from mosqito to mezquita

My infatuation with Madrid ended abruptly.

Dave woke with massive red welts on three limbs and the back of his neck.
He said they itched like hell... hives? bed-bugs? fleas?...
From behind the counter at the local Farmacia, the farmacia assistant, a young, petite, dark-eyed, raven-haired Spanish senorita said, after we showed her the damage,  "The Farmasist says they are definitely mosquito bites!" in English with a thick Irish accent, and sold us a cream to relieve the itching.
After two days Dave says the cream doesn't work.
He has never reacted like this to Aussie mozzie bites but as I pointed out to him he may have been the only body in Madrid 'sin' alcohol in the bloodstream.

They certainly didn't bite me!

We are now in Cordoba where the MUST SEE attraction is the Mesquita, a name which has an unfortunate similarity to mosquito.

As well as Dave's predicament, on that last morning in Madrid, we woke to the sound of workmen bashing and clattering metal poles as they constructed a temporary exposition building in the Plaza Mayor next to our apartment, which now seemed to smell musty. When we went out for coffee, the air was thick with a fine cement dust as men with a disturbing jackhammer dug up the ancient pathway near our front door.

Reality intrudes! This leads me to reflect that when we read our guidebooks or visualise ourselves in the new destination, these are the irritations we fail to imagine. And when we write to friends or family, or take a photo or create a blog post, we are always selecting what to notice and record from an infinite number of possibilities. 

Did I mention that I had a queasy stomach all day in Toledo and spent an hour lying, head in Dave's lap, on a park bench outside the cathedral, too lethargic to tour inside?

Did I say that I found it a gloomy place with its endless narrow streets and grey stone buildings?

Or that the place was overrun with tourists, ugly en masse, each group like a homogenous clump in its own way. The Japanese in odd combinations of clothes, shading themselves with parasols and following a fan held high by their tour guide. 

The elderly Americans, slightly stooped, moving gingerly across the uneven stones. Or groups of noisy adolescents, much more interested in each other than their historic surroundings.

On my last night in Madrid I woke with nightmares and some of the anxieties from home resurfaced. I hadn't invited them along on the trip but there they were, my travel companions.

As Dave's petanque friend, Jean Philippe once said to me, “Wherever you go you take yourself.” Something we tend to ignore when we plan a trip. Do we think we can escape not only the weather or work or troubled relationships , but that we can escape ourselves?

I did wonder in Madrid if I could be someone else there. I remember a friend writing to me from Spain where she was teaching English nearly 40 years ago, pleading with me to come to stay with her.

What if I had gone then? Would I have stayed? Would I now speak several languages? Would I be a journalist? Would I have married a Spanish man and have learned to dance and have lots of dark eyed babies?

How much does our environment, the place we are in, the culture we inhabit, the language we speak, the people we are with, affect who we are?

I did feel different in Madrid. Lighter. Excited. Happier. But it was transient Perhaps as the paintings of Adam and Eve at the Prado remind us, paradise is indeed lost. The serpent awaits in the branches of the apple tree. The beggar with a fat baby on her breast waits outside the chapel.

Before I left Adelaide, I was walking with some friends along the River Torrens. It was a golden autumnal day. If I had been there as a tourist I would have noticed swans and fluffy cygnets on the muddy brown waters, the smell of juicy green grass as we climbed the hill to the stunning Gothic architecture of Carclew. Then I would have paused and admired the view over the city from Colonel Light's statue, the trees of the parklands, the distant mauve hills, the spire of Saint Peter's cathedral. When we travel, we notice more. We direct our attention to where we are . We ask “Why is this cathedral beautiful when the block of flats next to it is not?” [a discussion Dave and I had over a campari the other night].

In Cordoba I notice that there are jacaranda trees and date palms and orange trees and bougainvillea, but there were only stunted olive trees between here and Madrid.

I want this blog to be not only a narrative about the places we visit and our experiences, but also an exploration of why we travel and what we learn as we go.

How does the personality of Madrid differ from that of Barcelona?

Why ARE these art works hanging in this gallery? Who controls the cultural narrative?

Who are these people and what matters to them?

Anyway, we arrived in Cordoba two days ago, after a relaxing ride on the fast train, which I had booked on line before we left Australia.

Our hotel here is a tranquil, comfortable 2 star place with a pretty courtyard garden. Coincidentally we moved from an apartment in Cava San Miguel in Madrid to Hotel San Miguel in Cordoba. 

I was seduced by the passion and sensuality of Madrid, but Cordoba has stirred different and deeper feelings.

 More about that in our next post!

madrid

I can't believe that our week here is nearly over. 

We leave tomorrow for Cordoba.We are sitting at an outside table in a small paved plaza at the end of our street, Plaza de Puerta Cerrada.

This is what we do most evenings from about 6-7pm in Madrid, with hordes of Spanish  people and the occasional tourist. We find a different bar or cafeteria. I have a cava or campari or cerveza with olives or potato crisps and Dave has an orange juice or coffee. Then we sit for two or three hours, enjoying the warmth,admiring the architecture, reflecting on the day, watching the passing parade of people, listening to the ambient sounds of conversation. Life is out of doors. The weather is “perfecto” in May. High twenties every day. It isn't dark until 9:30 when people leave the bars and move to restaurants or their homes for dinner..

Luckily, my cunning plan to take the slow route to Spain worked; I avoided the dreaded jet lag and deep vein thrombosis. A good thing too, because our apartment on the third floor of a 16^th century building just off the Plaza Mayor involves 82 stone steps worn concave by the feet of several centuries.

I am in love with Madrid. Why? Partly the week of sunny days. I didn't like Barcelona in October 2008 when all I can remember is a sea of umbrellas moving along the Ramblas; Dave and I huddling in plastic hooded raincoats, the only tourists on the upper deck of the red bus; queuing for ages at the Sagrada Familia to see a building site. Yes the weather has something to do with it. The contrast with Dubai is another factor. In Madrid anything goes, People are expressive, musical and exuberant. No wonder the Lonely Planet Guide bills it “the most passionate city in Europe.”

Mariachi mayhem!

An elderly senora holds a fan to cool her face. A young woman in short shorts and very high heels, which get caught between the cobblestones, hangs on to her young man. Two long haired young men with musical instruments strung over their shoulders hurry home. The slogan on a young boy's tee shirt reads "Live more. Think less." That sums up the hedonistic vibe here.

It is the people who make Madrid such a happy place. And all this against a background of financial despair. The Spanish stock market crashed last week. At least one in four people are unemployed, yet it is not evident apart from the few professional beggars outside tourist haunts.

We found ourselves caught up in a political demonstration a couple of days ago.

Thousands of black clad people holding red flags, bunches of red and black balloons , a gigantic papier mache caricature of a political figure and political slogans swarmed along the Calle Major as we were arriving home.

What amazed me was that the demonstration was like a fiesta. People were happy, laughing, chanting, singing, blowing whistles and beating drums. They posed for Dave to photograph them. They chatted with the police. [It was a demonstration against the massive cuts to the public service so the police were in accord]. A brass band playing Latino music was part of the parade. Passers by joined in and danced to the rhythms. It seemed a joyful celebration of community rather than an angry or violent outburst. 

The Palace and Carol

Another pleasure is practising my Spanish. After a ten week course, it is VERY limited but it gives me a thrill to speak it and to pick up on a little of what others are saying. Yesterday I was admiring Picasso's powerful  Guernica ,when I heard a young dad, with his little 2 or 3 year old girl perched on his shoulders, asking what she could see in the painting. In Spanish she replied “the bull, the horse, a mother and an eye”. Yes I know it is at toddler level, but it was such a joy to understand their interaction.

Activity for all on Sunday afternoon in the extensive Madrid public park, Parque De El Retiro

Toledo

Campari and coffee O'clock

Of course we have been to the art galleries, read under a shady tree in the park, walked for kilometres over cobbled streets [so glad I brought sturdy cobble proof shoes], admired palaces and piazzas and other elegant architecture, tried different tapas and wines, watched street performers and busking musicians, taken a fast train for a day in Toledo.  But these are the things you can read about in tourist guide books.

Tapas and wine at the wonderful San Miguel Mercado.

Tomorrow morning I will unbolt the big wooden doors, open the casement windows, fold back the heritage shutters [very fragile dark brown painted wood] and step out on to the wrought iron balcony for the last time. The sky will be blue. The senora who lives opposite will be tending her vibrant pink, red and white flowers on her tiny balcony. Someone will be whistling the anthem of the red and white football team who won the cup last week. 

Soon I will hear the metallic clop of horses hooves on cobblestones as two policemen ride by and through the arch into the Plaza Mayor.

 





















A few people will hurry past and the performance artist who dresses as a bronze military statue will apply his bronze face make up behind a pillar below. A group of school children with back packs will sing in unison as they straggle through the narrow street.
We will go over to the San Miguel market, only a few paces from our big wooden front door, to try another continental delicacy from the tempting displays before un cafe solo and un cafe con leche. 

I will be sad to leave marvellous Madrid...but it will all continue without this observer.

Madrid has more trees than any other city in the world.

the journey begins

We flew out of Adelaide on 19th May, a chilly morning. Winter had arrived. I was looking forward to spending summer in Europe. [Dave less so.] This journey is not only an escape from winter but an attempt to distance myself from personal anxieties and gain a new perspective on things.

Because I can't sleep on planes and experience jet lag for several days, I had planned a slow trip. Our first destination was Perth for one night. We walked along the Swan river where water-birds dried their outstretched wings in the late afternoon sun.

A newspaper headline in the mall caught my eye. "Burka an Insult to Women". I thought it was a provocative headline given we were heading for the middle east.

An early morning departure got us into Dubai in the afternoon for a two night stopover. From the window of the plane there was nothing to see but beige desert sand. In contrast, the airport was as opulent as the set for the Ziegfeld Follies or some other Broadway extravaganza. It was shiny and light and spacious with massive silver columns. The Arab men at passport control were dressed from head to toe in traditional white robes.

Outside the 43 degree heat was oppressive and the blue of the skies was blurred by the beige fog of sand which thickened the air.

 

 

On the metro we rode past kilometres of skyscrapers, beige with blue reflective glass. It looked as if  someone had built a virtual city out of shiny cream lego blocks in a giant sandpit.

Too hot to be out of doors, we headed for one of the many massive multi-story shopping malls with their glittering shops and prestigious western brand names. 

There was an indoor snow covered mountain slope with a chair lift, skiers, snow laden fir trees and warmly clad children throwing snowballs. 

We watched  through the windows as if looking at one of those glass paperweights with the snow scenes inside.

I find in Dubai a mass of contradictions. Muslim and rigidly controlled, yet with massive billboards flaunting indulgent images of consumption.

In the shops we saw many Arabic couples where the male dressed in the white robes contrasts with the woman fully covered in black. As starkly black and white as the guidelines we read in our hotel room. No knees or shoulders to be revealed. No see through fabrics allowed. 

It is a crime to approach women unsolicited and displays of affection, even between married couples are not tolerated.

But I watched traditionally dressed couples hold hands and giggle as they purchased a  Nespresso machine. Others smiled affectionately at each other as they pushed the pram into a trendy children's wear boutique.

I sat in the women and children's area in the bus while Dave stood with the men at the back. I felt a sense of safety away from the male gaze. 

  Perhaps it is not black and white!

Not to be outdone, at 829.84m, the 'Leaning Tower of Dubai', 
Burj Khalifa, is also the world's tallest building.