A Spanish Holiday
07/11/08, Hotel Gudia, Madrid
At long last and through tireless lack of planning, we have arrived. Jeremy and I are in Madrid
for the start of our 10 days (minus 2 for flying in nasty airplanes) Spanish summer holiday. We
are here because I promised Jeremy a trip to anywhere in the world, (except North Korea, Iraq,
and Iran, no axis of evil for this patriot no matter what 43 says about them) between his high
school graduation and his freshman year of college.
I assume this will be the last close personal time we will share for several years. As he grows
into proto-man and the adventures of college life consume more of his attention, there will be
less time for parents. As children lurch toward the self realization that comes from the loss of
parental control, it is right to expect their communications will subside. With the exception of
calls for money, I expect to hear less and less from Jeremy. Not that expecting it will make it any
easer.
I ask you, how better to close this chapter of our lives than to spend 10 days of 24/7 proximity
traveling in a foreign country on a bus full of AARP tourists looking at museums, old buildings,
and bored tour guides? This will either cement our relationship for the rest of our lives or be that
stinking trip from summer hell we have all experienced.
Jeremy was already in New York for college orientation, so we planned to meet at the airport for
the flight over. Neither of us had an easy go on the first leg of the trip. My flight from Orlando
was 2 hours late in leaving due to mechanical problems with the airplane and the inability of the
over stimulated (not that New Yorkers need additional stimulation) Disney refugees to find their
seats or to obey the commands of the air crew. Jeremy’s own saga involved a long bus ride from
New Jersey and a lazy shuttle driver between Newark and JFK. When all was said and done we
were in JFK, we did make it through security, and we did board the sardine can that would wisk
away the miles, and deposit us gently on the sunny plains of Spain. And so it did. We unfolded
ourselves from the 0.2 square inches on space we had been crammed into for a sleepless night
and had arrived in Madrid.
After a couple of hours of much need rest, and with Jeremy still sleeping off the effects of the
flight, I set out to drink up the sights and smells of this ancient city. I was not disappointed.
Everywhere I looked the charms of the city where there to catch the eye and ensnare the senses.
There were wrought-iron balconies, marble statues, and graceful pillars supporting the weight of
centuries, while the broad tree lined boulevards beckoned the walkers with their cool shade.
After walking for a while and feeling a bit dry in the throat I found a table at a café on the Grand
Via. My Spanish vocabulary is not that extensive therefore my drink choice was limited to aqua,
leeche, and cerveza. Sitting there watching the world zoom by, sipping a cool life-enhancing
beverage, several things occurred to me. The first was Spanish traffic was less chaotic that I had
imaged. Though the cars and motorbikes zip along at the maximum speed of congestion there
was not the crazed traffic dancing I have witnessed in other crowded cities. When the buildings
and streets of these older cities were laid out, what architect could envision vehicles of greater
that 6 horses going faster than a trot? During a thousand of years of horse drawn transportation
the broad grand avenues of the great European cities must have seemed so spacious. The side
streets and alleys were plenty wide for a cart or two to pass. While the pedestrians trampled
through the sludge that covered most streets, there was plenty of time to get out of the way of the
ox cart and horse drawn carriage.
Fast forward to 2008, Madrid a city of close to 4 million people and what seems to be 8 million
petrol breathing machines brings me to my second revelation. Almost every vehicle I saw, be it
Mercedes or VW, Toyota or Audi, brand new or beater, was smashed up. The damage was
mostly broken mirrors, stove-in bumpers, or deep gouges down the sides. I sat there wondering
are Spanish drivers really that bad and if so I can’t imagine what their insurance rates must be.
Then it dawned on me. They are not bad drivers, no, far from it. They are very skilled drivers
trying to cope with streets designed to handle a few hundred donkey carts. I watched the cars
work their way between the curbs with inches to spare while dodging pedestrians, motorbikes,
steel posts, stone walls, and each other within a hair’s width of another battle scar. This is one
city where I was glad to leave the driving to the pros.
My final observation was - am I looking at America’s automotive future? I saw nary an SUV.
There were no trucks on the road larger than a Nissan pickup (except commercial trucks and
even these are small). There were no Toyota Land Crushers, no Lincoln Navigators, and no
gigantic pickup trucks. They were mostly small, light, efficient, passenger cars, and gaggles of
motorbikes. Europeans have been dealing with overly crowded roads and very high fuel prices
for years and know how to cope. This reality we are just beginning to face. Unless something
radical happens with alternative energy in the near future, America will at last be forced to scrap
the concept of massive status-based automotive consumption. Will fuel prices at last signal the
end of America’s obsession with “supersize me”?
July 12, 2008
Today’s schedule was a bus tour of Madrid, a quick survey of the Prada Art museum, and a
walking tour of Toledo. Jeremy and I had meet most of the other people on the tour and our
guide, Nicolas Palomo, at a dinner the night before. As with Madrid traffic, my expectations
were way off the mark. Instead of the fanny packed, obese, ugly American blue hairs I had
envisioned (with dread for Jeremy’s sake) the group was of contemporary age, in good physical
shape, and international. There were a half dozen folks in the I-Pod demographic, so Jeremy was
not be forced to spend the whole trip hanging out with people who grew up listening to 8-tracks.
Madrid is a remarkably beautiful city, which I leave you to discover for yourself. Nor will I dive
too deeply into the Prada Art museum. I don’t know enough about art to comment comfortably.
However, with over 8000 paintings and more old masters per wall than mosquitoes at dusk, it is
impressive to say the least. We only did a quick survey of Spanish painters on one floor. The
guide said it takes at least a week to see the museum and a lifetime to appreciate.
After the Prada, Jeremy and I sneaked off down a side street and found a little cerveceria for
lunch and some conservation. This time alone made the trip well worth its weak dollar cost.
On the subject of dinning, the Spanish approach is very different from ours. Breakfast runs the
gambit from light pastries and fruit to heavy meats, sausages, and eggs. Prominent at the hotel
buffets were stacks of Jamon Iberico (smoked ham – the good stuff comes from acorn-only fed
pigs and is rumored to cost more than €100 per ounce) that was sliced so thin you could work the
NY Times crossword through it, but exploding with flavor at every bit, strange sausages, baked
tomatoes smothered in cheese, mountains of breads, and scrambled eggs you could sip with a
straw. Spain’s best breakfast innovation, and one that marks Spain as truly civilized, is chocolate
con churros. Churros are light, not-too-sweet, deep fried pastry sticks, which are dipped in hot,
melted, rich dark chocolate. If you need to jump start your day without the Krispy Kreme DTs,
this is the way to go.
Almuerzo, aka lunch, starts around 2:00pm and can easily run a couple leisurely hours. This is
the main meal of the day and is more about socializing than cramming down a few thousand
calories before running back to the afternoon’s drudgery. Never once was the bill presented
before we finished our meal. You asked for it when ready to leave. Never was I made to feel
rushed or hurried to leave by the staff. The atmosphere was relaxed and no one seemed to care if
we spent the afternoon reading the paper or engaged in idle conservation, whether we were
ordering food and drinks or not.
For a Spaniard, cena (dinner) starts around 9:00 or 9:30 and is not the heavy meal consumed by
westerners. If you could find a place to eat earlier than 9:00pm (which I suspect is an
accommodation to internationalism) the place would be deserted and the service would be
indifferent at best, but justified since someone barbaric enough to eat so early would hardly
deserve first class service. Much as this sound like a hardship it really wasn’t. First after a
massive lunch and before the cool of evening sets in one simply doesn’t feel like eating.
Secondly being high summer, it does not get dark until after 9:30 anyway. So it felt very natural
to be sitting down at 10:00pm. Thirdly, one could easily enjoy a few liters of Sangria and tapas
from say 8:30 to 9:30 or 10:00, by which time the palate and brain had been properly stimulated,
a light meal was perfect. If after dinner additional Sangria had been on the menu, I was assured
by our guide a few chocolate con churros would put you right.
As good as the chocolate con churros were I cannot say from personal experience whether they
had the restorative powers our guide claimed. I found I did just fine with liberal and consistent
applications of chocolate mousses. I had one of these in Madrid and never looked back. To this
chocolate lover the mousse was perfection.
After lunch we were back on the bus for an afternoon trip to Toledo. Known as La Ciudad
Imperial (the Imperial City), Toledo was capital to the Romans, Muslims, Spaniards, and to the
Vatican as the seat of the church in Spain, until the 16th century when Carlos I moved the capital
to Madrid. Located on a hill and protected on three sides by the Rio Tajo it is easy to see why
this city was chosen as a capital. Thinking of defending a city from the barbarians (unless of
course as a resident you consider the bus loads of tourists as barbarians) is not foremost on the
minds of today’s city planners. But it was in days of yore and defensively the location of Toledo
was well selected. The view over the cliffs into the valley of the Rio Tajo was a splendor that
should not be missed.
As most of Spain, Toledo was for centuries an international melting pot blending Jews, Muslims,
Christians, Romans, Europeans, and Moors into a mish-mash of culture, art, and religion. During
our short tour of the Jewish Quarter, we visited the Sinagoga Del Transito, built in 1355; it has
been restored to its original state as a striking example of the Mudejar style. The Mudejar style of
architecture and art is the blending of the Moorish plaster work and a brick building techniques
commissioned by the Christian rulers of Spain after the Reconquista. It is the style represented in
most pictures you see of Medieval Spain, unique in that it combines the intricate plaster
geometric design of Islamic art with Christian images of people, beasts, and Devine figures, in
what was a Jewish synagogue. Try doing that in today without starting world war III!
We then visited the Iglesia de Santo Tome, which houses El Greco’s painting El Entierro del
Conde de Orgaz (The Burial of the Count of Orgaz) from 1322. I’m not that much of a fan of
classical religious art, but this painting was just plain weird. The Count has just died and his
spirit is being conveyed to heaven by a couple of saints sent down by a waiting God and Jesus.
Count Orgaz must have been a major player to have God stop what he was doing and dispatch
St. Augustine and St. Stephen to attend his funeral. Included in the miracle’s A-List crowd is El
Greco, his son, and Cervantes. Either we are viewing some of the biggest egos in the Western
world or “The Greek” had been into the magic mushrooms again.
As we walked the twisting, narrow streets and confused alleys of the old town you could
appreciate what it must have been like to live in Toledo during its days of grandeur. Known for
arts and metal working it was one of the three major arms producing cities of Medieval Europe.
Toledo steel was considered some of the finest available in its day. We visited a workshop and
showroom specializing in the Damasquinado style of fine hammered gold inlay work. The
intricate designs are created by hand and I can assure you they are beautiful to look at, heavenly
to touch, it’s just a shame they had to cost so much. I spotted a backgammon set with gold and
silver pieces, dice in gold, silver, and exotic wood inlay. The price was only €15,000.00 and the
salesman was not that interested in playing a few games.
I thought while in Toledo I would try to find sword as a souvenir. I did find a sword. It was a
beautifully worked basket hilt rapier. Light to hold and well balanced. The hilt guard, handle,
and pommel were worked in gold so fine that it would have made any nobleman proud to use it
to skewer a villain or two. However, at just a little under $10,000.00 I carefully slid it back into
its scabbard, and gently handed it back to the salesman. I watched his face fall with the certain
knowledge I wasn’t going to make the next payment on his summer villa in the Alps. I wish we
had had more time to explore Toledo and to get out of the tourist district, but the bus was calling
us back to Madrid.
Dinner in Madrid that night was quite an event. There were 12 of us. We found a tapas bar with
enough empty tables to hold us. We ordered wine and beer and in perhaps one of the biggest
mistakes of the trip, told the waiter to bring us tapas. They brought tapas, tapas, and more tapas.
They were delicious and in all probability we would not have tried half of them if ordering on
our own. The problem was they just didn’t stop bringing them. After stuffing ourselves silly,
there were at least a dozen plates left on the table hardly touched. About a third as many servings
would have been more than enough. The bill was only €340.00. But split around 12 ways it
wasn’t too bad. Since the weak dollar has made travel in Europe expensive, tourist counts are
down along with the income they generates. Given free rein into a bunch of Anglos’ wallets the
restaurant staff was not going to leave the pigeon, unplucked. We ended the evening by washing
down the bitter taste of foolishness with chocolate con churros and mousses. Nicolas was right;
chocolate can make things right.
July 13, 2008
Sunday in Madrid was a free day. Jeremy wanted to go to a street market. A quick check in the
Lonely Planet (a great guide book) put us onto the El Rastro. This is a Sunday morning market
that covers several blocks and side streets in the La Latina district. We were warned by the guide
that it was an unsavory place full of pickpockets, gypsies, tramps, and thieves and was best
avoided. So Jeremy and I hopped on the subway for a short ride and found ourselves in one of
the better street markets I have encountered. It was full of gypsies, tramps, and thieves, but it was
also full of police, shoppers, and great vendor stalls. We had a blast.
This was the real Madrid we had been looking for. You could buy everything from underwear (6
for €2.00), to a thousand year old silver crucifix (yea right!) for, well I didn’t ask the price. There
was hustle and bustle everywhere, with barkers calling out their wares and prices, each one
trying to out yell the other, shoppers bumping each other as they vied for the chance to rummage
through the goodies on the tables. Jeremy bought a couple of Spanish language movie posters
and I bought a new straw hat.
If you like flea markets and getting away from the tourist traps, I highly recommend the El
Rastro. Don’t do anything foolish and keep your wallet secured and you should have no
problems with the gypsies, tramps, and thieves. In fact they made for some mighty fine people
watching.
That afternoon, Jeremy wanted to go to a Spanish language movie and I did not. He took off for
the theater and I walked over to the Naval Museum. Located on the Paseo del Prado, just down
from the Prada Art Museum it was an easy 10 minute walk from our hotel. The models, covering
Spanish naval history from the age of the great explorers through the modern era, were excellent
and on par with those in the Smithsonian. They had a 16th century parchment map drawn by Juan
de la Cosa, showing the first views of the Americas. There were naval artifacts from all eras,
including a display of Nazi weapons from WWII. My favorite room was the Oriental and South
Pacific collection. It was a bit of nostalgia seeing things I encountered when I was sailing
through the Pacific Islands on the Picton Castle.
The Museo Naval is a brilliant presentation of Spanish naval history, well worth a few hours
during the heat of the afternoon, and the admission is free.
July 14, 2008 Hesperia Sevilla Hotel, Seville
We spent the day on the bus for a 540k (about 350miles) ride through central Spain bound for
Seville. The EU trucking rules require drivers stop every 2.5 hours for a rest and technical
(bathroom) break. Commercial vehicles are equipped with a black-box that records driving
statistics, like speed, distance, and time are recorded, for download and analysis by the Central
Committee for the Correct Application of Overly Oppressive Rules to Ensure People don’t Work
all that Much, or the CCCAOOREPWM for short. A bus or truck has an electronic circuit/key
that must be inserted into the black-box, before the vehicle will start. It checks to see the driver
took the prescribed rest time for each stop. It may even check to see if he flushed and washed his
hands during the technical part of the stop but I’m not certain about that part of the system.
We rolled across the summer-brown dry planes of La Mancha, looking for Don Quixote and the
windmills, heading south towards Cordoba. Driving though miles of parched grass lands, broken
only by farm houses, windmills, castles, and olive groves, this part of Spain reminded me of the
prairies of the central western US, except for the windmills, and castles, and olive groves. You
just don’t see many castles or olive groves in Kansas. Spain is the biggest grower of olives in
Europe. Most are exported to Italy, juiced, and sold as Italian Extra Virgin. EU rules allow a
country to claim origin of manufacture if there is a certain percentage the countries product
mixed into the finished product. Nicolas said Spain was OK with this arrangement. Spain will
produce the raw product, sell it to the Italians, and let them do the assembly, marketing, and
exporting. Sort of the whole Pan-European Union thing in action.
After driving the approved 2.5 hours the bus pulled into a rest area, complete with stores, for our
prescribed technical break. The shop sold pure Spanish olive oil and I can very close to buying a
few liters. As I was making my selections, the vision of a liter can of pure extra virgin olive oil
rupturing in my bag; lubricating my clothes, the airline baggage system, and anything else it
came in contact with a pungent film of oil. I put the cans down and slowly stepped back from the
shelf. After all I can by the same thing at home with a lot less baggage risk and, given the Euro
exchange rate, close to the same cost.
Back on the bus, we roared on through the Spanish country side for at least another 20 minutes,
until it was time to stop for lunch. You gota love those EU rules! We had a nice lunch at the rest
area cafeteria and hopped back on the bus again for an early afternoon nap to Cordoba.
Cordoba was founded by the Romans in 152BC, so it’s been around for a while. As you come
into town, spanning the Rio Guadalquivir is a beautifully restored Roman bridge. Still used for
foot traffic its’ strength and grace made the modern rectangular steel boring bridge standing next
to it look pitiful. I would be surprised if this 2000 year old Roman Bridge wasn't strong enough
to support car traffic, it just wasn’t wide enough. Cordoba fell to the Muslim’s in 711AD and
remained under their control until was conquered by Fernando III in 1236. During the Muslim
period, Cordoba was a center of learning, philosophy, and religious tolerance. It was in this era
Muslim and Jewish philosophers tried to harmonize religion through the application of logic and
reason. They were not entirely successful.
The central architectural artifact of the old city is the Mezquita. This massive building started life
as a Visigoth church was turned into a mosque around 785AD. In it’s final Islamic form the
carved wooden roof was supported by over 1200 marble columns (borrowed from old Roman
and Visigoth buildings) each with a different capitals, topped by half as many red and white
brick arches. The pictures you see of the candy stripped arches in most Spanish travel stuff,
probably came from the Mezquita.
From the 13th century on things start to get a bit strange. The Muslims are out and the Christians
are in and in 1236 the Mezquita becomes a Christian Cathedral. For the next couple of hundred
years the building is modified, restored, and updated in the Mudejar style blending Islamic
design with Christian symbolism. In 1523, plunked right in the middle of this massive (it is hard
to fathom how big with out seeing) Islamic building is a Christian chapel, transept, and choir.
Gone are the carved wooden roofs, replaced by high vaulted ceilings blending gothic,
renaissance, and baroque stone works resting on top of the original Roman columns and Islamic
double arches. As you stand at the intersection of the Latin cross, at the center of the Cathedral,
looking along each arm of the cross perspective shrinks to a single point down endless rows of
hazy columns and arches. The effect is quite dramatic once you get past the overwhelming mixed
religious metaphors that define this unique structure.
After a walking tour of the old city, which was a lot like Toledo, we climbed back on the bus for
another good nap to Seville.
We arrived in Seville in early evening and settled into the hotel. Dinner was provided by the
hotel for our group and rated as the most mediocre of the trip. Not that it was bad, it just wasn’t
very good. My impression of Seville was it was less crowded and less frantic than Madrid.
Traffic was not as heavy, the cars were not as smashed up and there were a lot of bicycles. Most
of the sidewalks were extra wide to accommodate a two way bike lane. The city has a great bike
rental program. All over the city you see stands of bikes. Not fancy racing bikes with gears and
skinny seats but ROBs with fat tires, comfortable seats, and baskets. They are locked into the
stands. If you want to use one, you slide your Use-A-Bike-Card into the ATM-like machine next
to the rack, select the bike you want, and off you go. When you get to your destination just click
the bike back into the lock and you are billed for the usage. Nicolas said the cost is about €0.50
per half hour. What a great way to cut down on vehicle traffic in the city.
Jeremy was a bit tired out and wanted to turn in. After ditching the kids, the adults walked into
the city to check out the action. Using the belfry of the Cathedral (more about that later) as a
guide we hiked into the center city where at 10:00pm things were just getting going. The plazas
were full of restaurants and outdoor cafes, but we were looking for more liquid type
refreshments. Two of the group were from the Los Angeles area and spoke fluent Spanish. After
several inquiries we were wandering through the deserted alleys/streets of the Barrio De Santa
Cruz looking for the red door.
The directions we were getting took us further and further into the Barrio and as it did the night
got quieter and quieter. There were five women and me, walking through the back streets of an
ancient residential neighborhood looking for a red door. The buildings closed in from either side
of the alley. Or was it a street? It was hard to tell. The night air was still, no lights were showing,
no sound of voices. Only the hollow echo of our shoes on stone and the low nervous muttering of
our English disturbed the night. Then as if by magic we arrived at the red door.
The red door was actually a club called La Carboneria. Housed in the site of an old coal yard, La
Caboneria has somewhat of a reputation as one of the better off-the-path night spots in Seville. In
the club was a large indoor area, a couple of bars on either side of the room, and rows of concrete
bench seats like you would find in an old sports arena. The seating faces a small rickety wooden
stage. In the courtyard was a lovely tree filled garden area, with dim lights, uneven tables and
chairs, and a view of the night sky. The kind of place for lovers to snuggle the night away. We
arrived about 10:30pm and the club was almost empty. We were having drinks out in the gardens
enjoying the night air until around 10:50. Then all of a sudden the place was packed. Inside was
standing room only and there was no way you could get anywhere near the bar. At 11:00pm the
flamenco started. Not the flamenco you see at the resorts and in the movies. No young slender
bailarin, no flaming handsome bailador locked in the passions of love. The bailarin was middle
aged, a bit on the hefty side with a top heavy physique that should not have been able to stand
upright without an aft side counterbalance. The bailador was past middle age, balding, with a
midsection that would make any good old boy NASCAR fan proud. The tocador was a young
man with a sullen face and slicked back jet black hair.
The tocador could play. He made that guitar sing with such passion. The bailador had a
wonderful voice, and though I couldn’t understand the words, his songs would tug at your
emotions. When the bailarin began to pound that poor wooden stage, I though it was going to
collapse from the weight and shock. It didn’t and their performance was wonderful. Just like the
Rastro, this was the real Spain; the Spain I wanted to see. After there first set, the tocador was
playing a few songs and it being a bar, people were talking and carrying on as people will do at a
bar. This did not sit too well with the bailarin. She jumped up on the stage and started to hush the
room, with determined but limited success. It was a great night.
July 15, 2008
Today was a bus tour of Seville. The city is, in my opinion, more beautiful than Madrid. Loaded
with parks, tree lined streets, ancient buildings, all being watched over by the Guadalquivir
River. It was not as crowded as Madrid nor did it have the same frantic energy. We stopped at
the Plaza De Espana. The focal building of the 1929 Inter-Americas fair, it is a huge semicircular
palace with fountains, grand stair cases and bridges partly enclosing a massive courtyard. The
lower walls of the palace are decorated with painted tiles depicting the regions of Spain. Our
guide said the Plaza De Espana was used in fourth Star Wars film (episode I) as the back drop
for the big crowd scene at the end of the film. I will have to rewatch it to see if I can pick it out.
It would have been a great venue for a Grateful Dead concert.
Across from the Plaza De Espana, are the grounds of the old tobacco factory. Now part of the
University of Seville it is the workplace of Bizet’s Carmen. Today it is just a semi gloomy
neoclassical building full of students.
Our last official stop was at the Cathedral of Seville. As with many other churches in Spain this
one also started its life as a mosque. When the Christians conquered Seville 1248, they took over
the mosque and turned it into their main church. Around 1400 and with the building in bad repair
the church fathers decided to knock it down and “create such a building that future generations
will take us for lunatics”. I’m not so sure they proved themselves fruitcakes, as I have seen a lot
of crazier buildings, but they did succeed in building one honking big church.
The Cathedral is no doubt a beautiful building, but to me it was too much. There is so much
visual stimulation it is hard to concentrate on any one feature. Between the Gothic and
Renaissance stone work, the massive choir and organ, the ornate gold and iron work, the stained
glass windows, and the shear size of the building, the person tends to get lost. I’m not sure how I
would have felt as a peasant grubbing out a subsistence living while seeing the millions of pesos
poured into such a grandiose building. I understand all about the central nature of the church
during this period of history and its role as a political and social instrument of state, but to build
such a building to celebrate the life of a Jewish carpenter seems to me to be a bit over the top.
Perhaps the builders did prove themselves lunatics after all.
One thing the Cathedral has is one of the three tombs of Christopher Columbus. To one side of
the choir are giant statues of four pall bearers holding a massive bronze sepulcher. The four
statues represent Castilla, Leon, Aragon, and Navarra, the four kingdoms of Spain as they existed
in 1500. The crypt appears to be about 10 feet long and stands a good 6 to 8 feet above the
ground. Inside are a whole 149 grams of Senior Columbus. When you are the discoverer of a
couple of continents I guess it takes several tons of bronze to keep you in one place, even if all
that is left would fit into a large cereal box.
Genoa and Santo Domingo also claim to have the last remains of Columbus. To prove they have
the real deal, the Seville Cathedral authorized a DNA test. Chris’s brother Diego is buried in the
Cathedrals floor. So a little bone dust, a few carefully selected chemicals, some laboratory
magic, and TADA, we have a winner. What is in Seville is in fact what is left of Christopher
Columbus. What or who is buried in Genoa and Santo Domingo is still open for debate. But does
it really matter? After all he was important to all three cities so why not let them share the dust as
it were.
On the northeast side of the Cathedral is the Giralda. What started as the minaret of the mosque
which originally occupied the site was converted into the Cathedral’s bell tower. We hiked up
the 37 ramps (no steps) to the top. Close to 300 feet above the city, the view was spectacular.
What really caught my eye were the roof tops. The houses are crowded together, as you might
expect in a city several centuries old. So there is no room to build but up. On many roofs, under
breezy light canopies and surrounded by wooden decks and gardens, were swimming pools. It
must be heaven to escape the worries of the day by relaxing on your deck, sipping Sangria and
taking a long cool dip in the pool. Sign me up!
That afternoon Jeremy went back to the hotel to do a little laundry and I spent the rest of the day
walking around the city. Just walking and enjoying the fine art of having a good time Seville
style.
July 16th 2008 Melia Costa Del Sol, Torremolinos
In the morning the bus rolled out of Seville for the final leg of our journey, heading for
Torremolinos and the beaches of the Mediterranean. We drove south through the Sherry wine
producing region of Jerez. It was a pretty drive though not all that exciting, just more of the same
low brown vegetation and dry plains broken by farms. After driving for a couple hours, as
prescribed by the CCCAOOREPWM rules, we rolled into Ronda.
Ronda was one of my favorite stops during our entire tour. An off track ancient town that is cut
in half by the 300 foot deep El Tajo gorge. The old Islamic section, called La Ciudad, is
connected to the new town by the Puente Nuevo (New Bridge) that was completed in 1793. The
views from the bridge and surrounding terraces into El Tajo are truly breath taking. From
gardens of the Alameda del Tajo you can see the Serrania de Ronda hills cradling the fertile
planes that have provided the needs of men and beasts for tens of thousands of years. As I gazed
across this panorama I could see a path leading up to a pass through the hills, I couldn’t help but
wonder; over the centuries how many have traveled that path. What riches and sorrows were
made possible by that low cut in those hills?
During window shopping (and some limited buying) in La Ciudad, I was separated from the rest
of our little group. This gave me the chance to meander about on my own. I crossed back to the
new town and was just idly walking down the side streets when I heard the sound of drumming.
Following the sounds, I found myself in a large plaza with a large church on one side, a two
story building with open balconies at the back, shops and restaurants on the other side. In the
center of the square was a large fountain and raised stage area. I had stumbled on the opening
ceremonies of a European folk festival. There were groups from Spain, Italy, Rumanian,
Senegal, and several other European nations. Each nation’s performers were dressed in their
native festival costumes, performing traditional folk music and dances.
Unfortunately the show was spoiled by the drummers from Senegal. Each time a different group
would take the stage to perform, the drummers would start banging away. Being in a semi
enclosed space of stone work, the drums drowned out the other music and completely messed up
the dancers timing. The crowds and performers were getting very upset and things could have
turn ugly. Finally the drummers shut up and another racial confrontation was averted. There are
racial, immigration, and religious tensions in Europe just as there are in America. This little
interchange is an example of the difficulties being played out on the international stage.
While the politics of art were being sorted out, I ducked into a café, ordered some lunch and a
jug of wine. When the music and dancing started back up and I knew I had reached nirvana.
What could be better than enjoying good food and wine, watching great entertainment,
surrounded by classical buildings, under sunny Spanish skies? Desert was provided by a young
family and their toddler playing in the fountain. There were water jets shooting out from the
sides of the fountain. This little boy, having been shown by his father, was having great fun
putting his hands into the water jets to divert the flow. This went on until the little guy got a bit
aggressive with the hands and managed to hose himself squarely in the face and chest. After the
shock and surprise came the howls and tears. I wished I’d had a camera.
As I finished lunch, the Folk Festival performer moved from the plaza to the side streets. They
would parade down the streets stopping every so often do a couple of numbers and move on.
This was entertainment before there were TVs and I-Pods and I rather enjoyed the old school. On
one of the side streets I found a little shop which sold, among other things, some very fine
Toledo steel. I purchased a beautiful folding knife with solid brass end caps and olive wood
handle for a fraction of what it would have cost me in Toledo. If I ever visit Spain again I plan to
spend several days in the Ronda area, for it has much to offer that time did not allow for.
Back on the bus we drove through the tallest mountains yet. The roads were twisty and the cliffs
were high. What I would give to run that road in a shiny new Porsche Cayman and no policia. By
bus it was fine, this time, and we did reached Torremolinos in one piece.
We arrived at the hotel late in afternoon. My first impression of Costa del Sol was that I had
some how spaced warped to Miami. It was wall to wall condos and hotels built from a few miles
inland right up to the coastal road. What was not a hotel or condo was a tacky souvenir shop,
restaurant, or bar. It was crowded and hot. Not to worry because the first course of action was a
swim in the Mediterranean. The water was cool, salty, and very deep. Just outside the shore
brake, no more than 30 or 40 yards from the beach, I could not touch the bottom. It must have
been over 20 feet deep. In that cold deep water so close to the Straights of Gibraltar, I wonder
how many hungry jaws were just waiting for a little Spanish tapas for lunch. Nobody else
seemed concerned and I didn’t see anyone being eaten, so I figured it was OK. After swimming,
a group us walked down the beach to a little cabana bar to celebrate the end of another glorious
day in Spain. We had an awful Chinese dinner (not my choice) and then walked the boardwalk to
window shop and people watch.
July 17th 2008
Today’s adventure was a bus trip to the Rock. Gibraltar is a peninsula sticking out from the
southern coast of Spain that has been occupied since Neanderthal days and like most
geographically important pieces of land has been fought over since Neanderthal days. The 1384
foot cliffs on the northern and eastern sides and the ability to control passage into and out of the
Mediterranean made Gibraltar one of those must have military treasures that generals are so
willing to let their young men die for. The British gained possession in 1713 and have held it
ever since. In a strange twist of fate, during WWII much of Gibraltar’s civilian population was
evacuated to Malta and England where they would be safe from German attack. During the war
Gibraltar saw no fighting and very little bombing, whereas Malta and England had the stuffing
bombed out of them. After WWII and with the development of better ways to kill people from
father and father away, its military importance has declined. Now Gibraltar’s fortunes turn on
tourism, ship repair, international banking and money laundering. It is also home to 30,000
people and about 15,000 cars.
We slipped across the border (actually across the airport runway) with a quick show of our
passport, a smile to the guards and arrived in England: red phone boxes, Fish and Chips shops,
and pounds sterling. As you would expect in a military setting there were walls, gates, cannons,
and the like all over. The upper part of the Rock is full of man-made siege tunnels and natural
caves. While visiting St. Michael’s cave, our local guide quipped that there are so many of these
tunnels and caves around Gibraltar that the insurance company who uses the Rock as its symbol,
would be more accurate to use a block of Swiss cheese.
On our way down from St. Michael’s cave we stopped at the cable car mid-station to check out
the local apes. They are Barbary macaques, which legend has that as long as the apes are on
Gibraltar it will remain in British hands. Several years ago they almost died out from diabetes
from all the sugary junk food they were being fed by the tourists, (parallel to current health
issues in the US). After bringing in a replacement group, the macaques are now very well cared
for. They are fed twice a day, see a vet a couple of time a year, and get no more junk food. As
snacks from the guides and tourists they get dried pasta. We were there about 10 days or so after
baby time and the moms had little black fuzz balls clinging to their undersides.
After our tour of the Rock, we had some time to spend walking the high street and the city
square. The shops were all crammed with this that and the other but nothing special. Prices
weren’t too bad (until you converted pounds to dollars) but they weren’t good enough to make it
worth buying anything. Jeremy and I had lunch in the square. It was just OK and cost a small
fortune. I was glad I saw Gibraltar for all its historical significance, but it really wasn’t all that
exciting a place to visit.
Back in Torremolinos, I finally convinced our little group to try a paella dinner. We walked the
boardwalk until we found what looked like a good spot and the feast begin. Between eight of us,
we cleaned up three huge platters and several pitchers of Sangria. Though I would rate this paella
about an eight on the food-o-scale (not enough seafood, no chicken or sausages in it) it was still
pretty darn good. After dinner, the ladies wanted to go dancing at a club that was “just down the
boardwalk a bit”. I had no interest in going to a dance club but a walk along the beach would
purge the sin of gluttony so off we headed. We walked, and walked, and walked, and … After
about an hour and around 11:30pm, I was ready to give it up and head back to a nice soft bed.
But the girls said it was just a little farther. So on we went.
Finally around midnight we made it to the club. The place was deserted! There were three bars, a
hip-hop DJ making dreadful noise, and a couple of kids hanging out in the corner. We ordered
drinks (mine was so bad I didn’t finish it) and the girls danced a couple of dance. They mostly
sat around and complained it was the wrong kind of music to dance to. I had to agree with them
it was the wrong kind of music, period.
Roseann (a great traveling companion from NY) and I decided to hike back to the hotel. It was
about 1:00am and yet there are hundreds of people, from kids in strollers to old folks with
walkers, flowing up and down like some nervous flock of birds who can’t make up their minds
which way to go. On the beach next to the boardwalk were dozens of elaborate sand sculptures.
One had a fountain that was spraying fluids from various parts of the figure’s anatomy. There
was a huge castle complete with a drawbridge, a moat, and flaming torches. The stroll home was
quite pleasant.
July 18th
This was our last day in Spain and given the night before it was a quiet one. We spent it at the
beach, swimming in the Med, or at the pool. In the afternoon Jeremy and I walked up the
boardwalk for some lunch. We found a little beach side place and spend a pleasant couple of
hours eating, drinking, and chatting. After lunch, Jeremy wanted to find some Spanish language
videos, so we browsed the shops along the beach and hiked up into town. Though Jeremy didn’t
find his videos it was a nice way to spend the last of our Euros. For dinner the usual suspects
went to a nice place on the beach that had a three course dinner with desert and a drink for €5.00.
The price was right as I only had €10.00 cash, and it was a good meal to boot.
What a perfect end to a great summer vacation! Jeremy and I had a great time. The Spanish
people were friendly, our fellow travelers were first rate, the food was great, the sights were
wonderful, and the accommodations were comfortable. There are many places yet to visit on my
bucket list, even so I would take another Spanish holiday in a heartbeat.
July 19th
We left early for the flight to Madrid and arrived there with no problems. The flight to New York
was comfortable, mostly because the plane had a lot more room then the flight over. In New
York, Jeremy and I went our separate ways home; Jeremy back to Macon to get ready for college
and I back to Tallahassee.
As pleasant as the flight from Madrid to JFK was, the flight from JFK to Orlando was a horror
show. First the plane was a couple of hours late arriving. Secondly I heard more English being
spoken in Madrid than I did in JFK. Thirdly the passengers waiting in JFK were acting just one
level (and not a very large one) above animals. Rarely have I witnessed such a display rude and
disgusting behavior. European futbol hooligans are more civil than that bunch. When it came
time to board the plane, the gate agent called for pre-boarding of wheelchair and people with
small children. This horde rushed the gate, pushing people out of their way and completely
ignoring the gate agents as they tried to restore some semblance of order. Finally the agents just
gave up and did best they could getting the few civilized people left waiting (including the
wheelchair bound) on the plane. Things on the plane weren’t much better but the air crew
managed to get everyone into a seat so we could get going.
In Orlando I was one of the first of the passengers to arrive at the baggage claim and was the last
to leave. My bag did not come out on the carousel. I went over to the lost baggage claim to deal
with that mess and there sitting on the ground was my bag. I had been waiting all that time for
my bag and it was sitting in the baggage office. To say the least I was not pleased! When I asked
the agent why my bag did not come out with the other bags and how it arrived before I did, he
gave me a surly look, told me to $%^& off, and walked away. And the airlines wonder why they
are going broke? I would rather travel by ox cart before I would get on another US based
airplane.