Sevilla and Cordoba

July 8, 2010

We woke up at 5:15 to catch a taxi to the airport. Once we had checked in, we stopped at a little cafe for some tea and a scone. The flight to Sevilla took three hours and we lost an hour, so when we arrived in Spain, it was nearly 1 PM. As soon as we descended the plane onto the tarmac, the Mediterranean heat greeted us and we shed our warm Irish layers. At immigration, I started to get nervous about using my Spanish again, but we passed through without a problem. Once again, our bags arrived safely on the carousel, and we caught the bus (and bought bus tickets) without conflict. Our bus ride took us through dirty streets lined with billboards and apartment high-rises, but eventually, we were dropped off next to a lovely stucco building with a red terracotta roof and pretty mosaic tiling. Taking out our map, we navigated a roundabout and headed for an Internet Cafe to find a cheap hostel on Hostelworld.com, stopping to ask for directions (in Spanish!) along the way. Armed with an address and anticipating 9 euro accommodations per person, we wandered through the narrow cobbled streets of Seville, through lovely old buildings and past beautiful old churches. Unfortunately, the first hostel was a bust, and Ashlee and I left Joshua to guard our packs so that we could find another Internet Cafe and another hostel. This proved to be a bit more difficult that it sounds, and we ended up walking all the way back to the original Internet Cafe. Our detour wasn't all that horrible, because along the way, we caught site of the huge, beautiful cathedral and all the old city streets. If Dublin is grey and grand, Sevilla is golden and warm.

Reunited with Joshua, we made our way to the Sevilla Backpacker Inn, just three blocks away from the cathedral. For 10 euro, we stayed in a six-bed dorm room with private lockers for each of us. Changing into our fair-weather clothing, we headed out to explore Sevilla.
First, we found tapas. In a little room that had once served as an Arab bath house, we ordered three small plates of pork in whisky sauce, chicken in garlic sauce, and a fresh salmon salad drizzled in olive oil. We ate until we were delirious and certain that Sevilla is god's answer to fine culinary dining, and then we went in search of a Sevici terminal.

SeVici is Sevilla's public bike system, and for five euro apiece, we were able to rent big sturdy bicycles to wander the streets. To begin we cycled up the cobbled streets of Old Seville, alongside an ancient wall and into little plazas lined with tapas bars and little shops with handmade gifts hanging in the windows. Next, we cycled in the bike lane to El Parque de Maria Luisa, along beautiful water fountains, palm trees, orange trees, and beautiful old buildings. At the edge of the park, we joined the bike path along Guadalquivir, the major river that runs through the city. On each bank, pretty multi-colored buildings stood side by side, and rowers skipped their skulls skillfully along the water.

Hot and thirsty, we stopped to buy a couple liters of water and decided to deposit our bikes at another station and walk back to the hostel through an old plaza. In our room, we showered and changed and headed out again in search of more tapas. While everyone says, "don't bother looking for dinner until 9 or 10 PM," we have not exactly found this to be true. By 10:30 or 11 PM, many places serving food were closed, and after an hour and a half of wandering, we found a place where we could order a pitcher of Sangria, two plates of Paella, and one plate of Tortilla de Potate y Salmorejo just before the kitchen closed. Once again, we ate ourselves blissful. The Sangria was sweet and filled with apples and oranges, the Paella was spicy and savory with morsels of shrimp, mussels, and oysters, and the Tortilla de Potate had the most divine red sauce drizzled all over.

Next, we wandered through Sevilla's nonsensical streets to find free, live Flamenco. After getting a little bit lost, we found it, and for a couple of songs, we listened to two men crooning over guitars. The venue was rustic and, to my mind, quintessentially Spanish. Art Nouveau posters of long-lashed Spanish women adorned the walls, and the wooden rafters raised a higgledy-piggledy ceiling amid a smoky haze of tobacco. People listened with worshipful gazes and tall glasses of red wine in their hands, and each song was followed by a pregnant pause of reverence and then outrageous applause.

Joshua left us after Flamenco to rest and recuperate, and Ashlee and I ordered two glasses of white wine at 1 euro apiece. We drank and then walked through the streets, and in the plaza behind our hostel, we talked and smoked a cigarette under the glow of the night lit cathedral.

July 9, 2010

On Friday morning, we woke up late, packed our bags, and headed for the bus station. After waiting in a ridiculously long line for tickets, we went in search of a late morning snack of bocadillos, a small sandwich with ham, tomatoes, chiles rellenos, and cheese. We caught the bus to Cordoba at 1:30 PM, and once again, I slept the whole way to avoid motion sickness.

In Cordoba, we walked through 110 degree heat to the center of the city and our hostel. By the time we arrived, our clothing stuck to our skin and my hair had sprung into a halo of curls. The hostel sat right up against the same river we had biked along in Sevilla. Inside, the arches were curved and pointed in the Moorish tradition, and the floors and walls were patterned with small and precise mosaic tiles. With a view of Guadalquivir, the Old Roman Bridge, and dry Mediterranean mountains to the South, it should have been perfect. Unfortunately, our enormous window was south-facing and the building lacked air conditioning. The room felt like a sauna.

Down on the first floor, we sat with the hostel keeper while he mapped out the city and all of its sights. La Mezquita is Cordoba's major claim to fame, and Kevin told us to visit the next morning before 10 AM to take advantage of free admission. The place to eat tapas was in the plaza, and we needed to experience the ancient, winding streets of the Jewish Quarter near La Mezquita. At some point, we would have to wander the magnificent gardens of the Alacazaba, and for that night, Kevin recommended that we visit the museum of the three cultures set within the old Roman tower on the Guadalquivir. It's overview of Cordoban history would give us a better appreciation for the sights we would see the following day.

Armed with the recommendations of a local, we headed back to our steaming hot room to create a plan of attack. First, we needed to get food. At a little after 2 in the afternoon, Siesta was in full swing, and we were told that the only open supermercado would be Eroski's, a half-mile walk from the Hostel. Ashlee stayed back to nurse a swollen ankle, and Joshua and I braved the sun baked walk.

Eroski's is mostly underground, and it actually turned out to be more of a mall complex than a simple food market. With the memory of the blistering heat still fresh on my shoulders, I made Joshua detour into the clothing department store. My only cool item of clothing was already drenched with sweat, and I decided that I needed a dress to combat the sticky, breezeless side effects of a tank top and shorts. Less than 10 minutes later, we walked out with a skimpy cotton shift and headed for the grocery store.

It's always fun to walk through supermarkets when everything is in a different language and the food looks a little bit different than you're used to, and Eroski's was no different. All of the Cordobans who weren't sleeping away the hottest part of the day in the coldest, darkest room of their house was browsing through the air conditioned isles of Eroski. Feeling that we had spied a side to Cordoban life few visitors see, we took our time finding wine, baguettes, fruits, and vegetables.

Back at the hostel, we had a quick snack of oranges and bread, and then the three of us walked to the Torre Calahorra Museum. To get to the ancient Roman tower that the museum is housed in, we walked across the old Roman Bridge with magnificent, solid arches and formidable, thick sides. Once inside the museum, we paid three euro apiece for headsets. Our audio tour led us through the first floor with ancient Arabic surgery tools, tapestries, and wooden carvings. In one room, three statues represented the three factions of Cordoban culture: the Christian king, a Muslim philosopher, and Maimonides, the famous Jewish theologian. In the eleventh century, Cordoba was a vision of ecumenical and peaceful cohabitation. All three monotheistic religions lived side beside, and it was here that Andalucia experienced its own Renaissance of poetry, philosophy, and art.

As we proceeded up the tower, we walked through rooms with miniature scale models of La Mezquita and the Alhambra in Granada. Peering through the tiny windows and watching the miniature fountains trickle through the courtyards; we couldn't help but get excited for the real thing. From the top of the tower, we had a panoramic view of Cordoba, and we stopped for photos with the light casting a painterly glow across the Guadalquivir.

We stopped back at the hostel to shower and change, and then the three of us made our way to the plaza for dinner. The stone tiled square was sheltered on all four sides by stylish Spanish homes and terraces above a perimeter of tapas bars. To begin, we ordered Potatas Bravas (diced potatoes fried with cheese), Gazpacho (a cold tomato-based soup that is perfectly refreshing), and a fresh fish salad. Joshua and Ashlee drank local cerveza, and I tried the local wine (a sweet sherry that was so sweet it made my mouth sticky).

Scraping the plates clean, we eyed our next destination, a tapas bar at the end of the plaza called Las Palomas (the doves). Ashlee, taking charge, ordered Calamari and Camarones Fritas (Fried Shrimp), and Joshua and I took a risk and ordered a bright red drink that everyone seemed to be sipping. Everything was delicious, and the red drink turned out to be a mixture of lemon fanta and red wine (who knew?).

By one in the morning, we were ready to go back to the hostel, but the room was still too hot, so Joshua and I slept outside on the terrace. The bounce (unz unz unz) beat of the discoteca next store lulled us to sleep; through my earplugs it sounded like a heartbeat.

July 10, 2010

La Mezquita is one of the oldest and most beautiful mosques in all of Europe. It's certainly one of the most famous as well, and the next morning, the three of us made our way through the cobblestoned streets of the Jewish Quarter to see this major tourist attraction.

La Mezquita is sheltered by thick, heavy limestone walls, and within the gates, there is a beautiful garden with traditional mosaic tiling. Besides a formidable presence, the outside of the Mosque is relatively plain; it's the inside that sweeps your gaze upwards and keeps it there. For the next hour, the three of us wandered awestruck. The ceilings were once fully lined with intricate wooden carvings, and the iconic red and white horse-shoe arches continue throughout the whole building. In the direction of Mecca, a gorgeous mosaic climbs up the wall, and detailed porcelain relief curves with the rhythm of Arabic lettering throughout.

Perhaps the most interesting part of visiting La Mezquita is seeing how it is used now. In the thirteenth century, King Ferdinand III conquered Cordoba. One of the first things that he did as King was turn the center of the mosque into a cathedral. It now serves as the Mother Church of the Dioceses and the seat of the Bishop, and the gaudy, gold baroque cathedral sits in strange juxtaposition to its surroundings. Rather than a story of ecumenical bliss, the visitor's pamphlet is a polemic justification of reappropriation. To begin, the pamphlet reads, "the cathedral of Cordoba is not simply a monument or a temple of different cultures; nor is it a mosque...Thus the beauty of the Cathedral of Cordoba does not reside in its architectural grandeur, but in the apostolic succession of the Bishop." It goes on to explain how the "dominating Muslims proceeded to the demolition of the martyry church." In fact, the iconic arches "were modeled after the Episcopal palace [in Cercadilla]," and the magnificent mosaics are "another Christian contribution." Finally, the pamphlet reflects, "It is the Church...that has made it possible to keep the former mosque of the Western Caliphate, the oldest cathedral in Spain, and a World Heritage Site from becoming a heap of ruins. In fact this has always been one of the missions of the Church; to safeguard and inspire culture and art."

Well, as you can imagine, this blatant bit of propaganda for the church did not evade us. Not only did the Catholic church manage to claim a major piece of Islamic architecture as their own, but they also turned it into a cathedral. Then, rather than acknowledge their act of reappropriation for what it really was, they play a game of who did it first: "It is a historical fact that the basilica of San Vicente was expropriated and destroyed in order to build what would later be the Mosque, a reality that questions the theme of tolerance that was supposedly cultivated in the Cordoba of the moment." Effectively, the church would like to have their cake and eat it too; they are forgiven for their reappropriation because the Muslims did it first, the grandeur of the Mosque cannot be attributed to the Muslim artisans or architects but rather to Christian influences, and we should all be thankful to them for preserving any of it at all. Bad Muslims. Goooood Christians.

For a moment in the Torre Calahorra, I had imagined Cordoba as a sort of religious paradise where Muslims, Christians, and Jews could live peaceably with one another, but our visit to La Mezquita soured that daydream. The daydream evaporated when we went to see the only surviving synagogue in the Jewish Quarter surrounding La Mezquita. The small building is one of only three remaining synagogues in Spain, and it too was expropriated by Christians under the rule of King Ferdinand. The lovely altar that would have held the scrolls of the Torah has a faded fresco of a cross for when the building served as a hospice, then a chapel, and then a shoe cobbler shop.

Growing up with Mandy, I've always heard about the two different Jewish ethnicities: Ashkenazi and Sephardic. In our reform synagogue, most of the congregation is Ashkenazi, but the Sephardic culture has always provided an exotic allure. Occasionally at Passover, people will endeavor to recreate Sephardic choroset, and my dad owns the plaintive yodels of Yasmin Levy. In my head, I had built up a rich, fascinating, and thriving Sephardic culture in the southern hills of Spain, but in reality, there was barely anything there at all. I'm sad to say that when the Spaniards kicked out the Jews, they did so with verve. Eric reminds me that this is the same culture that brought the conquistadors to South America, but I guess in all my romanticism, I had forgotten. So many beautiful places have such dirty pasts.

After the synagogue, the three of us walked up the lane to La Casa Al-Andaluz, a traditional Muslim home in the Jewish Quarter. Inside the small home, a lovely flowered courtyard with a fountain in the center anchored three rooms. In one, an old-fashioned paper mill was displayed, and in the second, a dining set with beautiful mirrors and Islamic knick-knacks littered the walls and shelves. In the final room, Ashlee fell in love with a reflection pool filled with colorful cut flowers and lined in intricate tile mosaics.

Once we had overdosed on photos of flowers and Islamic home decor, we made our way to the Alcazaba. Many of the cities in southern Spain have palace complexes located on the highest hill, and this palace was just such a place. The formidable palace had a sun-baked tower which we climbed, and from there, we could see the gorgeous central courtyard and the gardens down below. One thing I will say for Andalucían royalty: they knew how to live. Indoors, the thick limestone walls created cool, dark rooms, and outside, fountains, pools, and ancient irrigation ditches fed lush gardens filled with citrus trees and thousands of brightly colored flowers. We wandered through the maze of plants seeking shade and fountain spray, and when we were too hot to stay outside, we headed back to the hostel.

As I said, the hostel provided no relief at all, but Joshua decided to take a siesta in our sauna anyway. Ashlee and I were less keen to stay and bake in our own sweat, so we decided to venture back over to Eroski's for look for an airy dress and refreshing snack food. After a couple of hours in air conditioning, we returned to the hostel to wake Joshua from his heat-induced slumber. Groggy and pink-cheeked, he pried himself out of bed, and the two of us headed back out to the Jewish Quarter while Ashlee stayed back to nurse her swollen Achilles.
Near La Mezquita, Joshua purchased a new pack of cards, and the two of us got lost in the maze-like streets of the Quarter looking for wine. The tall residences lining the cobblestoned streets provided shade from the late afternoon sun, and the slight breeze we created by walking provided a little relief. Finally, we spied an open corner store with cheap wine, and once we had made our purchases, we walked back to gather Ashlee.

Before we went out again, the three of us took turns taking ice cold showers. Revived, we found Bar Santos, famous for their Potatas Santos. We ordered their claim to fame, a seafood salad, and two beers, and then we ate them on the steps of La Mezquita. Milling about the entrance were a dozen impeccably dressed men, ditching a wedding. We had stopped to see a similar spectacle earlier the same day as a wedding party entered La Mezquita. The women were dressed in bright silks and taffeta, and many of them wore ornate feathered hats with netting and sequins. The bride wore an enormous dress with an impossibly long train that the other women swatted and fussed over. Ashlee and I sat, entranced, as we watched the best dressed people we had ever seen strut and saunter in front of the gate. Even the men and women running the nearby souvenir and gelato shops stepped out from behind their counters to watch and the objects of our attention knew it. They preened with a self-satisfied air, and it seemed to be a mutually beneficial encounter. They had prepared for hours to be seen, and here we were, seeing them in all their finery.

Done ogling and eating tapas, we continued walking through the dimming streets of Jewish Quarter in search of some Arab-infusion cuisine. We walked for nearly an hour, finding everything closed, and after a while, we settled on Doner Kebabs to go and walked back to the hostel to eat on the rooftop terrace under the stars.

Full from shish kebabs, chicken swarma, falafel, and the heat of the day, we went to bed early. Tomorrow, we anticipated a late night. The Spaniards would be playing in the World Cup Final, and we intended to party along with the rest of them in Granada.