Spain, 2014

CHO

This is the trip I was to have taken in April, 2013, but cancelled because of illness. That time left me with a shift in attitude: an appreciation of what is important to me; pleasure in the myriad tiny miracles that blow past us each day; more calm in the face of irritations (mostly). And confidence. This trip has been a continuation of all of that-- my ability to relax and revel in the now.
I did not really come to grips with planning except the tickets and a general itenerary. And packing my sketchbook and paints. But everything worked out, even the things that didn't.
 Oh, this has been the best trip just as a time to relax and absorb wonderful things through my senses,  but more than that. I have a plan, not about exactly what to do, but how. Maybe by the time I die, I will be a real person.Not much of a hook...

As ever, the view out the big windows at CHO past the toy planes to the mountains was lovely. Missing the lilies once again, to go somewhere else? The lush hills of Virginia swept by and we landed at Charlotte soon enough, where I waited at the assigned gate. When I realized they didn't seem to be boarding, I asked the staff person, who told me the gate had been changed to another terminal and the doors had been closed-- gulp. I ran, ran, ran, was hustled onto the plane by many hands, and was sternly reproved by a squat German stewardess. But whoever looked at my boarding pass marked it in such a way that it looked like I was in A2, not A22; when I was asked, I was still so adrenalined that I just nodded, and so got into business class, without even realizing it until I wondered why the seats were so spacious. Really nice noise cancelling earphones, made a huge difference. Elaborate folderol with meals: linen on the lap tray, real glasses for the wine, and so forth. A seatmate who manages diabetes research for some Spanish pharma returning from a convention in the Southwest. (I was able to talk about some research about an iphone-powered blood sugar monitor/insulin pump that just came out on the SciAm blog that very day!). Arrived at Barajas and walked, walked, walked; at length arrived at David's place, where I had a berth in his guest room.

In Madrid

from David's patio

I was eager to meet David, a friend I had not seen since high school, someone I had admired and also wanted. He grew up to become an architect and writer; had had a Spanish wife, and artist, but was a widower. Would it be awkward? An imposition? A non-connection? In the event, we talked and talked and talked; it was so easy. It is fair to say we are both happier people than we were at 16, and wiser, but both still travelling.  David lives in a studio a few blocks from the Prado in a distinctly non-tourist neighborhood; his apartment/studio is sunny and full of artifacts of his life in Spain, and books, and has a patio squeezed between other buildings... the sounds of others' lives float around us, forming the ambient music of Madrid.

The center of Madrid was preparing for the installation of the new king: helicopters buzzing overhead, heavy police presence to forestall demonstrations (new king is not generally regarded with great enthusiasm), press trucks with remote controlled cameras, wires draped all over, barricades, &c; and for decoration, giant Daleks full of white petunias spotted here and there. We decided to hotfoot it (actually, take a train) to Toledo to look around and to avoid the crowds in Madrid the next day.
That night we ate bacalao and a really gorgeous salad in a very atmospheric Portuguese restaurant nearby. It was timeless but not cute, and played an uncategorizeable mix of bottom 40 American pop music from perhaps the 70s. Then to a roof bar at the Circulo de Bellas Artes for a wonderful and surprisingly quiet view of the city, with buildings pointed out in colored lights. Magical.


Toledo

The train ride from Atocha Station took only about an hour through the city, the suburbs, and barely any countryside before we were there. The Toledo train station is an amazing Victorian-Moorish confection filled with a mixture of different tileworks, wooden inlays, columns and arches.

The city was jammed with people celebrating Toledo's signature festival, Corpus Christi; and it was hot.There was a parade winding through the medieval streets: some kind of VFW types in beribboned uniforms and significant hats, mounted on decorated horses; troops of  grave-looking old women in mantillas boys in a variety of sailor suits; girls in frilly white-- first communicants, virgin sacrifices?-- accompanied by their mothers, many of whom wore very brief LBDs, gobs of makeup, and heels so spiky they were only good for tipping over...quite the contrast; and the star, a statue of the Virgin on an elaborate palanquin. The streets from the cathedral were designated by a canopy hung high above, jewel toned elaborately embroidered silk serapes hanging from balconies, and the streets were fragrant with cedar and romarin trampled underfoot.

At the cathedral, we found about six huge (think 12 by 16 feet) tapestries, all featuring action-packed biblical scenes, hanging in the sunshine.
We visited a synagogue which had escaped destruction because of being a hospital; it had lovely wooden inlaid ceilings in geometric designs; and plaster bas reliefs. But mostly it had captured a huge area of bright, airy space.

The Burial of Count Orgaz

We looked for the el Greco exhibit but it was closed; so we went to find some lunch on a leafy plaza nearby. The waiters were wearing aprons featuring the most-promoted work from the exhibition, The Burial of Count Orgaz. The painting does make for a unique apron: no gingham here!


That night, back in Madrid, David showed me an accordion book of old (or poetic?) Chinese ideograms he had bought in China decades ago, the kind that looks very loose, but must take years to perfect. It was beautifully reverse printed in black on white paper, with the script an uninked white. The tiny white absences in the black ink because of the paper's texture seemed to hold secrets or sparks. The first pages had just one or two ideograms per page, minimal and emphatic, like comic book oaths; but as it continued, they progressed to recognizeable columns and lines of text still in the loos script. In thinking about its perfect beauty, what registers is the complete uniqueness of the forms-- the curves out of reach of any mathematical formula because they didn't stay the same for long enough, somehow conveying perfect balance and control at the same time they were wild with the essence of the creative monster.