A Week of Adventure

I sat comfortably in seat 17D, by the window as I like it, on a train en route to Sevilla, in the southern region of Andalucía. I had a week off from work because of the holidays – Constitution Day and the Feast of the Immaculate Conception – and thus, I took the opportunity to travel to Sevilla and Granada. I was invited to Sevilla by Santiago Pereira, the Spanish horticulture professor from Lugo (in the region of Galicía, north of Portugal), whom I met at Cornell over the summer when he was visiting there. He has a sister in Sevilla, and they invited me to stay with them and see the southern part of the country. It was a very amiable invitation. And, since my uncle Dennis told me I had to visit the Alhambra before I left Spain in neighboring Granada, this seemed like the opportunity.

I anticipated an eventful week, and in fact, it certainly started with an adventure. I woke early to catch a train from Reus to Tarragona, in order to catch my Tarragona to Sevilla train. But, when I arrived at the station in Reus, I was informed that the Sunday schedule differed and there wasn’t a train to get me to Tarragona on time. I was informed of buses, but I didn’t know their frequency, length of ride, or where in Tarragona they would take me. I panicked, first calling Núria, but her phone was off. Then, the only thing I could think to do was call Maria, the secretary at IRTA that takes me to work in the mornings. I felt terrible calling just before 8:00 am on a Sunday morning, but there was nothing more I could think to do. Thankfully, she graciously took me to Tarragona, racing along the highway to get me there on time. She dropped me off and said she would park the car and come in to make sure I’d made it on time. I arrived on the deck with a few minutes to spare, only to look up at the monitor to see that my train was delayed a half hour! Unbelievable! I sat down to wait, and Maria waited with me to see me off. We joked about the situation and the chuckling helped me to relieve my tension.

On the train, I looked up from time to time to see the glistening of the pale, blue Mediterranean waters in the morning light. I saw the terraced olive trees and the perfectly-arranged citrus groves, and the leafy vegetables growing on the level ground. We passed through cities and villages painted white to reflect the light. Given all of this and all that had happened, I was merely amused by little Raul sitting behind me, poking at my head. The train ride was long and tedious – 11.5 hours in total. I used the time to read and write, but my interest in those dwindled as the time passed. When it grew dark, I didn’t even have the passing scenery to interest me, but I took amusement in a group of women laughing like hyenas.

I arrived in Sevilla, thankful to depart the train and equally thankful to be received so warmly by Santiago, his friend Matilde, his sister Josefina, and her American friend Elisa. We took my backpack to Josefina’s flat and then headed out for a night tour of the old city. Our meanderings took us through various plazas in the Barrio Santa Cruz. This used to be the old Jewish ghetto, with its narrow, cobblestone streets, but it has since been revitalized as quite the tourist scene. We stopped at a bar for a glass of wine and olives (“tapas”). I had the choice of a sweet or a dry white, but as the dry white is typical of the area, Santiago recommended that I try that one. It was good, but it was strong, and being dehydrated from the trip and a bit hungry, I had to be conscious of picking up my feet a little bit higher than usual on those cobblestone streets. Back at the flat, we had a traditional meal of bread, cheese, sliced meats, and vegetables, and of course, more wine.

Monday, we woke, breakfasted, and prepared for a day of hiking in the hills east of Seville. It was overcast, and it appeared that rain might threaten our plans, but we packed appropriate gear and went on our way. Once out of the city, we were surrounded by rolling countryside, replete with olive groves. The trees were large, many had already been harvested and were starting to be pruned, while others were laden with crop. I observed some in the process of harvest, their limbs out of reach being knocked with poles. Such a practice seemed primitive considering available mechanization. As we moved further east, the sky grew darker, and eventually it started to rain. ¡Que mala suerte! We thus gave up the plans to hike and progressed north to Córdoba. As we moved north, the sky lightened, and eventually the clouds broke to reveal an impaired, blue sky. But, the occasional patches of light and dark did wonders for the scenery below! Hillside after rolling hillside was the landscape we witnessed – each with soil marbled from red to brown to white as a neapolitan of mineral flavors; some blanketed in green from the evergreen canopies of the timeless olive trees consistently spaced so that even the texture of the blanket was there; others freckled with acutely pruned grapevines so short that the fruit nearly touched the ground, but prudently managed given the generally dry conditions. And the “pueblos blancos” steeped on these hillsides were marvelous to behold. We arrived in Córdoba for lunch and feasted on a delicious, traditional Andalucian gazpacho (thicher than those I’d had in the past) and tapas.

After lunch, we leisurely passed by white-washed buildings, lining the narrow streets of the old city. Pedestrians were more common on these streets than cars, but there were cars that occasionally passed, and I gasped every time they turned the tight corners. Aside from the fact that there were no cars when the old part of the city was built, the streets are narrow, and the tall, white homes are prudently placed in this region where summer temperatures often exceed 100 degrees F. The white color reflects the light, and the buildings provide shade for their neighbors. Internal patios are the coolest, most comfortable places at that time of year, and often, people leave their external doors open to reveal to passers-by their beautifully-tiled, flower-abounding retreats.

Our main purpose in visiting Córdoba was to visit the cathedral. I was fortunate to visit the site in such company, as Elisa is an archeologist and provided invaluable insight! Built in the 16th century, the cathedral is actually the sight of a deeper religious history. Córdoba was a city founded by the Moors in the 700’s and was one of the three world capitals in the 8th, 9th, and 10th centuries (with Rome and Constantinople). As the Arab capital, a mosque was erected for religious observance of the founding population. Interestingly, the mihrab – the location in the mosque toward which prayer is directed – does not face Mecca, as is the tradition. Instead, it faces the river, the means by which to exit the city for the Mediterranean and make one’s way to Mecca. Elisa divulged this, which my guidebook described as a “miscalculation” in the construction. But eventually, the Christians conquered Córdoba in the 1200’s, and the cathedral was finished approximately 300 years later. Instead of using a new site, however, the cathedral was constructed within the mosque! Córdoba’s cathedral is not alone in this, as Sevilla’s cathedral is of the same design, and Christian palaces were built within the Alhambra of Granada. The cathedral is beautiful, as is the mosque, but having one inside the other seemed a little strange – more like a museum than a place of worship. Nonetheless, I was thoroughly impressed with the meticulous tilework of the mosque and carved mahogany of the cathedral.

We did a little more walking in town after our cathedral tour and then departed for Sevilla. We left Córdoba via a less circuitous route than that of our detoured morning. It was dusk, and the evening light revealed a landscape like that of eastern Washington state. Here, cereals, rather than olives, were the crop of choice. The winter grains had only recently been planted, and their emergence from the soil gave a hint of green, which in spring would dominate the hillsides in pastoral splendor. It was dark when we arrived back in Sevilla, and we called it a day.

The next day, I woke early and went for a run along the River Quadalquivir. This is the same river that winds down from Córdoba, and as the river had significance for the Moors there, it had significance for the Christians in Sevilla. It was from Sevilla that Ferdinand and Isabella sent Columbus to “discover” America, and between the 16th and 18th centuries, all ships bound for the New World were required to commence their journeys in Sevilla, giving the city a monopoly on the treasures of the new lands and thus great wealth. I enjoyed my run along this historical river, where, since it was before sunrise, there were only a few other walkers/runners but numerous fisherman. I would later that day walk part of this route with my friends in the daylight. During the morning we toured the old city again to see the sites by day. We returned to Josefina’s apartment for lunch, and then Santiago and Matilde left for Lugo. In the afternoon, Elisa, Josefina, and I went for a fantastic bike tour through the Plaza de España, Parque de Maria Luisa, and down the Avenida de los Palmeros, where there were beautiful buildings constructed for the 1929 World Fair. It was so much fun getting back on a bike again, trying to keep aware of the crazy traffic and thrilled by weaving through the dirt paths in the park. The Plaza de España was magnificent, with stunning tilework to represent each province in Spain. Elisa helped clarify for me the differences between regions and provinces in Spain. There are seven regions in Spain: Andalucía, Galicía, and Cataluña being three, and then the regions are further divided into provinces, Sevilla being in the Province of Sevilla, and Reus being in the Province of Tarragona. After our bike tour, we relaxed for the evening.

Wednesday was another fantastic day in Seville. I woke, ran, and breakfasted as I had the day before, but then I set out on my own, as Josefina and Elisa had to work. My first stop was the cathedral. I weaved my way through the narrow streets of the old city, keeping my eye on the vantage point – the Giralda, or bell tower of the church. The 15th century cathedral is like the one in Córdoba in that it was built on the site of an Islamic mosque. Unlike the cathedral in Córdoba, however, less of the former mosque remains. Those structures which were preserved are part of the protective wall which now encloses the Patio of Orange Trees and the minaret, now called the Giralda. The cathedral is a grand, Gothic structure and is the 3rd largest cathedral in the world. Inside, it houses a fine collection of Renaissance religious artwork, elaborate Eucharistic treasures, and a supposed tomb of Christopher Columbus. I say “supposed” because two other cities in Spain also have tombs dedicated to Columbus, and according to Elisa, DNA work has not yet provided conclusive evidence of his actual location. Although, Elisa said it is possible that pieces of him are in all three places. After meandering around the floor, I climbed the Giralda for the view. It was amazing to see the city from such a height, and it reminded me of the times I climbed McGraw Tower at Cornell, except that there was a brilliantly white city below me. (Yes, that is a jab at Ithaca’s weather.) There were many school children and teachers touring the cathedral. I became disgusted with one girl who spit over the edge of the tower and then laughed about doing it. And I grew annoyed with a boy who pushed his way up next to me and behind the girls to startle them. Fearing his aggression would knock my camera out of my hands, with my sunglasses to hide my blue eyes, I mustered up my best Spanish accent and tersely told him “Cuidado.” This, of course, led him and the girls to start whispering, and when I started to leave, he triumphantly said “hello” and they laughed. So much for me trying not to look like an imposter. Perhaps it was my disciplinarian attitude that gave me away.

I departed the cathedral via the Patio of Orange Trees and made my way through the main shopping district of the city center. It was the middle of the 2:00 lunch hour, so the streets were fairly calm. I walked leisurely down the pedestrian-only passage, on my way to the Museo de Bellas Artes. I stopped to glance at some artwork at a table that a man and woman had just set up. They painted using watercolors, and their paintings were very beautiful. Though I had no intention on buying, the woman tried to hold my attention. Having noticed that they had no pictures of olive landscapes in their collection, I asked if they had any, thinking that their negative response would be my opportunity to exit. Instead, she said that she would paint me one on-the-spot and started doing it. I was trapped, but I felt like I couldn’t decline at that point. So, as she painted, the three of us started talking. Laura was from Galicía, Tupac was from Bolivia, and the two of them travel back and forth between Spain and Bolivia selling their artwork. They asked where I was from and what I was doing, so I told them my story, which of course made sense of my request for a picture of olives. Having my attention while Laura painted, Tupac used the opportunity to probe me about the U.S. At that point, I learned that Tupac was quite an opinionated person, stereotyping all Americans as consumption-driven, war-supporting, and environment-degrading people, thinking with their heads only of the present and neglecting to feel with their hearts for future generations. I responded diplomatically, as usual, and said that just as all Europeans do not fall into one category on controversial issues, neither can all Americans be grouped as such. I then curved the discussion to tell him of my interest in sustainable farming practices, in hope of lightening the conversation and redeeming my country, about which I remain patriotic. Confronted with his criticisms of the U.S., I should have taken the opportunity to tell him that the U.S. is far ahead of much of the world, including Spain, in terms of sustainable agriculture practices (from what I have observed), but not having the brain power to translate my thoughts to Spanish, and not wishing to get into an argument in the street, I refrained from any criticisms myself. I ended the conversation by saying that perhaps all we can do to improve our world is consciously make efforts ourselves, in the ways we see appropriate. He chided that we cannot change others, but I responded that perhaps, by example, we could. All in all, despite his occasional anti-passion toward my country, I appreciated my conversation with Tupac. And, in the end, I may have, by example, left him with a different opinion of Americans, the motley crew that we are. Before I walked away, he and Laura gave me a card and told me that if I ever ended up back in Spain or in Bolivia to look them up.

From there, I went to the art museum. It was not a large museum, but it had an impressive collection of medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque religious artwork by notable Spanish artists, like Murillo and Zubarán. And not only were the paintings beautifully passionate, they were also grand in scale, larger than life in some cases! But my favorite painting of them all was a subtle portrait of the Virgin and Child by Murillo. I liken their expressions to that of the Mona Lisa – mystically optimistic. When I left the museum, I weaved my way back through the busy streets of the city center. There was a festive feeling in the air, with Nativity scenes set in store windows, lights spanning the narrow streets, and a string quartet playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. When I got back to Josefina’s apartment, we had a nice dinner with more nice conversation, and then we went to bed to await my departure the next day. I lucked out the next day and bought the last available seat of the morning train to Granada.

Back on a train, the music went from ethnic guitar to elevator saxophone to Sinatra ballads. From my window-vantage seat, the scenery was not disappointing by any means: rocky mountains with white villages at their bases. In lowland valleys, there were olive orchards and vegetable fields and olive orchards intercropped with vegetables, like the one I saw intercropped with artichokes. But those majestic olive trees, as I have described before, don’t need fertile valley floors to be productive, and thus, the mile after mile after hundreds of miles of rolling countryside was a patchwork display too breathtaking to put into words. I tried snapping pictures from my seat, but upon peering through the lens, the powerful rays of the sun created an image of my own reflection, my face obscured by the camera. Passing through San Francisco de Loja, terraced fields of alfalfa, asparagus ferns, artichokes, and corn neglected of harvest were in the forefront, while the snow-packed Sierra Nevada Mountains – Spain’s tallest mountains – were in the background.

And they were in view all the way to Granada. When I arrived in Granada, I hiked my way to a hostel and checked in. Once settled, I went walking in search of a look-out point that Elisa suggested I find. I started walking up the streets of the Albaicín, the site of the immaculately white houses of the former Moorish neighborhood. I weaved my way up the tangled streets, and eventually came upon the road to Sacramonte – supposedly where the gypsies live in caves and tourists go to watch flamenco dancing. I walked for a little while, but as the sun waned, I opted to turn around, as my guidebook recommended avoiding Sacramonte after dark. Back in the Albaicín, I found the Plaza of Saint Nicolas, which is the look-out Elisa suggested, and much of the tourist population had also found it. I stayed there through the sunset, which was glorious, talking to a German guy some of the time about our various travels. As darkness settled in, I made my way back to the busy market streets, bought some falafel and baklawa for dinner, as there is still a dominating Arabic influence in Granada, and went back to the hostel. When I decided to retire to the room for the night, I thought I was alone until I heard someone in the bed across from mine. Having thought I reserved a space in an all-female room, I was surprised to see it was a guy. Turns out, he was equally surprised to see me, as he thought he was in an all-male room.

I slept well in the hostel actually; earplugs helped. I learned from my mistake of forgetting them when I stayed in Barcelona, where a lone snorer kept me awake most of the night. I wandered the city the next day, visiting the Chapel Real, where King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella are entombed. This was an unintentional visit, however, as I thought I was visiting the cathedral, and was a bit frustrated that my three euros was spent visiting a place where photos were not allowed. Although, noticing no guards, I took some anyway, without flash, of course, as to respect the artwork. Hopefully there were no cameras recording my villainous behavior, but if there were, I wasn’t the only culprit. I visited the cathedral in the afternoon and was a bit disappointed to see scaffolding, but it was beautiful nonetheless. But, now for a little bit of commentary… I had to pay another three euros to get into the cathedral. In fact, entry payment was required at all three cathedrals that I visited during the week. I suppose I can understand the purpose of the entry fee. In Spain, churches are like amusement parks in that they are tourist attractions. With large crowds comes the need for cleaning, maintenance, and personnel. But, the payment, not to mention the direction of security guards, makes me feel like an outsider in a place that should feel comforting. But, I suppose that’s the price I pay for the chance to take pictures.

In between the chapel and the cathedral, I went for a hike with a guide from the hostel and one other traveler. The guide was originally from South Africa and the other traveler Australia. We went on a fantastic hike in the hills behind the Alhambra and had incredible views of it but also of the snow-packed Sierra Nevadas. We passed through olive orchards with the mountains behind and beheld a picture as perfect as a postcard. And after all the walking during the day, I ended with a restful night at the hostel, where there was a community meal that was cheap but delicious – paella, a Spanish standard. At dinner, I also befriended a few Kiwis and Ausis and enjoyed lively English conversation.

And, on my final day in Granada, well, I saved the best for last. This was the day I visited the Alhambra: the 13th century Moorish fortress, palace, city, and gardens all in one. Essentially, the Alhambra is the reason tourists flock to Granada, and for this reason, I booked my ticket online in advance. My entrance was at 8:30am, and they are strict about timing in order to prevent huge influxes at one time. Though hiking up the hill warmed me up, it was a chilly morning, and the sun didn’t rise until well after 8:00. My route began in the Nasrid Palaces and moved to the gardens of the Generalife. The chill and the pale light offered a certain peacefulness, regardless of the other visitors. But how could one not find peace there amidst the intricate tilework and carvings, trickling fountains, dormant gardens, and quiet city down below?! And I can only imagine the marvel of the gardens earlier in the year: roses flourishing, walnuts and figs in leafy glory, and color throughout. Although, seeing the pendant persimmons and pomegranates still clinging to their limbs was beautiful even if most of the leaves were already a golden carpet on the ground. I ended my tour at the Alcazaba – the fortress. As I stood on the stone towers, I soaked up the warm rays of the sun, just as Ithacans do on their rare occasions. I gazed upon the city below, the cultivated farmland beyond, and the mountains in the distance. I imagined what the view must have been like when the Alhambra was in its glory. I’m sure the view below was quite different, unlike the Alhambra itself, which except for its age, is well-preserved.

That afternoon, I did some more walking through town with my Ausi and Kiwi friends, and then I made my way to the train station to be a true “mochilera,” passing the night on the train.

To see pictures from my week, visit my Shutterfly website, and visit the folders labeled Córdoba, Sevilla, and Granada.