My Tales from the Alhambra and the Virgin Mothers' Wrath

Upon visiting Granada—though superficially, from the perspective of a mere tourist—I quickly fell for the same charm that intoxicated Romantic writers centuries ago.  Tucked away in the Sierra Nevada and populated by the sumptuous palaces of a civilization overthrown and expelled long ago, the city preserves an inimitable air of antiquity, a time capsule of sorts.  Aided in part by its geographical isolation, Granada was the last Muslim stronghold on the Iberian Peninsula before the Christians finalized their “Reconquest.”  While you´ll find footprints of the Muslim occupation in many parts of southern Spain—bits and pieces of fortifying walls and former minarets converted into bell towers, for instance (see previous posts)—in Granada the Arabic influence is far more pronounced, if not overstated.  The Alhambra, built during the Nasrid dynasty, presides regally atop its hill; innumerable little tea houses, thick with hookah smoke and heavily decorated in neo-mudéjar style, line Granada´s famously narrow streets; and while not exactly authentic, the tourists´ shops, a veritable kaleidoscope of flowing fabrics and wafting aromas, are about as close to the Kasbah as you´ll get this side of Gibraltar.  Not to be entirely outshone by the city´s Islamic past, Christian Granada shares an equally imposing presence in the form of Carlos V´s Renaissance palace, which stands smugly beside the Alhambra, as well as Ferdinand and Isabel´s final resting place, la Catedral de la Encarnación.  In Granada, Spain´s multicultural history forms more of a patchwork as opposed to the “layer cake” effect, reflected both architecturally and archaeologically, seen in other parts of Andalucía. 

The famously narrow streets of the Albaicín, the ancient Muslim quarter

The Sierra Nevada against a sadly overcast sky

The Alhambra sits on its hill not unlike a monarch atop her throne.

The exterior of the Palace of Carlos V

The interior courtyard of the palace is a perfect circle.  The acoustics
are fantastic... wouldn´t mind performing here!

Entering the Alhambra...

One of umpteen meticulously kept gardens within the Alhambra.
Water features prominently in Muslim architecture to create a sense
of continuity, a means of integrating exterior elements indoors.

Looks like they´re in desperate need of a human translator.

View from the Generalife, the Nasrid king´s summer residence.

NOTE: My trip to Granada was almost a month ago, and after so much time I was all but too embarrassed to publish the previous reflection.  In my defense, I've been pretty consistently ill for the past month, and two trips to the clinic later, I'm still horribly congested and missing Seville's much anticipated and desperately needed spring in favor of numerous, extended siestas.  I'm debating whether it's worth dragging myself to the doctor's yet again to get tested for mono, though at this point they'd only prescribe me bed rest, of which I'm already getting plenty.  I wonder if my awful health here in Seville is punishment for all of my sacrilegious jokes aimed at the city's countless Virgin Mothers.  If this is the case, I duly accept my penance, as I really can't help myself. With such names as Our Lady of Good Books and Our Lady of Bitterness, it's difficult not to want to get creative and name a few vírgenes for yourself.  It's only a matter of time before you have at your disposal an entire pantheon of perverse Virgin Mothers to play leading roles in any matter of jokes or scenarios that are lewd, scatological, or otherwise offensive in nature.  I blame this affinity for blasphemy on my good Catholic upbringing.  

In the blink of an eye

A rather blurry photo of a work by Juan de Valdés Leal displayed
in the chapel of el Hospital de la Caridad, where everything reflects
Baroque Spain´s fixation with fast-approaching mortality.  Optimists,
avert your eyes.

I suppose an update is in order, if only just to make a post about the boring minutiae of life in Sevilla.  The fact that I’ve been here long enough to start commenting on mundane details is as encouraging as it is alarming; yes, I truly am beginning to feel at home (or at least not totally lost), but this only reminds me of how cruelly short my time here really is.  I worry that, having been lulled into a sense of quotidian complacency, I will unwittingly let the next four months pass me by in ictu oculi, as fatalistically presaged on a well-known canvas hanging in one of Seville’s Baroque chapels.     

Lately I’ve found it difficult to greet the morning with much of a carpe diem attitude (though true to my Sleeping Beauty reputation, I proudly confess not to have seen too many mornings here), thanks to my feeling significantly under the weather this past week, and the weather itself—invariably cloudy and unpredictably stormy—certainly hasn’t helped to lift my spirits, either.  Only now am I beginning to feel the symptoms of what I was worried was a nasal infection starting to disappear.  I’m relieved not to have to go to the doctor’s office, though that might have proven an interesting cultural experience.  Fun fact: the Spanish word for “congested” is constipado, whose false friend status I’m sure has lead to countless (and hilarious) misunderstandings when unsuspecting guiris like myself have been forced to seek medical attention for swollen sinuses, only to be prodded and poked in the abdomen before being prescribed milk of magnesia.  I’ve been resting up, drinking lots of fluids, and politely resisting my host señora’s attempts to pour excessive quantities of distressingly large pills, whose exact purposes I could only imagine, down my sore throat.  It seems my condition is improving just in time for the weekend, though I could argue that the typical Spanish weekend is what put my health in jeopardy in the first place. 

I don’t know how they do it. Twice, sometimes three times during the weekend, Spaniards will start their evening after sunset and won’t return home until well after the sun has risen (in winter, no less!).  A standard evening begins, without surprise, at a tapas bar before migrating to what’s known as a botellón, which is essentially when a large group (or more precisely, lots of small groups) of young people gather by the river to… raise their spirits, if you get my drift.  Technically it’s illegal to drink in public, so it’s not uncommon for a cop car to appear at regular intervals to make the crowds disperse, but this is decidedly a largely symbolic act; as soon as the coast is clear, and often even before the squad car is out of sight, people return to their posts and resume their merrymaking.  Still, I’m told it’s always worth keeping a wary eye on your surroundings, because if you’re unlucky enough to be stopped by the cops, a considerable fine awaits. 

It seems rather silly that folks here brave potential fines and, at this time of year, potentially frigid temperatures, all in the name of a few drinks, but there really is no alternative.  The people of Seville invariably take to the streets, and house parties are an extreme exception to the rule; in fact, you are enormously unlikely to see the interior of anyone’s home other than your own and your family members’.  (The only flat in the city I’ve seen belongs to volunteers from other parts of Europe.)  So far this hasn’t bothered me, as I’m more than happy to venture to (even still) as-of-yet unexplored parts of the city to meet with friends, but I imagine there will come a point when I wish I could just crash at a friend’s place some night to watch a movie or enjoy a home-cooked meal.  I’ve met a few international folks who’ve spent a good deal of time here, and this is their principal complaint. 

Anyway—apologies for the digression—the whole point of the botellón is to avoid the towering cost of drinks at the discotheque, which is the next leg of the evening, beginning after 2 AM.  Notice that I didn’t say it was the last leg, because if you’re able to survive four hours of dancing (though many Spaniards, tragically, don’t dance so much as bob their heads with drink in hand), you’re rewarded with breakfast before stumbling back home among morning joggers and delivery vans.  Being the unapologetic night-owl I am, a night out a la española feels like a decided victory on numerous levels, but to repeat it numerous times in a matter of days is clearly out of my ability at the moment, especially when you’ve got to be up for lunch the next day.           

Córdoba. Lejana y sola.

Beneath this bell tower´s Renaissance carapace
hides a tenth century minaret.  

Córdoba, at first glance, seems remarkably similar to Seville.  Don´t ever tell that to a sevillano or a cordobés; it seems that one of the few qualities that the people of Andalucía admit to sharing, apart from a fierce tendency to disagree with one another, is an indomitable sense of local pride.  Still, my tour of Córdoba did include its cathedral, its palace (alcázar), and its old Jewish neighborhood (judería), all three of which can also be found in Seville.  Strolling through the narrow, winding streets of the judería and seeing the cathedral´s bell tower looming overhead, I felt a striking sense of déjà vu.  (Interesting fact: the twisting and turning Jewish sectors in both Córdoba and Seville were constructed strategically so to maximize shade and give the persecuted minority that lived in the neighborhood a home turf advantage when authorities pursued them through the labyrinthine barrio.)  Even so, a daytrip to Córdoba will leave a lasting impression, as evidenced by the photos below.  

Córdoba´s cathedral is colloquially referred to as la mezquita
de Córdoba, or the Mosque of Córdoba, and for good reason.
The majority of the structure consists of the original mosque
constructed during the Muslim occupation.  The Moors
recycled the columns seen here from Ancient Roman buildings.

Here we see Christ hanging out under some "polylobulated
arches," a typical adornment in Muslim architecture.  The
juxtapositions/contradictions only get more extreme.

Ferdinand III "reconquering" Córdoba from the
Moors. They love this dude in Spain, especially
in Seville where he serves as patron saint.

A Baroque cathedral was erected quite literally in
the middle of the mosque in the sixteenth century.
It´s looks as absurd as it sounds.

The massive choir is comprised of elaborately carved mahogany.
Just a modest adornment...

This Moorish dome looks down upon the opening to the mihrab,
where the Qur´an used to be stored.

"What were they thinking?!"  This was Carlos V´s reaction upon
visiting the cathedral-in-progress. The monarch originally jump-
started the project, only to later regret the partial destruction of
what he found out too late to be a remarkable, truly unique edifice.

Despite the ill-conceived, albeit impressive, basilica interrupting
what was once a forest of columns and Moorish arches in the
original mosque, many believe that the cathedral´s presence has
saved what remains of the Muslim structure from being destroyed
altogether, as has been the fate of most (all other?) Iberian mosques.

The gardens of Córdoba´s alcázar, or palace.

Córdoba´s Roman bridge has survived millennia.  They just
don´t build stuff like they used to.

These statues commemorate Christopher Columbus´s first
meeting with Ferdinand II and Isabel I, the Catholic Monarchs.

Una obra de locos

Supposedly those in charge of constructing Seville´s cathedral are quoted as having said, “Let us build a church so beautiful and so great that those who see it built will take us for madmen.”  I´d say they succeeded.  Here are a few of the photos I snapped yesterday; unfortunately the quality isn´t fantastic, but I will undoubtedly return before my time here is up to take some higher resolution pictures.  

Quintessential Seville: the Giralda amidst orange trees.

This shot displays three distinct architectural styles;
the lower part of the tower is what remains of the mosque that once
stood here, the cathedral itself (seen below) is Gothic, and the bell
tower atop the Giralda was slapped on during the Renaissance.  So
many great contradictions going on in this photo.  

Subtlety was not Medieval Christians´strong suit.

Your gaze is inevitably drawn up to the vaulted ceiling.

An extremely necessary three-story altar made entirely of gold.  

Sevilla as seen from atop the Giralda.

Quasimodo would have been happy to call this bell tower home.

This patio was preserved from Seville´s mosque.

La Macarena

La Macarena in all her glory.

A miraculously well-preserved Roman mosaic in the Count-
ess of Lebrija´s palace. The collection kept here is nothing
short of astounding. Woman had a lot of time on her hands.

My intensive course during the next two weeks focuses on the historical roots of Seville, exploring the lasting, and often still visible, influences of the various civilizations that have populated the Iberian Peninsula.  By far the best part about the class is that during each session we actually venture out into the city to visit the historical sites we´re discussing (though arguably Seville is just one big historical site).  Our professor Ángel is absolutely top-notch, a veritable walking encyclopedia, and has pointed out to us Roman ruins, converted mosques, and ancient, subterranean plazas in some of the most unexpected places.  Because the course is so brief and the city´s history so boundless, Ángel has given us a list of places to visit on our own time, one of which is the Basílica de la Macarena, which I visited earlier this morning with some classmates.

In past courses, I´ve learned that Christianity has been known to take on a polytheistic hue, especially when exported to, and forced upon, colonized peoples.  In some parts of the Andes, for example, the Virgin Mary is portrayed as a sacred hill, bearing meaningful resemblance to the Incan mountain spirit Apu.  In the Caribbean, followers of santería or Orisha disguised their pantheon of gods, brought from Africa, as Catholic saints.  La Basílica de la Macarena (and indeed, Seville as a whole), on the other hand, is proof that even one of the world´s most historically Catholic countries is not exempt from religious syncretism.   

The walls of the basilica are adorned with depictions of
Mary; the Annunciation, the virgin birth, the Assumption...
You name it, they´ve got it.

Upon entering the basilica, it is immediately apparent that absolutely everything about this place is about Nuestra Señora de la Esperanza.  Decked out in luxurious robes worthy of a queen and surrounded by egregious amounts of gold and silver, the crowned Virgen de la Macarena presides over the church, itself a product of painstaking, excessively ornate Neo-Baroque craftsmanship.  Painted images on the walls and ceiling depict the Savior´s mother in all her saintly glory.  And if you were wondering about the savior in question, he does make a small appearance on his crucifix tucked away in a corner.  

The church´s chapels contained other saints.  I think this
was another Virgin Mother.  Seville has a lot of those.

What´s even more astounding is that Seville has dozens upon dozens of Virgin Mothers, according to my host señora Pilar, all of whom make their rounds during Semana Santa, each of them dressed to the nines and riding atop a sort of man-powered, gold encrusted float.  Locals treat the procession as a kind of beauty pageant, yelling “¡Qué bonita!” at the figurines as they pass by.  I´m told that fierce rivalries brew over whose Virgin is the most beautiful.  This is something I´ve got to see to believe. 

Right next to the church is a large section of the wall that
surrounded Sevilla during the Muslim occupation.

Anyway, after visiting the basilica, I understood fairly well why Ángel had wanted us to include the church in our travels about the city.  Is this over-the-top saint worship some vestige of Roman polytheism?  Anyone unfamiliar with Christianity could easily misconstrue la Macarena as a goddess, given the fact that she had a whole freaking basilica built for her.  This is an extremely broad and baseless parallel to draw, but the issue is thought-provoking nonetheless.  

P.S. Evidently Macarena is a very popular name for girls in Seville because of la Virgen, and one such Macarena inspired (or demonically invoked?) the hit 90´s song.  The accompanying dance fortunately has not made its way into the sevillanas repertoire, as far as I know.

Vetus Urbs, Nova Urbs

Itálica´s amphitheater.

A few days ago we took a trip to Itálica, an ancient Roman city on the outskirts of Seville.  The ruins feature a colossal amphitheater, the stony skeletons of bars and mansions, and fully functional plumbing.  Sounds like the Romans knew how to live.  Our tour guide explained that archaeologists have divided the city´s remains into vetus urbs and nova urbs, “old city” and “new city,” respectively, the former lying principally under the modern day town of Santiponce and the latter comprising the majority of the ruins visible today.  It occurred to me that Seville also encapsulates the idea of vetus urbs/nova urbs rather well, though in a less literal sense.

Seville is certainly known for its “Old World” atmosphere, imposed stoically by the city´s iconic Gothic cathedral, looming Giralda bell tower, and millennium-old ramparts dating back to the Muslim occupation.  The city is lousy with history, and suffice it to say that people let their dogs shit on cobblestones that were laid well before Europeans even set foot on the American continent.  Canine feces notwithstanding, the air in Seville is perfumed with antiquity.  The orange trees, though not even in bloom, impart their subtle fragrance to the city´s narrow passageways, and mixing with the dusty scent of decaying wood and plaster, they evoke the era long ago when these bitter oranges first made their way to Seville from the Orient.  But it´s not just the buildings and streets that tell stories; their inhabitants, though modern, at times seem to channel a way of life from a different time altogether.  In the morning, meticulously preened señoras roll their little canvas carts to la panadería and la carnicería to shop for the day´s meals while old men banter in the cafés.  In the afternoon, small storeowners close up shop for the famous Spanish siesta.  In the evening, young people congregate in plazas where their great-great-great grandparents likely did the same, and walking past a bar last night I heard the faint wail of a flamenco verse sung among friends.  This is Sevilla´s vetus urbs, a city whose sheer age means that daily life is enveloped in, and mandated by, tradition. 

One elaborate mosaic displayed Pigmies fighting off sea
creatures. "Apparently not everything about the Pigmies
was small," said our tour guide.

Seville is, nevertheless, a modern city in every sense.  Though its skyline is thankfully devoid of skyscrapers, one of the city center´s taller buildings (at a whopping seven stories) is El Corte Inglés, Spain´s national chain of department stores.  American megacorporations like McDonald´s and Starbucks of course have a (omni)presence here.  Smartly dressed professionals whisk past the slowly ambling señoras, and students inevitably wind up in a discoteca after they enjoy a drink (or several) in one of the historic plazas.  I don´t intend to portray Seville´s nova urbs negatively, as I include with it the city´s decidedly bohemian neighborhood La Macarena whose hip, decadent bars and prodigiously pierced and tattooed denizens I´ve already come to adore.

Like any large, diverse city, Seville expresses a number of dualities, but instead of opposing one another, these differing qualities are more like two sides of a coin, to use a hackneyed analogy.  Before I left for Spain I promised myself that I wouldn´t try to pull the condescending and naïve stunt of attempting to “define” the people of Seville, but I do hope that during my time here I might begin to see life through their eyes.  I will never be able to escape my American perspective, and I will always have to fight my tendency to generalize (lumping every aspect of the city into vetus urbs and nova urbs, for example…), but I wish to get to know this city in a way that surpasses the mere infatuation I have with it now.  My host señora Pilar, a woman who lives in the same neighborhood where she grew up, explained to me, “Los sevillanos live their whole lives here.  And if they do leave, they always dream of returning.”  I think to truly understand this, I´ll need to do some soul searching; but the soul I´m after is not my own, but the city´s.  Hell, maybe I´ll even find mine along the way.

Way Better Than Disney World

My already long day of travel was actually far from over once I arrived at the hotel from Seville Airport with the last of the program participants.  What could only be described as a lavish banquet awaited us, and though initially sleep was the only thing on my mind, I couldn’t resist the array of classed-up regional dishes and fresh produce laid before me.  Because southern Spain is so temperate (I’m sitting in my room with the window open at the moment), it is a year-round agricultural center, and every meal I’ve eaten so far has featured local fruits and vegetables that in winter would have to be shipped overseas to the U.S., only to arrive covered in wax, artificially ripened, and utterly flavorless.  Okay, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure if absolutely everything I’ve been consuming has been grown locally, but the countless orange trees that line Seville’s avenidas are testament to the fact that citrus of all kinds can flourish here, as even in January they’re all brimming with fruit.  Seville oranges, nevertheless, are actually acerbic to the point of being all but inedible (as hilariously evidenced when an unsuspecting Gina bit into one that she plucked during our first evening stroll), and while they are used to produce a marmalade that’s very popular in the U.K., surprisingly they figure very little into local cuisine, or so I’m told. 

Anyway, after said feast I begrudgingly agreed to venture out into the city with Brian and Gina in search of tapas.  I ought to speak more precisely, because one really needn’t search for a tapas bar in Sevilla.  If you were struck by a car here, chances are you could drag yourself to the nearest cervecería and order a plate of salomillo and a beer before the paramedics even arrived.  We settled on a little establishment whose name roughly translated to “The Frothy One” and soon basked in our inimitably sevillano dining experience, undoubtedly one of hundreds to come.  Our detour back to the hotel got us slightly lost, but we relished the opportunity to take in the city’s charm.  Seville at night, at least on weekdays, seems to become a sleepy burg where the roads are practically deserted and the sidewalks even more so.  We swooned over meticulously kept public gardens and brightly painted façades (Yes, we did indeed swoon, but keep in mind that at this point our delirious bodies were being propelled either by adrenaline or some form of gypsy magic.), but the sort of dramatic irony of the situation was that we were only seeing the tip of the iceberg; had we walked in the other direction, we would have come across the part of the city, replete with classical and regionalista architecture, which contains tons of tiny shops, twisting alleyways (pedestrian only, of course), Seville’s gargantuan cathedral, and the Plaza de España, elaborately adorned with painted tiles from top to bottom.  This is the Seville that tourists come to see, and indeed, this is the Seville that I immediately fell in love with upon my visit earlier today.  Despite the presence of foreigners, this historical sector of the city is not overwhelmingly touristy, as university students and schoolchildren bustle about their daily activities while locals look on from their perches at curbside bars and cafés.  I’m a bit ashamed to admit that the cheery, ever prominent presence of orange and palm trees, along with Seville’s almost immaculate cleanliness, evoked for me a sort of Disney-esque sentimentality, but unlike Main Street USA or an exhibit in the World Showcase, Seville is populated by real people, not employees, and boasts genuine—not “imagineered”—local color and millennia of history to boot.  Way better than Disney World.

Let's all hold hands on the airplane.

As entirely excruciating as air travel can be, it can have its hidden bonuses.  Yes, the last leg of my trip from Madrid to Seville was canceled; yes, Madrid Barajas may go down in recent history as one of Europe’s most inept, though admittedly architecturally interesting, airports; and yes, after over twenty-four waking hours, filling out paperwork for a delayed (and as of yet not retrieved) piece of luggage seemed about as enticing as a lukewarm tray of airline delicacies. Yet because I had the great fortune of traversing such obstacles in the company of those who would become my peers in the Seville program (evidently Americans aren’t too difficult to pick out of a crowd), the entire experience somehow took on a brighter hue.  Somehow, by collectively encountering what at the time seemed to be crippling setbacks, by seeing each other at our respective worst, and by generally commiserating over the entire ordeal, we were able cobble together a kind of solidarity.

  

This was by no means the first time in history that people had suffered at the hands of derailed travel plans, nor was it even remotely as bad as it could have been (a friend in the program later recounted his ill-fated 48 hour trip to India), but it was miserable enough to bring us close together.  In a way, the seemingly wrathful travel god had actually bestowed upon us an invaluable gift that jump-started what inevitably will develop into great friendships during the next five months.  As I sat in Madrid Barajas, horribly sleep-deprived and nursing a life-restoring bocadillo with jamón ibérico, I looked at the faces around me, some old and most of them new, and felt, in the midst of a thick climatic and emotional fog, a glimmer of hope for my future in this foreign land.