“…quiero subir cuesta arriba aunque me cueste trabajo.” (“…I want to go uphill although it cost me dearly.”)
–Soleá, a traditional flamenco song
I feel a close connection to Spanish history because, like my own life, it is clearly divided into ages. Each begins with a new Spain molting out of the skin of the old. First it was a land of warring tribes. Then it was the Roman Empire, and after its fall, a fledgling attempt at a Christian empire by Germanic tribes. This lasted a short time until the invasion of the Moors (from Morocco), after which it was a collection of Muslim kingdoms. A tumultuous history of the Reconquista played out over more than 700 years until it emerged as the Spanish Empire, of Roman Catholic faith, gripping the New World with its fearsomeness. But after years of mismanagement and political chess, it had to fight for its identity against other nations, and against time itself. After its colonies unattached themselves, and it was split apart with internal conflicts, a tired and ailing empire entered its Civil War around the same time as World War II, and exited a dictatorship, which ended in 1975. Finally, the Spain of today emerged as a constitutional monarchy.
I did not know I was nearing the end of an age on the day I arrived in Spain. Old skin was beginning to die, and I would have to shed it. But that story happens later, on a rocky beach in a Scottish rainstorm.
The world of minarets, manic merchantry, and the dirham had faded in the fog behind me, and the world of bell towers, bullfights, and the euro came into view as my ferry docked in the port of Tarifa. Jenn and I disembarked, and I began the “Basic Phrases Wheel of Fortune” game, where I would go through every basic phrase in every language I had learned, before I landed on the right one to suit the task at hand (“Guten tag, Kon’nichiwa, bon jour, I mean, um, good morning. No wait, buenos días!”). We waited for the rain to stop, and I hauled my somewhat-overpacked luggage to a bus station, where we left for another city.
An American friend named Willie picked us up in his red Renault. He had a civilian job at the Spanish naval base in Rota, managing the stylish naval hotel. We got connected through my brother, a navy doctor, who had met him when they both lived on the same base in Japan. On the drive to his home, he told us all about his running and cycling addiction, and his love for sherry, a fortified wine only produced in the Sherry Triangle in which he was stationed. He was a great conversationalist, and made us feel at home.
That evening, he and his charming Spanish wife Angela took us out for tapas (small snack sized food items). We walked around the windy, rainy streets, and by the beach, until nearly midnight. This was a late hour for Jenn and I, as Morocco closes down early in comparison to Spain, a nation of night owls. It does not begin its evenings until at least 9 PM, and then proceeds through them until about 2 to 4 AM. But the streets were empty that night due to the rain, which Spaniards treat with the utmost superstition, locking themselves inside and not going out unless necessary. If you ever see someone walking around in no particular hurry in Spain when it is raining, you can bet they’re not Spanish.
Willie was generous with his time, driving us to different spots in the Sherry Triangle, and giving us a better tour than money could buy. It was a Sunday, and nearly everything was closed due to the Sabbath (though few Spaniards are actively religious anymore). The streets were listless until about 3 PM, when a few grandmothers and families went out for a walk in between rains. Jenn, who sells wine for a living, was disappointed that she could not go to a bodega, where Sherry is produced after the grapes are picked. But we both enjoyed how relaxed this country was in comparison to where we were just a day earlier. Yet it was odd how similar it felt to Morocco. For example, we came across a church in the seaside town of Cadiz, which looked like a layer cake of shades of tan. Willie informed us that the church used to be a mosque, but after the Reconquista, the Spaniards lobbed off the top, and completed its consecration with a bell tower. Then I realized how many ghosts there were of Spain’s Moorish past. I began to see Morocco in the buildings and streets, and the more I listened to the Spanish speak, I could hear it hidden in the slight gravel of the h sound (the Spanish j).
We said our goodbyes to Willie and Angela, and spent an afternoon back in Cadiz, of which Jenn and I felt we had not seen enough. Just as my shoulder was starting to go numb, we discovered a hostel, and paid them to store the luggage. The sun came out that day, and from the camara oscura, we spied on all the Monday bustle: on the rooftops, women hung up laundry to dry and small children played careful games of soccer, and in the winding narrow streets, businessmen talked intently on their phones. Then we climbed to the roof of the building, and watched the wind surging the waves into the rocky coastline, as the clouds poured over the city. The salty ocean air reminded me of California, yet I did not feel homesick, only a little more at home. On our way down, we ran into a vending machine with adult products, just next to a machine with soda and juice. Far more Puritanical than the lax Spanish, I had an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
We made it to Seville by train. I had hoped the sun would hold out, as I wanted to explore Seville in its full glory and I was hoping to see a bullfight in the oldest plaza de toros in Spain. But it was not to be. We arrived in pouring rain. Nonetheless, we found a source of enjoyment, following a diverse group from our hostel to a tavern with live flamenco.
The tavern was made of stone and plaster, and was dim inside, lit only by a few stage lights and some dull yellow bulbs on the wall. It had a clearing in the middle, surrounded by age-worn wooden tables and benches, crowded with people. It was loud with conversation; hot, despite the weather; and it smelled of tobacco smoke and sangría. Soon after we arrived, a guitar strum struck the air, and the chatter immediately died to silence. From my seat near the bar, I saw a hand shoot out from the center floor, and descend down with the utmost control, revealing its owner, a beautiful, dark haired woman in a black dress. At another strum, she struck another pose, just as precise and sharp as the last. Then an old man sang out in a sad, longing wail as the guitarist plucked out a few more notes, and some others began to clap. Intermittently, the crowd would interject, “Vale!”, a show of approval. Then, like someone was slowly turning up the tap, the guitarist engaged in more complex chords and strums, and the rhythm moved rapidly from one meter to the next. The woman would snap and spin with the music, moving each appendage with such skill it seemed her fingers, hands, arms, shoulders, and all else that belonged to her were performing their own dance. And as she moved, her dress flowed like a roaring river over her body and through the air, shooting one direction then an another, and making a controlled splash when she commanded. She was a goddess for the night, and we were her subjects, captivated, entranced. I found myself involuntarily shouting “Vale!” along with the Spaniards.
But many kinds of songs were played and dances danced. Some were sombre, others filled with celebration. In some, there was no dancing, it was just a guitar and the panging wails of longing. Longing for love, for freedom, and for a home. This was the art of los giptanos–the gypsies–the wanderers of Europe. This night lives vibrantly in my memory. I encountered a living tradition. It was not something concocted to please tourists, but a passionate, spontaneous art form dating back centuries. One that changes not over long periods, but every night that it is performed.
The next day, we took a walking tour. Our guide was entertaining, and filled with stories and information. I learned that Andalucia (Southern Spain) came from the Arabic name al-Andalus, meaning “Land of the Vandals”, and that the end of Spain’s Golden Age happened under a king so physically deformed and mentally impaired he could not feed himself, let alone run the kingdom. I also learned that rain makes for bad walking tours and cancelled bullfights. It was because of this, and the barrenness of the streets, now devoid of the guitarists and patioed cafes I had encountered the sunny day I arrived to catch my flight to Morocco, that we decided to move on to Cordoba. We promised ourselves that we would make time to come back when we returned to Spain during the summer.
Ironically, the sun came out the next day, and Cordoba was covered in a warm, humid haze. We awoke early to make it to the the beautiful Mezquita before they charged for entrance (some sights in Cordoba are free early in the morning). A former mosque, it was assumed as a Christian church after the defeat of the Moors, but unlike the church in Cadiz, the Moorish influence was still intact in the geometry, arches, and keyhole shaped entryways.
Afterwards, we strolled down the Roman arched bridge over the river, and we wandered down the little streets and inside the patios with their fountains and multi-hued flowers. It was beautiful, but I kept thinking back to an American I had met in my hostel the night before, who had just finished an 8 month wandering experience from Southeast Asia to India. I wish I had not, but I felt jealous. I thought that he had done things right. I wanted something like his adventure–wild and challenging, a The Worst Journey in the World experience, or something like what my dad did in the 1970’s. But this was turning into something easy and safe, like the Eat part of Eat, Pray, Love. Partially, this was because I decided to travel with Jenn. It was not her fault, of course. She made no qualms from the beginning about her lack of interest in my dreams of wild camping in drainage ditches and living on less than $10 a day (for the life of me, I cannot understand why). If anything, she was adding a much-needed element of sophistication. But thinking on it more, I realized I had undermined my desire for adventure from the beginning by planning so meticulously. The Almighty Spreadsheet had a daily schedule for four out of the six months. A true wandering experience could not be planned and reserved that far ahead. I did not want to think about it any further. I was already here, there was too much reserved to change, and I was certainly not going to cut my losses and go back. I just had to go forward, so we took a safe and easy train to our next destination.
Nestled in the foothills in the snow capped Sierra Nevadas, Granada was the last the stronghold of the Moors before they were expelled to Africa. Some quarters are strongholds of the streetwise gitanos, like the Sacromonte caves above the city. Others are an upper class Romantic’s dream, with whitewashed houses roofed in red tiles, and balconies overflowing with flowers, lit by lamps in the evenings. Still others are newer, with graffiti art (and sometimes just graffiti) storying the walls. There are a few main boulevards, but mostly there are stony, steep, crooked streets. On top of it all is a massive Moorish fortress, the Alhambra, imposing itself over the city, and seeming to keep guard over all of Spain.
We arrived late to the Alhambra, with tickets we nabbed just before they sold out, but our tardiness did not seem to be a problem. Perhaps it was because the rain had started again, but those guarding the entryways to the different sectors were apathetic that our tickets had expired, scanning them and letting us through without a second glance. We enjoyed the majestic halls, breezy courtyards, narrow fountains, prim gardens, and especially the flower draped windows overlooking the beautiful vistas. The way that the Alhambra is hewn into its hill makes it seem as if it were meant to be there; a part of nature, just like the mountains surrounding it. From the vantage of that fortress, I understood a little better the pride that conquered the New World (not that this excuses the evil that was done).
But I do not want you to feel that Granada was just another historic, beautiful place to walk around. What made Granada unique to me was the intensity of the culture surrounding tapas. If you want to engage in this culture, here’s how you do it. First, in addition to your basic Spanish, practice the words vale and venga, which technically mean “OK” and “let’s go”, respectively, but are used to mean almost anything. You’ll get the hang of them. Now go to a bar, order a small drink (beer, wine, Coca-Cola, doesn’t matter), and select one of the free tapas that come with it. There are all sorts from which to choose, from sundried tomato sandwiches to greasy breaded balls of fish. If you don’t know the name, just keep pointing at the display and then agree by saying, “Vale!” After that, strike up a conversation with someone (or more likely, they will strike up one with you). Soon you will find yourself talking about everything from the weather to politics, religion, and the meaning of life and death, as if they were all the same thing: the weather is like politics, vale, because it is always changes but never in your favor, vale!, but religion is like bad politics because it can’t change because it holds the true meaning of life and death, vale? You ought to laugh at heavy subjects, and treat ridiculous ones with significance, testing the bounds of reality. It’ll make you think, but most importantly it’ll make you laugh which is sometimes the best way to get over some major hangups. Maybe have another drink and a tapa, then move on to the next bar saying, “Vale, venga.” Then do it all over again, and keep doing it until you can’t talk, drink, or eat anymore. Then you call it a night by saying, “Vale, venga, adios!” While technically, tapas are just the small snacks, really, they are the whole thing: without the drink, it is not tapas, and without the conversation, it is not tapas. And the thing about it is, you always want more, and that is why the Spanish stay up so late. It’s a rush.
The wet weather left the last night we were in Granada. Walking around the moonlit streets that night was mesmerizing. With the lashing of the rain now gone, the sound of the river was never too far off, and the ancient streets echoed with the trickling of fountains and the soft notes of guitarists.
What I had seen of Spain so far was a quaintness and a laugh-at-your-problems attitude towards life. What I would see next in Madrid was the bloodthirsty bend of the conquistadors.
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