Sunrise at La Alberca

Lying on a Costa del Sol beach, tanning and bronzed, for a week?  Bo-ring.  Visiting the Louvre and spending money on high fashion?  Bah humbug.   Next time you – as a native English speaker – want a vacation that stretches your limits, check out what’s on offer at Pueblo Inglés, a language company based in Madrid (www.morethanenglish.com/anglos/index.asp).

Pueblo Inglés – “English Village” – is approximately twenty native-English speakers (“Anglos”) and twenty wanna-speak Englishers (“Spaniards”) thrown together into a small community where they speak, live, breathe and eat the English language for eight days; an English-immersion environment that is magically created in a small Spanish village.

At the end of the eight day program, participants can barely speak any language, as days and nights of talking, laughing, staying up late, drinking too much wine and eating too many carbs take their toll.  But how sweet excess can be.

A toast is raised in a bodega

I’m not going to spoil the fun by describing the week’s activities in detail – the program organizers love to offer participants daily “surprises” – but I am happy to pass along some heart-felt advice to Anglos considering a week of speaking English at Pueblo Inglés:

Sophisticated Spanish professionals like to learn English cuss words just as much as Spanish teenagers do. During my week in the town of La Alberca, in Salamanca, many of the Spaniards came from the medical community and included pharmacists, biologists and doctors.  You’d think that these folks would bring a more… er… serious tone to Pueblo Inglés, but no – they were a boatload of fun, sociable and interesting, always game for a good party and tall tale.  Do the Spaniards a favor and get them straight on the difference between “b-tch” and “prostitute,” a common – and comical – Spanish misunderstanding.  I made the mistake of teaching a new Spanish friend a cuss word and saying to him, “I’ll teach you this word, but you can never use it, and don’t tell anyone it came from me.”  Watch your ethics go downhill as the week progresses.

The Spanish Inquisition wuz here

It’s not all about you. Yes, you know you’re interesting, but the subjects Anglos think are sure to fascinate Spaniards may not be as interesting as we hope.  Know your audience, choose subjects appropriately, and for God’s sake, let the Spaniards get a word in edgewise.  Don’t dumb down your speaking, but speak clearly, and check often to see if the Spaniard you’re speaking with is following your story, especially if you use slang expressions.  By the end of the week, I was amazed to realize how much slang I use – that all Anglos use – and how we took it for granted that the Spaniards were following us.  They’re often not; don’t be fooled by their smiles and nods.  Ask lots of questions about what you’re saying, then let them do the talking and relax with a cup of tea.

Sunrise II

It’s tiring to talk all day, even in your native tongue. Seriously.  I’m not an old woman, but eight days of talking at Pueblo Inglés wiped me out.  The Spaniards hit the wall earlier in the week; as hard as it is for us, it’s much harder for them.  The Anglos tended to hit the wall on Wednesday or Thursday.  Mealtimes on these days can be quieter than usual; let it be.  During one meal, a Spaniard said to two Anglos, “Silence is good.”  We took the cue and gave the poor man a break.  For two minutes.

No, they’re not flirting with you. Spaniards are a playful, light-hearted and talkative bunch, which can sometimes come across as flirting to the Anglo making assumptions (or having wishful thinking).  They’re not flirting with you; well, unless of course they are.  I mean it’s possible, just don’t immediately come to that conclusion.  Assume you’ve just made a new Spanish friend unless it gets spelled out otherwise.  Expect cultural miscues of this and other varieties.  Keep an open mind, pay attention, and, if necessary, talk them through.

We need them. They need Anglos to learn English; we need Spaniards to open our hearts.  I’d love to be a fly on the wall (idiom!) of a Spanish home to see how their kids grow up (phrasal verb!) to be so passionate, from the heart, and present in the moment.  Spaniards have a refreshing lack of self-consciousness and a high capacity for intimacy; we need them.

The La Alberca pig o' fertility

The town of La Alberca

Be sure to visit La Alberca, the medieval village that is straight out of Shakespeare in Love.  Don’t miss the fantastic selection of high quality jewelry at Artemisa, C/ Tablao, 43 – Bajo, especially La Alberca’s unique “charros,” a silver button design that was worn on old La Albercan garments (see photo below).

For a snack at a yummy local pastry shop, stop at El Pan Sforo Horno, C/ Tablao, 19, just down the street from Artemisa.

Perhaps best of all, you may be able to see the village pig roaming around the streets, or more likely, lying plopped on the ground in front of a storefront, waiting for a bite of food.

The village pig is a centuries-old custom, slightly modified for modern times.  The pig roams freely through the town, well-taken care of by the townsfolk for a year.  Each January 14, there is a lottery, and the winner gets the pig – plenty of bacon and pork chops for all.  The (usually local) winner shares the booty with their fellow townsfolk, so in essence, it’s just another Spanish excuse for a party.  As if they need any more.

Charro pendant

A word on Madrid

I was standing in the plaza, at Sol, watching policemen beat back protestors – who were, ironically, protesting police brutality – when a couple of tourists approached me to ask what was going on.  They were older, from San Francisco, and had a dazed look, like they weren’t quite sure what to make of Madrid.  ”Madrid isn’t easy at first,” I told them, “but it grows on you.  Be patient.”

Here’s the only advice you need to get started in Madrid:  be aware of your surroundings, and don’t get pickpocketed.  Carry only what you need at any given time – 50 euros and one credit card, for example – leave the rest in your hotel room.  But don’t let paranoia get the better of you; a great time is to be had in Madrid.  The chances of violent crime happening are minimal, but the lose-your-wallet statistic is higher.  Be smart, then go out and have fun.

Get your little butt out there!

A building from 1492

Random ice-cream-in-Spain suggestion:  If you have access to a freezer, load up on delicioso Magnum ice cream bars that you will find in supermarket/Chinese shop freezers throughout Spain, and indeed throughout Europe.  How Magnums are not available in the U.S., I’ve no idea.  It’s criminal.

Barcelona sidewalk tiles

BARCELONA

Do:

Go to the beach.  It’s an easy walk from ‘downtown,’ or you can take the metro to the Barceloneta stop and walk the rest of the way.

Eat:

A general note on ice cream.  There are ice cream shops everywhere in Barcelona, so don’t be afraid to be a bit picky.  Wherever you can, choose the artesanal (look out for various spellings) ice cream or gelato shops.  It is indeed a bit more expensive, but well worth the extra euro or so.  Oh.  My.  Goodness.  So worth it.

The most orgasmic gelato on the planet at Amorino Gelato e Cioccolato, Gran de Gràcia, 53 (Gràcia neighborhood).  www.amorino.es.

A-freakin’-mazing Thai food at Thai Gardens, Diputación, 273 (right off the Paseo de Gràcia and not far from Plaça Catalunya).

Delicious pastries and bread at Forn Sant Jordi Flequeria, C/ Llibreteria, 8 (not far from the Catedral Barri Gòtic, just off C/ de Ferran).  Founded in 1798 and still going strong.

Bubo won the Best Chocolate Cake in the World at Lyon in 2005.  Visit two locations in Barcelona – Bruc, 150 and Caputxes, 6.  Mmmmmm. www.bubo.ws.

Order iced tea to go – té frio para llevar! – at Tea Shop of East West Company, many locations in Barcelona and Madrid. www.teashop.es. (Not all shops offer iced tea to go – a shame.)

Eat the best falafel ev-ah at Maoz, two locations in Barcelona – Carrer de Ferran, 13 and La Rambla, 95.

See:

Museu d’Història de Barcelona (Conjunt Monumental de la Plaça del Rei), Plaça del Rei, s/n. Walk over and among the ruins of the old Roman colony, Barcino.  Your imagination will be fired.  6 €. http://w3.bcn.es/V64/Home/V64XMLHomeLinkPl/0,4468,335907851_335943991_1,00.html.

Barcelona Walks by Barcelona Turisme, the Gòtic tour (walk of the Gothic barrio), 12 €.  Other routes offered.  www.barcelonaturisme.cat.

Parc Guell tiles

The architectural wonders of Gaudí, in this order of impressiveness:

Sagrada Família, 11 € entrance, 2.50 € to take the lift to the top of one of the towers (pay on elevator).

Casa Batlló, 16.50 €.

Parc Güell, Free.

Shop:

Wander around the Gràcia district (not the street, but the barrio).  Fabulous boutiques and restaurants, mellow atmosphere.

Revérsika, C/ Torrijos, 37, fantastic reversible clothes and bags, imported from Colombia.  (In the Gràcia barrio)  www.reversikaeuropa.com.

Happy Pills, C/ Argenteria, 70, fantastic kitchy gifts o’ candy pills.  www.happypills.es.  They said they’ll be selling online soon.

Casa Batllo roof dragon

Funky clothes at Desigual, C/ Bruc, 49, and other locations. There’s one shop in the U.S., in Soho in NYC.  www.desigual.com.

English bookstore, Hibernian Books, Carrer de Montseny, 17 (Gràcia barrio).  Http://hibernian2.cpvsolutions.com.

Stay:

Barcelona Bed & Breakfast, wonderful location and hosts. For more information, www.barcelonabb.com.

Cadiz Roman Amphitheatre

CÁDIZ

Do:

Check out the old beach, within the old city limits, and the new beaches, just outside the city gate.  It’s all good.

See:

Teatro Romano, C/ Campo del Sur, s/n.  The entrance to this ancient Roman theater is easy to pass by and they have wonky opening times, but it’s worth heading back until you get in.  It’s basically around the corner from the Catedral.  Wonderful ruins from 60 A.D.  Free.

Catedral de Cádiz, Plaza de la Catedral, 5 €.

Stay:

Hotel Argantonio, C/ Argantonio, 3.  Charming, nice location. www.hotelargantonio.com.

Cordoba Angel

CÓRDOBA

Eat:

Great tapas at affordable prices with lots of locals at Mesón de las Flores, on the corner of C/ Velázquez Bosco and Calleja de las Flores.

See:

Mezquita, or Great Mosque, Córdoba’s main attraction.  A treasure, a joy, and a photographer’s paradise – bring your tripod.  Also, enjoy the ludicrous interpretation of history as offered in the official pamphlet called “The Cathedral, Córdoba.” 8 €.

The Castle of the Christian Monarchs, Alcázar de los Reyes Cristianos, the past home of King Fernando and Queen Isabel.   4 €.

Madinat Al-Zahra, Ctra. Palma del Río, Km 8.  Archaeological site of Moorish city from 940 A.D.  www.junta-andalucia.es/cultura/museos/CAMA. Reserve a spot on the bus at a tourist kiosk, 6.50 € roundtrip. Madinat admission is 1.50 € for non-EU citizens.

Mezquita Christian motif atop Muslim

Stay:

Hostal Lineros 38, C/Lineros, 38.  Fantastic small hotel in a terrific location.  www.hostallineros38.com.

GRANADA

Eat:

Nemrut Kebap, Plaza Nueva, 2 and C/Acera de Casino, 11, as well as eight locations in Madrid.  Great Turkish food. www.nemrutkebap.com.

Generalife Roses

See:

La Alhambra, can’t miss it.  A spine-tingling experience.  Read Washington Irving’s “Tales of the Alhambra” before you go, or better yet, bring it with you.  13 €.  Reserve in advance. More information on tickets at  www.alhambradegranada.org/guias/alhambraEntradas_en.asp.

El barrio Albaycín, the old Moorish neighborhood alongside the Alhambra. Excellent views of the Alhambra from Plaza San Nicolás.  I didn’t have any problems there, but heard again and again to be careful at night.  Leave your valuables in your hotel room, travel light.

Stay:

Hostal Lima, Lauren de las Tablas, 17.  Great location, nice accommodation.  www.hostallimagranada.com.

MADRID

Day Trip:

To Toledo, to get lost walking the medieval streets, shopping, eating, and visiting the impressive Cathedral, Santa Iglesia Catedral Primada, C/ Cardenal Cisneros, 1. 7 €. www.catedralprimada.es. Construction began in 1227 and finished (more or less) three hundred years later.  It’s a beautiful Gothic Cathedral, containing a mini art gallery in its Sacristy.  There you can view many dark El Gregos, a Goya, and a Caravaggio with spellbinding shadows.  Also plan on standing on the very spot that Mary Mother of God visited in 666 A.D. to thank Bishop Saint Ildephonsus for sticking up for her virginity.  Toledo is a one-half hour train ride on RENFE from Atocha Renfe Station, costing approximately 15 € round-trip.

To El Escorial, to see the famous monastery and lovely basilica.

Do:

Hear some fantastic music in a cabaret setting at Galileo Galelei, www.salagalileogalilei.com.

Visit Cock Bar, just so you can say you did.  www.barcock.com.  Chueca neighborhood.  The blinds are lowered around midnight and you can’t see in.  Knock on the door and see if they’ll let you in.

Eat:

Yummy tapas at Maxi’s, La Latina.  One of the regular bartenders, Yassir, will make it well worth the trip. Hard to describe where it’s located and I can’t find the address, but it’s one long block from La Latina metro stop, traveling north on C/ de Toledo, take the first left (one block long) and Maxi’s will be on your right. Gay-friendly, to say the least.

Forego the more fast-foody Turkish kebap places in favor of somewhere that offers full platters. I can vouch for Nemrut Kebap on the corner of Gran Via and C/ de Fuencarral.  However, there’s not much seating space. www.nemrutkebap.com.

Eat ‘n’ shop on your way to the Plaza Mayor, or the Rastro for some Sunday bargain hunting:

Go for a stroll from Sol and enjoy the old Spanish men in suits, carrying canes and wearing top hats.  Start out with some falafel at Maoz (C/ Mayor, 4 – another location at C/ Hortaleza, 7), grab a 1 € chocolate Napolitano at La Mallorquina (Puerta del Sol, 8 y C/ Mayor, 2), shop for some funky clothes at Desigual (C/ Mayor, 11) and then enjoy the sights and smells of Mercado de San Miguel (at Plaza de San Miguel).

See:

El Prado, the world-famous museum of paintings (and some sculpture), www.museodelprado.es/en. It’s immense, so feel free to focus on a nationality of painters.  Why not start with the Spaniards? 8 €.

Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida’s (1863-1923) delicious paintings in his old home and studio, Museo Sorolla, Pso. General Martinez Campos, 37.  www.museosorolla.mcu.es. Only 3 € entrance fee; a steal!

The turtles at Atocha Renfe, the main train station in Madrid.  Adults seem to love watching the turtles – puttering around in their pond, swimming drunkenly under the lilies, and lumbering on top of each other (smallest guy on top) – even more than the kids do.  It’s a built-in meditation station, perfect for when your train is running late.  Breathe in, breathe out, smile at the baby turtles.  Repeat.

Shop:

For funky t-shirts and jackets, stop by Blue Velvet, several locations in Madrid, Valencia, Barcelona, www.mystress.es.

The whole length of C/ de Fuencarral is a pretty great shopping street, with all of the usual suspects mixed in with funky boutiques.  It ends/starts at Gran Via/Bilbao metro stops.

Ronda cliffside buildings

RONDA

Eat:

Enjoy coffee, tea and chocolate at Chocolat, C/ Sevilla, 16. “Un placer para los sentidos.” www.serraniaderonda.com/choc.

See:

Baños Arabes, C/ San Miguel, s/n, incredibly well-preserved Arab baths from the 13^th – 14^th centuries.  3 €.  Photographers, bring tripods.

One of the coolest churches anywhere, Colegiata Santa María la Mayor, Plaza Duquesa de Parcent, 4 €.

Plaza de Toros/Museu Taurino, C/ Virgen de la Paz, 15.  Bullring built in 1785; stand in the middle of the ring and let the sand blow in your eyes.  Nice small museums included.  6 €.

Stay:

Hotel Don Miguel, Plaza de España, 4 y 5, right next to the gorgeous Puente Nuevo.  www.dmiguel.com.

I'm your Venus

SEVILLA

Day Trip:

Ruins of the ancient Roman colony, Itálica, birthplace of Trajan and Hadrian, is only 9 km from Sevilla, and in my opinion, a must-see.  Avda. De Extremadura, 2, Santiponce.  Founded 206 B.C. and flourished until the mid-3^rd century.  Take the bus from Plaza de Armas, Bus M172, Bay 34, 1.25 € each way, pay on board, 20-25 minutes each way.  Cheap or no entrance fee depending on the mood of the guy in the kiosk.  www.juntadeandalucia.es/cultura/italica.

Do:

Go to the Arab Baths at Aire de Sevilla, C/ Aire, 15.  20 € for a one and a half hour ‘appointment.’ Can request ‘extras,’ such as massage.  RSVP. www.airedesevilla.com.

Eat:

Taberna Coloniales, C/ Fernandez y Gonzalez (very close to the Cathedral).  Have the tapa or media of pechuga de pollo con salsa de almendras – chicken with almond sauce over friend potatoes.  You won’t be disappointed.

Bar Eslava, C/ Eslava, 5 (close to Alameda de Hercules), excellent tapas.

Tex Mex meets Giralda

Restaurante San Marco, C/ Meson del Moro, 6-10 (Barrio de Santa Cruz).  Atmospheric Italian restaurant in the ruins of old Arab Baths.  Don’t pass up the tea and dessert at the end of the meal.  And look out for the Moroccan waiter who looks just as dreamy as, and could be a brother of, A-Rod.

Confiteria La Campana, C/ Sierpes 1 & 3 y Alphonso XII (at the top of one of the main shopping streets).  Buy some fantastic chocolate artesano, which can be bought regular (milk chocolate), blanco (white chocolate) or puro/negro (dark chocolate) at 30 €/kg.

Bypass Flaherty’s Pub if you want to watch sports and head further up the wee hill to Tex Mex, Calle Asunción, 67, a stone’s throw from the Catedral and Giralda.

See:

Flamenco at Casa de la Memoria, C/ Ximenez de Enciso, 28 (Barrio de Santa Cruz), www.casadelamemoria.es.  Excellent place to see flamenco for 15 €.

Flamenco at Tablao los Gallos, C/ Plaza de Santa Cruz, 11.  30 € for two hours of flamenco dancing and music, includes one drink.  Twelve artists each show.  A bit touristy but they put on a good show.  Casa de la Memoria edges them out, in my opinion.  www.tablaolosgallos.com.

Sevilla Real Alcazar

La Catedral de Sevilla and Real Alcázar, located side-by-side in the heart of Seville.  Cathedral entrance will also allow you to climb the Giralda tower, a holdover from Moorish domination.

Casa de Pilatos, Plaza de Pilatos, 1.  An old mansion in Sevilla with Roman, Mudéjar and Gothic themes.  Entrance not well marked but you’ll see people coming and going. 8 €.  www.fundacionmedinaceli.org.

A corrida, bullfight, at La Plaza de Toros de Sevilla, if you are there during the season and if you have a strong stomach for that kind of thing.  Go to the bullring itself to buy the tickets and don’t buy from the hawkers – go to the sales agents within.  It’s ideal to get a seat in the shade; otherwise, bring a hat, sunscreen and a strong constitution.  You can also get tours of the bullring and bullfighting museum most days.

Shop:

Piaf Ropa & Plata, Conde de Barajas, 8 (near the Alameda de Hercules).  Small boutique with interesting dresses and jewelry.

Las Moradas, Rodrigo Caro, 20 (near the Plaza Doña Elvira in the Santa Cruz district).  Nice shop with ceramics and jewelry.

Generally, I wasn’t thrilled by shopping in Sevilla.  The shops seemed to have the same clothes and shoes over and over.  Antonio Ortiz shoe stores seemed to have a more interesting variety – I particularly enjoyed the rather pricey Vialis brand.

Books are expensive in Spain, but if you need something to read in English, head over to Casa del Libro, which had the best variety of English books I found in the shopping district.  www.casadellibro.com.

Get your little butt out there!

Italica, just outside Sevilla - Trajan and Hadrian walked these roads

“Tales of the Alhambra”

Washington Irving

1829

In the present day, when popular literature is running into the low levels of life, and luxuriating on the vices and follies of mankind; and when the universal pursuit of gain is trampling down the early growth of poetic feeling, and wearing out the verdure of the soul, I question whether it would not be of service for the reader occasionally to turn to these records of prouder times and loftier modes of thinking; and to steep himself to the very lips in old Spanish romance.

-p. 314

Many are apt to picture Spain to their imaginations as a soft southern region, decked out with the luxuriant charms of voluptuous Italy.  On the contrary, though there are exceptions in some of the maritime provinces, yet, for the greater part, it is a stern, melancholy country, with rugged mountains, and long sweeping plains, destitute of trees, and indescribably silent and lonesome, partaking of the savage and solitary character of Africa.

-p. 5

To the traveler imbued with a feeling for the historical and poetical, so inseparably intertwined in the annals of romantic Spain, the Alhambra is as much an object of devotion as is the Caaba to all true Moslems.  How many legends and traditions, true and fabulous, – how many songs and ballads, Arabian and Spanish, of love and war and chivalry, are associated with this Oriental pile!

-p. 33

Perhaps there never was a monument more characteristic of an age and people than the Alhambra; a rugged fortress without, a voluptuous palace within; war frowning from its battlements; poetry breathing throughout the fairy architecture of its halls.  One is irresistibly transported in imagination to those times when Moslem Spain was a region of light amid Christian, yet benighted Europe; externally a warrior power fighting for existence; internally a realm devoted to literature, science, and the arts; where philosophy was cultivated with passion, though wrought up into subtleties and refinements; and where the luxuries of sense were transcended by those of thought and imagination.

-p. 321

Such is the Alhambra; – a Moslem pile in the midst of a Christian land; an Oriental palace amidst the Gothic edifices of the West; an elegant memento of a brave, intelligent, and graceful people, who conquered, ruled, flourished, and passed away.

-p. 59

A grand line of distinction existed among the Moslems of Spain, between those of Oriental origin and those from Western Africa.  Among the former the Arabs considered themselves the purest race, as being descended from the countrymen of the Prophet, who first raised the standard of Islam; among the latter, the most warlike and powerful were the Berber tribes from Mount Atlas and the deserts of Sahara, commonly known as Moors, who subdued the tribes of the sea-coast, founded the city of Morocco, and for a long time disputed with the Oriental races the control of Moslem Spain.

-p. 106

The Arab invasions and conquest brought a higher civilization, and a nobler style of thinking, into Gothic Spain.  The Arabs were a quick-witted, sagacious, proud-spirited, and poetical people, and were imbued with oriental science and literature.  Wherever they established a seat of power, it became a rallying-place for the learned and ingenious; and they softened and refined the people whom they conquered.

-p. 312

As conquerors, [the Moors’] heroism was only equaled by their moderation; and in both, for a time, they excelled the nations with whom they contended.  Severed from their native homes, they loved the land given them as they supposed by Allah, and strove to embellish it with everything that could administer to the happiness of man.  Laying the foundations of their power in a system of wise and equitable laws, diligently cultivating the arts and sciences, and promoting agriculture, manufactures, and commerce, they gradually formed an empire unrivalled for its prosperity by any of the empires of Christendom; and diligently drawing round them the graces and refinements which marked the Arabian empire in the East, at the time of its greatest civilization, they diffused the light of Oriental knowledge through the western regions of benighted Europe.

-p. 58

[Alhamar] organized a vigilant police, and established rigid rules for the administration of justice.  The poor and the distressed always found ready admission to his presence, and he attended personally to their assistance and redress.  He erected hospitals for the blind, the aged, and the infirm, and all those incapable of labor, and visited them frequently; not on set days with pomp and form, so as to give time for everything to be put in order, and every abuse concealed, but suddenly, and unexpectedly, informing himself, by actual observation and close inquiry, of the treatment of the sick, and the conduct of those appointed to administer to their relief.  He founded schools and colleges, which he visited in the same manner, inspecting personally the instruction of the youth.  He established butcheries and public ovens, that the people might be furnished with wholesome provisions at just and regular prices.  He introduced abundant streams of water into the city, erecting baths and fountains, and constructing aqueducts and canals to irrigate and fertilize the Vega.  By these means prosperity and abundance prevailed in this beautiful city; its gates were thronged with commerce, and its warehouses filled with luxuries and merchandise of every clime and country.

-pgs. 64-65

There are two classes of people to whom life seems one long holiday, – the very rich and the very poor; one, because they need do nothing; the other, because they have nothing to do; but there are none who understand the art of doing nothing and living upon nothing, better than the poor classes of Spain.

-p. 53

Throughout all Spain the men, however poor, have a gentlemanlike abundance of leisure; seeming to consider it the attribute of a true cavallero never to be in a hurry; but the Andalusians are gay as well as leisurely, and have none of the squalid accompaniments of idleness.

-p. 28

“Enjoy the moment” is the creed of the gay and amorous Andalusian, and at no time does he practise it more zealously than on the balmy nights of summer, wooing his mistress with the dance, the loveditty, and the passionate serenade.

-p. 94

…For whatever may be said of Spanish pride, it rarely chills or constrains the intercourse of social or domestic life.  Among no people are the relations between kindred more unreserved and cordial, or between superior and dependent more free from haughtiness on the one side, and obsequiousness on the other.  In these respects there still remains in Spanish life, especially in the provinces, much of the vaunted simplicity of the olden times.

-p. 154

This talent of singing and improvising is frequent in Spain, and is said to have been inherited from the Moors.

-p. 8

Thus the country, the habits, the very looks of the people, have something of the Arabian character.

-p. 6

In fact, Spain, even at the present day, is a country apart; severed in history, habits, manners, and modes of thinking, from all the rest of Europe.

-p. 312

"There is no Conqueror but God"

As [Alhamar] approached Granada on his return he beheld arches of triumph which had been erected in honor of his martial exploits.  The people thronged forth to see him with impatient joy, for his benignant rule had won all hearts.  Wherever he passed he was hailed with acclamations as “El Ghalib!” (the conqueror).  Alhamar gave a melancholy shake of the head on hearing the appellation. “Wa le ghalib ile Aláh!” (there is no conqueror but God) exclaimed he.  From that time forward this exclamation became his motto, and the motto of his descendants, and appears to this day emblazoned on his escutcheons in the halls of the Alhambra.

-p. 64

The airy palace, with its tall white towers and long arcades, which breasts yon mountain, among pompous groves and hanging gardens, is the Generalife, a summer palace of the Moorish kings, to which they resorted during the sultry months to enjoy a still more breezy region than that of the Alhambra.

-p. 81

Here the hand of time has fallen the lightest, and the traces of Moorish elegance and splendour exist in almost their original brilliancy.  Earthquakes have shaken the foundations of this pile, and rent its rudest towers; yet see ! not one of those slender columns has been displaced, not an arch of that light and fragile colonnade given way, and all the fairy fretwork of these domes, apparently as unsubstantial as the crystal fabrics of a morning’s frost, exist after the lapse of centuries, almost as fresh as if from the hand of the Moslem artist.

-p. 99

With these thoughts I pursued my way among the mountains.  A little further and Granada, the Vega and the Alhambra, were shut from my view and thus ended one of the pleasantest dreams of a life which the reader perhaps may think has been but too much made up of dreams.

-pgs. 344-345

Get your little butt out there!

I spent the summer of 2009 in Andalucía, first as a student and then as a tourist.  Here are excerpts from weekly e-mails that I sent to friends and family tracking my progress and experiences in Spain. Articles containing recommendations on traveling in Spain will be forthcoming.

Shopping street shade

May 31, 2009

Warm greetings – no, let me say – hotter ‘n hell greetings from Sevilla, España.

Let’s start with the weather.  It’s close to 100˚ F each day and billowing shades are being set up far above the walkways on some of the cobble-stoned shopping streets in el centro.  They are white, breezy and airy and provide well-needed shade.

I have learned a nifty new Spanish phrase – perdi mi cartera – I lost my wallet.  Yes, on my first day in Sevilla.  Now, it could’ve just been me, filled with jet lag and spaciness; I could’ve easily left it somewhere and walked away.  Then again, this is Spain, and it’s full of thieves. I thank the stars for generous family and friends who gave me ‘emergency’ money as I headed out.  Muchas gracias, amigos.

A fantastic tapas bar is less than a block away from my apartment.  People are talking and drinking at outdoor tables all hours of the day and especially night.  I have never in my life seen a more social bunch of people – it tires me just watching – all that talking, laughing, singing, socializing, gossiping.

20 junio de 2009

As many of you know, I celebrated my 40^th birthday on June 17. Really, this whole summer in Spain is my 40^th birthday present to myself, but on the 17^th, I was sung to in both English and Spanish, ate a brownie à la mode, and took myself to Aire de Sevilla, lovely Turkish baths in the heart of the Santa Cruz neighborhood.  Since my Spanish is crap, this visit was one of following around unsuspecting Spaniards as they went from bath to bath, trying to understand the layout.  Now that that’s done, I’ll be a pro the next time I go, and yes, there will be a next time.

My tutor at school had told me that this was a swingers’ hangout, but I can assure you that I was not swung upon nor did I see any untoward activities taking place.  However, I did finally discover why there were so many smiling women sitting at one end of the jacuzzi.

27 junio de 2009

Seville bullfight

I went to see a bullfight last Sunday night and now realize why my photos turned out so crappy.  My eyesight was horrendous and I literally couldn’t see well enough to focus my shots.  I found out today that I have conjunctivitis and got some medicine for it – a very quick, easy and ridiculously cheap experience with the Spanish medical system.

But back to the bullfight, what a performance!  It really is wonderful choreography but quickly digresses into some brutal stuff.  Those poor bulls; six of them killed, one every half hour, and quite gruesomely.  Surprisingly, I found most of it easy to stomach, and could focus on it being a cultural experience, if not time travel back to the medieval era or even Roman times.  Somehow I lucked out and got a few good shots, and presumably my photography skills will improve again since I now have antibiotic eyedrops.

Seville is indeed a smallish city and quite homogenous.  There are a smattering of (largely lame) Chinese restaurants around, but beyond that, you’re pretty much going to eat tapas tapas tapas.  Tapas just means snacks, so basically that translates into many different choices but all dishes arriving in relatively small portions, usually at decent prices.  My favorite tapas joint is called Coloniales and is near school – their chicken with almond sauce – pollo con almendras – smothering a few fried potatoes – is divine, as is the tomatos aliñado dish, a plateful of tomato slices in a vinaigrette sauce.  Mmmmmm.

A little more about Andalucía and the Sevillanos.  As far as I can tell, the southern province of Andalucía is considered the problem stepchild of Spain.  The unemployment rate here is 22% and Andalucía enjoys the reputation of being the place “where people don’t work,” even in a good economy; it has the mañana attitude often encountered in Latin American countries. (One difference I see is that people here walk a little more briskly and my God in heaven do they speak fast.)

3 julio de 2009

It was a grand plan on their part, I must confess.  I was sitting in Parque María Luisa; it was sunny and quiet and the birds were chirping happily.  I placed my camera and purse to my right on a slightly elevated rise and opened my book for a few pages of reading – the exquisite “Saving Fish from Drowning” by Amy Tan.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two men walking on a nearby path – nothing unusual.  Soon there was a gentleman to my far left, asking several questions in a row in Spanish about where he was in the park, holding a guidebook.  Another woman on the bench to my left answered him. I watched out of curiosity.

Something made me turn to my right (gracias, Dios!) back towards my belongings, and a young, handsome man was standing silently just inches from my face, placing his bag down next to mine.  Why was he doing that when there was so much more room nearby?  Then it dawned on me, it wasn’t his bag he was moving – it was mine.  Just as it registered he said muy guapa, placed my bag back down and quietly slid away.

It took me a moment to gather my thoughts.  It all seemed strange but innocent, yet once again I was seconds and inches from having my wallet stolen – granted, this time with less cash and no credit cards – but my purse also contained my house keys and other important items.  And my camera!  Why didn’t he just grab my (very nice) camera and run?  I suddenly felt incredibly grateful for how shallow and hormonal men can be.  (Please, Madre de Dios, one missing wallet in Spain is enough for the summer.)

I can just picture the wanna-be thief meeting back up with his friend and getting whupped upside the head.  What were you thinking, muy guapa, you bonehead?  Get the cash and run!  Okay, Universe… now I get it.  I need to only bring what is absolutely essential for me out of doors, and I need to keep it close by at all times – velcro’d to body parts, if possible.

Mezquita mihrab

12 julio de 2009

Córdoba is charming; smaller and less touristy than Seville with a strong and colorful Muslim past.  Córdoba is definitely worth a 3-day visit, if not just to see the immense Mezquita (The Great Mosque), the Alcázar de Reyes Cristianos (Fortress of the Christian Kings – Fernando and Isabel), and the impressive archaeological site of Madinat Al-Zahra, located 7 km from centro.  The Judería, the old Jewish quarter that snakes behind the Mezquita, is relatively free of tourists and still retains considerable charm.  Córdoba is home to one of only three synagogues remaining in Spain after the Jewish expulsion of 1492.

Córdoba became Moorish in 756 A.D. and remained so until the Christian re-conquest in 1236.  The Mezquita was constructed from 756-1002 A.D. and was the third most venerated mosque after those in Mecca and Jerusalem; it became a popular pilgrimage site in the 800-900’s.  By 929, Córdoba was the largest and most prosperous city in Europe, with impressive advances in scholarship, culture and science, sophisticated irrigation and monetary systems, and ambassadors from other lands. (Muslims, Jews and Christians seemed to have coexisted relatively peacefully under Muslim rule.  This changed immediately when the Christians got back into power.)

Now the Mezquita is a rather dark affair, with the more modern Christian Cathedral plopped in the middle of endless Muslim columns.  I would’ve preferred to experience the Mezquita as the pilgrims did in the 900’s; with wide open doors and light streaming in, making the columns appear as trees, symmetrical extensions of the date palms from the ablutions courtyard.

The official Cathedral pamphlet – they call this structure the Cathedral though it seems everyone else calls it the Mezquita – is so biased towards Christian history it’s entertaining.  Basically, if the Muslims did it – it was bad and wrong, and if the Christians did it – it was right and good.  Quite a selective memory, I might add, after having seen what those pesky Catholics did to the Maya on the Yucatán Peninsula.

The buildings at the Alcázar are dreary, having been converted to Inquisition headquarters in 1492 and then a prison thereafter.  (In a couple of the towers, I swear I could see and practically hear the victims of the Spanish Inquisition hanging by their wrists.) The Alcázar is worth a visit for the extensive and beautiful Roman tile floors on display from the 3^rd century A.D. and for its expansive gardens.  The Alcázar was also where negotiations began between Fernando, Isabel and Christopher Columbus for his trip to America.

1492, what a year in Andalucía!   The Jews are expelled, the final Muslim stronghold of Granada is retaken by the Christians, and Chris C. sets off for America.  There’s gotta be a book written about this one year in Spanish history, jam-packed as it is with so much hope, blood, injustice and gore.

Madinat Al-Zhara arches

The vast archaeological site of Madinat Al-Zhara can easily be reached by bus from Córdoba.  I was reminded of sunny, sweaty walks through Maya ruins, and interestingly, many of them were built in the 900’s, same as Al-Zhara, which was constructed in 940.  This elaborate little city partied it up for a very short time, as it was ransacked by 1013.  Disappointingly, their main attraction, the salon belonging to Abd Al-Rahman III, was being restored and therefore off limits.

A couple days back in Sevilla, then it was off on the high-speed train to Madrid.  Any city that has a mini-ecosystem of turtles in their main train station gets my vote.  Madrid, which became the capital of Spain in 1561 because it’s the most centralized spot in the nation, is a delight.  It has some of the energy of New York City yet practically none of the stress, garbage, grime and dog crap.  I stayed in what may be the equivalent of the Upper West Side of Madrid, between Salamanca and Retiro. I braved both the Metro (easy, clean) and bought cheap goods at the fantabulous el Rastro.

Cadiz Roman amphitheatre

July 19, 2009

I went to Cádiz for a night this week.  I actually felt chilly there, as it’s right on the Atlantic coast and windy.  It’s the first time in weeks that I’ve needed a light summer jacket.  There I got a wicked sunburn (doh – fell asleep on the beach) and ate some nasty paella con verduras, but other than that it was a nice change of scenery.

Cádiz is a little seedy – a typical beach city with tattoos and rough edges – typically Andalucían with bustling, winding streets and alleys.  I visited an atmospheric Roman Amphitheater, an immense structure that was built from 60-70 A.D., and spent time in the city’s cathedral and crypt.

Cádiz is thought by many to be the longest inhabited city in the Southwest of Europe, having been founded by the Phoenicians around 1100 B.C.  The 18^th century, however, was the real boom-time for Cádiz, thanks to trade with the Americas.  Many of the buildings are crumbling due to the sea air and, unlike pretty much every other Spanish city, the population of Cádiz continues to decline.

25 July 2009

Ah, the dramatic small city on top of cliffs – Ronda!  Despite its Bar Harbor-level of tourism, Ronda’s natural beauty is stunning.  Its history spans prehistory (cave drawings and the like), Roman Empire, Arab Middle Ages, and then Christian re-conquest.  (It’s not possible to have a more fortified city than one atop cliffs.  The Christians were able to defeat the Muslims in seven days, in 1485, by cutting off their water supply.)

Ronda Arab baths

Ronda’s Arab Baths, built in the 1200’s, are amazingly well preserved.  The hot room, closest to the furnace, was a steam room.  Next was a warm room, for socializing, sitting, lying about, getting massages.  Beyond that was the cold room, with two cold sitting pools.  There was a reception area, and of course men and women used the baths at separate times.  Stars were carved into the arched, brick ceilings in each room, allowing beams of natural light to punctuate the rooms.  It’s a photographer’s paradise.

Ronda has three bridges spanning the cliffs, the earliest one from the Muslim days (perhaps the 12^th century, though it’s been reconstructed so many times it’s basically been replaced several times over), the Old Bridge from the 16^th century, and the world-famous New Bridge – Puente Nuevo – at only 200+ years of age.  (This is where my camera’s polarizing filter plunged to an early death, so far down that I didn’t hear it hit bottom.)

Ronda is well known for its bullring, built in 1785, and for the modern style of bullfighting that arose in the ‘Ronda school.’  I wouldn’t have guessed that blowing dust and sand in the eyes would be a hazard to a matador, but now I know otherwise.

I also chanced upon what may be one of my favorite churches of all time, La Colegiata María la Mayor, built from 1489-1704, and largely restored after being ransacked during the Civil War.  This church, which feels more like a cathedral, was made in both Gothic and Renaissance styles and still retains a small portion of an elaborate Muslim mihrab.

The church contains a statue that was so moving it made me cry. As you may know, Spanish Catholics love their life-sized statues of the Virgin Mary and other female saints.  This statue was of a female saint, dressed in a black, velvet dress, with tight black curly hair and a silver halo.  She had chubby, gnarled fingers, and a beautiful face with a dimple on her chin.  Her eyes were cast down and brimming with glistening tears; tears marked dark paths halfway down her cheeks.  I’d never understood how people could see or imagine a statue crying until the moment I saw Her; if you kept Her gaze, it appeared that She was crying – the light can play magnificent tricks.

I also saw oversized hymn books from the 15^th century, which Mom would’ve swooned over; large enough for the notes and Latin text to be read by the singers several yards away in their choir seats.

From the mystical to the sublime.  I was waiting at Ronda’s bus station for the bus to bring me back to Seville. A man – a handsome middle-aged fellow – asked me for the time, then sat down next to me and started a conversation.  Here’s the Spanish-to-English translation of the conversation that ensued:

Man:  Where’s your family? (A question that means more than just where do your parents live.)

Me:  New York.  (Why not?) But I’m living in Seville for the summer.

Man:  Ah.  With who?

Me:  A female friend. (His brow furrows.)

Man:  (Several minutes of fishing around regarding amigo vs. amiga.  Then… ) So, with love, do you like men?

Me:  (Hesitating) Er, yes.

Man:  (Something unintelligible I)

Me:  What? I don’t understand your question.

Man:  (Something unintelligible II)

Me: (Slowly catching on, but playing dumb.)  I’m sorry, I still don’t understand.  Your question for me?

Man:  Do you want to make love?

Me: (I’m sure he didn’t just say that.) What?  I don’t understand.

Man:  Do you want to make love? With me?

Me:  (Blank stare I)

Man:  (Blank stare II)

Me:  No.

Man:  Why not?

Me:  I don’t want.

Man:  Why not?

Me:  I don’t know, but I don’t want.  I have a boyfriend in Seville.  (A lie thrown in for good measure.)

Man:  Can I have a kiss anyway? (Points at his lips for clarification.)

Me:  No.

Man:  Why?

Me:  I don’t want.

Man:  (Sighs) Okay.

Me:  Your name?

Man:  Francisco.

Me:  Hello Francisco, I’m Irene.  (We shake hands.)  Goodbye, I have to go use the toilet.

Sorry, folks, but it just doesn’t get much better than that.

"There is no Conqueror but God"

August 3, 2009

The Alhambra!  There is a saying – Si mueres sin ver la Alhambra, no has vivido -  If you die without seeing the Alhambra, you haven’t lived.  Now I understand.  The 11^th century fortress, the Alcazaba, is an architectural marvel on top of a hill, well-fortified and with views of the mountains and the white city of Granada below.  Tucked next to the Alcazaba is the main attraction of the Alhambra, the Palacios Nazaríes, the royal palace of the Muslim rulers from the 14^th century.

I’ve done a little reading on Moorish art and architecture and would love to do more.  The Moorish architectural focus was on representations of nature – shells, trees, etc. – and symmetry, with the aim of taking visitors away from thinking and ideas and bringing them to a relaxed state of being, a calm inner rhythm, and oneness with God.  (As you may know, it is forbidden to depict human beings in Islamic art.)  The palace has the inscription Wa-la ghalita illa-Llah – There is no Conquerer but God – on practically every wall and column.  The inscriptions – the Arabic words and the depictions of nature – feel like meditations in and of themselves – repeating, repeating, repeating.

The Generalife gardens and another Muslim palace occupy a separate part of the hill and are lovely – I sat and read about the Spanish Inquisition under a canopy of grapes and vines, with a fountain gurgling behind me.  (I’ll be sad when I’m finished with this book, probably tomorrow; on the other hand, I’ve had about enough of the torment, paranoia and torture.)

Lastly, and I would indeed recommend this lastly, one can visit the odd palace of Carlos V, which was begun in 1526, soon after the Reconquista, and never quite finished.  It is an anomaly within the Alhambra, but you know how rulers love to leave their mark on things.

A trip to Granada wouldn’t be complete without a walk or two through the hills and winding alleys of the Albaycín, the old Moorish section of Granada and, from what I read, the only Moorish neighborhood in Spain not to be completely razed after the Reconquista.  If you have seen photos of the full Alhambra on its hilltop, they were probably taken from St. Nicolás Plaza in the Albaycín.

I met a wonderful man while in Granada.  Not only did I enjoy – wow!  enjoy! – one of the best kisses I’ve ever had in my life, but I also found comfort and companionship with someone who has a similar sense of humor, idea of sensuality, and set of values.  It was interesting for me to note that I felt a kinship with him, a Muslim Turk, which I don’t often feel when interacting with Spaniards.

He told me an amazing story.   A man – a stranger – approached him in Istanbul several years ago and gave him a series of prophecies – all of which have come true except the last one.  The last one was this:  That he was to go to a certain church in Granada and pray for guidance, holding a chain and a key.  This key would remove his obstacles and unlock his future.

Well, as a Muslim, even a very moderate Muslim, he’s a bit wary of praying in a Christian church, and he has asked Imams and scholars for advice on whether he should do this. (So far, the advice is no, which he thinks is ridiculous, and I agree.)  I offered to go to the church with him.  Though he considered this option, he didn’t bring it up again, so I was content to simply give him a gift of a small key, a facsimile of the key to open the Alhambra, which he can consider bringing should he go to the church on his own in the future.

After a two-hour bus ride through the Alpujarras, I landed at the beachside community of Nerja, which is basically a slice of England on the Costa del Sol.  More English gets spoken in Nerja than gets spoken in New York. I visited the pool, the crowded beach, and had my best taste of Spanish pizza in the little white hill-top town of Frigiliana, just outside Nerja.  I visited the famous Nerja Caves and enjoyed them… enough.  It’ll be hard to top my Mexico cave experiences, especially with ones that are as Disneyfied as Nerja, but I remain committed to seeing as many caves as I can, wherever I may go.

I’ve been playing tourist here in Seville.  I’ve gone to see the Basilica de Macarena in the Macarena district (yes, that Macarena).  She’s an attractive statue, Maria Madre de Dios, crafted in the 17^th century.  She is the patron saint of Seville and venerated, especially during Semana Santa, Easter week.  I visited the Casa de Pilatos, a mansion from the 15^th century, designed in Mudéjar, Gothic and Renaissance styles, with a strong connection to Italy and Italian art, including numerous Roman statues in the courtyards.

I may be a little late on this, but I’m not too happy with Fernando and Isabel, nor their lunatic daughter, or their useless grandson, Charles V.

August 8, 2009

Sagrada Familia view

The Romans called it Barcino (with a hard c) but by 878 A.D. it was known as Barcelona.  The Gothic Neighborhood, from roughly 1100-1400 A.D., and built upon the ancient Roman ruins, is smack in the middle of modern, bustling shopping streets, and is a short walk to Barcelona’s beach district, Barceloneta.  After the Gothic city walls were brought down, the city expanded up and out, and this is when the Moderniste architects – Gaudí and his contemporaries – were able to show their stuff.

The city itself is a living and breathing outdoor art museum, flowing up the Paseo de Gràcia and past Gaudí’s Casa Batlló and La Pedrera, over to the immense La Sagrada Família which will be under construction for about twenty more years (all of these just blocks from me); flowing up to the wonderland of Parc Güell.  Just a small fraction of this wondrous city!

It’s hard to believe that Barcelona has less than two million inhabitants – the city feels huge to me, and overwhelming in the same way that a visitor feels on his or her first trip to New York City.  Where do you begin?  I guess you do what I did – just pick somewhere and walk… the Ramblas… the port… over to the beach on a sunny afternoon… find – and eat! – some of the best Thai food on the planet (two times, and counting)… find – and eat! – some of the best chocolate cake on the planet, and check out the Chocolate Museum.  This is a city of chocoholics – I fit right in.

August 14, 2009

Barcelona, You’re going to break me.  Your chocolate cakes, artisanal gelato, fashions and boutiques; Your joie de vivre; my never-ending flow of cash.

One of your sons, hard-bodied and mocha-skinned, stands sunning in his underwear on a third floor terrace – I almost fall into the gutter.

You give me Christian art set among palms, flowers and dragons, and unending tile mosaics.  Your attention to detail and art shines even on Your sidewalks.  You offer spires and curves, tastes of New York and Dubai. You give me a city full of people who love tea and chocolate as much as I do.  With public faucets (drinkable water!) and plentiful benches and chairs (not filled with homeless guys!), You give me places to rest.  You offer busy city streets and a sunny beach.

You leave me fat and happy, and how often do I use those two words in the same sentence, as applies to me?  How can it be that after a week with You, I can sit at a café with a book and feel a level of comfort and ease as if I’ve been there for five years?

I’ve been praying for guidance. Where should I live?  What should I do for work? Where do I belong?  Where’s home?  Where could home be?  I have no strong gut feeling in any direction.  I find this perplexing, as normally I go on one or two week vacations and leave with epiphanies.  So far, it’s been almost three months, and no epiphanies, at least on these questions.

I mentioned this to an expat I met in Barcelona and he looked at me intently and said:  “I’m in the same boat right now, as are so many others I know.  My dad, who’s not into New Age thinking, e-mailed me the other day and said that Mars is close to Earth right now … the closest it’s ever been … and one of the effects is people feeling confused and uncertain.”  “When will it end?,” I asked.  He wasn’t sure, but thought it would be by the end of August.

I turn back to prayer for guidance, trust that Mars will eventually cycle through, and believe that I will know more when I know more.

Trajan and Hadrian walked on this road

August 19, 2009

This was my last week in Seville and therefore my last week on my Summer in Spain Adventure. So, what does a girl do on her last week in Andalucía?  Well, of course she gets in one last ancient Roman city.  Itálica, originally named by Hadrian as Colonia Aelia Augusta Italica (but no, not written in italics, I checked), was founded in 206 B.C. and Augustus helped move it along in its early days, around the year 0.  Trajan was born there in 53 A.D. and his son, Hadrian, in 76 A.D.

There are many elaborate floor mosaics on which to feast your eyes (how can these survive intact for two thousand years?), and the amphitheatre, built in Augustus’s time, is a joy to walk around, especially while pretending to be a gladiator (or my favorite stand-by for any situation I don’t understand, a baby dinosaur).

However, what I was most struck by was the mundane; the ordinary brickwork that has lasted two thousand years, the flat stones on the road and the curbs carefully built alongside, imagining the togas and Roman sandals that walked these streets on their way to the baths or the planetarium.  These are the creations that I knelt down and touched, keeping my hand curled and curved around a stone or rough brick, to feel a connection to this distant slice of humanity.  I wanted to tell those ancient Roman masons… ‘I’m here!  I’m here with you!  We’re all in on this together!’

I went to see flamenco again, this time at the well-known Tablao los Gallos in Seville, and was in for another delightful evening.  One woman in particular was outstanding; every body part was a percussion instrument.  I am dying to learn how to clap the way Gitanos clap.  This was further confirmed when I was able to watch several flamenco musicians and dancers at a cozy location outside Seville.  They were from Jerez and incredibly talented – the male singer was the best I’ve seen/heard to date.  (When I told him I wanted to move to Barcelona, he scrunched up his nose, shook his head, and said that ‘it smells different there.’)

Then there was one last hurrah at the Arab Baths, this time with a short massage included.  I sat in the tepidarium, the caldarium, the frigidarium, and the sudatorium (insert Arab words in place of the Latin).  I mailed boxes.  I packed.  And, I flew back to New York City.

What a fine idea this summer was.  I needed a change of scenery; I got it.  I wanted the sunshine, the heat, and a tan; I got them.  I wanted a few new pieces of Spanish jewelry and some new clothes; I bought them.  I wanted to kiss a couple boys; check.  I wanted to make up for years without Magnum ice cream bars; waistline checked – clearly accomplished.  (Note to self:  Start new company that imports Magnums to the U.S.)  I felt empty; I got filled up with Spanish culture, this culture and mentality of Abundance.

This summer I felt magic in two Spanish cities – Granada and Barcelona – hair-stand-up, skin-tingling magic.  I learned that if I live in Spain, I’d prefer it be in Madrid or Barcelona. I learned more about the Romans, the Visigoths, the Middle Ages, the Spanish Inquisition (“what a show!”), flamenco, bullfights, and modern architecture.  I speak … er …  slightly less awful Spanish.  I made friends that I suspect I will see again.  And Americans, listen to this – I got free healthcare, and didn’t turn into a Commie.  Oh, right, I already was a Commie – strike that.

Thank you for bearing witness to my three-month Spanish experiment.  It has been an amazing experience. You won’t be getting any more weekly updates from me, but I will let you know when articles become available on my blog.  They will contain more insights, more of the nuts and bolts of my experiences, and recommendations for anyone heading to the places I’ve been.

Until then, muchos saludos.

Get your little butt out there!

Eglise in Saiguede

One can’t get much luckier than having relatives in a small, French village. Saiguède, a petit village outside Toulouse in Southwest France, is a sleepy town of around 500 souls, and consists of the obligatory école (school), mairie (mayor’s office), and cenotaph (monument bearing the names of the townsfolk, both military and civilian, who perished during the World Wars). There is, of course, a roundabout in the centre ville, near the church whose Christ had recently tumbled from a wooden cross during a particularly unruly windstorm. Directly across from the church, on lovely cut grass, an eviscerated bunny carcass laid face up, limbs extended to the heavens. By the looks of the skid marks on the road, my nephews estimated it had been hurled fifty feet upon impact. This was Saiguède’s excitement for the day.

Saiguède (pronounced sah-ged) won’t appear on many maps, but the nearby town of St-Lys will. As long as you’re not afraid of a little driving, the possibilities for day trips from the St-Lys-Toulouse area are almost endless.

Pick your history

If you love history, you can plan history-themed day trips – or, I dare say, full vacations – based on a variety of historical timeframes in Southwest France; you can also  mix-and-match a mélange of all that is offered. Southwest France has been home to homo erectus, homo sapiens sapiens (i.e., cro-magnons), the Celts, Romans, and early Christians; the Franks, Vandals, Visigoths, Moors and Vikings. She witnessed the rise of fiefdoms and bastides (fortified towns), followed by the construction of massive cathedrals and abbeys; these invited the passing of thousands of hungry and pious pilgrims during medieval times. The English brought the Hundred Years War (and lingering anti-English sentiment), and of course there was Eleanor of Aquitane, the crusades, revolts and finally revolution.

Let’s start at the beginning.

Prehistoric cave art

About an hour and a half drive south of St-Lys, La grotte de Niaux offers views of terrific prehistoric art from around 12,000 B.C. There are many other caves to explore near Niaux in the vicinity of Tarascon-sur-Ariège – Bédeilhac, Lombrives, La Vache, Mas d’Azil – and if traveling north of Toulouse, La Bouiche.

In general, the caves open after Easter, but Niaux can be visited year-round (13.50 euros per adult). Reservations must be made well in advance of the planned visit as conservationists are serious about keeping the human footprint to a minimum. The cave is not for claustrophobes and has no artificial lighting; carry a (supplied) flashlight to avoid frequent stepping in puddles.

The graffiti inside la Grotte de Niaux is almost as impressive as the prehistoric drawings of bison and horses themselves, with fellows from as far back as 1602 leaving their John Hancocks throughout the cave. Reservations are indispensables and can be phoned in at +33-561058837. Speak French or find someone who can.

On my list of things to do next time I visit the Southwest of France is a stop in the small town of Tautavel (near Perpignan), which lies helpfully on the drive to Spain’s Costa Brava coastline. It is here that you can view the half-million year old skull of Tautavel Man, which is on display at the village museum, and visit the cave where archaeologists excavated him.

Live like the Gallo-Romans

Seviac tiles

Romans made themselves thoroughly at home in Gaul by the 4^th and 5^th centuries AD, as can be viewed in exquisite detail at the ruins of Séviac; there are other Roman ruins in the area. Séviac was a grand villa in its day, containing luxurious baths and pools, some based on Oriental models;  the most impressive sites are the elaborate, well-preserved tile floors. All floors were kept warm by an underground heating system provided by fires and the warmth of stacked stones.

It might also be fun to be able to tell your friends that you visited the town of Condom. It’s only 13 km from Séviac, and only 5 km from Larresingle (mentioned below).

Following in the footsteps of the Compostela Pilgrims

Saint James the Apostle is rumored to be buried in the city of Santiago de Compostela in Northwest Spain. In medieval times, pilgrims from Western Europe and beyond made the long, arduous trek on one of four routes leading over the Pyrénées. Each of the routes contains impressive cathedrals, bridges and other landmarks where the pilgrims could stop, commune, eat and pray for safe passage. Modern day pilgrims can make the same trek, in significantly more comfort.

Tracing the Decimation of the Cathars

Montsegur

There are many Cathar villages, cities and strongholds that can be visited, but one that shouldn’t be missed is Montségur.

The “heretical” Cathar sect grew rapidly in the 12^th and 13^th centuries in Southwest France as a reaction to the rich and autocratic Catholic Church. Pope Not-So-Innocent III began the Albigensian Crusade in 1208 (named as such since many of the Cathars were based in the French town of Albi), with the able assistance of the French King and his military.

In May 1243, a ten-month siege began, with the French military surrounding five hundred or so Cathars who were tucked on top of a craggy mountain, with magnificent views of the snow-capped Pyrénées. It was a brutally cold winter, and even under the best conditions it’s hard to imagine five hundred people huddled in one large stone complex at the top of a bleak, but excellently fortified, hill.

Eventually, the French King offered a truce, but only on the condition that the Cathars renounce their beliefs and join the Catholic fold. This they couldn’t do. On March 16, 1244, over 200 Cathars were burned at the stake at Montségur. This was a demoralizing blow to the few remaining Cathars, the last of which were extinguished by the early 1300s.

Bastides and châteaux

Cordes-sur-Ciel blue

Hilltop bastides and châteaux, many with Cathar history and connections, are numerous and many make terrific destinations from Toulouse. International tourists tend to visit the oversized (some would say Disneyfied) medieval city of Carcassonne, but the locals head to the more modest and cozy Cordes-sur-Ciel, with its cobbled streets, winding alleys, and dark chocolate crepes.

Larresingle, “the cutest little medieval village in France,” is a stone’s throw from the Roman tile wonderland at Séviac and makes for a nice stop on your way there. Larresingle was founded in the 12^th century and was allied with Condom. The ancient town walls and moat are in impressive condition. An unmarked pilgrim bridge, the Pont d’Artigues, lies 1.5 km from Larresingle, and is lovely in its simplicity, with its unusual asymmetrical arches across the murky River Osse.

Hang out in the pink city

St-Sernin

Or just stick with Toulouse for a day to take in the pink-colored Place du Capitole and its pastel-colored sister buildings on the square. Toulouse was on the southernmost Compostela pilgrimage route and the incredible St-Sernin Cathedral should be on any to-see list. Saturnin (Sernin in Occitane), Toulouse’s first bishop, was martyred in 250 AD, after being dragged through the streets by a bull (taur).

The cathedral can be entered for free, but it is well worth the 2 euros to visit the crypts and ambulatory, where relics (aka, body pieces of saints – a phenomenon that boggles the mind) from several apostles can be gruesomely imagined in their ornate cabinets. Most impressive is the 11^th century wall carving of Christ, surrounded by apostles and angels, and containing many symbols that would be of great interest to anyone who read The Da Vinci Code or follows the enigmatic stories of the Knights Templar.

This little piggy went to market

Chocolate cochons at Samatan

A careful reading of a good guidebook will inform visitors about which day weekly markets occur in which lovely little towns. The largest and best-known market west of Toulouse is in Samatan, on Mondays. Samatan hosts France’s largest foie-gras market (Halle au Gras), where famous and non-famous alike stand side by side and point at and haggle over bloated duck livers. A more savory market exists outside on the produce side of things (Place des Halles), but there are also plenty of stalls for general market items like clothing, bread, cheeses, snacks, soaps and chocolates.

A jaunt to the Costa Brava coastline

A trip to Southwest France can benefit from a jaunt into Andorra, known only for “shopping or skiing,” or to Northeast Spain – Catalonia and the Costa Brava coastline – depending on your mood and priorities.

Tossa de Mar

I recommend staying away from the busier and more spring-breakish Lloret de Mar in Catalonia and sticking with the tried-and-true Tossa de Mar. Tossa is a lovely town of around 5,000 with a fantastic hilltop medieval fortified village on Mont Guardi, built during the 12^th-14^th centuries. Mont Guardi overlooks the sea, and visitors can still walk the Vila Vella (old town) walls and wind down into the Vila Nova (new town) with its cobblestone streets and quaint shops and restaurants.

An even more impressive hilltop fortified city lies in Girona, a short drive from Tossa on your way back to France, which could handily surpass Tossa as the place to stay if you’re willing to be sans plage. With a population of around 80,000 (it feels larger), Girona’s medieval city couldn’t possibly be more magical, with its narrow walkways, steep climbs, Jewish history (centered on Carrer de la Força), and fantastical Romanesque and Gothic buildings. Even before seeing the colorful buildings on the canal/river, Girona felt more like Italy than Spain. And there’s no need for that extra pesky plane fare.

Though I have yet to see for myself, I’ve heard nothing but raves for a village further north on the coast, Cadaquéz, and the nearby Port Lliget, where Salvador Dali enjoyed part of his colorful past.

If I knew then

Vals church entrance

Instead of opting for economical airfare in March, I would arrive after Easter, preferably in May (though September would also be nice) – a bit warmer, more places open to the public, but still without the hordes of tourists.

I would return to the tiny village of Vals, located between Pamiers and Mirepoix in the Ariège region, and bring my tripod to get better indoor photos at the subterranean church for the Compostela pilgrims that was literally built into a rocky hill. The views from the grounds are astounding; a photographer’s dream.

In general, I would prioritize more time in the Ariège region – perhaps two nights at Mirepoix and two at Tarascon-sur-Ariège. Mirepoix is a lovely medieval town and a nice springboard into sites east of Foix such as Montségur, whereas Tarascon is just minutes from a handful of caves with prehistoric cave art and fantastic formations. A nearby option that would include spa time is the town of Ax-les-Thermes, close to the Andorra border.

Get your little butt out there!

]]> http://kontjetravels.wordpress.com/2009/04/17/southwest-france-caves-and-cathars/feed/ 1 kontjetravels saiguede-eglise1 seviac-tiles-close-up-i montsegur-view-distant-iii-up-rt cordes-blue-shutters-and-sky toulouse-st-sernine-outside-great samatan-choc-pigs1 tossa-de-mar-tower vals-church-entrance http://kontjetravels.wordpress.com/2009/01/01/a-flag-that-crossed-oceans/ http://kontjetravels.wordpress.com/2009/01/01/a-flag-that-crossed-oceans/#comments Thu, 01 Jan 2009 22:07:31 +0000 kontjetravels http://kontjetravels.wordpress.com/?p=125 ]]>

I drove slowly down a narrow street with typical modest Dutch houses. Juggling pieces of paper noting an address, directions, phone number, I craned my neck to better read the numbers on the houses. No, must be further. Not there. Wait! Yes, that’s the one. I’d arrived.

My hands began to sweat. I leaned forward and placed my forehead on the steering wheel. What had I agreed to do? This was no simple errand, and suddenly I doubted my credentials. I wasn’t trained to counsel grieving parents. I was no diplomat. I just happened to be a citizen of the United States who had a friend who purchased a Dutch flag in honor of the first (and at that time, only) Dutch fatality in the Iraq war. His name was Dave Steensma. Now I was delivering the tricolor flag to his parents.

My friend, Jodi, had told me about her journey to Dave’s flag. She’d been adopted and was aware of her biological Dutch heritage since early childhood. In 2002, she felt strongly that it was time to find her birth family. She purchased a Dutch flag and hung it on her office wall for inspiration to continue the quest to find her birth family. (She found them nine months later.) Then, in Tooele, Utah, in 2004, she came across the flag that memorialized Dave’s death; it was at a fundraiser at Soldier’s Field, in honor of those who had died in Iraq and Afghanistan, to help fund a new Veteran’s Memorial.

Jodi’s curiosity grew about this man, Dave Steensma. She went online and, to her surprise, quickly located a couple of Dave’s military buddies. They put her in touch with Dave’s parents, Oeds and Margreet, who lived in that quiet little town in Friesland. Eventually the commitment grew within her to give the flag and ribbon, pressed with Dave’s name and unit, to Dave’s family – back where it belonged, on Dave’s home turf. For Jodi, it was a tangible way to connect with a distant homeland. She e-mailed his parents and told them about the flag and about how this young man’s life had helped her find her own roots. She told them that this one lone Dutch flag that fluttered among the many American ones touched her in a way that she couldn’t explain. She was drawn to it, had to have it, had to honor this unique life and solitary death. Oeds expressed that, yes, it would mean much for he and Margreet to have these items.

Not long after, Jodi told me this story and I said, “I’m going back to the Netherlands in a few months. Why don’t I hand-deliver it for you?” I’d planned a “war tour” – first, I’d attend commemorations for World War II battles in Arnhem. Then, I was to spend time in Ypres, learning about trench warfare in World War I. Why, sure, I could swing north to Friesland first, do a simple drop off of the flag and then head south to my historical destinations. “It really wouldn’t be right to mail it; I mean, anything could happen. It could get damaged, even lost. No, it should be hand-delivered – packed in luggage, brought to the door, and handed over.” I would do it.

And so I found myself driving north from Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport to Friesland, across the 32 km-long Afsluitdijk. Once over the dike it was only a short drive to locate the small town, Franeker, that was my destination. I lifted my head off the steering wheel and peered right, toward the Steensma’s front door. Everything was still. The Steensmas are expecting me and I really should get this over and done with. I took a few deep breaths, said a quick prayer, summoned my courage and knocked on the front door.

It was in that moment, those few precious seconds between rapping my knuckles on the door and it opening, that I felt real panic. The reality of the loss of this human being, someone I’d never met, became palpable. I lost my breath. Every cell jumped alive and begged me to slow down, be cautious, to love. I was on a life and death errand.  I carried the small box with tenderness. Jodi had created a nest of lovely gifts for the grieving parents. The flag and ribbon were in the box, of course, but there was more – newspaper clippings about the fundraiser where Jodi bought the flag, token gifts from Utah, lovely mementos for her faraway friends.

Oeds met me at the door. Margreet smoked by the kitchen counter and smiled weakly as I walked in. My heart sank. I had entered a grieving home and I hadn’t done my homework. I was ill prepared and at a loss for words.  Oeds and Margreet were nervous to meet me. They spoke easily of this to me later in the day once they learned they could speak easily with me. They had feared that I was there on “some kind of American right-wing political or moral mission to hail the fallen hero.” What happened, instead, was a meeting of the minds on almost all topics, with lively comparisons of Dutch and American culture, attitudes and politics. I met Dave’s sister and his beautiful, nine year old niece. I didn’t meet his wife and two boys – it was still too recent a loss for them to bear extra attention from a foreigner with a dubious Dutch last name.

There were awkward silences at first. Oeds and Margreet apologized for their terrible English skills, which, by Dutch standards, meant that they were almost fluent; at any rate more advanced than my seventeen words of Dutch. We moved our small tea party to a small, immaculate garden in the back of the house, full of life – pungent, colorful flowers gave the space the air of a Japanese tea garden. Margreet smoked and smiled, but the despair in her eyes told a story of profound and unending grief. Oeds gently tended to Margreet and maintained his own private acre of grief in his heart. Their one son, their one son!, who died in a war that practically no one in the Netherlands supported. What did he die for? How can parents deal with an experience like that? How can so many American families do it, when they hear a knock on the door and open to a solemn-faced military officer?

Oeds excused himself and returned with a large photo album. “Go ahead, look at it. The Dutch army made it for us. It’s Dave’s funeral service.” Initially Dave served in the Royal Dutch Marine Corps, but his duties later took him to the 12^th Infantry Battalion of the Airmobile Brigade, Regiment “van Heutsz.” The Dutch army made a photo album for a family? My brow furrowed. I don’t think American families get that – too many dead, I suppose, how would the military keep up?

I turned the pages – a large church, a military funeral, all captured by a professional photographer. The service took place with Military Honors at the Algemene Cemetery in Franeker on Saturday, May 15, 2004.  I started to turn the page and Margreet warned “The next pages are a bit difficult.”

Those two pages, that centerfold of photos! Four – or was it six? – photos of Dave in an open coffin. His head was heavily bandaged and it was clear the head injury had been extensive. I stopped breathing. “Do you know that in the U.S. there is a Pentagon policy that we are not supposed to see even a closed coffin of a soldier killed in Iraq being returned to the U.S.?” “We know,” they said, “and we think it’s terrible. You should have to see the dead. That’s what the dead look like.” Margeet pointed to the photos of her son. “You have to see it. Everyone should have to see it. What a shame to not see for yourself the reality of war.”

There were lighter moments, of course, and even a few laughs. We went to a local steakhouse for dinner. The change of venue altered the tenor of our encounter. We walked a little more quickly. We grinned at one another, delighting in the strangeness – and wonderfulness – of our encounter. We enjoyed a lovely dinner, we really did – talking about my life in New York and time spent living in Amsterdam. They treated me as if I was a long-lost family friend.

I began to wonder if I hadn’t met Dave. Did we spend kindergarten through high school together, with countless times sleeping over or joining each other’s families on trips during school vacations? And, if we didn’t, why did I feel like I’d known him my whole life; that I’d sat and talked with his parents countless times before?

For Sergeant 1^st Class Dave Steensma

Born November 20, 1967

Died May 10, 2004

This article was published in the May 2009 issue of American Cemetery Magazine.

You found it

There’s no question about it – Lol Tun Caves, on the Ruta Puuc,  Yucatan Peninsula, deserve a stop.  You may end up on a tour of the caves with a large group of Germans and Poles (as I did), you will be pressured incessantly to overtip your guide, but you will also see stalactites of a magnitude previously unknown – magnificent! breathtaking!

If, however, the Disney atmosphere and false lighting leaves you hungering for a truer cave experience, head west about an hour to Calcehtok Caves.   Calcehtok is the second largest dry Yucatecan cave system, behind Lol Tun.  Pronounced “kal-ke-tok,” it means ”neck-deer-stone” in the Maya language.

I had read in a guidebook to simply show up at the modest entrance to Calcehtok, rouse a sleeping guide, and ask to be taken on a tour.  There was no welcome desk, no (mandatory) fee to pay; I simply drove to the road’s end and asked a small, lovely man - Rogelio - in very poor Spanish – if he would take me for a brief tour of the caves.  We managed to agree on a one hour tour, una hora ruta turistica, a typical route for a Western tourist.

My trusted guide, Rogelio

Rogelio packed his rucksack with a few needed items, handed me a beat-up flashlight, and grabbed a small Coleman lantern as we walked to the edge of the limestone entrance.  The ancient Maya ruins of Uxmal and the city of Campeche appeared on the horizon.  Below was a scene from Jurassic Park, with palm trees seemingly growing out of the underworld and reaching towards the blue, Yucatecan sky.  The ground looked fertile, the foliage lush.  The sounds and sights – and smells! – of bats flying below inspired me to close my eyes and say a quick prayer.  I tried not to think of the guidebook warning I had read earlier that day about not entering the caves alone because the noxious fumes of bat guano could actually induce unconsciousness.  I eyed Rogelio, who was smaller than me, and tried to picture him putting me over his shoulder and mule-packing me out of the cave.   He wouldn’t enjoy it, but he could do it, in a pinch.

Down we go

We climbed down a small, iron ladder onto a limestone ledge, then scrambled over rocks, deep down into the Jurassic palms.  We continued beyond the lush green and further into the gray rock.  Here’s where the Maya built a wall to keep out their enemies, Rogelio explained.  Here are the metates, where the women ground corn.  Here are a couple chultunes, cisterns for holding water.  How long ago?, I asked.  Oh, these metates and chultunes are probably 500-600 years old, he said.  Lying next to one metate was a rock carved into a menacing face.  I was perplexed to be standing among items that would fare better in a museum than in plain view.  Rogelio stopped and fired up the lantern as I breathed in guano fumes and took in the last rays of natural light.

We walked from gray into black, into the first cave entrance, ducking down, watching our heads, and eventually standing in an immense, completely darkened chamber.  Cool water dripped from the rock ceiling overhead; sweat began to pour down my face, neck, chest.  The dirt under my feet turned to mud.

Maya ceramics

Many Maya have lived here over the past hundreds, thousands!, of years, Rogelio said quietly, reverently, as we walked across the chamber.  There is evidence of hundreds of Maya families living here as long as two thousand years ago. Later we would see shards of pottery and sacred phallic objects from approximately eighteen-hundred years ago, and two-thousand year old art etched and drawn on the limestone walls.

My flashlight flickered off and I cursed myself for not bringing my own large, high-powered light.  I stayed one step behind Rogelio – as if blind, arm reaching forward to touch him, his shirt, anything – as we walked into the next large cavern, and then the next, and then the next.  There, see over there?, Rogelio would ask,  sitting on his haunches, pointing into a distant corner with a flashlight.  We could go spelunking down there, with rope.  There are underground streams, so you’d have to wear wading boots.  It’s a long, skinny channel, but then you arrive in the most magnificent chamber.  I could take you on a two hour tour, or four, even eight!

Rogelio and quartz underground

We entered a cavern the size of a football field, containing a single, lonely boulder in the middle of the space.  Rogelio informed me that we were about 80m underground at that point (approximately 260 feet); we stood solemnly in front of the rock altar, and I listened to him describe how this was the spot where Maya women were sacrificed.  I was amazed by how proficient one’s Spanish could become when hundreds of feet underground, alone with a stranger, speaking of female sacrifices.  I leveled my flashlight, still flickering and dying, into Rogelio’s eyes.  Why only women?, I asked.  The men were sacrificed on the pyramids, and the women in the underworld. At this precise moment, my flashlight died.  Rogelio whacked it on the rock a few times, to no avail.  He gave me another flashlight.  I eyed him suspiciously.

We viewed a small room where the “alux” (“ah-loosh”) live, the tiny dwarves of Maya mythology, containing around a hundred small stalagmites that looked to be a room full of the alux themselves, in army formation.  Next was a small enclave for a kitchen, a portion of the cave with blackened walls and ceiling, metates, chultunes, and a complex map of the cave system etched onto a portion of the overhead wall.

Our trek continued; we marched through mud and over massive stalagmites resembling termite hills.  Bats continued to fly and screech overhead.  Water dripped, sweat coursed, mud suction-cupped, odors overpowered.  But something had happened - my fear of the dark, fear of enclosed spaces, fear of Rogelio, fear of bats – had all passed away, and I was one of the ancient Maya women, winding her way from kitchen to storage, rummaging for food, gossiping with friends, tending to the children.  I felt the vibrancy of the community and togetherness, the humanity and rawness of living in cramped spaces so far underground, and having to protect your home and family from dangerous foes.

What lies beneath

Eventually, we ducked a final time and walked into sunlight.  It had been the longest and most glorious hour of my vacation.  I wiped brown muck off my face.  I gave Rogelio a generous tip, shook his hand, thanked him profusely, and marvelled at my sudden inability to speak Spanish above ground.

Get your little butt out there!

Mérida, a Yucatecan city, is fantastic; if visiting, try to stay at a hotel within walking distance of the Plaza Principal.  There are many nice walks to be had in Mérida itself, to enjoy shopping, eating, people watching, museums.  It’s an attractive, electric, yet manageable city of one million people.  I felt extremely safe traveling there as a single woman – safer, in fact, than I feel in most parts of the U.S.  There are wonderful, free, cultural events like music and dancing at the Plaza Principal; most of the attendees will be locals.  The locals are as much fun to watch as the performers.

A Merida performance

But one of the best things about Mérida is the day trips you can make from there to somewhere else.  I had a rental car, a secure spot in which to park at the hotel (the wonderful and charming Casa SacNicte Bed & Breakfast, http://www.casasacnicte.com), and enjoyed, by day, some of the best vacation adventures I’ve had anywhere.

Izamal monastery

My numero uno recommendation, by far, is to go to Izamal for a half or full day.  Izamal is located 45 minutes northwest of Mérida by car.  It’s “the little yellow city that could,” with buildings bathed in a uniform vibrant yellow and buzzing with energy.  The imposing Franciscan Monastery was built as a partial amends to the Maya people for Bishop Landa’s almost incomprehensible destruction of ancient Maya culture; Pope John Paul visited in the early ‘90s.  Small Maya ruins can be visited within Izamal.

My second suggestion is to visit the three fantastical cenotes (swimming holes, sinkholes, caves, and caverns of all descriptions) at Cuzama.  Gentlemen will be hanging around waiting for gringo and Mexican families to choose them, their miniature horses, and their fashionably decorated little buggies (for a modest and well-worth-it fee of $20 U.S.), to bring you deep into the woods where you will be left to visit and swim each cenote.  I did the whole trip in a couple hours and felt rushed; it would be better as a half day excursion.  Be prepared for climbing up and down steep stairs and ladders, and bring your camera’s tripod.  If you can’t easily open your eyes underwater, bring goggles so you can see the beautiful underwater sights - bring snorkeling gear, if you have it.  The water in most cenotes is crystal clear with excellent visibility.  Expect a significant amount of physical jostling while in the buggy. Add a visit to the nearby ruins of Mayapán to make it a full day trip.  I loved these ruins – they are very compact and dramatic and you can still view color art friezes on several walls.  I recommend visiting Mayapán first thing in the morning and then the cenotes at Cuzama in the afternoon.

Cuzama cenote

My third recommendation:  driving the Ruta Puuc (the Puuc Ruins Route) to see all the Maya ruins, especially Uxmal.  This would make for a long day, so it wouldn’t be the end of the world to just see Uxmal.  Uxmal is a wonder and deserves a full day of exploring, if not two.  As with all Maya ruins, the noteworthy suggestion is to arrive early, before the tour buses arrive.  I made it a habit to arrive at ruins by opening hour – usually 8 a.m. – and was able to enjoy quiet moments without the hordes of tourists (not to mention the hot sun).  If there’s one suggestion worth taking, this is it: ruins = arrive early.

My fourth suggestion is a shorter excursion than the others – drive north of Mérida to see the Maya ruins of Dzibilchaltún (less than a half hour away); bring your walking shoes as they’re beautifully sprawled.  Don’t forget your bathing suit and a towel so that you can enjoy a quick swim in the clear, fresh cenote with the lily pads and curious fish. Afterward, continue driving north another half hour to the little beach town of Progreso.  Progreso is worth visiting just to see what a beach town on the north coast of the Yucatán Peninsula looks like – it’s a small, scrappy place, but you’ll be able to enjoy a good meal and there are decent and moderately priced Maya and Mexican goods to be purchased.  Be prepared to be harassed by vendors.

Ik Kil cenote

My fifth recommendation would be to drive to the well-known, jaw dropping Maya ruins at Chichén Itzá, and since you’re going all that way, plan on visiting the nearby Ik Kil Cenote.  Chichén Itzá is filled with tourists (and vendors) by 11 a.m., so if you go there, definitely go early.  Ik Kil is also filled with tourists and you’ll have to pay more than you think you should to get in; it’s so beautiful, do it anyway.  As is the mantra, bring your bathing suit, a towel and plenty of film.  A tripod may be helpful since the cenote is deep and sufficient natural lighting is not guaranteed.

All this being said, I prefer the smaller and more recently discovered Maya ruins north of Chichén Itzá called Ek’Balam.  Ek’Balam has some of the most beautiful Maya art and carvings I’ve seen; they look like they were created last year, not in 800 A.D.  If you arrive early enough, you may be the only one there to enjoy the site for the first hour.  See these ruins now before all the other tourists catch on to their wonder.

Ek'Balam bench

BONUS! My sixth suggestion is a bit of an “adventure” and not for the fainthearted.  Drive to the remote Maya Oxkintok ruins down a long, deserted, potholed road to enjoy these ruins (probably alone), then take a short drive to the nearby Calcehtok Caves for a private, impromptu tour of a (dry) cave system in which many ancient Maya families used to live.  There’s no lighting of any kind, there will be hundreds of bats flying overhead; the pungent (and potentially toxic) fumes from the bat guano may be more than you can stand.  It’s also one of the coolest things you can do and see in Mexico.  If you choose this route, drop me an e-mail first so I can fill you in on the details.

Stay tuned, my next article will cover the experience to be had while inside Calcehtok.

Get your little butt out there!