FRANCE, AFTER 50 YEARS, AND SPAIN

FRANCE, AFTER 50 YEARS, AND SPAIN

(All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.)

Air France and DeGaulle

A trip to Europe, a dream for 50 years, this trip was realized in May, a present from our dear sons, Dave, Steve and Jeff, for our 50th Wedding Anniversary and culminating in this travel-log, a gift back to them and a present to all friends and family who want to relive the experience with us.

It all begins on 5/2/06 (or 2/5/06, the European way) Several times we wrote wrong days on our itinerary because of this difference. We start out from Huntington, West Virginia, HTS, Huntington Tri-State Airport and make a short stop at Cincinnati.

An Air France, Delta jet 220, takes us past, 50 miles north of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, above the Allegheny Plateau, but cloud cover covers the view with a bit of turbulence so we can’t walk about. We see the sun going down outside the left side window, with clouds below flattened, unlike the luscious fluffy ones over West Virginia.

We rise to an altitude of 31,000 feet, with fewer clouds and they’re tiny, far away down, over Wilkes Barr, Pennsylvania. We see tiny settlements. Over the headsets we hear Elvira Madigan, from the movie, but originally Mozart’s Concerto 21. The movie was about love between a tightrope performer and an army lieutenant.

As I reread this for editing purposes, I’m reminded of a dream I had the early [2 a.m.] morning of May 24, after arriving back home. I’m to marry Dr. Roy, the superintendent of the grade school where I taught for 22 years. However, in order to follow the regulations, I must first walk a tight rope. Somehow I walk it 3 times, safely. I’m to do it a 4th time but don’t want to. However, I somehow find myself out there doing it a 4th time! While we’re in Europe, my sister, Carol, and her husband are traveling in South Africa. On her return she tells me about visiting Victoria Falls and going on something like a bungee rope, only it’s more like a tight rope with a cord attached and she’s carried in something like a hammock over the falls, and she does it 4 times!

Carol did this while we were in Europe and my dream occurred on the morning of her birthday, May 24, a week after we returned and 2 days after she returned. She didn’t tell me about it until she got back—I’d already had the dream but didn’t remember it until I read it as I had recorded it in my journal that morning. “There are more things in heaven and on earth, Horacio, than your philosophers ever dreamed of.”[William Shakespeare] Brian Greene speaks of multiple dimensions and particles that mimic each other even though they be on opposite sides of the earth. He is trying to find the answer to Einstein’s dilemma: How to unify the physical laws for the very large and the very small. Somehow, this tells me, through the wonderful intricacies of the universe, God will make a way for loved ones to always be together. Since then I have dreamed, intensely, about my father, gone almost 30 years, appearing at my sister, Doris’ and Morrie’s 50th Wedding Anniversary and his explanation, “Of course I would be here.” And my mother, who suffered from carpel tunnel and had leg amputations due to bad circulation, she appeared in a later wonderful dream, driving a car with the greatest of joy, and in life she never even learned to drive.)

We see the sun as a near orange long bar to the southwest with black smokelike clouds around it in patches. The stewardess(whoops, the flight attendant) announces the morning sun will come early and we might need to close the window blinds to appreciate our own personal video. It won’t bother our audio via our personal headset which gives us classical, new age, country or jazz. The video presents the location of our plane on a map in flight, the weather, and a choice of full length movies.

Now we’re just west of New York City and the ocean. Now it’s black out. We can’t see the sea. I’ve just found the page of "Sky Magazine" with info on how to pick tv movies. I choose Apollo 13 with Tom Hanks in command. Somewhere I’ve heard there’s 400 degrees of difference between sunlight and shadow, whatever that means. I choose "Apollo 13" because I’ve already seen it, and the plane’s engine sound drowning out some words won’t be a problem. Though, maybe it’s the volume control, or my ears, not the plane. Anyhow…I can continue studying my French flashcards. Plus, dinner’s coming, Warren’s sleeping through his video, and it’s time for my evening pills. It’s 9:10 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, or 3:10 a.m. French Time – It’s time to sleep. So… what’s TIME??

We’re 60 miles from Charles De Gaulle Airport and circling for 10 minutes above a magnificent green field, laid out so poetically, not linearly, except for a few squares and rectangles. We’re circling, waiting for airspace and landing space. Is that the shadow of our plane? No, we’re too high to be noticed much, but the shadows are of high cirrus, straight, thin clouds above us. Near the airport the rivers appear to be stems and the ponds their flowers.

I’ve taken a nasal spray and donned ear plugs with concentric circles that fit into my ears to make this trip complete with no high pitched pain from the reduction of air pressure. “Pain” in English is “bread” in French. I like the French word better. Also, for the first time in my life, I’m flying without Dramamine. Instead, I’m wearing wrist bands on both wrists, just above where my watch sits on my left arm, and I sense no bit of nausea. Somehow it calms the nerves by pressing on the acupuncture points. Fifty years ago when I flew by nonjet from Cuba to New York, via Gander, Newfoundland, for gas, and then to France, I was so sick on that prejet airplane that Warren thought I’d missed the flight to meet with him, my U.S. Private husband of 4 ½ months, whom I hadn’t seen since our honeymoon in Cuba. I was the last one to deplane, after the then termed “stewardesses” and pilot! The flight from New York took 14 hours with the short stop at Gander.

My French verb flash cards fall to the floor and spread out. I explain this to the flight attendant who doesn’t seem interested. I know most of the words from French to English but not in reverse. But I do recall some of the rhythms and cadences and especially useful words and phrases from 50 years ago. It feels good. I figured out why the French language is so poetical. In the first person, present tense, they say “Je voudrais” and the “e” in “Je” and the “ais” in voudrais” both sound like the long “a” sound in English. So, it appears, often, whatever I do in the present is a poem! Oops, scratch that. Just looked in my "French in 10 Minutes a Day" and the “Je” in French sounds like “zhuh,” not “zhay.” So the poetry is due to some other factor.

Today began about 3:00 a.m. (9:00 a.m. Paris time). During the night I slept for 20 to 30 minute intervals while watching “Apollo 13,” half of it without any sound since Warren was sleeping with my headset on. Warren watched “Glory Road” 4 times, but slept through a lot of it. Its story was about a New Orleans coach who was the first one to build a winning small college team by enlisting mostly black basketball players and they ended up on top in a final game against the University of Kentucky.

I went for walks twice, and once toured through Business/First Class. I was told by the flight attendant (female, and you mustn’t call them stewardesses/stewards) that I mustn’t walk through that class! Wow! What a putdown. I’m used to living in a more classless society. Anyhow, I ceased and desisted and shortened my walk but did it more often. This seemed to help my leg circulation but not my circulation through the upper classes.

We had begun our trip on Tuesday, May 2, from Huntington, West Virginia on a Comair/Delta plane to Cincinnati at about 5:10 p.m., arriving in Cincinnati about 5:59 p.m., leaving there at 7:15 p.m. via Air France/Delta. When we got to Paris it was already 9:20 a.m. the next day, Wednesday, May 3. The flight took only 8 hours, but the sun met us earlier by 6 hours. Wednesday was spent waiting for a motor coach to take us to the center of town where we caught a taxi. One fellow at the information desk told us there were no buses, only taxies, but we knew better through our travel agent, my sister, Carol. Wonder if he got a rake off from the taxi drivers? The consierge at our hotel, the Aida Opera, was a very helpful young lady quite proficient in English. She told us about a nice restaurant a few blocks away, but we ended up at a pastry shop (a patisserie) across the street from the extinct Folies Bergere and bought ourselves a couple of slices of pizza (Very French?) and took it to our tiny hotel room to eat as our dinner.

Montmarte and Outdoor Cafe

The next day, Thursday, the 4th, finds us having a leisurely breakfast at our hotel, the cold cheaper one with wondrous fresh orange juice we squeezed ourselves on an electric juicer, fresh buttery croissants with butter and jelly, and hot coffee. Who needs more? For lunch it’s that patisserie again, this time for raspberry tarts and some kind of substitute for real cream Napoleons. After a short rest the concierge tells us where to catch a yellow/green tourbus, L’ Open Tour, at Fauberg and Novelle. It cost 32€ each but that meant we could catch different buses and tour around Paris all day, if we liked. We went past the old Paris Opera (now a museum. 50 years ago we missed a chance to go there because we were unfamiliar with Mozart’s "Der Fliedermous".)

We make a stop at Montmarte. Hadn’t been there 50 years ago because it was too far to walk in our carless days. The Sacre Coer is a magnificent white basilica with several large domes. It’s location on this hill (Mountain of Martyrdom) is in memory of the many who were killed here, but especially because the first Bishop of Paris was beheaded here. Via Funicular is the way to go up the steep mountain, avoiding the many stairs and saving our precious feet for further adventures. An employee, a very staid young man dressed in a suit, is stationed in the sanctuary to make sure no one talks loudly in disrespect for the dead nor for the living Christ. On one side of the basilica is a gift shop and no one is in there to quiet us down. The sacristy or pulpit area is arched over with a tremendously beautiful painting of Christ. Above the painting are the Latin words:
JESU GALLIA POENITENS ET DEVOTA ET GRATA SSMOCORDI.

Watching at the bottom of the Funicular is another who appreciates the hard earned savings of the living for Warren notices this black man, seemingly tutoring three young men in the art of pickpocketing, ala Fagin in the play "Oliver". Luckily, their target is not deprived of his belongings although the third man tries his darndest to sell an item to the victim while the other two attempt to pick his pocket.

After the Montmarte trip we decide to catch a different bus route to see the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triumph. The driver says, “Oui, Monsieur,” when asked if he went to the Arc de Triumph. Either he misunderstood or was trying to fool us, for we soon find that we are going past again the same wonderful places we had just visited. Of course, like an ugly American, I’m tempted to say, “J’e furieux contre vouz. No Arc de Triumph! " Since the hour was late, no more tours were available. And we are out 32€ each!

But what wondrous thoughts as we rode atop the double decker bus (No more of those in London.) What intense impressions come to mind. Well, to listen to an earphone travelogue of places and histories while riding in the open air with the French and others walking by on sidewalks to and fro and moving on motorbikes, cars and buses (using the bus lane or no) is overkill. The people and my Bud are enough. The fifty years are good and return here is good. He’s the one!

I remember Barbara Streisand singing, "The Poor People of Paris". They’ve gained a lot. In 1955 they were not dressed as well. Did see one poor man laying down on the sidewalk in his clothes and some old bedding cloths in the early evening. Also, on the outside windowsill of Sacre Coer Cathedral, a sleeping bag ready for some unfortunate person. Or, maybe, fortunate to be able to sleep al fresco in that wonderful spring weather.

The glass covered roofs side by side with the old pointy ones with many chimney stacks, they’re different, but they’re o.k. and they tell of time’s passing. In 1955 and 1956 there were no plastic bags to carry stuff or blow in the wind and catch on trees, no plastic at all.

After all our snack meals we hunger for a real meal deal and study various outdoor restaurants, not the Italian one, nor the fast food type, but we decide on Braisserie Cardinal at the intersection of Drouof and Cammiseriat. Sorgan, an extremely nice young man is our waiter, hailing from Cambodia, and I pray he escaped Pol Pot and the killing Fields. Bud has Tiramisu and I have Tarta Tatin, an open face apple pie specialty of Orleans, Dorta Datin in French, via our waiter.

The next experience teaches me to carry my compass with me at all times. In 1955 I could afford to get lost and walk for miles and miles, but my feet are not the same. We head toward our hotel, we think, but after several blocks we see buildings we hadn’t seen before. So we try a couple different streets, wonder if we could trust people of whom we’d ask directions on the street, and it’s getting dark. We see a McDonalds and are comforted and decide to ask there. A young lady employee’s directions are good, and, sure enough, after a short walk down a narrow, shadowy, almost alley-like way, we come to our hotel’s street and not far to go.



Friday the 5th finds us spending most of the day walking- Ouch! We wind up too tired to go to our reserved restaurant for an 11:00 p.m. meal to see the Eiffel Tower lighting up every 30 minutes and blinking. We’d walked about a mile, one way, to visit the Galleries Lafayette. We enter with a throng of Chinese people so that I think, “This store has special sections for different ethnic groups.” But no. The Chinese people are from a tour bus. Galleries Lafayette is like other huge department stores, but very nice, very exclusive, very awe inspiring with it’s cathedral-like domed, stained glass central roof overlooking open galleries of departments on many levels.

To Bud’s joy (??) we spend almost an hour in the luscious lingerie department. The colors are outstanding. Stunning still models wear clothing appropriate for a harem, lines flowing and cut so that they might remind one of the beachside to the Normandy Invasion with its wing/sword memorial motif (See May 9.) I am looking for a half-slip and I feel as though I’m in the wrong department; then they send me, trying to understand my poor French, to a section with old women’s undies. I am undaunted. I end up with a lovely white, youthful, swirley, lacy full slip.

We see plenty of “haute couture” (high class dress). Bud buys a yellow dress shirt with a yellow, blue, etc. diagonals dress tie made in France. "Beaucoup d’argant" means “lots of money!” While he purchases I rest my very tired tootsies drinking a fruit drink and prepare for the jaunt home. I carry a sachet of presents for family. I’m very tired, my feet equally with my body. My elastic ankle support and my cane do their job well. A few weeks before the trip I discovered, through great pain in my left foot and the prognosis of a foot specialist, that I had virtually little cartilidge and tendons between my ankle bone and my foot bone and that they were misaligned. But when the doctor says, “Go and have a great time!” I begin to feel that I can manage this trip and these tours.

May 6, Saturday, is a first trip to Claude Monet’s home and gardens in Giverney followed by a second trip in 50 years to Versailles. Our very explanatory tour guide begins by saying, “The first trip is for the smell, the second for the sights and the third for the plants,” but I am ready for “all at once!” The chestnut trees are in bloom and the flowers changing. Monday is called the “Fin de Primavera,” the end of spring.

We travel down Highway A14 and by Neuilly suburb with its new arch. It’s the seat of the perfume industry, "beaucoup d’argant". We take the Little Manhatten Tunnel under the district Ile de France, under the banks and insurance companies with their skyscrapers, any new ones now limited in height.

We learn Paris is 36 centimeters above sea level and therefore the Seine bends. In the 1911 flood it was necessary to take a boat to get to the Paris Opera. The lovely yellow blooming fields we pass are of canela for oil and for furniture protection. We’ve seen these in the German countryside but never in the United States.

The medieval part of Verdun joins the Normandy Highway at Poissy, the center of dairy produce and Simca cars. Le Miro (Mureau and Meulan) boasts of high tech, satellites and space projects, being 78% nuclear powered. But here in Ile de France it’s hydroelectric. 12.7 million live in Ile de France, the island center of Paris. Younger people tend to live outside the city.

In the countryside everywhere we see freshness and green. Our guide speaks of Normandy, where “Apple grows and milk flows.” He speaks of Calvados, an apple brandy used with coffee, and he speaks of camembert cheese, specialties of this area. Then, turning to history, he reminds us that Joan of Arc was burned by the English at Roen. There are 176 castles in the area. In the 7th century Vernon had the only bridge over the Seine between Paris and the coast. Vernon’s Normandy architecture consisted of a stone base and wooden top.

The Seine River was used by many enemies to conquer. The 1430s saw the end of wars to control the river. One can see wooden churches from the 1500s. Here grows the mighty mistletoe of Christmas kisses, really a bag parasite that kills trees, so…romantic!

We pass the oldest quarry in France, white cliffs like those of Dover, closed to any other use than to reconstruct the Louvre. Many people live in caves or homes connected to caves to save fruits, vegetables and taxes. It seems that French habitation tax is on the amount of “roof”coverage and caves have no roof as such. The cave rock is soft with fossils. During World War II the French Resistance hid supplies in these caves. We see a communal bread oven built in a cave wall during the Thirty Years War as there were no bakers left at home.

We find ourselves viewing a church built in the rock in 1187, a church which is still in use. In the late 1100’s Phillip August was fighting British Richard Lionheart from Normandy at a cave/castle in the village of Racheguyon. This cave was in the 1680’s sold to the family Foucard. A castle was added later on the outside of the cave.

Claude Monet’s parents were rich merchants, of a class above the usual Parisienne. Monet, famous for his art within his lifetime, chose to live outside Paris in Vernon with its Roman aquaduct and old Norman castle built in 1483. Joyfully we leave our van and visit this wondrous old structure. Though the Germans destroy the Vernon bridge, U.S. soldiers come to the rescue.

Words can not describe Monet’s gardens, richly watered by a thermal heated stream. Although he was a famed artist, a small part of which was his floral paintings, he claimed that his gardens were his greatest work of art. Even photos would not do them justice. We stroll for a half hour in the gardens and another half hour is spent in Monet’s home and in the gift shop. Pictures are forbidden to be taken inside his home, left as he left it, bright blue and yellow kitchen, sunken den and all, with many of his works on the walls. The view of the gardens from his home is magnificent! What an inspiration, and all the time he knew he could not better God’s work.

Lunch consisting of a scalloped potato pattie, barbecued chicken and tarta tatin is provided at Le Moulin de Fouges, an old mill revamped into a lovely eating place.

Now it’s on to Versailles. In the days of the kings, game hunting was their kingly sport near Paris. Louie XIII needed/wanted an 18 room hunting palace. Richelieu invented corruption. On the death of these two Louis XIV became king at the young age of 8. Cordair, his advisor, continued the corruption and wanted to replace the king. Versailles was constructed in 22 years by 18,000 to 30,000 persons. The 107 year Absolution was completed.

Louis XV was the great grandson of Louis XIV, and he was known for his escapades with Madame Pompador when his wife’s beauty faded. He used the Gran Trianon as an informal place to relax with Pompador or Debris. Madame Pompadore resided in the Petite Trianon, later housing Marie Antoinette, until the Madame’s age also dwindled her positive qualities.

Then came Louie XVI and Marie Antoinette, the couple who lost touch with reality and took all the wealth of the country for their own use. Louis XVI’s love of hunting and blacksmithing endeared him to the place. In 1783 the women marched from Paris to Versailles to make their statement against the royal greed and cupidity. The 14th of July saw the storming of the Bastille with the freeing of prisoners. The king and 200 others snuck out of their royal home dressed as peasants. To get food they threw coins but they were recognized and on January 21,1792 they were beheaded. 15 years later Napoleon crowned himself king.

The domain is comprised of 8,200 acres of palace grounds plus the hunting grounds, thus totaling 25,000 acres in all. The government built a moat to separate Marie Antoinette and her farm animals from the castle grounds. She was a mere teen and not at all prepared for the life she was to lead. Just this year a movie is coming out bearing her name.

This trip we come to the palace from the rear, viewing first the façade of Marie Antoinette’s private cottage, the Petit Trianon, where she spent most of her time. It has 8 columns in the Neoclassic style. Then our guide, Herbert, drops us off outside the Grand Trianon, a splendid edifice covered with white and pink marble, built on acres of former pastures and villages destroyed to make room for the pleasure of the king. This was the place to which the king would retire for a more informal life than that at the palace. And now in a slight rainfall we again walk the Grand Canal, a wondrous, enormous reflecting pool of great length bounded on each side by tall, equally trimmed trees making a wall of huge green rectangles. It’s the beginning of May and the marvelous equidistant statued fountains are flowing. Also, spectacular classical music is flowing from speakers hidden behind the trees.

After the long walk we come to the palace of Versailles itself, even more awesome. After 50 years we find it to be just as immense, just as golden gilded. When we visited so long ago during the first year of our marriage it seemed more perfect. This time we find that the main palace outside is being worked on on the rear left side. Also, the Hall of Mirrors had sections curtained off for repairs. Are we merely more critical in our old age, do we have a heightened awareness, or does it seem as if France is having a harder time meeting the lavish demands of this place? Or, perhaps, as in “déjà vu” we’ve just seen it all before. However, it is quite a wonderful experience seeing it all again, as part of the Giverney/Versailles (Paris Vision) package.

Residing in the main palace were Louies the 14th, 15th and 16th. On peak days between 58,000 and 62,000 persons visit here. With 25,000 acres, 16,800 of which are dedicated to hunting, there is certainly enough outdoor space for all.

Our tour consists of Warren and myself, 2 ladies from Atlanta, Georgia (elderly, white-haired Mary Jane with a cane and red-haired Ginette, originally from France and on her way to Austria), and a young California couple on their honeymoon. Tour guide, Herbert, amuses us by saying that, “In Paris, anything before midnight is considered late afternoon.” And so our tour ends in late afternoon. We are advised to visit Plasire Lorraine, a great parisienne restaurant, which we must do on our next trip to Paris, as our time in Paris is running out.

Sunday finds us at the Opera Bastille, one of two operas in town since our visit here 50 years ago. There seems to be some conflict over the location of the opera, that it be in the famous Bastille area where many were killed on that June 14th day when prisoners were freed. To me it seems a likely place, the opera dealing as it does with such intense emotional themes concerning life, love and death. We had ordered our tickets over the Internet on the first day of sales, January 2, 2006. To our delight we discover our seats to be in the 2nd row, right next to the orchestra pit and in close view of the pigtailed conductor. Verde is our favorite composer and our opera of choice is Simon Boccanegra, a story of politics (the powerful and the powerless), life and death, and love. Rather than medieval Italy, it is set in the present day, performers wearing present day clothes, and a stark stage except for a rich black curtain dazzling us with what seemed to be a thousand diamonds, a simple wooden speakers platform and huge political campaign pictures. The transformation brings a present day reality to the story which encourages the music to touch our hearts. Simon Boccanegra is Verdi’s least known opera with only 2 short arias but a tremendously long prelude.

In an effort to cram all we can into our short time in Paris, we schedule a dinner cruise on the Seine River through Paris’ famous bridges. So, like a current day Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn ("Charades") we wait on the corner in front of Opera Bastille facing the towering pinnacle of the column of Juillet, the winged woman on tiptoe, where the French Revolution was sparked by the storming of the Bastille. Pictures are taken of us eating dinner, and Cary Grant turns out well, but Audrey doesn’t. So we have a solo photo of him on our dresser, oh, so… handsome. All was according to the cruise’s schedule and they didn’t schedule in a time for the lovers’ kiss. That had to come later, but we did take many pictures.

Monday, May 8, find us at the Holiday Inn Express outside Orleans with some difficulty having taken the wrong highway. That was only the midpoint of our stresses of the day. We started out of Paris in a rented car with written directions but never did find the roads we were looking for. However, our trusty little compass kept us heading in the correct southern direction, and we finally got out of “town.” We have no trouble getting to Chartres itself, but finding the cathedral entrance was something else again. After circling the building several times we take a cue from a tour bus and park several blocks away and walk to the church.

Once in the building we could have taken millions of wonderful, colorful pictures of huge stained glass windows, some, the ones with the darkest blue glass, from the 13th century, many of them hidden away during World War II to preserve them from bombs and the enemy. Also there are intricate carved mosaics depicting the life of Christ, and we snap a few of them. When I ask where I might find the labyrinth that pilgrims have used, taking around 2 hours to crawl on bloodied knees to the center and back out again, I was told it was the main floor. And so I discover that bloodied knees aren’t in fashion anymore, for a multitude of chairs are set up covering the entrance and escape route. Perhaps in this we have learned through time about sin and real penance. In what has been called by some “the most glorious cathedral in the world” it would be a shame to miss the glory by being down on our knees trying to reach forgiveness when forgiveness has already reached us in the death and resurrection of Jesus.

After about a 2 hour drive we arrive at our motel. We take time to rest but probably too much time and we get to Judy’s at 9:30 p.m. and not 8:00. This is how it went…Our goal was Judy’s home for dinner. (Rolande is her French name. She went by Judy when she was a foreign exchange student to England after the Second World War. This was probably during or after her secondary school education. Thus she learned English well enough to be a secretary to English speaking chaplains, Jewish, Protestant and Catholic, in the Chaplain’s Division for Bud’s army base. This was the army base connected to the hospital Aix la Chapelle where he served as a medic.

The year was 1955, the year we were married on Valentine’s Day in Cardenas, Cuba where I was working on a Presbyterian Spanish Scholarship, serving as English secretary to Dr. Emilio Rodriguez Busto, Superintendent of all Presbyterian Mission Schools in Cuba while I attended Spanish classes at El Colegio La Progresiva. Having majored in Christian Education in college, I applied for and was hired as Director of Christian Education for the Sunday School that served children of American servicemen in Orleans. Thus I got to work in the same office with Judy, got to know her and corresponded through Christmas cards for 50 years.)

The circuitous route I used to describe the “goings ons” for 50 years is no more twisty, windy than the route we took from our motel to find Judy and her husband, Guy (pronounced “Gee”) Thauvin. We called them and anticipated our own tardiness as roads were unreasonably curvy and we had no good maps, though we did have Judy’s and the concierge’s directions. The map didn’t help because we passed our turnoff and could never find it again. No businesses were open because it was the festival day of Jean d’Arc. On April 29, 1429 Joan of Arc and her French troops overthrew the British there, the turning point of the One Hundred Years War. Judy’s letter told us that we couldn’t take them to dinner – no open restaurants. We finally, after almost giving up all hope of our 50 year rendezvous, found a Pat a Pan patisserie/fast food type restaurant that was open (4 Av.de la Liberation). A young worker there called Judy on his cell phone and had us follow him, as did the taxi driver we called at 11:30 p.m. to guide us back to our Holiday Inn Express. That young man exemplified excellent Franco-American relations. Not like the bus driver in Paris nor the Tourist Help at de Gaulle airport. “Do the French like us?” may be too simple a question to ask.

Finally, we are at Judy’s and we kiss her and her husband, Guy, on both cheeks and vice versa. We have a very hard time getting our car into their small front courtyard. Judy has expanded, as I have, over the course of our additional 51 years. I don’t know about Guy because I’d never met him. She hadn’t known him back then. (Of course I’m speaking about intellectually and worldly wise, ahem.)

The living/dining room is large with 2 parallel tables. Judy likes memories as can be seen in the many pictures and memorabilia on her tables and shelves. On our plates, square glass as in many French restaurants, we find a man-made rose. Judy is oh, so kind and happy and talkative as our pizzas grow colder and colder, for, after all, we are 1 ½ hours late for dinner. I see pizza is now the international food of choice, barely heard of in France and the U.S., as far as I know, back in 1955. With the pizza we have Sangria with mixed, chopped fruits which she draws with a dipper into our glasses. For dessert, a wonderful carmelized vanilla ice cream, resting on a very thin sheet of carmelized sugar as base, and more throughout. Her coffee is made with chickory. “Judy, you know, I make my own chickory by pulling out blue fringe 4 petaled plants on the roadside by the roots, then roasting and grinding the roots. We learned about chickory at the French Market in New Orleans. It was used by the South as a substitute for coffee during the Civil War. "

We talk of 50 years ago at Aix la Casserne where we worked for the chaplains. Guy had been a railroad engineer traveling from Orleans by fast train to Paris and back 3 times a day. He was drafted into the French army but they married so he didn’t have to go to Algeria to fight and lose. They have 2 daughters, one not married but living with the father of a boy and girl about ages 10 and 12. Judy explains she doesn’t like it and I tell her it’s necessary to remain friends. I was happily surprised that in the French culture she still evidenced such moral concern. The other daughter is married but I’m unsure if she’s a parent.

We speak of Margaret from Morocco who handled the offering money from the Protestant, Roman Catholic and Jewish congregations. Judy remembers when Margaret was fired for stealing congregational funds. We’re agreed she was nice otherwise. I used to eat lunch with her. They asked Judy to take her job but she wouldn’t – too scary. She was a teletyper. Later she worked for the railroad SNCF where she met Guy. Bud and I had taken that 100 mile per hour train to Paris 100 miles away, wonderful excursions when we could leave our tiny one room second floor apartment and stay in a hotel with a real bathtub. Our flat had only a sink with cold water. The bathroom was one flight down. Guy said, as Judy translated, “I could have driven that train at 200 miles per hour but I didn’t.” (Today their trains are able to travel 300 plus miles per hour.

Together Judy and I sing “Sur le ponte de Avignon, tout le monde, tout le monde, sur le ponte de Avignon, tout le monde dans en rond” (On the bridge of Avignon, all the world [everyone] dances around.) and even Guy joins in. I tell her I‘d passed the Roman Catholic chaplain’s army assistant on a street near our apartment in Chicago (near Cicero and Montrose) a year or two after Bud was discharged, but he didn’t see me and I didn’t realize it until he was lost in the crowd. She wants to know if it was John Sykes, a red-haired guy, but I remember a different guy named John with brown hair, aide to the Protestant chaplain who looked like the soldier played by another John, John Kerr, in the movie "South Pacific". I remember the aide to the Jewish chaplain and think he may have had red hair. I’d had lunch with him one time and he was very nice and I was surprised because he was Jewish. I hadn’t met many Jewish people up to that point.

I forget to ask her about Chaplain Norman Brown, a Presbyterian. Once I’d gone to see him in the small office at the chapel used by all three groups. All they had to do was change the paraments to fit the particular service type. Anyhow, in this men’s army with no women at that time, when I knocked on the door I surprised him buckling his trousers.

Bud and I remembered singing in the Protestant Chapel choir. At Christmas we did Handel’s Messiah for the troops and their families. I did the alto solo "He Shall Feed His Flock". Never did solos after that until years later when I led worship services.

Judy didn’t know if La Chapelle Hospital was still a hospital. We didn’t plan to go there as it was at least a half hour away and we tended to get lost. She took us through her large garden which was difficult to see in the dark. She pointed out her plants including a Christmas tree (de Natal). In their kitchen she had 2 stoves and lots of memorabilia, and French/English dictionaries on the table. Her English is much better than my French. Our main emotion was joy at being together, even though time was short.

On leaving I realize we should check to see what kind of car we had. What a surprise to find it’s a Mercedes Benz! When we rented it we didn’t check because we’d had a concern that we’d lost the key. Come to find out that European cars have keys that look more like a small credit card, something like a motel key. So we’d driven for hours without knowing. Our French friends must have thought we were rich, when, in reality, we had to have a Mercedes since few rentals there have an automatic shift. Guy is in awe! I call from our motel and say, “We found our way back safely, with the help of the cab.” Judy says, “Guy wants you to tell him again where you got the car!”

I think of all the difficulty finding our way on French streets and it reminds me of what our tour guide to Versailles had told us, and I wonder why the French can’t line up all their streets a la the town of Versailles streets. When the first King Louis to live with his court at Versailles decided to do so, he hired an expert to lay out the streets so that his multitude of courtiers would have a place to live. The pattern laid out with streets at right angles to each other was then copied in the United States. The French do have a wonderful way of lining up their trees in straight rows as seen at Versailles and with poplar trees in the countryside.

Tuesday, May 9, finds us back in Orleans. This time we are able to find our way. We’re getting smarter. We have learned to prepare for roundabouts and discover about a hundred of them traveling from Orleans to Rouen, which we bypass on the way to Caen in Normandy.

In Orleans we park on rue des Anglaises and walk to rue Angelsis and to Mairie town center and Tourist Office for gifts, passing Hotel Groslot, gorgeous with festival flowers. Nearby is the great Cathedral of Orleans, almost as great as Chartres but we can’t enter because the doors are locked. We walk a few blocks behind the cathedral and go back 50 years. We head down rue du Bourdon Blanc (White Bumble-Bee Street, which I had incorrectly translated as White Horse Street for 50 years!). The street is no more cobblestone, a foot-ache for high heels in my high heels days. We gaze up at the second floor at 10 rue de Bourdon Blanc, and we’re in awe that the giant size brown wood front door is still the same, just painted dark brown instead of tan, with a different lock, no longer requiring the thick 6 inch metal key (cle)..

Across the street Veronica Caspar bikes up to put her bike in the courtyard. I say, “Pardonamoi. We lived upstairs across the street 50 years ago. We knocked but no one answered. Do you know the present owner?” I struggle with the French and she takes up with perfect English. She and her husband live in the whole house at number 11. But at number 10 the present owner, Monsieur Soudan, has combined our tiny room with another for more space. So much remains the same, but much changes. Our tiny room consisted of one door, one bed, one stuffed chair, one window to store our butter, where we would look out on dinners across the street that lasted for hours, one tiny propane gas stove that one sat down to to cook, one tiny wooden table with 2 wooden chairs, light pink wallpapered walls, which on one side had a handle and one could store cupboard items (not bread, for it drew a mouse).

Veronica learned English years ago as an exchange student in Houston! She knows the present owner of the first two floors at #10 and will tell him about us, and she gave us his name. Perhaps we can get in touch at Christmastime.

At both ends of our street are colleges, College Jean d’Arc to the north and College du Bourdon Blanc to the south, and we see many students come by. After turning right at rue du Bourgogne to head back to the cathedral we note other big changes. The patisserie where I used to get baguettes of bread to carry in my bare hands or dainty sweets- that’s now a McDonalds!
This is now an international cuisine street, no longer just residential, and we see Indian, Moroccan and French restaurants, among others.

Back at the Cathedrale Ste-Croix we take time to photograph the memorial to the burning of Jeanne d’arc. In a recent questionnaire it was discovered that 40% of high school students in the U.S. thought Joan of Arc was Noah’s wife, not a great compliment to either. We avoided this downtown yesterday to avoid the crowded annual celebration. How fortunate that, without planning to do so, we are back here at this time, when the flower filled baskets are piled high around the tall statue of “Joanie on the Pony,” as the U.S. occupation troops named it, at the Centre Commercial Place d’Arc. This is part of the much that is unchanged.

We find the Village Hall, now Hotel Groslet , with its curved staircase entryway lined with beautiful blooms. Years ago I was on that courthouse staircase asking for directions to the American Express, in dire need because my trunk with all my belongings had been miss-shipped, actually to Switzerland. It was my first day of work at the Chaplains' Division office and I came in late to be upbraided by the sergeant in command. Our dinky apartment had no phone, and I didn’t know the army base’s phone numbers nor how to get information about it through the French phone system. That sergeant wanted me to know who was in charge, no matter my predicament. Happily, my trunk eventually arrived and I learned how to work with that sergeant. And, in the meantime, I just had to buy myself some French clothes.

We visit the public water closet next to the hotel and find it very tidy. But, it has no cover nor separate seat, so it is as icy cold as the cold water.

Then it’s goodbye again to Orleans and we’re off on good 4 and 2 lane roads to Caen in Normandy. We keep to the west of the Paris traffic and enter Caen on A13. We head for a little souvenir shop on the coast, a tiny tourist’s paradise with seagulls and little bridges over walkways, La Cote de Nacre, to get a new memory chip for my digital camera. We test the last one in stock on the shop lady and then find her machine won’t take my credit cards. So it’s down the street to the bank, luckily one with a working cash box ATM, and pay my 32€. Now I can photograph history.

I’ll not soon forget Omaha Beach with its American Cemetery, over 900 graves, mostly white crosses, some with the Star of David. I’ve heard one cannot enter this cemetery without shedding tears. I thought, “I’m tough. It won’t touch me that way. I only know of one man killed on this beachhead,” But I was wrong. We came across a grave marked with one live red rose for a soldier “Known only to God.” This is why I became a minister. I lived through World War II and believe its horrors should never come again.” They have.

On the part of the beach marked with a metal sculpture called "Les Braves" created by Anilore Banon, we are extremely fortunate to be there when the seas and sky provide a backdrop to the monument that is unbelievably unifying. One can see the icons of battle and peace in its swords and its wings. It is as if God is saying, “Yes, this is to be remembered. "

I’ve heard of poppies growing in Flanders Field and now I see the lovely yellow blooming fields of canola are growing here in the Normandy countryside. “Let’s stop here, Hon, so I can see some up close and take a picture.” I pluck a tiny, fragile plant and carry it with me in a small plastic bag, unaware that it is contraband for bringing into the United States. I would like to know how it is prepared for use as oil and for furniture protection.

Next, several miles south along the coastline, is our destination, Point du Hoc. Its coastline was also the destination of the Allied armed forces on D-Day. Here gallant Army Rangers from Texas scaled the cliff wall of rock to wipe out the crew of German men stationed there. There it was possible for the Germans to see with great clarity from this peninsula point in many directions, a great view of the soldiers coming and landing there on the shore. A sad/happy story tells of an observer from this point seeing the invasion coming, awakening his buddy and saying, “The enemy is coming!” His buddy's response is,“How many are there?” The answer,“All of them!”

Teens visiting the spot today are seen running up and down the bombed holes and through the Nazi fortress/bunker. Do they not know or care? Each is trying to outdo the others in daring do. For some reason I’m reminded of certain American colloquialisms: “Out in the sticks” means “out where lots of trees grow.” “On the run” means “done in a hurry,” the name of a French fast food restaurant in Caen. “Tell him or her where to get off” means “Give sharp advice.” “Doo hickey” means “thing-a-ma-jig,” means “quetzel-quetel” in Spanish, means “little, useless item or attachment such as found dangling inside some car windshields.” “Tom foolery” was a term my dad liked to use denoting “getting into trouble,” and that’s what the teens were doing at Pointe du Hoc, running into bomb craters and trying to outdo each other in craziness and danger and noise. But at the American Cemetery all was quiet and peaceful.

After a restful night at Novotel on Avenue de la Cote de Nacre in Caen near the town centre, it’s “up and at’um” again. Our return trip to Paris is estimated to take about 3 hours, but that doesn’t include time spent driving through the city to the airport. We find it a fairly easy trip to DeGaulle Airport but get lost inside and have to ask for help. Thank the Lord we arrive the night before our flight. We are to stay at the Airport Comfort Inn which is situated in a tiny traveler’s town, Le Mesnil-Amelot, just outside the airport. Our accommodations are small but comfortable and costly, but the delicious buffet dinner and breakfast the next morning make up for it.

Determined not to get lost another time, we again follow a taxi to return “our” Mercedes Benz at Terminal Aerogar 3 and from there take a bus and then walk a good long distance to Terminal 2 to catch Madrid Air. We could have taken our good natured time, for with 2 postponements we wait a total of 6 hours for our flight to get off the ground. There’s a bit of excitement before we lift off, and in this day of terrorist troubles we don’t consider it lightly. But I’ll tell about that in my next installment, the “and Spain” part of our trip.



AND SPAIN

Our trip is about halfway complete, if we consider that our return trip will take at least a day longer than planned for. On Thursday, May 11, we find time to consider places and customs through extra hours spent at Charles de Gaulle Airport. If there’s “houte couture” in Paris, in Spain it must be “cultura alta.” We see five guys with bright red scarves with fringe looking like “El Grupo Musical.” To say “fringe” in Spanish it must be “ligas que mueven en el aire” (“strings that move in the air,”) unless there’s a Spanish word for “fringe.” Then, someone could apply for work as “trabaja con ligas que mueven en el aire como bondad” (“work with strings that move in the air as a benefit.”) If we need a literal translation, that’s not it. I wonder if Bible scribes and translators ever had a sense of humor.

Strange to suddenly hear mostly Spanish. When I call to reconfirm our flight I am happily delighted to have a woman’s voice ask, “?Habla espanol?” I feel so much more comfortable and at home with Spanish and look forward to speaking it lots. It’s my second language, making French my very weak third.

At this point we’ve been at de Gaulle Airport 4 ½ hours. Our flight to Madrid was to leave at 2:00 p.m. but was delayed to 15.00 hours (3:00 p.m.), and then to 16.00 (4:00 p.m.). We were up at 7:00 a.m. this morning. I’d gone to bed at 11:00 the night before following a shower, following a delicious homemade-like dinner with lasagna and wine in orange juice followed by hurried repacking to leave early the next morning. Breakfast was very good with ham, Swiss cheese and strong coffee.

At 4:00 we are finally on the plane and at 4:20 we depart anticipating arrival in Madrid at 6:20 p.m. Security would not allow picture taking of our plane which I didn’t realize until after focusing when a flight attendant’s womanly hand came across my lens. The funny thing is that I had taken many pictures of the plane from inside the terminal upon noticing that our flight delay was being caused by the arrest of a passenger who had alighted from our plane. We watched him being searched outside a police car. Finally, about 45 minutes later, the remaining passengers were allowed to disembark. By this time the captured one had been brought under guard indoors inside the terminal through an aisle where we waiting ones were all congregated. A minor incident but a reminder that we are all under constant terrorist threat as well as being covered by a promise that we are all being protected.

The whirl of the engine starts like a tornado. From the plane window (I’m in the window seat.), I see that the cloud bunches in the distant city form like a wide eternity. Though the plane moves, the picture remains the same. The clouds move very much farther than ever before seen. The grand canvas of the sky gleams with sun on its left and hides itself with shadow on the right. Now the shadows turn purple. I could believe there was a Resurrection on the cloud shore over there. The misty light beckons from the clouds. Now the clouds appear to be just white caps of the sea, now a new beach nearer reminds me of a bunch of colossal cotton florets waiting to be picked.

After traveling over very lightly clouded, little fluffy whisps, over southwest France, we come to cote d’Argent (“d’argent” as in “money?”) in Golfe de Gascogne Golfo de Viczaya. We can see the shoreline most of the way, the beaches like beige strands or hairs separating land and sea. Everyone is sleeping but me and the pilots. Two men serve beverages, one girl serves box lunches which hold tiny submarine sandwiches with ham and cheese, tiny cups of coffee, napkins, Luxemburg creamers and packets of 6 cookies with star shaped chocolate over vanilla frosting.

Now complete cloud cover, a bit dirty grey - pollution? No sight of shore, a bit bumpy but I’m wearing my acupuncture method wristbands and had experienced no sickness in any flights: Huntington to Cincinnati to Paris – the first time I’ve ever dared to fly without Dramamine (dimenhydrinate tablets). And it feels wonderful! In 1955 when I flew 14 hours from New York to Paris to meet Bud I was sick all the way. This flight from Cincinnati to Paris took only about 9 hours of clear, conscious contentment and the flight to Madrid was the same. The wrist bands, somehow, cut off the signal to the brain that the body is doing strange things.

Once in the early 2000s when we floated by ferry across Lake Michigan, starting at midnight after a nice, greasy pizza, I answered the call for “seasick bags” and was told they only had a grocery size bag, which I said I didn’t need! I’d misheard the call, and it had been for “seasick bands.” I decided it was worth a try. I awoke at 2:00 a.m. in mid-Lake Michigan rolling greatly with the swells and saying to myself, “This is almost fun!” but I dare not awaken Bud to tell him for fear I would then lose it. So I laid back down and slept soundly and sweetly ‘til our 4:00 a.m. arrival.
Now I shoot nasal spray to clear sinuses and insert ear plugs to defeat the sharp pain I’d otherwise get from the air pressure change. Now we’re over land, not sea, not desert, not mountains and it seems green though we’re high up and above a dirty cloud layer again. We’ve hit the Iberian peninsula but it appears we’ve skirted Basque land.

Landing is easy. The land reminds me of Texas with patches of barren ground. After waiting for the #20 bus to the Plaza de Colon, we have a girl in yellow rainproof (?) worker’s clothes call us a cab. The cost is 16.00€, but, since it is from the airport the cost is 6€ more because the cabs have to line up and waste time waiting there until someone selects them.

Our gorgeous Fiesta chain Gran Hotel Colon is not located at the Plaza de Colon (Columbus Plaza). We enter the hotel at the American door, but we’re staying in the European section, so two very dignified and extra courteous, dignified bellhops lead us and lug our suitcases down a nice long hallway enhanced by artists’ expensive paintings, down to a lower level in the European part and around a couple corners to our elevator and up to the 5th floor and room 518. Everything is clean and fresh and beautiful. Our twin beds have coverlets of varied stripes of gold and blue. We have a huge window to open to the back to get aire fresca since we can’t find any air conditioning. We have been welcomed and treated like royalty! Won’t complain about air conditioning unless it gets oppressive though it is included in the price.

We tried the dining room for dinner. A huge group arrived just before us from a tour bus, women in their ”regulation” pants suits and men in their sports finery, so we end up dining in the side dining room which is quieter anyhow. For me it’s grilled fish and Bud has Povo Empenada (breaded turkey). We find poached eggs to be a big deal here, served often in various styles. Our salad is two poached eggs in a cream sauce with spinach. My dessert is an apple tart with a pastry bottom, reminiscent of Tarta Tatin in France. It’s to bed after a shower and plenty of rest for tomorrow’s full schedule. We never knew until we got back home and our travel agent, sister Carol, told us that the twin beds can be magically changed into doubles by the establishment.

It’s Friday, May 12, and our trip is ¾ complete. We take advantage of the very, very full breakfast, thinking it would cost us a bundle. Surprisingly, the breakfast is a part of the complete deal, a bit expensive since it’s a **** hotel, but certainly wonderful and extra convenient as there are few restaurants nearby. Thank goodness we got there by 10 before the 10:30 closure.

And it’s on to El Prado. What a magnificent structure of concrete. We enter on the north side, I think, and leave on the south …too far to backtrack. We do only the first floor and it’s enough with a few stairways even so. Stairs to climb even to get tickets.

The first floor is right up our alley. We see a multitude of paintings by Rubens: 8 of the 12 Disciples, San Tomas (St. Thomas), San Pablo (St. Paul), Adoration of the Magi, Abraham, Melchezadek (an ageless Christ character in the Old Testament), and Adan y Eve (Adam & Eve) and more.

Among Rembrandt’s works we see La Adoracion de los Reyes Magos (The Adoration of the Magi) I took a forbidden picture of this with my digital camera and found it of no use because the flash reflected in the picture. I could do better by finding the picture on the Internet.

Van Dyck’s painting of Numbers 21:4-9 was explained to us by a young man who was greatly interested and didn’t know we were seminary trained ministers. He said it represented Moses’ bronze serpent raised up like Christ to heal the snake bitten ones in the wilderness. This action of the serpent was a preview of Salvation through Christ.

Seeing Goya’s paintings of Cristo Crucificado (Christ Crucified) and San Juan Bautista Nino en el Desierto (St. John the Baptist Child in the Desert) impressed me with a desire to find out more about these paintings over the Internet and other sources. For people of ancient times without photographic abilities, technologies such as photos, tv, video etc. the artwork in churches and museums must have been their best access to truth. Yet, the styles, facial coloring, buildings and all were more that of the common day of the artist and not of the Bible.

I was entranced by the fascinating statue of the reclining Hermaphrodito (son of Hermes and Aphrodite) who loved the nymph of Lago Caria Salamacis and they became one!? Another one to check on the Internet. What did we ever do to find out stuff before computers?

We got to the lunchroom of El Prado just before a troup of teen girls, thank Heavens, so we had a head start on our lemonade, cake and sweet roll. It was a good rest before starting out on foot for the shopping district about 10 blocks away. I made it on my gimpy foot but it only got equally worn out with the rest of my body. Looked for Harry Potter in Spanish for our granddaughter Taylor but found none.

How fortunate that this shopping district and our hotel are both on the subway line. Bud is ecstatic to be able to conquer Madrid in this way, unlike Paris where we were pretty well booked in and had to follow a more rigid schedule not allowing for subway travel.

Saturday, May 13 is a day spent partly in shopping, traveling by the Metro subway train and on foot. We end up going in the wrong direction and find we have to travel back to where we first boarded near our hotel and travel in the opposite direction, but all this is a fun way to see even more of Madrid. Our fellow travelers dress not much differently than we do, jeans and sports clothes are in and the economy looks good from where we sit. We find some beautiful bargains in El Corte Ingles Shopping Center.

The day is young and we have much ahead of us yet for Flamenco dancing only begins to rev up at midnight! So we drop our shoes back at Gran Hotel Colon and stretch out for awhile. Tonight it’s Flamenco dancing! After resting in our lovely room we take a taxi to a neighborhood where everything seems to be happening. We’re dressed “to kill.” Bud wears a gleaming sky blue shirt with beige trousers. I wear a beige ruffled silkish blouse with short sleeves along with a billowy beige skirt trimmed fancily in matching rick-rack and studded with tiny silver bangles. And my Parisien slip.

I find out later that bullfighters wear suits of light which sparkle in the sunlit arena, making me culturally correct. However, we only pass by the arena and don’t care to go in and witness carnage.

I call our rendezvous at the Flamenco club a meeting at Hernando’s Hideaway! We circumnavigate the restaurant area and our driver must leave us off a block away from the restaurant due to great congestion of people and automobiles.

Cars are in abundance, all over, and throngs of people crowd the sidewalks. For this is Fiesta de San Isidro celebration time, in honor of the patron saint of Madrid. By wonderful coincidence we have struck it lucky as we did in hitting Orleans, France for their Jean d’Arc festival. And not only that! Our flamenco restaurant is located only one short block from the outdoor theater stage where brilliantly costumed dancers and singers in their regional dress perform for the large standing and moving crowd there to celebrate the day. We’re in time for the beginning ceremony of couples dancing and singing in choreographed fashion. Whole families are there, many in their “tribal” garb, especially the young girls and boys. No travel agent could have arranged it more perfectly and I believe God was giving us a very special 50th Anniversary!

We couldn’t find the restaurant where we had reservations so we went around the corner to where we found the white clothed restaurant cooks milling around by the side of the building and they told us to go back to the street address and press the intercom button on the wall. There’s just a wall, no door. We were told over the speaker to come back at the correct time, 8:30 p.m., and we’ll be let in. Wow, is this Hernando’s Hideaway or what!

It will be easy to bide our time. The fair is in full swing. The crowds are all coming here. They’re dressed in festive costumes. The little girls are especially precious in their bright long dresses, their lacy mantillas, their hair combs, their earrings. We travel through the crowd taking pictures and enjoying the celebration. Then it’s back to Hernando’s Hideaway.

8:30 p.m. finds us at the long awaited Flamenco Dance performance by the Corral de la Moreria Company. Although we have the correct address and are there, there is no door there. They said, “Speak into the speaker.” When we do this, an attendant appears at the “window,” large potted plants are moved to one side, and the window miraculously becomes a door, and we’re inside “Hernando’s Hideaway”!

“Just knock three times and whisper low, that you and I were sent by Joe. Then strike a match and you will know, you’re in Hernando’s Hideaway.”
Not exactly as the 1950’s tune runs, but we did buzz the buzzer, and give our name, and, then a Dutch window opened, someone came to remove a couple plants, and what looked like a veranda became an entryway, and we entered.

Not only was the door hidden; so was the name of this restaurant hidden from my memory. But thanks be to digital photography by which I am able to take many, many pictures. One of them shows the name of the establishment above the Flamenco dancers’ stage and it is Corral de la Moreria, (a Moorish enclosure). Should you ever want to try to find this place, it is located across from the park where the festivities for San Isidro took place, probably the one named Plaza de la Moreria, located in the historic district, being very near, only several blocks from, the Royal Palace and the San Isidro and Almudena Cathedrals. Just tell your taxi driver to take you to Calle Moreria 17. Kings, presidents and famous international artists know the place well. And we are here the year this establishment, also, celebrates its 50th anniversary.

We never see Hernando, but we do meet a young couple, Fernando and Paulo from Chili. We reciprocate by taking each others’ pictures and that way I have a picture of us to send in our Christmas letter, complete with the silky shawl I bought at El Corte Ingles today, one of luscious rusty frills to wear over my costume of light. I’m in the Spanish mode.

But I don’t compare to the gorgeous ruffled long skirts kicked up by the senoritas banging their heels on the wooden flooring to the droning and yelling of the male singers. I wonder what the ligaments and tendons in their ankles will be like when they reach old age. The women are great, but the men are past their prime and heavy set. The men are better at howling in the background, sounding like “broken” Spanish, probably derived from gypsy songs. I must do some investigating of the ancient roots of this art, be it Moorish or gypsy or a combination.
Thankfully we do not have to join the dancing. In Spain Flamenco dancers study this dance form as an art in college. They are not merely gypsy dancers emoting! I’m informed that the purist form of the art is a solo singer accompanied by a guitar - more restful for the feet. The younger male star never appeared ‘til midnight when the real magic begins. Then it was time for the older fellows to take their rest, and us too.

I have since learned that Corral de la Moreria is recommended in the recent book 1000 Places to See Before You Die, so that leaves 999 or so.

Sunday, May 14, we follow another stiff schedule. It’s up at 6:00 a.m. for another fabulous buffet breakfast in the midst of a large group of tourists from Japan.

The clock at 8:00 a.m. finds us on the tour bus. The driver says it will be hot today and, luckily, I’m wearing a sleeveless blouse and slacks, carrying an olive shawl. The driver picks up a short, stout, jovial man wearing a brownish green “gorro” cap. He’s either a retired and now part-time worker for the agency or one of the directors. His talkativeness and joking demeanor put us at ease. He might well have been a tour guide in younger days. On this trip he stands in front by the driver and he hops off and on to gather additional travelers at various hotels along the route.

Jose Luis sees my compass. “What do you call that?” I tell him and he says, “In Spanish it’s ‘brujeria,’ witchcraft from ‘bruja,’ (‘witch’).” And I say, “como la bruja pendiante en la ventana de la omnibus,” (“like the witch hanging in the window of the bus”) Bud and I have a scientific discussion. “A compass is like magic. Even Einstein was impressed and used magnetism to discover relativity based on how electrons, protons & neutrons function.”

“Tengo casa llena de mujeres!” (“I have a house full of women!”) says our new friend. “Esposa, cuatro hijas y una perra.” (“Wife, four daughters and
a female dog.”) That’s a grand revelation. Bud proclaims, “The full catastrophe!” just like Zorba the Greek. “Now,” I say, “say it in Spanish.” “La catastrofa llena!”

“That’s why we came to Spain since we have a knowledge of Spanish which allows us to joke together, two cultures joking together.”

Today we’re off to El Escorial (the Royal Monastery of St. Lawrence of Escorial) and Valle de los Caidos (Valley of the Fallen). We bus through the upper class northwestern part of Madrid, past the king’s palace, where resides a real, live king, and near the University of Madrid, 430,000 students strong. Traveling 50 miles per hour on National Road 6 we head for the foothills of the Sierra de Guadarrama.

I’m striving to prove that I can handle the rigors of tourism and feel dishonored when asked, noting my cane, “Do you think you can handle all the steps at El Escorial?” These are the words of Maida, our tour guide, a vibrant, red-haired 40ish woman, who is not as empathetic as I would like. I tell her, “I did El Prado yesterday.” Her comeback is, “This is worse.” However, in the middle of the tour, after viewing most of El Escorial, she asks, “How are you doing?” My reply, “Marvelous! I need the exercise,” inspires her to reply, “I admire you,” and I respect her more after that.

El Escorial was dedicated to St. Lawrence who was burned on the grill and the grill is now the symbol of El Escorial. (View Titian’s horrendous depiction of this event on the web page for Olga’s gallery, the Martyrdom of St. Lawrence. His work is on display in the basilica or royal chapel, along with the fresco above the choir depicting Heaven.) Aurelius Prudentius Clemens, a Roman Christian poet who lived in northern Spain about 348 to 413 A.D., gives us one of the earliest sources on the life of St. Lawrence through his poetry. St. Lawrence was killed by Valerian in 258 A.D. for giving the treasury of the church to the poor rather than to the government of Rome.

The granite of Graya Mountain was used for the buildings of El Escorial and Valle de los Caidos, granite of a solemn, ashen shade. I struggle with the information I have about Graya Mountain and find my notes are incomplete. The figure I have for its height can not be right. I’ve checked the number of feet as to how much it would be in yards, in miles and even in meters. It would appear from my notes that Graya Mountain is only .025% of a mile tall. Seems inconsequential.

But in all my searching I came up with this startling information:
There is a webpage called “wronganswers.com.” Don’t go there. You’ll get all screwed up. It’s called “a collection of silly answers to common questions” and chides us for forgetting formulas we learned in school for changing standard measure to metric (which we have never used since the U. S. never went on the metric standard as had been promised and as had been taught in all the schools). But if you must go to this website you’ll find a lot of bilge along with some truly funny stuff.

On checking with Mathforum.org, I discovered there are 5,280 feet in a mile because there are 1760 yards in a mile, and when you multiply that by 3 you get 5280 feet! So Graya Mountain is 130/5280 feet or .025% of a mile tall, not very tall! I learned, again, you can’t believe all you read, especially on the Internet.

A whole number has always been used for the number of feet in a mile, but it wasn’t always the same number. For the Romans the number was either 4856 or 5000. The Latin word mille designates 1000 and refers to the distance a Roman legion could march in 1000 paces.

But the Britons were confounded. They had their own agricultural measurement called the furlong and it was used for measuring farmer’s fields and was the distance a horse could pull a plow in a straight line before needing a rest. The furlong measured 660 feet and was the unit of measure in England for property deeds.

In 1592 the British Parliament settled the question by defining the statute mile to be 8 furlongs, 80 chains, 320 rods, 1760 yards or 5280 feet (not the Roman 5000). They did this in order to not short change the farmer. But the poor Roman legion had to march a bit further in their 1000 paces, and the plowhorse was given a break. SO MUCH FOR SCIENTIFIC EXACTNESS!

(See: How Many? A Dictionary of Units of Measurement - Russ Rowlett
http://www.unc.edu/~rowlett/units/
For more history on measurements check with Dr. Math on the Internet.)

Why am I stuck here at El Escorial? Why can’t I get on with my story of our trip in Spain? I’ve suddenly come up with a number of reasons, and, maybe, if I consider and write about these I can get to the bottom of the emotions involved and move on!

First off, El Escorial has been a dream place of mine to visit ever since I read about it in James Michener’s Iberia back in the late ‘70s. Michener had a heart attack in September 1965. His doctor was the Boston specialist Paul Dudley White whose theory James put into practice. “If a man with a heart attack tries to do anything at all before the passage of three months, he’s an idiot; but if at the end of three months he doesn’t at least try to do all he did before, he’s an even greater one.” (p. 938, Ballantine paperback, Nov. 1982)

While in recovery, which he felt unlikely to be complete, he decided to try to see Compostela another time. What Michener calls the leitmotif of his book is his decision to attempt this repeat trip. In the same way, one leitmotif of this blog on my trip to France and Spain is that it’s a test run to see if I could do it after suffering a stroke to my left leg as well as excruciating arthritic pain in my left foot. Sensation seemed to completely come back to my leg, but I worried whether my foot, bound up in stretch hose and a support anklet, could stand the stress of travel. And so it is a pilgrimage of my outer being, my body, testing my strength against the outer elements, supported by my inner endurance.

In telling the story of Compostela, Michener recounts the Bible story as fact. He uses the tradition, the legend and the history to tell of how the disciple James (“Santiago” in Spanish) converted nine Iberians to Christianity and was supremely rewarded by being visited at Zaragoza by the Virgin Mary who was still living. James (Santiago) subsequently returned to Jerusalem where he was beheaded by King Herod in AD 44. (See Acts 12:1-2.) Care must be taken not to confuse this James, the Greater, brother of John and son of Zebedee, with James the Lesser, also a disciple and son of Alphaeus, nor with James the brother of Jesus, named as author of the New Testament letter/book of James. ( On the website Christian Classics Ethereal Library check under James the Greater).

By looking up the Way of St. James in the Wikipedia website one can find the legend of James’ body being returned to Spain. According to Michener his head was miraculously once more intact. James Michener set for himself the goal of following the ancient pagan route which became the Way of St. James and led all the way from the Tour St. Jacques (James’ Tower) in Paris to James’ burial place in the Cathedral Santiago de Compostela. Michener’s pilgrimage was done by car and not by the time-honored foot way, and the sacrificial part of his journey was only the trip in northern Spain from Pamplona to Compostela. His sacrifice did not involve competing with the Roman legionnaire nor the British plowhorse. Mine involved little car travel but plenty of footwork.

Excuse my digressing again, but the history of Spain in ways reveals the times we live in, disclosing another leitmotif, another dimension or theme of our travels. The whole business about James’ body appearing whole in Spain, according to Michener, was that it was a necessary item in Spain’s struggle against the Moors, the Islamics of that time. It seems that in the great mosque in Cordoba was the verified arm of the prophet Muhammad with mystical powers to lead armies to victory. The Christians needed and found such an aid for their troops, and, indeed, after 812 A.D. Christian fortunes were greatly strengthened and the Moors were driven out of Spain. Over the centuries the image of this figure of James wielding a sword and riding his white horse into battle gave immense power to the Christian cause. As Spain’s patron saint, James was the victor leading to conquests in the New World. (See Michener’s Iberia pages 82, 197-207, 839-846 Ballantine paperback, 1982).

This second theme of my writing, the pilgrimage of history, is about how history is deeply woven into the present. In this present age we deal again, deeply, with the Islamic influence, this theme of religious conquest, whether we want to or not. I have always felt the Muslim pattern in the tapestry that is Spain, but I never considered it really seriously. Michener deals with it, that Muslim influence, but never in his wildest dreams back in 1969 at the writing of Iberia was he alerted to the second rearing of its head in any really powerful way, and certainly not globally through terrorist influences.

A third leitmotif or theme or level of meaning reveals itself in this journey, this “hadj” (Arabic for “pilgrimage to Mecca which every Muslim should make in his lifetlme) I’ve made. It’s why I got stuck up on Graya (granite?) Mountain. To me a pilgrimage can be within oneself, for, as the poet Byron said, “The mind is its own place and in it can make a hell of Heaven or a Heaven of hell.” I would consider my pilgrimage a “Heaven” type, this pilgrimage within.

Towering over my hometown, Wausau, Wisconsin, is Granite Peak. That’s not the name I grew up with, for everyone called it Rib Mountain. It was the site of a fabulous ski resort in winter, a wondrous place for hiking and sightseeing in all seasons to a lookout spot where one could see Wausau spread out below, and its surrounding area was the source of granite for construction and magnificent shiny red tombstones.

Rib Mountain is composed of metamorphic rock quartzite, a rock developed over millions of years by pressure to the former sandstone. Pressure, heating and chemical reactions caused the sandstone rock to change. Changes are made in the chemistry of the rock by forming new minerals or recrystalizing old ones. Limestone calcite recrystalizes as coarser marble calcite. Quartz sand grains become hot enough to bind with the silica cement and fuse together into one. This is a metamorphic process and not an igneous one because the sandstone does not melt. So it appears that Granite Peak, this newer name for the ski resort, is a misnomer, for granite results from cooled molten lava and Rib Mountain is not the remains of a volcanic eruption. This may explain why the Curlers of Wausau, when trying to play the ancient Scottish game, could not use Wausau “granite” as the circles to hit. They would hit together and break up. Rather, they had to import granite
from Scotland, a much sturdier material, presupposing volcanic activity there.

It remains to be seen what Graya Mountain is composed of. (Granite is igneous and marble is metamorphic. Granites usually have visible multicolored grains, while marble has no visible grains or has connected grains of similar color.) Information on the Internet tells me that the Sierra de Guardarrama mountain chain has seen volcanic activity and is, therefore, composed of a great amount of granite. I would presume that Graya Mountain is the same and its granite abundant locally for the building of both El Escorial and Valley of the Fallen (Valles de los Caidos). It differs greatly from the strange appearance of the remaining upthrusts of volcanic activity which we saw in Big Bend National Park in Texas on a recent trip.

In looking for information about the geologic composition of mountains I ran into tombstones and monuments and their composition. I understand that the granite in the Wausau, Wisconsin area where I grew up and where my parents are buried is in short supply for gravestones nowadays. They have a gorgeous red granite monument. My dad worked with rocks and natural formations in his landscaping and tree business, and his Wisconsin Tree Expert Company, since the 1970’s, has become a landscaping/nursery business called Land Art and is thriving. Daddy would be/is proud!

So I guess I’ve reached the summit of the mountain in considering what is truly enduring and eternal. Land Art is located in Weston, Wisconsin, the fastest growing suburb of Wausau. Just after typing these words I heard on the radio the call letters for Weston, West Virginia. Daddy is still communicating.
Keith Montgomery, Ph.D., Department of Geography-Geology, University of Wisconsin, Marathon County tells us that Rib Mountain is 670 feet tall (compared to Graya Mountain which is only 130 feet tall). I’m led to wonder if Graya Mountain lost a good bit of its height in its sacrifice of material to the building of El Escorial and the Valley of the Fallen as is so true of many of our beautiful, tall mountains in Appalachia in its loss of coal.
Rib Mountain is an impressive ridge almost 4 miles long that peaks at 1924 ft. above sea level. The mountain isn’t the highest point above sea level in Wisconsin. Timm's Hill, near Ogema in Price County (1952 ft above sea level) wins that distinction. However Rib Mountain does rise 670 feet above the surrounding terrain and does hold the prize in that regard. An old tourist guidebook claimed that Rib Mountain "towers 2000 ft above Wausau" and it confused "elevation", or height above sea level, with "relief"!).
So I’ve considered, here at Graya Mountain and El Escorial, my own personal dedication and physical strength at this stage of my life, the history of the world as regards Christianity and its saints and the historic conflict between the Christian faith and Islam, and, finally, I’ve dug deep into the composition of my hometown mountain and the one at El Escorial in Spain as to their makeup, size, longevity, use and loss. And I compare myself to these mountains and to what is eternal, and I guess it’s natural that I would spend my elder years living in the mountains of Appalachia. This is a catharsis, an opening up to my own feelings and fears, so that I know what I have to deal with. This has really been a journey! And now we go on.

It took them 21 years, 1563-1584, to build the monastery with a palace and a church within it, El Escorial. From the outside can be seen 2 tall towers and the dome of the basilica (which rests 4 arches). James Michener liked to explore without a tourist guide in order to gain his own impressions. James had visited this impressive, gigantic structure several times before he discovered that a huge church sanctuary was within its walls. The monks of St. Augustine reside here in the monastery and carry on a private school for children.

From the year 1500, with the entombment of Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and for whom his son, Phillip II built the huge monument, all Spanish royalty, except for three kings, has been buried here. Although the word “escorial” refers to the “dump heap” where it was built, Phillip filled it with treasures commensurate with the largest empire the world has ever known, even while knowing that his grave lie in its bowels. This colossal yet simple and severe edifice was to become a UNESCO world heritage site characterizing the size of Phillip’s empire. It was gigantic to belittle visitors.

Phillip died in 1598, 14 years after it was completed. He had been married 4 times and had 13 children. All the rulers’ bodies lie in marble and bronze sarcophagi lining the walls of the Royal Pantheon. Only queens who were mothers of later kings are entombed here. The others along with princes and princesses who did not rule lie in the Pantheon of Infants, many of the children in an impressive circular tomb of Carrara marble. Though Don Juan de Borbon, the present king’s father, never reigned because of fascist dictator Franco, King Juan Carlos ensured that his father’s remains were placed with the other Spanish monarchs.

The word is that there are no tombs left for the present rulers but surely there is some kingly remedy. The strange truth is that not the whole body but the bones only enter the permanent tomb. The bodies are kept in a “holding tank” until decomposition is complete. This is also true with burials at the Valle de los Caidos where many are entombed.

Phillip II’s great-grandparents were Ferdinand II and Isabella. He was historically one of the most deeply religious and grim of rulers. In 1554 he married Mary Tudor, Queen of England, thus becoming King Consort of England, but when she died 4 years later, Queen Elizabeth, her half sister would not have him. Of course Phillip lost a lot over that deal, including the Spanish Armada.

His religiosity is attested to by his having a plain bedroom with a door opening from his bed to the royal sanctuary. Later kings had much more luxurious chambers. And one must remember that he planned El Escorial to be a palace within a monastery!

Magnificent works of famous artists, (Goya, Rubens, El Greco, Valazquez, El Greco, David, Ribera, Tintoretto, Rubens and others) are displayed throughout the building. In the library are found ceiling paintings by Pellegrino Tibaldi, Michelangelo’s disciple. Because of the austerity of the place, the magnificent colors here really stand out. Within the library are found 50,000 manuscripts, codices, and ancient books that are extremely rare, including St. Teresa of Avila’s diary and the Codex Aureus, a Gospel from the 11th century in illuminated gold letters.

The entire complex of the monastery contains a church, a library, a royal mausoleum, apartments of the royalty, a museum, courtyards and gardens. And it’s aplenty!

Amazing bit of information I’ve come across in regard to the Sierra Guadarrama mountain chain when checking out granite quarries in the Guadarrama on the Internet. In Prospect magazine for August 1999 in the article on Hemingway’s bridge, Richard Barry tells me that For Whom the Bell Tolls takes place in the Guadarrama Mountains between Madrid and Segovia. Hemingway had his geology wrong because these mountains of granite would not have provided caves for the guerilla band to hide.

But, you know, I may have my translations wrong. Although our guide spoke each message 3 times, in English, Spanish and French, so I had more than one chance to understand, I have a feeling that what I heard as Graya Mountain was really Guardarrama Mountains. I could find no written evidence of any Graya Mountain. This is an unsolved mystery. We all make mistakes.

Now we move on to the Valley of the Fallen (El Valle de los Caidos), some 8 miles north of El Escorial. Many find it politically incorrect to revere this place, and rationally so, for while openly built by Francisco Franco after the Spanish Civil War to honor the dead of both sides, in reality it is the final resting place of Franco and Jose Antonio Primo de Rivera, founder of the Spanish Falange. It was 16,000 Republican prisoners who quarried the material for the basilica, a number of whom met their death at this place. It took them 20 years to carve out the basllica, 820 feet deep into the solid granite side of the mountain. Above it rises a vast cross, visible for miles in all directions, 490 feet high, called by some the largest free-standing cross in the world.

2 angels with tremendous swords guard the entrance to the cathedral. Inside the cathedral itself you find the final resting places of Francisco and Jose on the right and left of the fresco of Christ with Franco’s fascist troops above the altar. In fact, one soldier reclines on Jesus’ lap. The scene is a visual oxymoron.

Built as a monument to fascism’s victory over democracy in the 1936-39 Spanish Civil War, this memorial now remains as an anachronism, a living in a past that has been superseded by a modern democratic Spain. The coffins of 40,000 soldiers from both sides in the struggle attest to the difficult past. Representing the World Association of International Studies (WAIS), Randy Black tells us that “The probable total of executions carried out by Franco was in the vicinity of 2 million.” Ronald Hilton, (also WAIS) says the number of people killed in the Spanish Civil War, including both sides, is usually thought to be 1 million. The discrepancy is in the bias of different writers and commentators as well as the difficulty in assessing the true numbers in the villages and provinces. Of the 36 reported provinces, reported village by village, the number is 198,000, and 14 provinces had not reported. Hilton gives 300,000 to 350,000 as the number killed on the battlefield. It amazes me that a country with such a relatively recent civil war and such internal losses and suffering can have reached such a pleasant current state of affairs.

The 700 foot long basilica/chapel (It must be shorter than the one in Rome.) supports 14 tiny chapels with the stations of the cross. The outside façade is a copy but smaller than the one in Rome.

Franco was priming Alfonso XIII’s grandson Juan Carlos as his successor of a puppet government really run by the prime minister, Admiral Luis Carrero Blanco. However, Franco’s plot was foiled when the Basque separatist group ETA assassinated Carrero Blanco. And in 1977 (Franco having died in 1975 and Juan Carlos having been sworn in as king) the new king turned from his feigned support of the Franco regime and manoeuvred Spain into its first post-Franco democratic elections.

Today’s Dallas Morning News editorial of what King Juan Carlos did at the November 2007 meeting of the Ibero-American summit in Santiago, Chile makes him stand out as a monarch against autocracy. Michener in Iberia (p. 857) calls him, “weak willed,” and a government official said (p. 457),“ I know young Juan Carlos quite well and he’s a weak sort. Maybe when he’s 50 he’ll be strong enough to govern.” Well, he is now in his late 60s and he’s no weak sort, as his history of outsmarting the Franco regime years ago revealed. This time he stood up to Venezuela’s strongman who was launching into a tirade against former Spanish Prime Minister Jose Maria Aznar, calling him a “fascist.” Jose Luis Zapatero, Spain’s socialist prime minister had rebuked Chavez for his rudeness. Chavez tried to interrupt the Spanish leader. At this point King Juan Carlos leaned toward the Venezuelan dictator, stared him in the eye and spat out, “?Porque no te callas?” (“Why don’t you shut up?”)

I’ve gone into all this detail of history of these places and people because memory of the physical appearance only catches hold as it is tied in with what has happened there. The experience of writing these notes for sharing only intensifies the memory and makes it more memorable. It is like visiting the place again and again and tying it in with all else that I know. Can I picture/encompass/ hold the earth’s size in my mind having traveled west only as far as Hawaii and east only as far as Italy? Now I know that Cuba, where Warren and I were married, and my only previous experience of the Spanish speaking world, is only a speck of that reality. Spain draws it much, much larger. And then there is Central and South America which I haven’t experienced, except for Mexico.

Reading Mark Kurlansky’s The Basque History of the World revealed to me the concept of a nation within a nation. And don’t we have Texas? And the British Commonwealth has Scotland. The Basque peoples, dwelling in 7 provinces of northeastern Spain and southwestern France encompassing the Pyrenees Mountains, come from an unknown origin and speak a language (Euskera) unconnected with any other. No wonder they feel special. They are known by their special language but also by their special hat, the beret. It was worn by our tourist agency friend, Jose Luis, this brownish green cap, and I didn’t know enough to ask him at the time if he were Basque.

Jonah Lehrer’s article The Living City in the August 2007 issue of Seed tells of the Santa Fe Institute’s Geoffrey West’s consideration of cities as living things when it comes to the mathematical formula for their metabolism, for their energy consumption. The larger the animal or the larger the city, the more economical the use of energy. (See Swiss-American biologist Max Kleiber’s work in the early 1930s on the metabolic rate of various animals dependant on their comparative sizes.) What intrigues me is the notion that the larger size of a social structure may enable it to maintain itself more economically. Kurlansky tells us that the Basques do not want to be called separatists and that they are continually building bridges of cooperation and contribution to the world.

Michener (Iberia p. 226-227) refers to Louis Bertrand’s comment in his historical summary written with Charles Petrie: “…Bertrand underemphasizes the artistic accomplishments of the Muslims while overstressing their cruelty; but on one point he is eminently sound and it is one that has not been stressed before: “that Spain’s proven incapacity to govern herself in the responsible French-English-American pattern is due primarily to her extended experience with Muslims who fragmented their own holdings into a score of petty principalities and who prevented Spain from doing otherwise became so ingrained that regional economic separatism became the curse of Spanish life, whether in the homeland or in the Americas. It is this dreadful heritage of anarchy that keeps the Spanish republics of our hemisphere in confusion.”

Witness the recent separation of the Hamas in the Gaza Strip from the Fatah group ruling in the West Bank of the only just united coalition government over the Muslim Palestinian land acquired from Israel. Was this tendency to anarchy true then and true now? Do these problems go on for centuries with an ebb and flow? (Christian Protestants and Roman Catholics in Ireland have also had their day.)

Now I’m thinking of these monuments of gold and granite at El Escorial and El Valle de los Caidos as Primary Evidence, so important to proving historical fact, these built memorials to kings and dictators, as proof that these people, indeed truly lived. We can no longer see them nor hear them, but we know they were here and they did some great deeds. The edifices are like fossil records of ancient days. The days are gone but the proof remains, saved by those to whom the authenticity was vital. So it must be with sites in the Holy Land which I have never seen but the constructs remain. Someone believed it was vital to save through the centuries. For us!



Monday, May 15, we anticipate another well filled day. It’s up at 6:15 a.m., hot, multifaceted buffet breakfast at 7:15, 8:00 a.m. departure by bus to the tourist center, again with Jose Luis who is very happy and always joking in English or Spanish.

We enter our bus with an elderly lady and her friend sucking on a mate gourd. Since I do not speak to her I do not know where she purchased the drink or if she brought it from Argentina, Paraguay, Uruguay or Brazil. There is a difference in flavor as to bitterness, strength, sweetness, additives etc. in different countries and, I am sure, in personal preference. I’ve never had yerba plant mate, a tisane (meaning that it is made not from the leaves of the tea bush or Camellia sinensis). It is an herbal health supplement, a stimulant with less caffeine than coffee. I learned about it as a teen ager cutting out some South American paper dolls.

The ritual from hundreds of years ago is similar in these countries. In Argentina a server (cebador) fills the hollowed out gourd almost completely with chopped yerba leaves, pours in almost boiling water and passes it to each member of the group of family or friends. The drinkers drain the hot liquid through a silver straw with a bulbous filter end straining out the leaves. This is repeated for each person as the cup is passed in a clockwise pattern. I am sorry I wasn’t able to purchase a supply but intend to do so through www.yerbamateteagourd.com.

Our destination is Toledo, about an hour’s trip on a good highway from Madrid on a hill above the River Tagus (Rio Tajo). For a significant part of its history, Toledo has been Spain’s capital, and that for good reason, because it has wonderful natural protection. Rio Tajo follows the natural rock which is Toledo around its eastern, southern and western sides, while an escarpment shields its northern side. The Romans were able to vanquish the Celtiberians in 192 B.C., wandering Germanic tribes conquered in 411 A.D., the Visigoths in 453 A.D., the Muslims in 712 A.D. and the Spaniards in 1085. This mighty Toledo rock fortress was so unassailable that many sieges lasted for years.
The Romans named the town Toletum. Have you heard the phrase “Holy Toledo?” According to the Morris Dictionary of Word and Phrase Origins, Harper Collins, NY, 1977, 1988, “Holy Toledo” refers to Toledo in Spain which became one of the great centers of Christian culture after its liberation from the Moors in 1085. Its 13th century Gothic cathedral, one of the largest in Europe, is the seat of the Cardinal Archbishop of Spain. Another explanation is that it was called this by Joe E. Brown and Danny Thomas, Toledo in the U.S. being their home town, saying that any week in Toledo was Holy Week. But the history of this is that old time vaudeville performers called Holy Week the worst for box office receipts. I prefer the first explanation but I bet it’s really an amalgamation of the two. And, wouldn’t you know, there’s a web site Holy Toledo!

A view from a high point across the river where it runs to the south gives a skyline composed of two main edifices: the blunt four-sided Alcazar, gigantic and lacking grace and artistry, on the right, and in the center the Gothic cathedral with a great view of its spire and outstanding walls. They say the general pattern of the skyline is the same today as it was 2000 years ago!

In Michener’s fantasy Mexican city, Toledo, in his historical novel, Mexico
(Random House, 1992), I feel a strange similarity to the real Toledo in Spain. In reality I believe the resemblance is only a comparison of skylines with some magnificent Spanish structures. His skyline of Toledo, Mexico, tells of the “gash in the hills where the road runs down from Kilometer 303” (303 kilometers from Mexico City, p.4) “To the north, rose the gaunt and terrible pyramid of the Altomecs,” (p.11), “…and…straight down the road and over the indistinct roofs of the city…the twin towers of the cathedral rose against the deep blue of the western sky…And then off to the right…the Arches of Palafax…entering the city from a northeasterly direction, this fantastic line of arches carried an aqueduct from springs that rose beyond the pyramid… (and)…their stony legs were of varied lengths so that they exactly accommodated themselves to all the ups and downs of the rough terrain.” (p.12-13) Toledo in Spain does have the remains of pillars which in antiquity supported an ancient Roman aqueduct. But, no, these two skylines are distinctly distinct, a telling revelation of Michener’s magnificent creativity.


In Toledo we encounter Mudejar architecture, Mudejar derived from the Arabic word “Mudajjan,” meaning “those who accept submission.” Those who submitted did so both to Islam and to the earthly rule of the Christian kings. They were forced to convert to Christianity in the mid 16th century. Their style can be seen in their music, art, and crafts, and in architecture where Muslim, Christian and Jewish cultures living side by side resulted in a reinterpretation of Western styles (Romanesque, Gothic and Renaissance) through Islamic influences. Constructed from the 12th into the 17th centuries, they used brick as the main material and shone through were geometrically elaborate accessory crafts using tiles, bricks, wood, plaster and ornamental metals.

Best visited on foot because of narrow winding streets in the medieval and Jewish quarters, of all my touring this turns out to be the most tiring. We have a hard time keeping up with the others. There is so, so much to see as we hurry along, and I am left with the sense that inside Toledo’s walls we are inside a museum. Michener in Iberia agrees and calls it “a glorious monument and the spiritual capital of Spain.” (p.117)

We enter by the ninth century Roman Bisagra Gate, the city’s major gate, with large stone silo-like towers that remind us of chateaus on the Loire River in France. We disembark near the large central Plaza de Zocodover which carries the name of the market that was held there in Moorish times. Still the city’s main square, it has many cafes and shops. We are a short walk from the 4 towered Alcazar Castle. This is the fortified palace of Carlos I, our Holy Roman Emperor Charles V. A statue of him triumphant over a Moor is found inside the castle/fort. Its original is on display in El Prado Museum. Built on the site of former Roman, Visigoth and Muslim fortresses, it was severely burned when Nationalists survived a siege of 70 days by the Republicans. It is now the home of the Army Museum.
The Germanic Visigoths gave Christianity to Spain as well as a code of law, sensible taxes, centralized government, and during their 300 year rule they contributed blue eyes to the Spanish inheritance. What they did not bring was literature, art and architecture. However, Michener tells of a huge stone Iron Cross hollowed out and used for baptisms which he found in the Santa Cruz Museum. (Iberia, p.127). He called it, “one of the best things in Spain.” It has a depth of 8 inches and is in the form of a square, 30 inches by 30 inches. Through one of the sides there is a crudely cut opening for a drainpipe. With this baptismal font the Goths dedicated themselves and Spain to the faith of Christianity. “…it seemed to me to have the rude force attained by our best modern sculpture…,” says Michener. (p.128) On returning to Toledo, I would want to study that stone.
I begin to realize that my life spent in Cuba from 1954 to 1955 and my trip back to communist Cuba in 2000 to the former La Progresiva school in Cardenas and to El Seminario Evangelico in Matanzas were only a tip of the piñata of what the Spanish world is all about. Though rich experiences, there is so much more depth and richness when one goes back through the ages of history and culture to find out what lies behind the present day reality. Reading Michener’s Mexico is giving me a more comprehensive grasp of what I have experienced in the Hispanic world.

Travel, even a 9 month or yearlong stay in a foreign country, doesn’t do it; and a week surely doesn’t do it. Simply “being there” is not “being there” without emersion in the past. Even 2 people traveling together will not have the same experience in the present. I wonder if those who intend to legalize immigration hadn’t better deepen their knowledge and understanding of the people involved through study of their language, and culture and a history. And I begin to think that a very thorough education from one specific point of view only serves to deepen the divide … that education can even serve to separate us further by tightening up the sidewalls and not allowing for free flow of information. I’m struck by the way the Mexico protagonist’s Mexican/Indian grandmother took sides with revolutionary terrorist General Gurza, contrary to her son’s affections, because Gurza was fighting for the Indian cause. I respect the U. S. government decision to send anthropologists to Afghanistan to guide U.S. military in decision making. Michener would approve.

I’ve spoken earlier of Toledo’s skyline. In Casa Museo del Greco (El Greco’s House/Museum) we are able to see “Vista y Plano de Toledo,” a landscape view of Toledo, one of 19 of his works viewable there. This View of Toledo can also be seen at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York or on line at www.metmuseum.org, with Toledo Cathedral plainly visible as well as an artistic representation of El Alcazar. The Greek Domenikos Theotokopoulos, was born in Crete in 1541, trained in Italy, and came to decorate El Escorial, living in Toledo some 40 years until his death in 1614.


“El Entierro del Conde de Orgaz” (The Burial of the Count of Orgaz), one of the greatest masterpieces of all time was done by El Greco as commissioned by a parish priest for the Count who paid for a great amount of the cost of the 14th century building Iglesia (Church) de Santo Tome. The church was a former 12th century mosque and has a magnificent 14th century Mudejar tower including some Visigoth items on its doorway. The highlight of all is the “Conde” which is to be found in a separate chapel of the church. This largest painting of the Spanish 16th century is based on the traditional story of Saint Esteban and Saint Agustin coming to bury don Gonzalo Ruiz de Toledo (Count Orgaz) inside his church. In my mind the painting is a reflection, in a more positive vein, of the juxtaposition of Heaven and Earth as seen in the fascist fresco in the cathedral at El Valle de los Caidos.
El Greco’s painting has the terrestrial, lower, scene representing contemporaneous people with El Greco, including himself with his young son, and a celestial scene as the upper half.
We pass a 19th century bullring, still in use. We do not enter, nor do we attend the bullfights scheduled in Madrid for the Fiesta de San Isidro, patron saint of Madrid. This part of the culture is as difficult to stomach as the fresco and tombs in El Valle de los Caidos. In 2 centuries Spain and Mexico have not learned/evolved more humane treatment of bulls and toreadors. But then, the whole world has not learned/evolved more humane treatment of humans, when it comes to war.
Visiting the Sinagoga de Santa Maria la Blanca (the Synagogue of Saint Mary la Blanca) revives our hope in humanity, at least temporarily. This synagogue was used cooperatively during the 12th through 14th century by Jewish, Roman Catholic and Arab worshippers. But with the 15th century the cooperation lessened. In 1405 it was taken over by the military-religious Order of Calatrava, a massacre of Jews having taken place in 1391. Can we remember that there had been religious tolerance in the city for at least 3 centuries…that it is a possibility? And that for centuries Muslims, Christians and Jews coexisted in Spain with little friction! What a lesson!










The photo Warren takes of the interior shows some of the restoration beauty – finely carved stone capitals and wall panels which stand out from the white Mudejar arches and the plasterwork. Especially exquisite is the Plateresque altarpiece shown in the chapel. Here we are viewing the oldest and largest of the original synagogues of which there were 8.
A great idea for travelers, I have found, is to take notes and photos of important spots visited; then put them on your computer as a slide show screen saver. You’ll never be able to appreciate all the intricacies of the art, architecture and landscapes on first sight on location, so savor them from time to time. I do, and so does my family as we have the slide show constantly running in our family room. And, so I can relive these scenes and revisit my trip over and over again, from different perspectives, after new events in my life, with newer and deeper understanding of the history and background of each place. These are precious alternative realities.

By this time we are growing weary of the hiking and viewing and we rest rather than visit the interior of the Toledo Cathedral which we have since discovered is the Cathedral Primate of Spain and one of the most extraordinary of Spain and of the world. But it does not appear as such as we encounter its exterior. Perhaps we were spoiled by visiting Chartres Cathedral and experiencing its astonishing beauty. From afar and in postcard landscapes and El Greco’s painting the two spires can be appreciated as they must have been before houses and shops became jammed right up to it. The doorway in the main façade is made of 3 doors illustrating Hell (Infierno), Pardon (Perdon) and Judgement (Juicio), and above that a sculptural group with characters in the Last Supper.

A church was herein the 6th century during Visigoth King Recaredo’s reign and a Muslim mosque after that. The actual cathedral was begun in 1226 by King San Fernando and his archbishop, it was “finished” at the close of the 15th century, and changes and additions occurred after that time. So many architects and artists had a hand in it that, though mainly Gothic, it is truly eclectic.

Michener said he cared little for the exterior (Iberia p.129) and says, “The left spire is marred by three curious circles of projecting flanges…; it therefore looks as if it were prepared to repulse an assault of angels. The right spire was never finished, and what exists of its base was severely mutilated by a late addition.” But I should have gone inside, nevertheless! Housed in the Cathedral museum are paintings by Raphael, Rubens, Velazquez, Goya, Titian and many others. On display is one of the greatest paintings by El Greco, El Expolio (The Disrobing of Christ). When I return there I will see those paintings.

And I am especially interested in viewing the Transparente (El Transparente). Aaron Gershfield has a website dedicated to his beloved Spain and a visit there will prove his photo and descriptive techniques, for his picture and description of the Transparent are without equal. Its description could be either simple or complicated, but I find Gershfield’s to be simple and understandable. He is describing an enormous Baroque work in the vast sanctuary of the massive Gothic cathedral. Gershfield describes it as “located behind the main altar …relatively ‘hidden’ before Narciso Tome cut a hole in the cathedral’s ceiling. The skylight has since allowed millions of visitors to enjoy a sight that depicts angels, Christ’s Last Supper, and the Virgin in ascension….The sight is truly breathtaking…” (http:www.aarongershfield.net/Toledo/index.html) Fantastically beautiful sculpturing and painting hides the rough cuts in the immensely sturdy walls and those devices again are used to unite the opening to the altar with the opening which lets in sunlight as a vast procession across the ceiling of the cathedral.

With what can I compare this wonder and yet bring it “down to earth?” I am put in memory of sitting in the balcony of the First Presbyterian Church in Wausau, Wisconsin. One of my closest experiences of the presence of God was being bathed in the sunlight that came through the huge golden windows. I couldn’t have explained it in my teen years, but God became “transparent.”

That comparison, however, is not mundane as might be that of my childhood self looking into a small hole cut into one end of a shoebox with its cover on after I had placed in it paper standup figurines and scenery to depict a New Testament story learned in Bible school. Only after a second hole for light is cut on the opposite end does the vision appear.

Not having the amazing goldleaf paintings but appearing very similar for its marvelous colors and sparkles and for its general shape and dimensions on a much smaller scale are nature’s geodes. I wonder if this is where Tome got his inspiration… (To see the geode effect go to: www.wabisabiphotography.com and click Gallery and Toledo.)

Near the end of our tour of Toledo we feel the hot May sun as we climb down a lengthy stairway toward the River Tagus (Rio Tajo) and reach the Bridge of San Martin. It was built in the 13th century and is one of a few that still has its twin towers. Nearby we come across a mythical/historical relic sacred to the story of Toledo. It is known as the “Bano de la Cava” (the Bath of Cava), a single tower that used to provide an entrance to a 12th century bridge.

Ah, but the story that goes with it is very interesting. King Roderick took the throne in Toledo in 709. Although a married man, he became enchanted with the daughter of his friend and counselor, Count Julian, governor of Cueta in Africa. She had come to the court in Toledo to further her education. Roderick was used to gaining whatever he wished and he seduced her after watching her bathing at that bridge tower. The angered Count Julian got revenge by leading an expedition of Muslims which resulted in their conquest of the Iberian peninsula.

A continuation of the story recounts the lamenting of Florinda de la Cava (“cava” meaning “prostitute” in Arabic) at the bridge and dying in that place. Following was an episode of strange haunting by a male and female specter at the spot accompanied by storms that ruined the countryside and, therefore, the livelihood of the local farmers. Calm was restored when Florinda’s emaciated corpse appeared to a holy hermit, begged for prayers of forgiveness, was forgiven, resuscitated and returned to her former youthful beauty, and finally returned to the river.

Before leaving Toledo we visit Suarez Co., an iron works factory, to experience the industry most known in Toledo, known for the making of swords and statues and many items fusing iron and gold. We purchase but a few small gifts.

We leave the town by way of the Cambron Gate (Puerta del Cambron), a gate originating in Visogoth times but with a present visage from 1576. Revealing a Renaissance façade, the coats of arms with the city’s motifs are on the outer façade and Felipe II’s on the inner. This is the only city gate allowing motorized traffic. Luckily not too crowded. We drive past a 9th century Roman archway and wall, the archway being rectangular and topped by 7 chimney shaped protuberances capped with squat stone cones and all of it made up of dark and light stonework, except for the top of the arch; it is pieced with stone and concrete wedges as would be a curved archway. Dark green poplar trees line the wall and formally trimmed bushes and ivy hedges enrich the adjacent garden.

Tuesday, May 16 we’re up at 4:00 a.m. to catch our 7:15 a.m. flight via taxi. That’s o.k., but in the Paris De Gaulle Airport one hour is not enough. First I’m stopped too long in security to have my cane examined. We’re told we’re special people. Next time I’ll pack my cane and, needed or not. A bathroom break was necessary, and then we couldn’t find the sign to Terminal 2E nor the bus to get there. Then we found out we were to stay in the same terminal but the sign was across the roadway. It was a second nightmare at Charles De Gaulle.

I say the European Spanish are romantic but organized. Madrid seemed to me pretty, organized and tidy. Our experience shows the French to be romantic but disorganized. The Spanish say the French are too serious. Isn’t it all in the eye of the beholder? The French had their Revolution. We had ours. The Spanish had the Inquisition. We had the Witch Trials and the Civil War. It all kind of evens out after awhile.

So we miss our Air France flight and have to wait to fly out the next day and they give us no hotel credit. So, we say, “How about a different airline?” We end up leaving by Delta at 1:35 p.m. (7:30 Lexington, Kentucky time) rather than hanging around Paris. It’s a great decision because Delta will give us free lodging at a Holiday Inn in the Cincinnati area to await our flight the next day, the 17th, to Huntington, West Virginia. (Surprisingly we will have another delay due to dense fog and our flight the next day to Huntington doesn’t leave until the afternoon!) We arrive at Cincinnati at 4:30 p.m. having enjoyed lots of good food, chicken with rice and lots of beverages. It sounds like a 3 hour trip across the Atlantic but we’re heading for a time zone 6 hours earlier. It’s as though time almost stands still and if I don’t check my watch I don’t even notice.

To cover the timeless time I watch The New World movie about Pocahontas and Captain Smith. It had some historical accuracies. She saved him, loved him, but he was lost (at sea?). So she married another and had a child and was called as a princess to England for an audience with the King and Queen. When she hears Captain Smith is yet alive she tells her husband she can’t love him. He says, “Go see him.” She asks John Smith, “Did you find the Indies?” He says, “I may have sailed right past!” She finds she loves her husband. He has been praying. On April 13, 1616, at age 21, she dies. In the movie her husband and son return to America with her body. In truth her body lies beneath the chancel chapel of St. George Church in Kent, England.

Warren and I have returned also, body and soul refreshed, knowing a little more of how history replays its cards and how God weaves us into the scheme of things.