Thursday, July 31, 2014

Return to Madrid

It didn't seem like things were wrapping up, or even changing gear, but they were.

The train sped past the olive patchworks and small farms I was used to seeing: yellow sunflowers, pale gold wheat, light green beans, rows of corn, fluffy asparagus, and dotted with sometimes crumbling or roofless houses; and rugged mountains in the background. I drew some of the passengers, and Lola signed her picture.
Lola on the train
We talked about our respective travels: she was going to a ten-day spiritual retreat near Barcelona. She had no children of her own but showed me pictures on her phone of the latest niece who had been baptized the day before, and a lot more besides. Unlike on the China trip, I did not find my Spanish in a state of collapse by the end of the trip, or myself either-- still going strong. But there was a minor disaster: good that it happened so late in the trip: I lost all my art supplies except my sketchbook and paints. All my favorite faithful sticks of lines and color! I didn't even realize it until much later . . .

Madrid: serious art, relaxing strolls in the Retiro, wonderful food, and a waiting friend and the inevitable surprises. Of course, still going strong! The trip from Atocha to Tres Peces was distinctly uphill, but familar, past the Reina Sofia, the big stone plaza with kids and soccer balls in the middle, adults relaxing around the edges, and little shops that made the place a neighborhood.
At David's time seemed to slow. An artist friend of his came to lunch. He works in a number of mediums but we talked about a project involving layers of plexiglas with paint squeezed between each layer: intense colors and with the layers, striking and different from different angles. Well, words don't really avail.
Otherwise, a quiet day ending in a cafe with a view of the Prado through the trees. The next day we visited the nearby market which had numbers
The Tree
of stalls selling produce, meat, fish, coffee and pastries, candy, books-- and chatted with proprieters and neighbors. More walking around the neighborhood and the Retiro. Of course I remembered the glass house, the boating pond, the formal gardens, and the tended woods; but I also recognized a particular tree that I had seen four years earlier, because I had drawn it, imprinting its shape in my memory. So I drew it again, but wasn't pleased with the result.
All of Me
And, in front of the boat pond, there was a man playing a clarinet beautifully, at least to my ears, and he way playing the song that had been in my mind for days-- All of Me. Delightful-- and as the pictures show, the weather was perfect. I think I will have to come back here and . . . draw each tree in the park. Maybe the botanical garden as well.
Prado II
That night, we ate at Plaza Santa Ana, accompanied by various performers passing the hat. Suddenly, thunder! Lightning! And rain. We were cozy under our big umbrellas, watching and hearing the rain thudding down. Fantastic! And the performers mysteriously immediately produced umbrellas for sale. Soon, the rain stopped and we went back to David's place, the streets all shiny with wavy reflections of the lights around them.
Early the next morning, I entered the travel infrastructure that I would not leave until I stepped onto the tarmac at Charlottesville airport. Back to Atocha, to Barajas, where the security and hike from the checkin to the gate took about 90 minutes, even though I had no checked luggage and had checked in electronically, to the plane to Philadelphia. As the plane landed, big black clouds were rolling in, and flights were cancelled left and right  The glass skinned terminal was a fishbowl filled with people thrashing around, sitting around, or striding purposefully, making plans on their devices, but to no actual effect since no planes were going anywhere whether you looked busy and important or not. It seemed like a stage play, with that busy-time 50s music. I recharged all my things.  It wasn't clear I'd be spending the night there until quite late, especially since I was on Spanish time, 6 hours later. Two helpful things: many of the seats did not have armrests so that one could lie down; and I had two kilims in my little bag. Lots of people were encased in crackly foil space blankets that made them look like takeout hot dogs, but I snoozed in style, with my kilims draped over me.
overnight at PHI
 And woke up to the memory that the next flight was supposedly at nine that night. 30 hours in the airport, However . . . when I asked for a refund so I could travel home via Amtrak, they found a place for me on the 11:00 am flight.
This is when I should have been drawing-- great opportunity. But I just did a few quick faces.
When I arrived at CHO, the weather was perfect: blue sky, not too hot, taxi waiting to take me home by a scenic back road I wouldn't have thought of. It looks so different here. So green. Home.

I have made some resolutions based on experiences on this trip, and hope that I can keep them. I want to keep eating well: I don't crave french fries or even chocolate at all right now! Peaches-- that's another thing. I want to gather some new and different friends, from the large arts community in Charlottesville. I want to work on my own drawing and painting consistently. Maybe learn to sing and read music-- a long shot. I want to keep track of who I myself am and what I want and be a better self-advocate. And other things, too.  So far, so good.


Saturday, July 26, 2014

Granada cont.

vogueing cat
In the evenings, todo el mundo seems to go for a walk and find a seat at a cafe, chatting, laughing, having a beer and snack. Near where I stayed, there was a plaza with at least five of them. As the sun sets, pseudo flamenco dancers/ guitarists perform for tips, or someone plays some instrument. . . perhaps an accordion. If you go to a place more than once, the waiters know you and make suggestions and exchange pleasantries. Last night, there was also a cat, a kitten really, investigating things in the cutest, cattest possible way. Just one of the crowd.

conspicuous consumption
There was a walking tour of Albaicin including the cave houses, wonderful views of the Alhambra, walking up, up, up and down, down, down the hills and peeking into the gardens. Here, the walls are festooned with not only pots of geraniums as in Cordoba, but also fancily decorated ceramic plates in a show of conspicuous consumption. I found that my co-walkers were a chubby Egyptian woman of a certain age who was living in Berlin, and who remarked that the best thing about a vacation was that you could get away from everyone and didn't have to talk to anyone. So I backed off; but she spent much of her time chatting and texting on her phone and having pictures taken of herself and immediately uploading them. Also an Indian family: a retired engineer, his wife who spent the whole time griping about her feet (uphill again?) but who at least had found an acceptable Indian restaurant in Granada. Her complaints occasioned a number of stops during which I could look around at things in more detail; and their son, gangly with an underslung jaw, who had an aspect of an irritated 15 year old being made to travel with his parents although he looked at least 30. And the guide, a bronzed beauty who had been a scuba instructor in Belize the summer before back home doing this tour gig. 
There were many flamenco studios (the main consumers of flamenco lessons are Japanese, who say flamenco speaks to their souls; and who learn flamenco and then take it home and open their own flamenco schools.)  We passed a tableau of an old gypsy playing guitar and singing the equivalent of the blues and a few young women who would clap in a desultory way at times: this music seems like the blues, only Spanish style.  (Not the keys and rhythms, of course, but the idea, and the function in the cultural context.) The guitarist was reminiscent of the Picasso Old Guitarist, but slier. It was just as well, perhaps, that I did not catch all his words as the tourists tramped by. The cave houses look like houses from the front but back up into the hillside so that most of the roof is actually the hill, and is where the roof would be, not much higher.They stay a steady comfortable (well, a bit cool) temperature year-round. But the thing I found most charming, but that was incidental to the tour, was a town square shaded with oak trees, the requisite cafes, but also a library, health clinic, school, hardware store: suddenly, it was a real place where people went about their daily routines. The shadiness made it reminiscent of the downtown mall here in Charlottesville, in a Granada-ish way. At one point, we turned a corner and looked down an alleyway, and I had a spooky, very definite feeling that I had been in that place before, but I couldn't have. Nothing special about the place except the frisson of recognition. After the walk, I drew a picture of the scene near Santa Ana Cathedral and snacked.
least interesting view at Plaza Santa Ana
view from my room
The place I was staying in was an ok house, a bit rundown, several of whose rooms were being rented as airbnb properties. I did not meet the owner until the last morning: she had been out of town on business. But as I prepared to leave, she made an appearance to check that all was well and wish me buen viaje. The best part of this place was the view from the window, and the sounds of the living neighborhood, and cooking smells. I felt less like a tourist in an artificial environment. But Granada was finished for this time, and I clattered down the cobblestones with my Moroccan suitcase (who knows who it had belonged to, where it had traveled before me-- and for that matter, the future of  the one I had abandoned there?) to the taxi, to the station, back to Madrid.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

The Alhambra

Granada, from the Alhambra
The highlight of a trip to Granada is a trip to the Alhambra. It's a fortress built above the city that has been added to and changed over the years, and has rightly been designated a World Cultural Heritage Site by the UN. It is a large park with the more recent palace of Carlos V but of more interest, an Arabian palace of varying ages and their accompanying gardens and parks. I spent my time there devouring everything with my eyes and didn't actually draw much, or even take pictures.
The walk through started with a colonnade of
cedars: this kind of row of trees is almost as beguiling to me as portals with hints of what's on the other side. The crowds weren't bad, and it was possible to imagine strolling here in the early morning with just the birds and a few gardeners. (to be a gardener here-- in my next life!) Then the Carlos V palace, which I didn't enter. Palace fatigue. The Nasrid Palace, though: simple empty hallways and unfurnished rooms, sometimes covered with mosaic tiles in geometric patterns wrapped around many gardens, each with a fountain or pool of some kind, with barely moving water, yielding nearly perfect reflections of the elaborate arches. The sun glanced off the water's surface and made watery reflections on the jasmine; swallows swooped low into the courtyards from the high walls. The whole thing, composed of many sections and enclosed gardens, flowed so smoothly together that I din't really notice moving forward. It had an overall dreamy effect. Unbelievably peaceful, even with tourists tramping through. Unlike my garden, these all were restrained, with mostly green.                                                                                            
my photo
Juan Vida, 1996



Joaquin Sorolla, 1917
Eugenio Gomez-Mir, 1920
Jose Maria Lopez-Mezquita, early 20th c.
When  I got home, I found a magazine waiting (Saudi Aramco World, July August 2014) with many paintings interpreting the Court of the Myrtles, one of the few places I photographed. Fifteen, in fact: here are a few. Seems I will have to try it myself.  Outside the palace, there were more familiar gardens, whose plants were astonishingly familiar to me: the majority of them were plants that are or have been growing in my own yard. It made me realize what a variety of plants I have! There were gardeners watering and weeding, people wandering . . . there were groups of Chinese tourists that seemed to be performing a mandatory visit (there were five girls gathered around a fountain tickling the water), but otherwise, everyone else drifted by apparently in the same dream as me. Oddly, the only feature that stood out as lacking in grace was the sculptured lions in the Court of the Lions-- the iconic image of this place. An interesting feature was the Escalera de Agua-- stairway of water. Where stair rails would be expected, there were low walls with gutters on top about 6" deep and wide. The floor of these gutters had little ridges that created cascades as the water rushed down along the stairway, and at the landings, there were little deeper pools that made the water go in a circle around itself. The attention given to the look and sound of water is something wonderful. In one garden I sat next to an odd German gentleman and we chatted about some of the engineering and aesthetic elements of the place: he said he comes back every three or four years, just to sit here. I can believe it!        



Nasrid Palace
The city below
The place has so many fountains, pools, and water sources for the gardens: the source is the Sierra Nevada, behind the city. The Arabs who first built the place ran the water down in pipes that became increasingly narrow, to develop the pressure required for the fountains. Once they run through the fountains, they go down to the city (which at that time was workers that supported the palaces and gardens) for their use.     Finally I wandered through tall trees (in most places here, the trees are pruned to within an inch of their lives so you can't know their natural shape or size: these were like what I think of as trees, and off the wide path, there was a smaller path where they toed in making the path zigzagged, something that seemed to me more like a Japanese fancy. And back to the real world: though the real world here is not so bad, if you are on vacation.                                           


Tuesday, July 22, 2014

By bus to Granada

Out the bus window, stripes and plaids of olive trees are draped over the hills to the horizon. They give the hills shape, like the lines in a 3D computer drawing. Closeup, they have gnarled, often multiple trunks, branches with spouts of leaves that show silver in a breeze. Sometimes there is actually a distant castle perched on a rocky crag; usually ancient villages or modern windmills on the crests of hills, olive trees marching up to meet them. In places, there were small alternating fields of asparagus, sunflowers, corn, favas.

I arrived in Granada, got the key, and crashed for a few hours, and when I rose hungry, it was

at Plaza Real, a wedding and an art show
siesta time, everything closed; so I got the red tourist bus and cruised around the city. Surely one of the world's best parking lots is at the Alhambra. The entire area is entirely shaded with lemon trees. (Another, in Cordoba, is beneath the city walls, and is entered through a dramatic stone arch.) The bus rolled around the city proper; most of the older sections were inaccessible by bus, but it was interesting to see a wider view of the living city.

I had promised Peter I would find and eat at Casa Salvador. It was a tiny place that seemed attached to a hostel but in fact, everyone else eating there seemed to be local. Just perfect! I had an amuse bouche  of fish, olives, and pickled cabbage; salad casera with roast peppers, grated beets, tomatoes, eggs; pile of chuletas de cabrito clinically significant levels of fried garlic, with green pimientos, asparagus, tomatoes, and potatoes. And a digestif on the house. Fantastic! -- all served with the same formal but friendly reticence Peter remembered from his visit some 40 years ago.

Naturally, I got thoroughly lost in Albaizin trying to get home. It was after midnight and I heard snatches of flamenco floating from lighted windows and bouncing off the high stone walls, clusters of what looked like young tourists in pools of light sharing joints, though I didn't smell anything, various pseudo-gypsy and 'Arabian' stuff shops, ice cream shops, bars and cafes, and long stretches of dark alleys bounded by tall blank walls that didn't give any clues about the courtyards within. Eventually I got to a place with a driveable street and took a cab back to my bed-- of course, only a few blocks!

This place has its own sound palette that moves through the day. Pigeons coax the sun up-- unless I hear a spirited argument first-- water whooshing down ancient pipes, then the little birds, doors and gates creaking, maybe a cat, and the traffic sounds begin. Another occasion of luck: I rose and put on a dirty shirt and grabbed a towel, headed for the shower, heard the door of my room click closed and locked with keys inside, and simultaneously remembered that the hostess and her friend both were away all day. I couldn't go out, and my computer, drawing stuff, clothes, cash . . . everything was behind the door. There was a couple next door, and the woman somehow divined were a spare key was, behind a door that was clearly marked off limits to guests . . . whew!

I think that when travelling, one can to some extent make luck happen: not in the details but in the general framework of things. If you travel alone, and chat/smalltalk with others; try using the language; ask questions and ask for help; you will get the help and goodwill you need. If you interpret unexpected events as possibly interesting adventures and stay in the moment rather than catastrophizing (oh no, missed the last bus, I will surely die), that is what they are. If you look for interesting things in the quotidian life of the city you visit, you will find it-- in how people interact at the cafe, kids and parents, little differences in the way everyday things are accomplished-- all interesting and clues to the different perspective you want, as a traveller/visitor to absorb. Some of the best things are the unexpected ones, even particularly the problematic ones. Not to denigrate the big things-- Prado, Alhambra, etc. Sometimes picking a place to get to that is not convenient or nearby, figuring out how to get there, getting lost and confused, can be rewarding; or just getting on a city bus with a window seat. You can look out the window or talk with other passengers-- see how things work. All benefits of travelling solo.

Parque Garcia Lorca, Granada
Out the door, down the hill, and established in one of about 6 cafes in the nearby plaza with a dense cafe latte and sweet breeze, things were once again in that delicious state of enough and anticipation of unknown more in the day ahead.
Granada means pomegranate, and representations of pomegranates are all over in Granada. There is a statue of the patron saint standing on a pile of them. A pomegranate icon appears on the street signs. On many of the dishes hanging on the walls. Just don't seem many actual pomegranate trees.

In Granada
Stopped by Parque Garcia Lorca. Tedious, but: everything seemed to come at me in an intense and delightful way on this trip, maybe the opposite of the way some of my students experience their worlds. from the ournal:  "my senses are open. This is the MOST WONDERFUL ice dream bar in history. The pavement smells like . . . roasting pavement. Birds tweeting furiously. Traffic humming in the background. A couple my age earing and talking in the background. A young family relaxing the the 4-year-old running around. Camereros desultorily rearranging chairs. Three weeks later, I'm not so euphoric but still things feel pretty good here in Charlottesville.
One novel custom I noticed was the 50's cars parked in front of cathedrals. They were used for weddings-- as limos.




Thursday, July 17, 2014

Cordoba II

Later that day, I met Antonio. I waited by the Puente Romana feeling a bit conspicuous; but that was the idea. We whirled around Cordoba, walking around neighborhoods, sitting at a rooftop bar, chatting.
At times, I felt like I was starring in a Spanish 101 video. For example: we walk down a narrow alley lined with windowboxes and those pots attached to the walls, spilling red geraniums: at the end was a little courtyard with a fountain. Sitting on the edge of the fountain was an old man playing a guitar. We exchanged a few words: he wanted to go to LA to play his guitar...wait, that's not all! Presently the world's cutest puppy scampers into the courtyard and snatches the sheet music, and starts waving it around. Soon, a woman in an apron rushes out, fussing at the puppy and apologizing to the musician and explaining to us about the rascally puppy. The musician gave us the directions we sought and went back to his guitar. Later, we went across the river to Antonio's neighborhood, met his friends, their new baby, etc: and had a view of a non-tourist area of the city, vital and full of people doing ordinary things, but outside. The city is mostly small enough to not require cars, and has little bodegas everywhere. Good thing, because driving on these narrow streets, not to mention parking, would be very difficult.
Alcazar, Cordoba
So we walked to a cafe and had beer and tapa (free with the beer) and soon enough, the friend joined us and we set off for another cafe. I had such a good time, talking about all kinds of things-- without much provocation and minimal wine, I actually sang part of 'All of Me', something that makes my throat tighten up just thinking about it around here. (The friend was a guitar player and we were talking about the blues; he was also a chauffeur and was trying to get his organic baby clothes/supply store off the ground.) As night fell, we headed for the Botanical Gardens, where there was a free concert by music school students. Er, variable quality, but the night air was so soft and fragrant, and the
bonhomie so easy, that we all had a great time. It reminded me of Max' early performances in Charlottesville. The willows flanking the stage were inky black, flushed with yellow around the edges, against a deepest blue sky, a tiny breeze possibly generated by a rib-jiggling bass, and a happy crowd, friends and fans of the performers.
 I got up late the next morning and chatted with the Canadian couple in another room off the courtyard who were doing a marathon 6 month trip including nearly all of Europe, it seemed, much of the middle east, and were planning their route forward.
Near the Mezquita and Puente Romana
Mostly, I wandered around new areas of town, losing myself: I found a delicious dish of habas
Palacio Viana
con calamari (favas with baby squid), and explored a several new neighborhoods. I did on purpose find the Palacio Viana, a palace that had been added to over the years and now had fourteen distinct, different courtyard gardens. Walking through these places is so profoundly nourishing, just what the spirit needs. Verbatim from my journal: "let me die here, in the jasmine/rose/petunia-scented shade and sweaty heat--birds--green + green, jasmine and other dangling blossoms making their own breeze. But I am not actually ready to die yet and so will likely die in a much less nice place. Everyone was silent, much more so than in, say, a cathedral." These gardens mostly had different public art exhibits, like hundreds of different colored pencils in the fountain, or an old typewriter, small desk, and chair in another; origami swans in one of the pools, tinkly bells hanging in the trees of another. Some courtyards were long and narrow, some had orange trees, some had hedge mazes-- all distinctive.
I had planned to meet the sketchers at an arts event in which various community organizations were making their pitch; with free music, beer, snacks, kids, and dogs across the river near the Puente Romana, but though I went, I never found them.
In Cordoba the map of fragrances was very pronounced. Maybe it was me, rediscovering color and salt, wide open to sensations; but I think it was also true that I was traveling through a sensory wonderland.

Cordoba


I was excited to be in Cordoba. The big attraction is the Mezquita, a huge mosque that began modestly but then was expanded 5 or 6 times to many times its original size, and then turned into a cathedral. The structure and look of the place is unique: it has doubled red and yellow brick arches, with supporting (Roman?) columns arranged like trees in an orchard: at least 7 across and many, many down, creating barrel vaults.  In the middle is a baroque cathedral that seems to take up about 15% of the space. I am making up these numbers, but that is how I remember it. It is an immense space, cool and with an acoustic quality that turns all sounds into quiet murmurs-- absorptive and echoey at the same time. We were chased out before mass began, and I stopped in the lovely courtyard with its fountain, tall cypresses, ancient twisted olives, jasmine...and the sound of water and its dancing reflections on the vines climbing the walls.

any bar in Spain
 Of course the building is surrounded by souvenir shops, but I eventually wound my way back to a neighborhood, found apricots and yogurt and some terrible cookies for breakfast... found a bar with excellent cafe latte,

The real reason I was excited was that I had two separate sets of internet friends whom I had never met in the flesh, but had dates with in Cordoba. One was the Cordoba group of Urban Sketchers, and the other was a man, a civil engineer, I had done some language exchange work with; he was trying to learn English, and I, Spanish. Sorry to say, neither of us really worked at it seriously; but he was a Cordoba friend.

These turned out to make all the difference for this part of the trip: though I had some straight tourist time on my own, I had companions for several meals, and someone to draw and chat with, someone else to walk around and learn the city, seeing it through a native's eyes, meeting his friends, talking, eating, and drinking-- why do I never do this in the US when it is so much fun? People seem to live outside, which is very conducive to socializing. On my street in Charlottesville, people seem to be inside most of the time, and may greet each other but it seems hard to be part of a cohesive neighborhood. Is it that cars expand the geographical ring of friends? parents see other parents? Americans are more generally distrustful and even fearful of strangers, especially ones that are different? One approaches social events with work friends with a certain reserve? I am less shy when I know it doesn't really matter if I make a faux pas? Regardless, I had a blast with these acquaintances, and we are all still in touch, so it must have been all good.

Plaza Tendrillas
Alvaro's sketch
my version: didn't quite hang together
I was to meet the Cordoba sketchers at Plaza Tendrillas, so I went early and feasted on a roasted red pepper salad and fried sardines in the sunshine, listening to a guitarist and drawing the Plaza. I was perfectly happy in that moment-- who could ask for more? I sat on the hot, hot stone fountain waiting and was quickly found by Issa and Alvaro: We had a drink and talked; Issa had to go back to work but Alvaro and I went to the Mezquita to sketch. Below is his sketch, including a little portrait of me. Alvaro really knows how to use minimal lines and use color to great effect: I could learn a lot from him. In fact, I did learn: to keep a little sketchbook for 20 second ultra quick sketches, that capture the motion of a scene, and to have a waterbrush with intense color, not water. We talked about drawing and art, and color and form and all that. You can see a tiny self-portrait of Alvaro at the bottom of my sketch below. Wonderful afternoon.
The days are long, with dinner at ten, and darkness a little later; a second day awaited.


Just a sidenote: every day when I wake up, sit up, put my feet on the ground and stand up, it is a little thrill: I can do it! Thank you to every person who cared for me, prayed for me, thought about me but didn't get around to doing anything overt, thought, 'whew, got rid of her', visited, chauffeured me . . . each one of you helped to put me back on my feet. I appreciate the value of     every day and the gifts and challenges it brings.













Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Leaving Tetouan

Issam's madrasa
Three, no four, no five arches, all different.


transportation options in the medina
With these pictures, we leave Tetouan on a (sort of) arduous journey back to Spain. I woke up early to a last rooftop view: drifting smoke weaving lazily upwards from the baker's ovens roosters crowing, cooing and chirping; never heard muezzins in Morocco.Just as I emerged from the Riad Dalia, Bhilal was turning the corner and headin in my direction.
 Don't really recommend reading the next few paragraphs, tedious travel details.  Bhilal took me to a cab, which took me to a bus, thence to the border at Ceuta. I was encouraged to see the line was not long, only about 30 people, but it took at least 90 minutes to get through. Then various dashes that seemed like obstacle courses or short assorted athletic events, sprinting from one official to the next, to get exited from Morocco, checked by customs, admitted to Spain by their immigration, rechecked for some unknown purpose-- with several hundred yards of hot sun between each. Finally, we were in Spain, Ceuta-- though still in Africa. From there, one gets a taxi to the ferry, but the taxis wait in the same line as cars waiting to cross the border, and there is a u-turn 20 feet form the border station. Traffic crawled, so the wait was long and -- well, things did not seem well thought out. As suggested by a large, cheerful woman with two small children, I teamed up with a somewhat morose man to split the taxi fee and eventually did get to the ferry station,
Ceuta Ferry Station
and talked about comparative religion at a quite basic level considering neither of us had a common language up to the task. He showed me a photo of his lovely toddler daughter; all the little children are beautiful here. We waited listlessly for the ferry, ran out of things to say, eventually got to Spain and each moved on. Customs was ok for me; many ramps, lines, etc. but they were very detailed in their searches of vehicles, which were often packed to the gills and had huge loads perched on top. I caught a cab to the bus station, headed to Marbella to visit Neil, a Charlottesville friend who had retired there. But the last bus had left. So had the last bus for Granada, my next possible stop. Across the street at the train station, the next train to anywhere I wanted to go was the next morning. I wound up on a bus to Malaga, with the idea of making a connection to Cordoba, and luckily the new phone was working so I could tell Neil he wouldn't be seeing me, and confirm an extra day in Cordoba with my host there. Then things started looking up. As the bus ground past Marbella, it didn't look so appealing; I got to Malaga, bought a ticket, and waited at the place indicated on the ticket...all by myself. A friendly young man confirmed that I was in the right place... some time later, he ran towards me, explaining that the bus to Cordoba ws just getting ready to leave, across the terminal. Just made it! One thing about travelling is you have many opportunities to confirm a view of the kindness and helpfulness of strangers. Arrived at Cordoba's station and saw my bus leaving just as I emerged to the street. Twenty minutes later as darkness crept up, I got another cab, which took me to the Best Deal Medieval House in Historic District.
After a few days in Mediterranea, meeting the very businesslike German hostess was a bit of a jolt; but the room was nice, with its stone walls and pretty courtyard right outside the door. Next morning I set out to meet Cordoba.

Tetouan II

Emerging into the morning sun, I was lost within ten yards. But, as ever, there was someone to help! Who had a line on some great kilims within a few feet. Ugh, I thought, but anyway went to look at the shop. The first floor was mostly cheap souvenirs, but upstairs were stacks of kilims, with mint tea and a minion or two to perform the ceremony: pull out the kilims, unfold, and display them, as they did in Istanbul and in New York. All were all natural dyes, I was assured, even the bubblegum and neon green ones What's more, they were made from silk and cactus fiber: yes, the opuntia I had noticed growing on the bare mountainsides. And the cactuses also yield cream, nuts, and . . . something else. But, but...some were very lovely, and I eventually bought two. When I said I'd carry them with me, the owner threw in another one, and the minions rolled them up so tightly that they, too, fit into my luggage, despite its other problems.

Now the tout suggested that he could be my guide for the day, no charge, no obligation. Since it was obvious that I would wind myself in small circles without a guide, and I had a good feeling about him in spite of the way we met, he became my indispensible companion for the day.


Bhilale and I walked and walked all day around and around the medina. It was a maze of narrow passageways punctuated by wider areas crammed with market stalls: the ones in the middle of plazas or streets were like counters or slabs of plywood mounted on wheelbarrow or cart wheels, with handles on one end. The goods were arranged on the counter, and at the end of the day, were tied down with tarps and bungee cords and wheeled away. More permanent market places were in the ground floor of the permanent buildings, with the proprietor and family living above.

  Since it was Ramadan, there were heaps of gemlike sticky sweets in glass cases; also in the cases were many trapped (benign) wasps after the honey. Shops sold food and goods of all kinds, and there were a number of craftsmen in these shops as well: leather workers, weavers, tailors, carpenters and cabinet makers, guys who could repair any sort of small appliance. There were huge piles of special Ramadan pastries, chunks of limestone and ground limestone to be used for the whitewash that was ubiquitous, and pots of pigment, and . . . the suitcase repairers.
cafe break while waiting for suitcase repairers to open



negotiating about my suitcase
Here, Bilale earned my undying gratitude by making two separate attempts to get my suitcase wheel replaced within a few hours, and then when that wasn't possible, found a used one the same size for 15 Euro.  Bhilal also helped me to find Ras Al Hanout, a local spice mixture I wanted to try.


baker and flatbread oven
leather worker with stone work surface
weavers
 We walked through an area the size of a school gym covered with clay or plaster irregularly shaped sinks or tubs sunk into the ground the created an otherworldly landscape-- almost as hallucinatory as Gaudi, but more random. They were used for curing and then dyeing the leather-- a stinky affair.
outside leather vats
 In late afternoon, Bhilal invited me to his home to meet his family: wife, son, a young woman of about 20, and other assorted family members who dropped by as the time wore on. I sat in the living room with the women, who were friendly but we had no language in common: we communicated a bit with gesture and smiles, but mostly I played with the son, Issam. He drew and painted in my journal: a picture of his madrasa, with the Moroccan flag on top; and we burned through a whole pad of Post-it notes making pictures and words in Arabic and English while the TV played Cartoon Network in Arabic. The women in their homes were different-- far more talkative and animated, and wearing tight jeans and t-shirts, with nothing covering their gorgeous masses of black hair. They were preparing little cheese pastries for the feast that night and offered me some as they came out of the oven, but didn't have any themselves.  Once they stopped in to say hello, the men disappeared to somewhere else, including Bhilal.

Soon enough, it was time to return to the Riad Dalia, and Bhilal dropped me there with a promise to pick me up in the morning to get me to the bus to Cueta-- I was trying the other route back to Spain. But! the hotel wanted to be paid in cash, even though I had given them my credit card information to make the reservation. I was not prepared for this: I had to find my way through the labyrinthine medina to the modern city where ATMs resided, and get cash. A 20 minute walk wound up taking much, much longer. I found that many streets were closed even to pedestrians because of the king's visit. I was a bit hungry, but noticed that only men seemed to be sitting in the cafes dotting the squares, so I pressed on . . . through produce markets where I bought a bunch of small apricots. Then, I saw an old man with a cart handing out warm garbanzos in broth, ladling them into bowls kept in a bucket of murky water. Once someone finished, he dropped the bowl in spoon back in the water. But they seemed so just right, and in fact were wonderful: creamy, nutty, salty, sweet. Must be context, I don't picture myself swooning over a small cup of garbanzos here! My cup slipped into the water and I continued winding around, being passed from person to helpful person, seeing parts of the medina that were new to me, and eventually got back to the hotel, to the welcome cool sheets and quiet noises there.

Tetouan, Morocco








Tetouan from the roof of the Riad Dalia

When I realized Morocco was just a ferry ride away, I added it to my itenerary: who wouldn't? I chose Tetouan because I knew people went there, and that as an ex-Spanish possession, my Spanish might get me through.

I took a bus from Seville to Tarife, the route Luis had advised to avoid border hassles at Ceuta, the other crossing. It was a breathtaking ride, hills swathed in olive trees, dramatic mountains, and scraggles of villages, with the occasional ruined farmhouse. Tarife is a touristy beach town; when I arrived, the woman at the cafe near the bus station said the ferry was just down the road...30 minutes later, suitcase jumping cobblestones behind me, I arrived to find the ferry's gates had just closed and I would have to wait two hours. I changed some money, bought a phone (never could get my phone to work) and waited...it didn't seem an interesting place to someone with a suitcase in tow. Especially since one of the wheels was worn to a nub. The two hours became three when it turned out that I had bought tickets with the other ferry line...

When the ferry arrived, there was much flashing of passports to armies of officials, and then passengers and baggage surging out into a huge parking lot. I was immediately surrounded by four or five men, all offering various stories and offers. It was Ramadan, they said, and the buses were not running until dark, 9:30. No consensus on whether trains were running. One tall young man reminded me a little of my son, except he had a manner that was at once fawning and aggressive...would  I like a tour of Tangier? A trip to various places, to do various things (nothing unsavory, but still, overwhelming, and I wanted to get to my hotel, an hour away, before dark.) Then an older gentleman wearing a New York Yankees cap stepped up, shooed the younger guys away with fussing and glares, and offered me a taxi ride the 45 km to Tetuoan for 35 Euro. Done! He drove around saying he had to get permission form the taxi authority-- you get to the point where you just have to believe all is well. We chatted in a fairly mutually incomprehensible but cheerful melange of Spanish, English, French, and in his case, Arabic. He often broke of our conversation to shriek angrily into his radio, gesticulating wildly; I saw this often, very dramatic and demonstrative speech with immediate change to calm conversation. There were Moroccan flags all along the route, because the king was to make a procession from Tetouan to Tangier. Here are some other things: a Laughing Cow (aka airplane cheese) factory which provided vans for commuting workers. Dramatic mountains coming closer every moment. Scrubby roadside buildings or compounds. Rows of newly planted palm trees, with their tops still tied so they stuck straight up as vertical shocks. Cab decor: a goat hoof containing a silk violet leaf hanging from a knob on the dashboard. As we neared Tetouan, the mountains, the Rif, loomed. Tetouan is in a bowl
the map
surrounded by mountains, and the air is cool (70 at midday) and fresh. I arrived at the Teatro Espanol (the car could not go into the medina itself because the streets were so narrow, and there was o question of my being able to find my own way through this labyrinth to the hotel in its heart), where I was to call someone from the hotel to guide me; I had been sent a map electronically. But the taxi driver had a friend in mind. This friend made several detours to stop at preferred shops, including a Berber shop with clearly third-rate kilims supposedly made with cactus silk: still have no idea about whether this can be true. This guy  showed me his  book of rugs he had shipped-- there was someone from Farmville! We rattled down crowded narrow streets past open markets with junk, piles of Ramadan sweets, fish, apricots, tomatoes, live poultry milling around, metal plumbing parts, boxes of tiny motors, screwdrivers, and wrenches, leather goods, rows of tunics, piles of scarves, and mothers, babies, skinny cats, and the occasional huddled group of men raptly watching the world cup on someone's cell phone. The sounds of Arabic wash over us as we careen through the medina snaking this way and that. So much to see, smell, touch, and hear, and so much already forgotten!
 Finally we got to the hotel, my guide hauling a now wheelless suitcase. Hamad, a lanky man, slinks around in jeans and doesn't say much to me; Jasmin, a lovely blonde Dutch girl who is spending the summer here, manages the guests. Looks like Hamad doesn't really like the situation but Jasmin speaks Dutch, French, Arabic and English that I know of, and Hamad limps by with minimal English, so there you are.  I was given the first of many glasses of mint tea, and given the tour. Another courtyard arrangement, covered with gorgeous tiles but no surface that was vertical or horizontal, exactly; upstairs to my room on steep stairs that were of uneven heights; and into a cool, airy room. She showed me the roof in the golden late light, which gave a sensational 360 degree view of the town and surrounding mountains, and a closeup view of the neighbors' arrangements and activities. They also (bliss) served a really great meal, a wonderful take on pasta e fagioli, a lamb tagine with butternut squash and pickled lemon, and fruit. An unexpectedly long travel day with a happy ending.

The typical idea of Muslim countries is unlike what I have experienced, though my visits have been brief and limited in scope, and I am clearly a Western visitor. I saw that adult women wore scarves and dressed modestly; but did not hide. My guide and every other person I encountered were very helpful and friendly, and treated me with respect. (I did not wear a scarf or long dress, but was dressed reasonably modestly.) I did notice that women seemed busier and less willing to talk with me, but also less likely to speak Spanish: they tended to have Arabic only. People seemed generally cheerful. I often encountered guys trying to sell me things or services, but a clear calm 'no' always suffice. Even when I went searching for an ATM out of the medina and got lost in the dark with a stash of cash, I at no time felt at all unsafe. It may be different in other places in the Arabic-speaking world, but in many ways, I felt more at ease in this place than in American cities.
Tetuoan seems so ad hoc; no right angles, don't really want to know details of the plumbing and electricity arrangements. It looks as if pulling one small stone out of a  wall would cause the whole place to gently settle into itself, give off a small cloud of dust, and be gone. But it all seems to work, and has for centuries.























Sunday, July 13, 2014

Seville 3

Seville catedral
The cathedral in Seville is an amalgam of various styles. Treatises have been written on it, so look them
up if you want to know. It was built on a former mosque (its signature tower, La Giralda, remains) just as the cathedral in Cordoba, and the Cathedral in Mexico DF was built on seven separate lamina of Aztec temples. I would not be surprised to learn that the mosque was built over some other holy place. Is it conquest, hedging of bets that some sort of deity is nearby, or both? Looking at structures like this almost makes me sweat blood to even think of what went into building them by hindreds of craftsmen, over centuries, with minimal tools.
                        









Arches, colonnades, and fountains.
Casa Pilates
Casa Pilates, a palace a short walk from the Cathedral, was built to remember the owner's idea of Pontius Pilate's palace. It is another graceful, colonnaded palace with  a plashing fountain, tiles on the walls under the colonnades and hallways. I am not tired of these yet! There were piles of marble columns lying in a stone-walled room behind a BMW, waiting for . . . their time to come again? There was a tour guide whose English was so awful that it was far easier for me to understand her Spanish (delivered first). One more Seville sight that I thought was mesmerizing and very different. The Espacio Metropol Parosol:
It looks like a real manifestation of a topological CAD  image: and constructed of interlocking sheets in a hivey matrix. This alluring object looks one shape when you look at it: walk three feet and it is another thing. It is fantastic to see this in a plaza surrounded by very old buildings that make an attempt at 90 degree angles all around. I stopped there for a novel lunch: a molded salad of chicken and avocado. As I ate and drew, I was approached by a drunk, who professed undying admiration, duly added his name to my journal and then went away when asked.
I would have liked to spend more time wandering around Seville, but it was time to head for Africa. Morocco, actually. Feet, buses, ferries, cabs, and guides, another adventure. Tedious to be so enthusiastic, but really, everything was wonderful, delicious, and exciting.