me where I was from, then took me by the hand and started to lead me right up to the altar. For a moment I feared she thought I was a heathen and she was going to make me get down on my knees and repent. But no, she got out some keys, unlocked a little door hidden in the wall and pushed me up a tiny staircase which led me up behind the main altar to where the Virgin stands under an unbelievably densely decorated baroque cupola, her chamber. Fun! Then my octogenarian friend asked me if I might like to have an image of Our Lady. Would I! So she brought me into the Sacristy and got me a little photo which is now in my wallet. Then she got out the collection basket and suggested I might like to put something in it for the upkeep of the church. Not a problem. Apparently satisfied with my modest contribution, she took my hand again and led me over to a little side chapel dedicated to Our Lady of Work. (La Virgen del Trabajo, not a common devotion! Damn, it was if I were nine years old again, opening up a pack of baseball cards and lo and behold there's Mickey Mantle!) In this chapel she pointed out an old baptismal font in which the year 1611 was clearly carved into the white marble. Cristina could hardly believe her eyes when she saw the old lady accompany me out the church; she wanted to point me in the direction of the next church I should visit. But I spared Cristina, as it would have been ecclesiastical overload for her. On the way home we stopped and had lunch at a local classic: Venta El Tunel. I write this having just returned from taking Cristina to the airport. Now it's just Waldo and me.