Reporting in from the field. We have gotten to Valencia, driving in a very small Volkswagon, commandeered by an excellent driver, 45 year-old guy, bearded, balding (with hair implants), seeking a youth his years as an IRS treasury agent and diplomat denied him by acting truly goofy with a 30-some year- old pretty, blue-eyed, longish brown haired girl friend, an attorney from El Paso, who sings, drops into different accents at a moments notice and insists on crazy pictures at every turn. P--- with whom I have traveled before, is in her 60s, short, permed gR hair, wears long-sleeved cotton workshirts and cargo pants (three of each, each worn three days, we had to find her some deodorant), with sneakers, and takes pictures of everything and everyone, and uses a humming rebreather C-pac machine at night. So there are your cast of characters.
We have been hitting just the highlights since we haven´t had much time at any one city. Thanks to Galen and Carmen, we have maps with circled areas to visit! In Madrid P--- and I went to see the Royal Palace of Charles III with its magnificent Versailles-like ceilings with murals of Greek gods and ornate rococco gold trim everywhere. The armory had probably 200 years worth of the royal armor trimmed in gold and silver and weighing a ton, I´m sure, even armor for the young royal princes and the horses.
After much debate and ¨no, you decide, no, you, no, whatever you like, no, no....¨ I finally made an executive decision and we had a dinner of a huge paella (saffron rice and shellfish) and lots of wine (I had Sangria, but they had wine, since P--- and her husband, R´s father, owned liquor stores back in the day and are thus very knowledgeable about all the various wines and enjoy indulging day and nigh). It turns out they don´t eat breakfast, and only snacks for lunch then a large evening meal at an appropriately Spanish hour of nine or ten at night. Of course, since we don´t get to bed until midnight or later, it is challenging to get up early, so we don´t hit the road until ten or eleven in the morning. Not much time left for museums, palaces, or art, which they don´t mind since that is not what they want to see- they are perfectly happy driving the country-side and taking silly pictures.
The second day in Madrid was at the Prado, the gorgeous art museum which houses paintings from all the great painters of both Spain and the rest of Europe. My friends preferred to go to the park and picnic on the grass, carefully avoiding looking at or accidentally taking pictures of the various gay couples carousing nearby. After reveling in the magnificent art, I hustled myself off to the Casa del Libro and the FNAC- the best bookstores in Madrid, and bought every book they had on Charles III, the 18th century, and Arab medicine. I had to buy another suitcase with wheels to carry them all. Actually there wasn´t much, which puzzles me since I would have thought the Spanish would like this period. I´ll find out more when I get to Seville since I have appointments with two professors who study the field. That should help.
In Barcelona, I let them go stroll the water front and go to the beach for a picnic (where they got horribly sunburned) while I went to the Sagrada Familia and took the audioguided tour. Despite the jack-hammers, saws, grinders and polishers of workers building the cathedral (it should be done in about 100 years) making as much din as the thousands of tourists, I just tucked into the earphones and gaped up at the towering ceilings, glowing stained glass rose windows, twisted naturalistic columns, strange carvings and thousand-seat choir loft -which should sound stupendous some day. For now, the audio-guide´s admonitions to take time to meditate and enjoy the majesty of the building was challenging given the chattering students, pushing and shoving tourists, flashes from cameras, and banner-waving guides calling to their flocks. It was still awesome.
I was desperate to see as much as I could of the rest of Barcelona, so I invested in the bus tours of the city on the double'decker bus. They do have earphones, but one of my seatmates was French, so I got to hear part of the tour in French. Turns out I can understand quite a bit, although my spoken French, when I attempted to converse with him, was pretty pathetic. Still got to see a lot and learn about the city. I guess I just like learning!
Yesterday, after a late start (and this surprised me? I´m sort of getting used to it) we finally got to Vilanova, a pretty little town south of barcelona where we were to meet Betty Miller, an American artist at the train station. We were only half an hour late. She turned out to be delightful and gave us a tour of Vilanova. We got to meet Jose Maria, her significant other, who is an architect working on restoring some of Vilanova´s´three hundred year old houses. Makes our little hundred year-old log cabin in Huntsville look pretty archaic. After a coffee on Vilanova´s Rambla (a tiny- in comparison to barcelona- open, stone, tree-lined street) we had a chance to visit her art studio and see the wonderfully eclectic collages and paintings that she exhibits both here in spain and in Lynchburg, Virginia. I think what impressed R was the fact that her art sells for 3,000 to 5,000 Euros and even her tiny shells with lizard or bird skulls and miniature bottles sells for 350 to 500 E. You can find her on the web at BettyMillerArt.com.
I think perhaps I have made too many comments and asked too many questions that no one knew the answer to about the countryside since R suggested putting me on a fast train to Granada so I wouldn´t have to drive the backroads with them. Who, me, irritating? Would have been okay with me, but there aren´t any fast trains. So they will be stuck with me for the next two days. I promise, I won´´t ask any more questions about what that castle was, or whether we are going to stop in Tarragon to see the Roman ruins--we didn´t, of course, that is much too historical. Since I woke up at my usual 4 am this morning to write this lengthy novela, I´m sure i will sleep quietly for most of the day.
I am sitting in the lobby of the Olympia hotel in a tiny suburb of Valencia using their computer to write in the quiet of the early morning. No cafeteria yet, but I am for darn sure going to buy something to eat during the day at the Mercado around the corner other than cookies and water. Somehow, gas station snacks just aren´t real satisfying. Okay, enough whining. At least I have you to whine to, so I will be good the rest of the day!
Report 2
Abrazos from Sunny Spain,
More news from the battlefront. Made it to Granada late (nearly midnight)after a terrifyingly long but fascinating day cooped up in the back of the VW driving through the backcountry, but more about that in a moment. At present, dawn lighting the windows and glinting off the white-washed buildings in the town below , I am thoroughly enjoying the spacious sitting area of our suite. I think we got in so late that our “rooms” were all gone and the suites were all that was left although R claims he talked them into the regular room rate—you think?!
We are at the Alhambra Palace Hotel on the hill right across from the Alhambra as Galen and Carmen recommended. (They are friends who have traveled extensively in Spain and provided us with excellent maps with circles around important areas to see. Thank you, thank you, thank you!) I am sitting at a small glass-topped table with a real ficus tree beside me, and massive drapes held back with golden cords hanging beside ornately Moorish windows that look out over the town of Granada. The majority of it is a very modern city with high rise apartments everywhere, although there are also older, white square two-or three-story tile roofed houses clustered here at the base of the mountain on which the Alhambra is built. I need to go get our tickets for the Alhambra that we are scheduled to visit later today.
Interesting day, yesterday. It seems it is important to our current expedition to avoid interstates and to explore the back roads and “get lost”. Well we did. I had looked up the area we drove through yesterday on Google, hoping to avoid having my questions go unanswered. I seems that Valencia and parts of La Mancha, as most of Spain, was very much an Arab stronghold from 711 to 1492. I won’t bore you with all the history—and I was VERY careful not to bore anyone else with it, either. We saw old Moorish castles or their ruins on almost every peak in every direction we looked. Some have been restored and turned into tourist attractions. Others just form Washington Irving kind of romantic ruins off in the distance. Of course we did not stop to explore any of them, but we did stop for silly photographs. I am developing a distinct dislike for the sight of a camera!
We did go through a town where there is a brand-new, totally abandoned airport that was built with all the borrowed wealth from the Euro dollars courtesy of World Bank loans when Spain joined the EU. Unhappily, the area did not build up as expected and the airport has gone unused. Our leader is interested in investing in the area—as an ex-IRS Criminal Investigation Officer (maybe the IRS will get their own TV show someday?) , there is always a “reason” for the travels so they can be written off!!! When R and P went to Ireland last year he invested in some Irish banks, one of which has since gone under. He claims that P’s money, which he invests for her, wasn’t lost, only his. Ya think???
We were driving through very hilly country with switchbacks that made passing cars and buses a frightening challenge. The mountains are steep and rocky, very much like Colorado (or vice versa) with craggy upthrusts of orange, red, gR and blue rocky cliffs. In the valleys every possible space is taken up by fields of grains, vineyards with old and new plants, some short and others tall with thick gnarled trunks, and orange, lemon and lime trees in neat rows. Some places had small peach-colored houses with red barrel-tile roofs beside each farm field, others larger white “fincas,” the richer houses, with two or more stories and rambling out-buildings and additions, evidently made by generation after generation of owners. Each generation acquired larger acreages that they have found the funds to irrigate. There are standing pipes in every field, or irrigation pipes along the ground. Like most of Spain—or as R says, the PIIGS are now mired in debt from having trusted the banks and borrowed too much in order to join the European Union. The effects of the loans are everywhere, but no way to repay them. The PIIGS, Portugal, Ireland, Italy, Greece and Spain, are being brought to heel with austerity measures they do not want to implement and can’t pay for. It’s a frightening situation!
We stopped for pictures everywhere, R was even willing to make u-turns on the narrow roads to get back to a poppy field, or a particularly impressive view. One picture-perfect place had a valley with a Moorish castle on a rocky outcropping far away above us, a new arched bridge connecting the mountains in the near distance, a town in the valley to the left and two massive nuclear power plant towers to the right (too close for my tastes) on the river that meandered through town. We also stopped for pictures “tilting” (leaning!) against the windmills –giant modern wind generators –except there seemed to be a lack of knowledge about Don Quixote and what “tilting” at a windmill meant!
For a late picnic lunch (4 pm), we backtracked up a hill to a lovely little spot we had passed on the way down the mountain. Tucked into the mountainside beside the road, we found an abandoned two-story building with an old stone fountain built into a small level place. The fountain consisted of a stone archway with a catch basin where an old iron spout still poured water to fill the basin. We had bought groceries at the Consum grocery store before we left Valencia. (I had come earlier, way before they were up and bought fruits and veggies, and had a chance to stroll around the little suburb where we had found the hotel). R, the chef, used the back hatch of the VW to spread out the largesse. I offered fruits and salads but they were more interested in pates and hams and cheeses. They had bought wine, so we had wine, although thank goodness R did not. Facing those roads with a droopy, drunk driver would not have been good. I had one glass but P enjoyed an entire bottle, sipping throughout the day. Not surprisingly, she was cheerfully loaded by the time we reached Granada, much to R’s irritation since she had to show her passport and sign for the room when—and if—we ever reached Granada!
We wandered and wandered and wandered through the countryside. The grapes giving way to grains and citrus trees, Moorish ruin following Moorish ruin. By four in the afternoon, it was obvious that we were not going to make Granada by going through the countryside since we were still in the mountains of La Mancha, some seven hours from our destination. You know me, I started making comments, laughing with P in the backseat, about how late we were going to get in. It really is worthwhile driving through the back country, but my clock was ticking. I had gotten up at 4 am, my usual time to write, but we’d gotten on the road at one pm. After four hours of driving, Granada was still an elusive five to seven hours away (the whole trip would have taken five hours if we had stuck to the Interstate).
Our determined leader finally angrily asked if I didn’t realize what a “long day” meant. I assured him I didn’t. He meant 16 hours. I felt 8 hours cooped up in the back seat of a small VW was enough. He said he was on vacation and didn’t want to be bound by having to be somewhere at any given time. Turns out he had intended to finish “exploring” the mountains until dark, then arrive in Granada at midnight or two in the morning. Since I had been up since 4 am writing e-mails, I was perfectly ready to get to Granada by dark. After some disgruntled comments (surely not from me!), we got on the Interstate. Seven hours later we finally found the Alhambra Palace Hotel in the dark, on the hill with the Alhambra. It is one of about six or so hotels that can charge whatever they want for the convenience of being up here overlooking the city.
The hotel (at 400 E a night), is magnificent, of course. All Moorish tiles and marble floors, Moorish carvings in the ceilings and brass fixtures and ornate table lamps. P’s and my suite has a living room sitting area with big cushiony ottomans, large over-stuffed armchairs in berber browns and adobe colored walls. It would be useful if we had an entourage, but we don’t. At least it gave me somewhere to type! Paintings and prints of Moorish designs and Spanish costumed peasants from several centuries ago decorate the walls, and wide windows overlook the city from the glass topped table where I sit.
Look out, here comes the history. Turns out that the Alhambra was taken over by Ferdinand and Isabella, the great Catholic Kings, when they ran the Moors out in 1492. I can imagine Isabella reveling in the luxury her enemies had enjoyed. As the Spanish did to almost every Moorish tower throughout Granada, they added a Catholic church and bell tower, the bells to take the place of the muezzein’s call to worship. Their grandson, Charles I and V, tore out some of the walls of the palaces of the Alhambra and built a huge Renaissance two-story palace with a giant circular patio in the center of the square palace. Today it looks heavy, dull and pedantic beside the ornate designs and delicate tracery of the Moorish palaces. He also added a huge, almost solid gold church down in town with a crypt where his grandparents still lie as well as their children, Felipe el Hermoso (the good-looking) and Joan the Mad. I got the Audio guide to see the church but since P wasn’t interested, I hurried through it and missed most of the details—okay, it’s just history, after all. All the rest of the kings and queens who had been buried here were moved to The Escorial Palace near Madrid by Philip II, the guy who did his darndest to get hold of England and return it to Catholicism.
After Charles V, the Alhambra was allowed to fall into ruin. By 1808, Napoleon, perhaps seeing himself as a great conqueror, set up his command post there while he controlled Spain. After Napoleon’s demise, the English and Americans were busy exploring the world and finding romantic ruins and fascinating places everywhere (i.e. Maya ruins, Machu Pichu, Ceylon, Cambodia, middle of Africa – Stanley “Dr. Livingston, I presume?”). Washington Irving came through and fell in love with the ruins. His Tales of the Alhambra in the 1820s enchanted the touring world. The Spanish, perhaps realizing the opportunities for tourist profits, rebuilt and restored the Alhambra and turned it into a massive tourist attraction by the 1860s. It was nearly blown up during the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s, but fortunately, it was saved and today millions of tourists come to visit—and most of them are there now!
Now that you have had your history lesson, I will report more later after visiting the site. Gotta go get the tickets. . . .
Nothing is ever as easy as it seems. While P got ready (we left R and M sleeping, they didn’t want to see the Alhambra—can you imagine traveling with such Philistines?) I went up the hill and slipped my little Master Card in, and out popped the tickets. Little did I know that you had to take them by the main ticket office to have them validated.
P and I went down into town, sharing a cab with an American couple , and found Charles’s church and the nearby crypt. The church was huge, as big as Sagrada Familia, with dozens of altars all around the edges of the church, each more ornate and golden than the last, and each different from the others. A stupendous central altar with figures of Christ, the Virgin, and every Saint imaginable was free standing at the far end of the long aisles. The Audio guide listed every architect and designer and year. Okay it was pretty boring. P was frustrated since she could not take pictures. I take that back. She could take them but the interior was too dark for them to come out at all. Flashes, as she found out to her dismay, only extend about 15 feet, useless for altars that towered up into the gloom for a hundred feet. Outside, we found the church with the crypt and while she waited, I ran in, paid my entry fee, and got to see the actual chests with the remains of Ferdinand and Isabella! Made me happy!
After skirting through the old Moorish market place, we took a taxi back up to the Alhambra. Our visit was scheduled for 4:30 and we arrived at 3:00. When we tried to get in early, the guard informed us that our tickets were no good! I hadn’t had them validated. Panic set in. I left P sitting in the Generalife gardens and raced back to find the ticket counter, cutting through the ruins, the gardens, the palaces, finally jumping gates, dodging past “This way only”, and “Do not enter” signs. I soon found myself out in the storage and equipment area behind the palace with a very unhappy guard asking how on earth I had gotten there! He took me to the ticket counter and let me cut in line so I got the tickets validated, paid the extra 8 Euros for being Americans , and made it back to P with fifteen minutes to spare. You do NOT get in if you are not in line on time.
So, if you want pictures of the Alhambra – I suggest you go on Google and look up Images. Seeing so many tourists taking thousands of pictures (can you imagine the bored families at home snoozing through the long-winded presentations?) made me slightly ill. The architecture, with its massive walls, delicate carvings, elaborate tile walls, ornate gardens, splashing fountains, and magnificent views through horse-shoe shaped windows looking out for miles simply cannot be captured on film, at least not by the every-day tourist. You have to pay the big bucks for picture books that even then don’t capture the feel of the place. P spent most of the time taking pictures of the hundreds upon hundreds of huge roses in a myriad of beautiful hues. Upshot – it was hot, we were tired, footsore, and happy to get back to the modern conveniences of the fake Alhambra Palace hotel. At least I can say I saw it and I don’t need my pathetic photographs to remind me of the majesty of the place.
Had a very nice dinner at the hotel, more wine, and we parted company, both sides thoroughly relieved. I went to bed early, since I leave for Seville in the morning on the bus. They will continue southward to Gibraltar and explore Southern Spain. Bon Voyage!
Report # 3
Good Morning, dearly beloved!
Made it to Seville having left P, R and M happily snoozing after an elegant dinner the evening before on the deck overlooking Granada. They had warned me that they were headed out for another 16 to 17 hour day and might not make it back to Seville. Fine by me! I’m outta here! I rousted out at 5:30 and got to the bus station, beating the horde of students headed home for the weekend. Missed getting a seat on the 8 am Supra (executive, first-class bus) to Seville, but did secure the last seat on the 10 am bus-seat 57.
Had one of those horribly worthwhile, and thankfully painless, experiences while sitting in the Andenes (the loading area) at the bus station. A short man in a coat hurried past and apparently dropped his keys. Of course, little Ms Idiot Good Samaritan,I leapt up and ran to pick up his keys to return then to him. The little man seemed to be oblivious to my calling to him, until someone near him stopped him and I caught up to him. Without a word, he took his keys and left. As I turned around, another man had picked up my shoulder bag with my computer in it from my stack of suitcases. To my good fortune, he had started toward us instead of away. I grabbed my bag from him, almost not believing it had happened! He said “oh, it had fallen, and I was just picking it up for you.” Yea, right! The SOBs hurried out of the station toward the street, one following the other into the distance, having missed getting my laptop. I was aghast, but incredibly thankful!
When I finally arrived at the bus station in Seville, I got a cab to get me to a hotel as near the Convent as I could. Since I did not have the exact address, we drove around the downtown until he asked one of his cabbie compatriots and got fairly close. With the meter ticking away, I finally found a place at Hotel America on the plaza across from the huge department store – El Corte Ingles. I hurried in, got the room, got the luggage out, paid the cabbie, got up to my room and realized, with sickening horror, that I had left my shoulder bag with the computer in the cab. I had given it up for lost, but believe it or not—I guess we had become “friends” in our excursions—or is there such a thing as honesty among cabbies?, about an hour later as I walked across the square in front of the hotel, a honk. And there he was! He had brought the bag back! Wonders never cease!
After recuperating from that scare, I walked around the plazas and sure enough, found the convent just half a block down the street. The bells were ringing for evening mass and I went into the small but beautiful white-washed church next to the convent and sat through mass with great gratitude! Also got to see the 11 nuns who make up the convent as they filed in from next door. I can’t check into the convent until tomorrow.
Now, Sunday, happily checked in and feeling cozy and comfortable in my safe space, I am sitting in the quiet open-air patio of the Convent of Santa Rosalia in Sevilla. The convent is a rabbit’s warren of rooms and patios and hallways running this way and that, upstairs and downstairs, all barred and locked with heavy metal grates or large wooden doors that look like they go back to the 1700s when it was built. The keys, however, much as I expected them to be big heavy metal keys, are quite modern. I have the first room to the right off the main entry hall, up two stairs, through three barred and locked doors and across my own little bitty patio with pots and flowers to my tiny white-washed room and pristine white bed.
Since there are no tables in my patio, I am typing at a small glass-topped table in the large central patio, the air quite cool, the sun not having risen high enough to reach me within the white convent walls. Overhead, the sky is a little overcast (at least it is not pouring as it was yesterday) and in the center of the patio a brick fountain should be burbling merrily, but sadly, it’s dry. To make up for it, a dozen geraniums in pink, peach, purple, violet and red are planted in colorful ceramic pots and placed around the edges of the fountain. One small plant with three worn-out pinkish red geraniums sits beside me on my table. In the corners of the large (30 feet by 30 feet) tiled patio are orange and ficus trees and pots of ferns. Three other small tables and wicker chairs are set in each corner, where ashtRs provide a haven for smokers, of which there are still many in Spain.
And no, my room does not have a plank bed and log pillow. It is a small (10 X 15 foot), white washed room, but a comfortable bed, narrow but adequate, a small bedside table, a standing wardrobe and very modern bathroom facilities. The shower is, admittedly, tiny, about 2 feet by 2 feet – don’t drop the soap!—but the water is hot and plentiful. When I first turned it on, the water was bitterly cold and I was sure the dreaded convent experience was about to start. Cold showers in proper religious abstinence fashion. But, no, the water got hot and was more than plentiful. Quite comfy. Who could ask for more? It is actually every bit as nice as the Hotel America where I stayed night before last when I arrived in town and paid 62 Euros for.
This place might as well be the Hilton for as much traffic as it gets. At a cost of only 25 Euros a night, it has become quite a popular pied-a-terre for those seeking a cheap spot right in the center of town. When I arrived, they had so many guests, my room was not yet available, so I had to leave my luggage in a dark (at least it wasn’t dank) storage space under the stairs, closed with a small ancient wooden door banded in iron and a lock and latch that I’m sure went back to the 1700s. Antonio, the young and efficient but harried receptionist, was having to handle half a dozen of us checking in, checking out, asking questions, and needing help. When I asked him about a history of the place, or historical archives, it turns out he is working on writing a history of the art at the convent for his Ph.D. and dissertation here at the University of Seville. We didn’t have time to talk, but I will corner him later.
And forget the vows of silence. When I arrived there was a First communion celebration going on. Turns out one of the nuns has a nephew who was having his party here. There were dozens of parents in elegant Sunday-go-to-meeting attire, and about a jillion little kids racing around screaming. I cringe to think of the reaction of the Oblate Brothers to such goings on at the Kenedy Ranch in Sarita where I stayed and where silence was absolute—for everyone. A group of six Spaniards just came into the patio, several to smoke, and just chattering away like magpies. The bells of the next door chapel just rang for early (10 am ) mass and they have wandered out although I hear plenty of talking in the halls and in the long dining room on the far side of the patio.
Second call to mass with the clangor of the bells next door. I went to mass last night after I checked in and found the chapel to be small but elegantly appointed. The walls and central vault were plain white with dark paintings hanging on the walls from the 18th century without doubt. The main altar, however, was gleaming and sparkling with gold in overly ornate carving in Rococo style and dozens of figures of saints and cherubs and virgins and angels and who knows what else. The huge gold altar piece extended across the entire front (I wonder what the workers who built these churches—of which there are literally hundreds—must have done when the order came in –“Would you like two cherubs, a virgin and three saints, two gold turned columns…..” as they checked off the list and offered drawings. “Well, we can’t have it looking like Saint Ursula’s next door”…) Two different but equally ornate towering gold altars covered the two sides of the transept (I think that’s what it is called or the apse or whatever- the two side arms off the main central part). Very impressive, very gold, and very dusty! How on earth do they ever get it clean without bringing in a lift or huge ladder?
Last call to mass. Silence at last reigns here in the convent, but I can hear the singing of the nuns over in the chapel. Last night when I went to mass, one matronly cleaning lady was dusting the lower tables and as far as she could reach up the altar before mass. She had moved out of the sacristy(? – the front of the church) where an iron gate separated twelve rows of benches for the nuns from the rest of the congregation. To her mortification, one of the nuns who entered from a door to the left of the altar, found her can of cleaning spR and had to call her over to hand it to her through the bars of the gate.
The priest is a small portly little man with wisps of white hair, dressed in a tight gR coat over his black clothing and white priest’s collar. He returned shortly in a gold embroidered vestment that looked worn enough to have easily come from several centuries ago. The nuns, of which there are only 11, four of them from Guinea, in Africa, (the cheerful, round-faced nun that was manning the Porteria, the entry gate, told me that was where they were from) filed in, while only about three women, one man, me, and the cleaning lady, made up the congregation. Maybe its better this morning, being Sunday. I should go say some pRers of thanks for a nice place to stay.
I have also made friends with Manolo, the owner of the Bodega Amarilla Albero, the bar on the corner of the Plaza la Gavidia. One of the meseros – the waiters – Alonso, from Venezuela, was particularly friendly since he sees me as a compatriot from the colonies. For lunch yesterday, while waiting for my room, I had ordered a Sangria. Manolo –who didn’t know me yet- had refused to fix anything less than a pitcher of the stuff. So I drank it, but told Alonso that I was worried about the scandal I might cause with the monjitas – the nuns- if I came in drunk! He said they wouldn’t mind! Not that they ever indulge here since they are cloistered nuns and supposedly have a vow of silence. Last evening when I returned for supper, Alonso took pity on me and brought me a Vino tinto with lemon which tasted much like a Sangria without having to drink an entire pitcher!
I have become a regular at the bar now, know the names of everyone of the waiters, and even some of the regulars. After a supper of traditional fried fish tapas (anchovies, bacalao-cod- and shrimp) and chatting with Alonso and Manolo at ten thirty at night, I came out onto the moonlit plaza which was still buzzing (me, too), dozens of people sitting and drinking at outside tables, with someone playing cool 1940s American jazz on a saxophone. I felt a little Hemingwayesque, so part of the scene –as I walked (okay, staggered slightly-but didn’t Hemingway do the same?) wending my way home half a block down the street to the convent. (He wouldn’t have stayed at a convent). Anyway, Delightful!
Yesterday afternoon when I first went to the bar and found a corner to make my own, across the street at the Bar of the 2nd of May, there was a group of ten beautiful young ladies (in their 20s) standing around one of the outside tables drinking wine and beer, laughing and chatting. They were all dressed in tight, body-hugging, curvaceous flamenco outfits – green with white spots, wide flounces in the skirts, white lace fringe at the v-necks, and bright red flowers pinned in their long hair. Only one of them, evidently a star, was dressed in blue flamenco. I thought they must be some kind of dance troupe.
Then a while later, a group of eight young men came into the bar where I was, all wearing costumes (obviously throw-away, cardboard Oriental Trading Co) Spanish soldier’s hats in dark green with a pink tassel on the front. One of them was dressed in a soldier’s outfit with very muscular build and a hairy chest. Several drinks later, evidently overheated, he pulled off the padding and the chest hair, but left on his uniform and hat. After a trip across the street to visit the young ladies, the soldier hero returned to his companions. I was surprised the two groups hadn’t hooked up. I asked Alonso what it was all about, as the two groups continued to laugh and drink and drink and eat. He said it was a bachelor party! On the day before their wedding, the groom and groomsmen spend the day, all day (I hate to think what staggering there must be by evening), dressed in costume going from bar to bar all over town as their bachelor party. The girls were doing the same, as their bachelorette party. What fun they were having and me, too, watching them from my corner of the bar with my pitcher of Sangria!
At the e-mail suggestion of Viqui, my Rice professor friend from here in Sevilla, I took a cab to the Museum of Popular Culture. It is a replica of Moorish architecture built for the 1992 world’s fair here in Sevilla. It is one of probably two dozen buildings, including the magnificent Plaza de España, which showcase the cultures of the world. The one from Colombia has strangely Inca statues on its façade.
Since it was Museum Day, there was a special demonstration on fencing or sword fighting. Antonio Perez Reverte, who wrote a novel called Captain Alatriste, and made it into a movie, made swash-buckling sword fights popular some years ago. A group from a fencing school (who scorn Alatriste’s swaggering style) , all appropriately dressed in padded white fencing jackets and black knee-length pants—and black Nike sneakers—had been invited to do a demonstration on sword fighting in the beautifully ornate Moorish patio of the museum. In a very smart and entertaining advertising move, the group of devotees invited the watching crowd to join in, providing plastic broad swords for the kids and allowing the adults to practice with a large collection of swords from a variety of centuries. They taught footwork, sword movement, parrying and thrusting, much to the amusement of the participants and the on-lookers (me and parents and spouses). I was taking notes so I did not take part (can you imagine me not leaping in there?). I did question the “spadacini” students later to learn that the school is one of many world-wide that practice sword-fighting, not Olympic style, but ancient styles. This school is only five years old, but they go to competitions at the palace of El Escorial outside Madrid and even to international competitions throughout Europe. Satiated with history, I hurried back to the convent.
In the evening I took a cab to meet Dr. Doug Inglis who runs the Texas Tech Center in Seville for students from Tech, A&M, Nebraska and a couple of other universities. He studies Cuba and the Spanish mail system and is very familiar with the Archive of the Indies. He was tremendous! We spent several hours going over what books I needed to look at and getting information on Spain’s 18th century. His wife Pilar gave us coffee and tea and then we went to his office to find more books and information from the AGI. He provided me with a copy of the Index to the Guadalajara Archives, which include Texas, a kindness which will enable me to actually find materials I need without actually being here. He brought me back to the plaza at 10:30 at night where I stopped at my bar and had my Vino Tinto with lemon and ate a supper of three mushrooms stuffed with ham and olive oil and a tiny dollop of salad with vinegar.
The cafeteria here at the Convent serves breakfast consisting of coffee with toast, coffee with toast and jam, coffee with toast and olive oil, coffee with toast and ham, and coffee with toast and ham and cheese, your choice, for about 3 Euros. That’s it. Of course I had coffee (which I hardly ever drink) with toast and jam. Oh, you can buy a piece of fruit for .50 E. I didn’t get any since I still have a couple of apples from Consum and some crackers and jars of chicken and tuna for later. If I don’t go hang out at my local bar!
It is almost one p.m., the sun has crept across the patio, highlighting the flowers and driving me into the shade. I hear military music out on the plaza, bells from other churches in the distance, the maids (not the nuns) chattering away as they clean rooms. Viqui is to pick me up on the plaza in half an hour to take me out to their weekend home in Alcala. Time to sign off! Hugs
Report # 4
There is nothing as delightful as finding new friends: sitting at an outside café; drinking, laughing, talking; learning about similar—and different—interests, exchanging ideas; better even than the architecture, the history and the great art.
Viqui did indeed pick me up across the plaza from the convent. With wonderful Spanish hospitality, she invited me out to their family week-end home in Alcala de Guaidira. Her parents, Lola and Alberto have had a weekend home there for most of Viqui’s life—about fifty years—and have seen the tiny town explode into an upper crust suburb for Seville. There are magnificent modern McMansions on acres of manicured lawns, as well as smaller single-story homes on quarter acre plots of land, like her parent’s home, that were bought and built many years ago. Her parents are delightful, cheerful and welcoming. Her mother, who threatened Viqui with mayhem for having introduced her as Dolores, rather than Lola (Dolores, she says, makes her sound too old, although she is in her eighties) had made gazpacho (cold tomato soup). She doesn’t like it but made it anyway since she wanted me to have a traditional Spanish meal. She also made two potato and egg “tortas” or “tortillas,” which are a little like a quiche but no cheese. Of course there was wine, but since they evidently don’t drink it often, the first bottle we opened had gone sour. We laughed about the need to open all the bottles so we could check them out to make sure they were okay!
Viqui’s sister, who also lives in Seville, didn’t make it but her best friend, Encarnacion—or Encarni, for short-- from childhood, did make it. They always get together when Viqui is back in town. Encarni is a tiny, delightful, cheerful, plump dynamo, probably in her mid to late fifties, with short black hair, and the funniest, kindest, sweetest personality. She also drives a very large Suzuki motorcycle which, fortunately, has a very low seat, so she can keep it upright. She also has a small, completely disobedient white dog that she has just acquired. She had brought it over to meet Viqui’s black and Tan short-legged mongrel, and the two dogs spent the entire lunch-hour barking at each other over and Encarni shushing the dog who, of course, had no idea what she was doing and paid no attention to her whatsoever. Encarni promised Lola not to bring the dog back!
After lunch, Viqui drove us down into the center of Alcala, including Encarni and dog, now on a leash, but still completely oblivious to Encarni and her entreaties. Alcala is a small but very historic town about half an hour from Seville. It sits on a road that climbs up out of the valley of the Guadalquivir River out onto the vast plains that surround Seville. You really can’t tell that Seville is in a deep valley until you get out on top. Alcala has its own small river, the Guaidira (Guad means river in Arabic) that has carved its own little valley into the flat plain to create a steep-valleyed little town.
Like every valley and town in Spain-at least Moslem Spain, Alcala has a wonderful Moorish castle. This one made up for all the ones we missed exploring while driving through the back country. It is a looming square castle built of sandy-golden brick, high on the town bluff. We entered through a fifteen-foot high arched doorway, built into walls that are probably eight or ten feet thick. Inside, we walked into a large sandy central courtyard two hundred feet across, empty except for the cold gusts of wind blowing the dust against the brick walls. Ramparts extend sixty or seventy feet into the air and a taller tower maybe thirty feet square and eighty feet high protects one end of the bastions. Heavy toothy crenellations line the battlements—I could almost picture the Moorish archers in white turbans and long caftans holding off the mounted steel-clad Spanish warriors of Ferdinand and Isabella. Today it is used for theater productions and the ancient walls must make a great backdrop.
And who built these castles? As far as I know, the Moors had no slave labor, unless it was the local Spanish citizenry who were pressed into service. It is nowhere near as huge as the Alhambra, but more “ours” since we were the only ones there. We climbed up onto the battlements into the chilly wind blowing thunder clouds toward us across the valley. The town stretched out below us with its tiny, winding streets and ancient houses. We could see the spires and bell towers of half a dozen or more churches, each having replaced the Moslem prayer towers that existed there for some 800 years. The bells were installed to wipe out the ancient calls of the muezzeins.
Down in the valley stretching across the river, and connecting the town to the open country beyond, an artist (Viqui told me his name but I forgot to write it down, sorry!) designed a brightly tiled blue and green giant snake. Its seventy foot length curves up and down, arching above and below the bridge structure as if it were twined through the bridge. Since it was Sunday, people were gathered underneath picnicking. Evidently, they were seeking early protection from the giant roiling dark thunderstorm, with its gray- black underbelly, that we could see from the parapet, blowing in across the flat plain. Fortunately the storm never did reach us.
As a dessert treat, after walking all over town with the dog (at least he was on a leash- not that that counted for much), we stopped at a small café to have what is evidently their favorite dessert—tocino del cielo – “bacon from the sky,” or maybe “heavenly bacon” with coffee of course. We sat outside, (No, flexible as the Spanish are, they didn’t want the dog in the café) glancing eastward to check for the progress of the storm. I thought the “tocino” was flan. It is smooth, creamy golden yellow with a brownish top from being caramelized. I was already salivating, and looked forward to tasting it. This tocino was made from a dozen egg yolks and as many cups of sugar, melted then cooked in a Baño Maria (double boiler). Don’t know what “heaven” that came from but it was the most gageous, slimy, sickly sweet, sugar overload I have ever tasted. I choked down some to be polite, but decided heaven could keep its bacon. Definitely not for me!
Chilled to the bone, I was thankful to climb into Viqui’s car as we left Alacala. Lola and Viqui’s father invited us to come again, and meant it. Encarni and her poocher dog – she did have her car so she wasn’t driving with him on the motorcycle, promised she would see us again soon. I was just fine with going home, but Viqui decided I HAD to see as many sites as possible in Seville before dark. It was cold from the storm and I was without a jacket and wearing sandals. She drove her car to Triana, a suburb of Seville across the river and parked it in her father’s very highly prized and expensive underground parking area. Then, by George, we walked.
In 1992, Seville hosted a World’s Fair and must have spent a fortune on the buildings, as did dozens of other countries. The buildings have remained in use down at one end of town. The center of the Fair was the Plaza de España (You’ll have to look it up on Google). It is giant (probably a quarter mile across) half circle, two-story building which today houses dozens of government offices. It is built in a pseudo Moorish style with colorful tiles, tall ornate spires and arching stairways. All along its length along the lower façade, are tiled depictions of each of the provinces of Spain. Each has a painted depiction of some part of that province’s history. On the pavement in front, an in-laid tile map of Spain shows the location of the province. Since they ran out of provinces before they ran out of building, there are numerous depictions of things Seville and its province are famous for, from agriculture and economy to historical events. The structure is an architectural masterpiece, even if it isn’t in the least little bit historic.
From there, we walked across the Maria Isabela park, admired statues, the twisting turning Jewish Tolerance monument down along the river, more ornate Cathedrals, and buildings that cover the range from 800 years ago to yesterday. By chance across the river we ran into a procession of children dressed as cargadores or load carriers—a union that used to work down on the river hauling up supplies. The children carried a Virgin on a platform, accompanied by a band of youngsters tootling away on instruments and banging on drums. The children are carrying on the traditions of their parents from hundreds of years ago. According to Viqui, she has never seen a children’s procession like this.
By ten p.m., it was finally getting dark, so she let me return to my convent and safety. By then I had a full-blown sore throat and runny nose. So much for making it up to go to the Archive of the Indies early on Monday morning. I staggered up long enough to find a pharmacy down the street and got some medication, blessings on them. By the time I got up again at 11 am, I arrived at the Archive too late to register but I found out how to do it. I hurried off toward the University of Seville where I had an appointment with one of the professors, a Dr. Carmona. He was not in my period but did give me the name of one of the other professors, but that professor wasn’t in. Frustration setting in.
The University is a fantastic old marble complex that covers an entire five or six block area. It is built in a series of looming open squares, with offices and classrooms around each central patio. It has magnificent wide stairways, high arching entrances, ancient statues, and faculty offices tucked away in odd corners—evidence that they have long ago run out of enough room to house all the professors. The students, dressed in T-shirts, jeans, jackets, and scarves might has well be standing around at Sam Houston State. I managed to make my way back to the convent and collapsed for the afternoon.
I did find out that there are numerous campuses of the University in Seville. I had promised to meet Viqui at 3:30 pm at the Philology Entrance of the University, which I had located while I was ambling around the building. I had timed the distance to exactly half an hour on my walk back to the convent, so at quarter of three- just in case so I wouldn’t be late, after swallowing some of the blessed medications, I set out gamely and promptly got lost. I made the mistake of asking someone where the University of Seville was. Next thing I knew I was standing in an open plaza under a two hundred foot high mushroom-like structure that reminded me of the inter-locking cardboard spacing in a wine-bottle box. Vaguely, I recall it was beige, I think. It turns out I was at the Bellas Artes-Art- campus of the University of Seville, several miles and now several minutes late to meet Viqui. After wandering through dozens of narrow, curving streets, hurrying past elegant shops, watching herds of tourists passing by, envying horse carriages carrying elderly couples, and people sitting at outdoor cafes happily chatting and drinking, I finally found the correct University again. Viqui, blessings on her, was still there, having frantically gone from entrance to entrance to entrance all around the old square building looking for me. I turned down her offer of more touristing and gratefully found my way successfully back to my convent.
Doped up on medication, I slept in Tuesday until late afternoon. By then I was beyond worrying about having totally lost out on the Archives. By late afternoon, I dragged myself up and took a cab to the Texas Tech Offices to see Doug Inglis again. He had changed money for me and I owed him 5 Euros in change. Taking me with him, we headed back to the Veracruz church where he and his wife attend, which is just down the block from my convent. He was going to look at some sixteenth century documents for them as part of putting their archives back in order. On the way, we stopped by one of his favorite used bookstores. The owner specializes in historic collections and acquires people’s libraries. What a gold mine! Every topic I mentioned, the owner would nod and say, “Oh, yes, I have something on that. Let me see, I think it is in the storeroom across the street,” and off he would go across the street and return with a dust-covered tome. Of course, now I am loaded down with still more books, and the new suitcase is practically immovable. The good thing was making a contact where all I have to do is e-mail with questions and find out if he has books.
By Wednesday, my hoped for, dreamed for, planned for visit to the Archive of the Indies vanished in the mist. I tried again to meet Viqui and her professor for brunch/breakfast. She had said she would meet me at the Archives at 9. In my doped up state, I reverted to remembering that I was to meet her at the Philology Entrance at the University. This time I hustled across town and found the Philology Entrance. When she wasn’t there by nine, I finally remembered that I was supposed to meet her at the Archives. By the time I nearly ran back to the Archives, she was long gone. The only benefit was that I found the main Post Office across the street from the archive.
In my addled mind, I knew I could not even lift the suitcase with the books. It’s little wheels had sadly begun to sag inward, and when I tried to pull it, it wobbled frantically from side to side. Mailing the books, expensive as it might be, was the only way to get them home. I went back to my haven, and after buying a roll of slick paper from the bread store across the street, I realized I needed proper packaging. By good fortune I had noticed a Papelería – Office Supply store, across the plaza. I hurried back there, bought wrapping paper, tape and labels. Sweating and feverish and frantic to get to the post office before they closed, I wrapped up the books in small packages of three or four books each. I loaded them up in the rickety suitcase and wobbled my way to the cab stand and let the cabbie take me back to the Post office. Blessings on them, they accepted credit cards, and the kindly clerk even recommended packing several of my parcels into a postal cardboard “Going Green” box to save money. It didn’t save much but it was a help. I sent them off and now I can pack lighter souvenirs in my rickety suitcase.
On my way home, I called Viqui from the pay phone on the plaza and we made plans to get together by 6 pm at the Pillars of Hercules park for drinks. Wisely, she came for me, this time and I gave her a guided tour of my convent. Also introduced her to Antonio, the convent historian/PhD student, and they knew each other’s professors. Sure wish I had had more time with Antonio. Can you imagine what the archives of the convent must be like? That would be a gold mine.
Viqui had invited several of her friends to join us including Encarni, fortunately, sans dog, since she came on her hotrod motorcycle. Pepe was a vociferous, slender, gray-haired, athletic bike rider who loves rabble-rousing and nearly got arrested for trying to stop the tram during the university student boycott the day before. He is in his “third age” after being an Industrial Engineer, and is currently working on a masters in History, hence his involvement with the students. Then there was Luis and his wife, a delightful young couple with a teen-age son, she a teacher, he a retired/disabled industrial worker who now does tile work. So with Viqui and me it made for a very cheerful and entertaining group of six around the outdoor table at the Café de Hercules.
We talked, no, they talked, and I listened, on topics ranging from the Euro and the economy, to history and the development of the neighborhood. Pepe finally explained Spain’s dislike with Charles III as an attitude that the Bourbons ruined Spain then and still do today—King Juan Carlos, a Bourbon, is having problems for having gone on an expensive African safari and his son-in-law is getting into financial debacles. Pepe applauded my small attempt to revindicate the efforts of Charles III to make Spain more efficient.
We sat and talked and laughed and drank (I was drinking lemonades, considering the pills I was still popping), for at least two hours, while I took notes on the discussions. No one seemed to be in any hurry even if it was getting on toward evening. Sharing drinks, friends and laughter sitting at outdoor cafes is what Spain –and as they said, what most of the Mediterranean countries—is all about. I realized that they don’t have mosquitoes. How can that be? Did they pack them all up and ship them to the New World as part of the Columbian Exchange? Gee, thanks, guys. No one in the South would dream of having out-door cafes without fogging the area with mosquito repellent and somehow that leaves a most unappetizing oily slick on the tops of drinks. Time at the cafes ceases to have meaning – well, except for these damn gringas that have to get up at 5:30 to catch the bus to Lisbon – a ticket that this time I bought ahead of time. But since it was ONLY 8 pm, they insisted I could stay for supper.
Luis and his wife invited us up for dinner on their Azotea – the flat top of their building, again another Arab custom. On the way back to their apartment, Luis showed us all over their very old, very historic and yuppified neighborhood. He took us into several beautifully restored old palaces that have been saved and preserved with the Euro money. It seems that in my neighborhood, an ancient and decaying , but still magnificent three hundred year-old palace was torn down by the Corte Ingles Department store chain. There was such an uproar that the Sevillanos have successfully launched a campaign to save the historic buildings. Some ten or twelve years ago, Luis bought their apartment when their neighborhood was still very run-down. He had faith that it would increase in value. He was right. His apartment has increased in value tenfold and is now worth a mint.
So we carried all the plates and glasses and – dear Lord have mercy – more wine up to the Azotea. Encarni had come along with Viqui and me (evidently Encarni believes that any party is worthwhile), although Pepe had ridden off into the sunset on his bike to care for his grandkids. We sat and laughed and drank and ate fried fish and fried shrimp and fried squid, and fried who the heck knows what else (fried seafood, like Gazpacho, is traditional food) until almost midnight. Finally, I begged off and apologized for being a kill-joy and the party broke up. Viqui walked home with me in the dark then set out walking back to her parent’s apartment across the river without a care in the world. Amazing that a city nearly the size of Austin is so safe that a single woman can walk across it in the middle of the night in safety! Admittedly, there are some areas that aren’t as safe, but for the most part, we were without a care in the world—full, happy, and slightly tipsy.
Tomorrow, on to Lisbon and the Azores.
Report # 5
What the heck was I thinking? A person would think I had not ever been to an airport before or boarded a flight or been through security! Unbelieveable! Got in to Lisbon from Seville with no problems, the bus ride comfortable, nice scenery, even if I slept through most of it, and had my Consum food to eat. Had a taxi take me to a hotel near the airport so I would be ready to go in the morning. Of course he took me to the Radisson which turned out to be delightful, especially with a discounted rate.
In the morning, I was so happy sitting in my room at the Radisson, typing away, thinking I had hours of time. Went down for a leisurely buffet breakfast and took a cab at 8 am for a 9 am flight. Let’s see – check in – security – long lines – longer halls – distant gates. . . Having been traveling by bus, of course I had forgotten to get rid of all my liquids. The Security guard pounced on me like the very worst of terrorists. He had a field day with my luggage—containers erupting out of it like Vesuvius: my jar of chicken pate, bottle of salad dressing, can of tunafish, the crackers passed inspection, but Oil of Olay (?), toothpaste (??), a gift of olive oil cream (???), a gift of a jar of jam (?????). I had even had the temerity to refill not one but two bottles of water to take with me! What a moron. Finally through security with fifteen minutes to lift off, I guarantee I got my exercise for the day – running, in sandals, down endless corridors dragging two recalcitrant suitcases (remember the wobbly wheels?) which I had not been able to check.
Can you believe I made it? The stewardesses were waiting for me, blaming my tardiness on the taxi driver who, without doubt, had taken me to Terminal 2. He hadn’t, but who was I to disagree? We still had to bus out to the plane. The other passengers looked askance at the dripping with sweat idiot who was late (I can imagine Jack is shaking his head in horror by now). The plane was at the far, far end of the field. SATA Airlines to the Azores – all two of its planes, (okay, no, they really have three but thank goodness, jets, not bi-planes) doesn’t rank high on the list of priorities at Lisbon. But we made it. When I found that a very short, portly, frizzie haired elderly woman in sneakers and sweats, who looked far too determined to cross, was already ensconced in my window seat, the steward allowed me to move across the aisle. I actually have a row of seats all to myself! A snack, a drink and a cup of fruit and time to relax, at ast. No punishment for the wicked this time!
Got to Terceira and found Mica and Carol (dear roommates and friends from my years at Texas Tech in Lubbock) and Napu, the Cocker-Spanier/poodle mix, waiting for me anxiously. The island was, at one time, the home of a very active American military base. Particularly important to NATO, then the Space shuttle, because of the island’s long runway and then, as the cold-war died down, it has been handed back to the Portuguese. There is still a very small American presence, including Mica and Carol. Mica retired as one of the counselors but Carol is still working in charge of Education, perhaps for another year.
As we drove back to their house from the Airport, I was amazed at the small, clean, neat white houses. All have barrel tile roofs although the colors are not the deep reds of other areas, but a sort of glowing orange peach color. Many of the houses have bright trim painted in crayon blues, yellows, reds and greens strips around the windows and along the corners of each building, making them look like building blocks. Scattered throughout town there are small shrines in every neighborhood. Like tiny churches they seem to be dedicated to specific saints. They are about ten to twelve feet square with a miniature dome arching up about ten feet above the block of the structure.
Since it was raining on Sunday, we missed seeing the Terceira version of “Pamplona” and the running of the bulls. They let one bull out into a plaza with protective plywood fencing, then the young men jump in and tease the bull trying to get it to charge, which it does with a will, only to crash into the board fence. We heard the fireworks, despite the rain, and knew they were doing a kind of parade, carrying the local saint and marching it around the neighborhood. The people all gathered in one of the homes or a neighborhood meeting hall for the dinner afterward. Since none of us speak Portuguese and Mica and Carol have nothing to do with the local community, we, of course, were not invited.
The island of Terceira is an old volcano and has good, rich soil. Every square inch of it is farmed, right up to the top of the mountains, broken up into small plots edged with fences of volcanic rock. Most of the crops are grains used to feed the cattle that wander everywhere. There are also some garden crops but much of the economy of this island is focused on the income from the US army base. The US is threatening to close it, but Terceirians who have moved to the US, fleeing the poverty-stricken economy here, have pressured Congress to keep it open. Carol and Mica agree that the base is a useless waste of money and has no reason for its existence, but politicians being what they are. . . it is still open. There is no tourism here, and the island has only three tiny towns hugging the coast. There is a little tourism on some of the other islands of the Azores, but not much.
Like much of Portugal, it has –or had—a powerful elite class who controlled the economy, until the end of the dictatorship some thirty years ago. Since then the lower classes have gotten “uppity.” Carol reports that one of the downtrodden who was working at the base dared to refuse to obey one of the old elite, who had also been forced to work at the base. When the upper-class worker tried to enforce subservience, the downtrodden had the temerity to remind her “You aren’t in control anymore!”
We only went out to lunch once and dinner twice and then stayed in the rest of the time, enjoying watching the storms blow in off the Atlantic and pampering Napu, the dog. For shopping there is one small street with three or maybe four stores. Everything here seems so much smaller and less busy than Seville. We had lunch at an outdoor café across from a very nice antique store where they had—if you can believe it—absolutely NO souvenirs. Since I had not had time to shop for souvenirs in the rest of Spain – busy buying books, of course—I was hoping to find some here. Not to be. Carol found an oleander to buy and that was it. Unlike Spain, the food is not “tapas” of ham and cheese, but salads and small sandwiches. The elegant restaurant was an old mill with antique, carved wood tables and chairs and excellent steaks and wine.
Carol had bought the flowers to plant in their garden in front of their square, concrete-block modern art house. The house itself sits up on the side of a hill overlooking the bay of one of the small towns. Big picture windows cover all the front walls of the house so we can look out over the Atlantic and watch the storm clouds rolling in while we luxuriate in recliners and read to our hearts content. The yard consists of a strip of grass about six feet wide ending abruptly in a volcanic rock wall about three feet high. Fortunately it doesn’t block the view but it does provide a little bit of protection for the flowers that Carol struggles to grow along the edge of the wall. The winds that blow off the Atlantic are so fierce that the flowers have a really hard time surviving but Carol preservers.
Mica and Carol have worked for the military and spent most of their time in England, Germany and now, the Azores. Mica, now retired, stays at home all day reading, and letting the dog and cat in and out of the house. Carol runs the Education Program for the once-American, now Portuguese military base. They have one more year there and then Carol may retire, but they don’t know where they will go. They own two houses, one in Washington State, and one in Germany but have them rented out. Not sure where they will wind up.
Unlike Seville, there is not a lot to see or do here although I’m sure we could have made more effort to get out. It was really nice to not do anything. Carol fed us or I just nosed around in the refrigerator and fed myself. Thanks to Mica’s extensive book collection, I went through six books without even taking a deep breath, curled up in Napu’s recliner enjoying the magnificent view out the window. Nothing to do but wallow in a world of make-believe since there is nothing to do in this one. Great way to end the trip. Total, absolute, inert relaxation.
Made it back to Lisbon, and then hop-scotch to Madrid, this time without any problems since I have no liquids at all anymore. Stayed in a cute little hostelry near the airport and called Molly, another new friend, who drove all the way across Madrid to meet me at a nearby café. Molly is from Pensacola and had met and fallen in love with a Spanish Naval Officer who was at Pensacola for flight training (isn’t that romantic?). They moved to Madrid and she had her children here, although they are now back in the States with jobs and careers.
We had been introduced over the inter-net by Julia, my hostess and introducer during the Unveiling of the Tejano Monument in Austin. Julia and Molly are both very interested in the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Spanish soldiers and citizens of Texas who were required to contribute 2 pesos each toward the American Revolution. The descendants of these early soldiers, of whom there are many among the Tejanos in Texas today, can claim membership in the DAR if, and here is the big if, someone can find the lists of “Donatarios” or those who contributed. Molly has been to the Archive in Seville as well as the Archive in Mexico City but hasn’t found the lists yet. We sat and talked Texas History while eating Tapas and enjoying the evening. I am fairly certain I have spoken to her sister’s DAR group in Houston and may have met her sister. Small world, isn’t it?
Next morning, with a sigh of relief, and three hours early, I checked in for my flight home. I kept my rickety rolling suitcase with me and checked in my luggage. Of course the Madrid airport had plenty of souvenir shops so I filled up my suitcase, and put myself into the tender arms of Sky Priority on Delta. After the usual decadent meal, everyone else on the plane slept while I typed. I still feel guilty for having all the flight attendants hustling about treating us like we were Middle Eastern potentates while the peons languish in misery in the back for the nine hour flight. For all of us, however, home will feel wonderful!