Voyage to Barcelona

We left our dear little apartment yesterday. I had some separation anxiety--with my room, my neighborhood, the metro system I knew, and El Retiro Park. Everyone was so pumped about Barcelona, electrified by the romantic visage they associate with it.

On Friday I sent a box home of things I've bought here. It weighed 5 kg and cost almost seventy dollars priority, but it contained much more than that in value, and I wanted it home safe and fast. It took me a long time to find the Oficina de Correos--the main post office on the Paseo del Prado. I walked there in about twenty minutes and then walked back and forth in front of it a few times before giving up and getting in a taxi to take me case I was lost. When the driver told me it was just around the roundabout, I found it under construction, and accidentally went in the wrong entrance and wandered around a deserted undeveloped corridor until a construction-worker redirected me to the post office entrance. Despite the hassle (including having to find an ATM later after finding out I couldn't pay with a car,) it was a good adventure for our last day in Madrid.

Now we're in a hotel in Barcelona. Yesterday I checked off two of my to-do's here: I went to the beach and drank a freshly-mulled strawberry daiquiri while wading in the waves. I truly am not as excited about Barcelona as I was about Madrid. If I could, I would live in Madrid and have a summer-home in Barcelona--for the ocean. I do not feel as at home here though, instinctively. I feel the language-barrier that my classmates have been feeling all along, as they speak French, Catalonian and Portuguese here, though I can get around with my Spanish pretty well.

At the beach we met some Colombian guys, who all spoke English perfectly and were doing a euro-trip together. Vendors on the beach walk around with beers for two euro each, but you can barter down to a euro or a euro fifty. Some guys around our age were in a circle in the water playing with a fútbol (a soccer ball) and seeing if they could break their record on how many times they could head it to each other without letting it drop to the waves.

Today we took a two-hour bus ride to the museum of Salvador Dalí. It really blows my mind how genius he was; the longer you looked at each room, the more you saw in it. Paintings, installations, jewelry,tapestries--Dalí really did it all. In his lifetime he was invited to join Surrealism, by the Surrealists themselves, then tried and kicked out in 1939. The main reason was his commercialization of Surrealism, along with his Enigma of Hitler painting and his support of Franco after the Spanish Civil War.

He arrived at André Bretón's apartment for the trial in layer after layer of sweaters, with a thermometer in his mouth; he had a cold. Periodically throughout the trial he removed his sweaters, and could not be understood with the thermometer in his mouth--turning it into quite a comical event. Despite being ex-communicated by the Surrealists, his sense of humor was appreciated.

El Tigre

El Tigre is famous in Madrid, and not just among tourists. It was packed at just 6:30--long before most restaurants open for dinner--when we went for a farewell Madrid get-together, as we leave for Barcelona tomorrow. Boar and antelope heads adorn the walls, and young people are lined up around the bar to get drinks and Tapas. Six euro will get you a "mini" Sangria, and seven will buy a mixed drink. The name "mini" is pretty ironic, as they are bigger than the small drinks (which cost as much.) They are probably at least 20 oz. and served with two straws. But it's basically like buying two drinks for 3 euro each, and then you get a heaping plate of fresh authentic Tapas that come free with the drink. And if you get another drink? ...Another plate.

The Spanish pride themselves on their Jamón Ibérico, Iberian ham, so a lot of Tapas involve cooked ham, cured ham or chorizo sausage. Fatty parts are not cut away, but except for the sausage are easy to pull off--and the red oily meat is worth savoring on your palate. The jamón was served on soft slices of baguette; other breads had calamari, cheese, mushroom or Spanish tortilla on them. Spanish tortilla is basically a potato omelet. Buñuelos are another popular Tapa and El Tigre had especially good ones. Rich and filling, they are fried balls of a cheesy dough made with flour, egg and sometimes cod. After two drinks, I had eaten so many Tapas that they didn't even taste good anymore, and we proceeded to a nearby bar to digest and watch Japan beat Denmark in the World Cup.

Plaza de Toros

We were required to go to a conference prior to the bullfight in order to be permitted to attend. It was given by a man who has a long history of bullfighters in his family, and for whom a passion for bullfighting is a large part of life. He is a professor at an English University in Madrid and has taken it upon himself to educate foreigners on the art of bullfighting. He helps them prepare themselves mentally for the bullfight, so that they, like so many others, don’t leave the ring appalled after the first bull.
Although the conference was not a make or break for me, I was really glad I heard what he had to say about the treatment of the bulls. He explained how calves are tested for courage and bravery when they’re young, by being chased by a farmer on a horse and hit and taunted with a (harmless) wooden stick. If they prove themselves worthy, they live the best five years any bull could imagine, romping around outside and grazing in lush pastures of green.
When the time comes for them to fight, they are again tested for bravery. It is forbidden to fight an unworthy bull, as it is considered cheating and unfair to the bull. Similarly, it is forbidden to shave or alter a bull’s horns before a fight. This would change their sensation--not unlike cutting someone’s nails who is accustomed to long ones and asking them to pick things up. This would give the matador an unfair advantage, and is only one example of how the balance of power is kept in check.
Everything in the bullfight is organized in threes. There are three sections, each which have a general allotted time but are determined by the president and vary according to the bull. Transitions between sections are marked by very regal-sounding horns.
The first section involves the main Matador and the Toreros, his helpers, who use hot pink capes to get the bull all worked up and running around the ring. Then the Picador, a man on an armored horse, stabs a vara or spear into the fatty upper back area of the bull to bleed him and drain some of his energy. There are two chalk white circles called rayas that border the ring in the dirt, and this is supposed to be done outside the white lines on the edge of the ring. If it is not done properly, the crowd starts clapping--in patterns of three--in protest for the bull, because again, it is seen as unfair.
During this part of the first bull we saw, (there are six bulls per bullfight,) the bull’s horns got hooked on the armor of the horse and he ended up pushing it over; knocking the Picador to the ground. The Toreros with the pink capes came to distract the bull so the rider could get up. (Bulls are actually color blind but it is the movement of the cape they are attracted to.) Another incredible thing we saw during this section was a bull do a headstand on his horns into a somersault. I’m pretty sure that’s something I’ll never see again. It was an optically illusive thing to see--all 600 kg of the bull above and resting on two pointed horns.
During the second section, three pairs of decorated darts called banderillas are thrown into the bull by Banderilleros. This is not so much to hurt or weaken it--as they are very short and do not puncture very deep--as they are to evoke it’s adrenaline and actually pump it up. Then, in the final chapter, the Matador exchanges his pink cape for a red one, and is left all alone to fight the bull until the end of the fight when he stabs the bull with his estoque--his sword. If this is done right, the sword hits a nerve and kills the bull in no more than twelve seconds or so. In the fight we saw, which was out-of-season and featured fairly young and inexperienced bullfighters, only a handful of fighters killed their bull so swiftly. One Matador was even thrown--not gored, but on the ground under the bull, until again the Toreros came to the rescue so he was able to get back up. When he did so, he kept right on fighting, but not until taking off his shoes!
On rare occasions, if the bull is deemed as being especially brave and worthy, his life is forgiven. Then he gets the honor of spending the rest of his days in the grassy green fields, happily making heir after heir who will then be tested for bravery and considered for a bullfight.
I know a lot of people have major moral problems with bullfighting and don’t understand why it is legal, let alone considered art. But I would challenge all you animal-rights activists out there to reconsider the situation. The respect for the bull, the honor it is given and the esteem in which it is held makes Western rodeo seem atrocious, with it’s superiority complex and disregard for the animal. Rodeo projects an attitude that people are superior to animals, men are superior to women, and America is better than any other country in the world. Honestly, if I were a bull I’d rather live a rich life for five exquisite years and endure twenty minutes of adrenaline and honorable pain followed by a relatively swift death than be fattened up on corn all my life while squashed between two other cows--only to end up in some kids happy meal. That is not to say they don’t eat the bulls they kill in bullfights. The meat is not wasted but actually ceremonially prepared and distributed. And if the Matador is really impressive and deserving, he takes home one ear, two ears, or two ears and a tail as a reward.
I only saw one out-of-season here in Madrid this time, but I already got the sense of why it is seen as an art. At the conference we were told that an artist has a paintbrush; a Matador has a cape and sword. The beauty is really in the movement. It is like the Matador is dancing with the bull, and the bull’s movements are truly beautiful as well. Better Matadors are better dancers--they take more risks, standing closer to the bull and maneuvering their cape with more grace. Their posture, prance and stride are judged for beauty, and the Traje De Luces they wear, the “suit of lights,” only enhances the visual. Even the red of blood glistening in the sun on the bull’s black hide is arresting and picturesque.

Father's Day

It only occurred to me yesterday, Monday, that Sunday was Father's Day. As I don't really have a father around, I guess I had not memorized the day. Gene was as close to a father as it get for my pre-teen and adolescent years, so, after my mom pointed out to me in an email that I scattered his ashes on Father's Day, I thought to myself, "of course it was the sunny Sunday I'd been waiting for!"

Gene

Even though I was going to a rose garden to spread Gene's ashes, I bought flowers from a street vendor on the way. Call it an impulse buy, but it felt more like an instinct buy to me.

Today was a sunny Sunday. I've been waiting three weeks for a sunny Sunday on which to spread the ashes. I don't know why Sunday felt important to me; it was not for religious reasons, and the sun was simply a must. I showered and dressed in a black dress, which only later occurred to me as appropriate for a memorial.

I walked through the labyrinth or roses, speckled with painters and canvases (again, appropriate for Gene!) It took but a minute before I decided on a spot. A row of yellow roses, framed with cropped brush; it seemed like a spot that would have appealed to Gene.

"Gene, I know you always wanted to go to Italy, and I wish you'd let go of your inhibitions--your hesitancy around money--and taken the chance. But instead, you gave me a large sum of that money, and here I am in Spain. It's not Italy, but it's pretty darn close, and I'm here studying History of Art, which you would have approved of. We're in the Rosaleda, the rose labyrinth, and I think you'd like it here. It's one of my favorite places in the Park."

Then, as a nearby park performer wailed away a bittersweet tune on a saxophone in a minor key, I tossed the ashes into the air. I watched them settle on their yellow bed of petals, and sometimes be taken by a gust of wind and and scatter--hovering momentarily in the sun. I spread only a little more than half the ashes. I'm saving some for Barcelona.

Later on I met my roommate Taya for a walk through the happening park--Sundays are a busy day and we made our way to the open-air band-shell where there is a free concert every Sunday at noon. There were hoards of people, in chairs, laying in the grass, young and old, couples, singles, friends and parents. It really made me realize how much more appreciation the Spanish have for classical music, along with art and culture in general it seems. Here in Madrid, this culture is just so easily-accessible; it's at ones fingertips. Gene would have loved the concert.

To end our afternoon, we bought chocolate croissants from a Pastelería and genuine Spanish horchata--a cold, sweet, creamy drink made from the Chufa nut. They were both delicious and left me feeling just right; the croissant, though big, was light and hollow, so did'nt feel like too much. And the horchata was not too sweet and refreshing, though somewhat heavy, but we only got a small glass. I love Spain. Gene, here's to you.

I'm in Love with the Park...

Toledo

Toledo is the religious capital of Iberian Peninsula, and home to the most important cathedral in the Country. The architecture is stunning, yet I felt more like I was walking through a museum than a religious sanctuary; I just didn't feel that vibe.

We also saw the famous El Greco's The Burial of the Count of Orgaz, which is huge and, like all art, a totally different experience to see in person not in a book. The story behind it is amazing. An account of a "real event," it depicts Count Orgaz being buried two saints who flew out of heaven, and his soul--a sort of translucent child form--is being carried up to heaven by and angel, through a formation of clouds that represents, interestingly, a birth canal.

We also visited what has been, throughout history, all of a Church, a Synagogue and a Mosque.

Toledo is basically set on a rock, meaning the streets--all cobblestone--are steep uphills and downhills all the time. It feels almost like a huge theme park that transports you back in time. Besides religious places of worship, it's got a plethora of marzipan shops (which it's famous for) as well as sword shops, which offer both genuine Toledano crafts and their Made in China counterparts for the budgeting tourist.

We also came across many a stray cat--which are not hostile, but stink like nobody's business. After our lunch and tour, as the rest of the group shopped, I, exhausted from writing my midterm all night the night before, headed into McDonald's for a nap. Don't get me wrong, I will NOT be eating American fast food while I'm here in Spain. But it was the only place I felt no shame in using for it's bathroom, warmth and good view of the Square without purchasing a single Mc-anything.

A note I took, about McDonald's. The limited fast food restaurants here are strikingly different than the ones in the U.S. They are just this: not fast. The service is, but again, people take their time with their meal, and there are absolutely no drive-throughs.

Lots of Little Things...

A few things I have noticed here, about Spain:

1.) EVERYBODY smokes.

2.) There is beautiful graffiti. Everywhere.

3.) People park about two inches away from each other. I wish I had a picture of it because they literally do! Especially in Granada, on the narrow, cobblestone streets, there was no way they were getting their car out unless they could somehow rotate their tires 90 degrees and drive out sideways.

4.) All the cars are smaller here. (Perhaps that is due to the small parking spaces). In fact, everything is more eco-friendly I have found. The metro, for example, is a womderful form of public transportation. Almost everyone hangs their laundry out to dry. The lights in apartment-halls and public bathrooms are on timers, and turn off after so long unless you turn them back on, and the city does all the trash and recycle every night in front of each building. Finally, people generally opt for the closed-windows-during-the-day-open-them-at-night method of keeping households cool, at least during these in-between months before it gets too hot. And even when the AC is resorted too, in our apartment there is one in a few different rooms and they operate individually.

5.) People say "hola" and "hasta luego" like it's their job here. Not so much when passing you in the street, as it is, like all cities, somewhat odd to be so forward with a stranger. But in stores, apartment-buildings, office waiting-rooms and really anywhere where you are more or less "put" into contact or close proximity with them, they greet you upon arrival and before departing.

6.) Bars and cafés are more or less the same thing. Cervecerías serve café con leche in the mornings, and cafeterías offer beer and spirits. NOBODY is on their laptop in a café, and to-go cups are quite rare. There is one size of coffee, and it's a small one. None of our super-sized, venti madness. Which might explain why the anal, uptight attitude that can be found in American Starbucks is absent in coffee shops here. Instead, people sit down to their coffee with their friends. Or they relax with a newspaper and dunk churros (fried batter) into coffee or hot chocolate.

7.) People fight (at least in my neighborhood) fight very loudly at very wee hours of the day. Either, apparently, at 5:oo am in French with the windows to the courtyard we share wide open, or on the street at midnight over what sounded like the span of three blocks.

A long weekend, Spanish-style

Friday night we went out Spanish-style...aka we left the house at 2:30 am and clubbed until 6:30 am. We went to Kapital, which has seven stories and sprays the crowd with blasts of freezing nitrogen from the ceiling. This is not only looked and sounded awesome, but felt amazing after dancing for hours packed like sardines among other sweaty dancers. It's a pretty weird feeling getting home as the sun is rising.

Saturday was a sleepy day, to say the least. Also rainy. But Saturday night we got all dolled up again and went to dinner at the most charming, gourmet, authentic Spanish place. Of course, our reservation for 9:30 was a little on the early side, but we stayed for a good two hours, enjoying fine wine, and entrees such as ox-tail, prawn and ox-tail casserole, rack of lamb, and roasted baby goat shoulder, which is what I got. I know, it sounds cruel to say I ate (and loved) roasted baby goat shoulder, but I did. It was 30 euros well-spent on meat with a taste somewhere between beef and lamb and a texture like a tender chicken leg. It simply melted in my mouth.

Of course, since we were going all out (and recognized we probably wouldn't be doing so again) we got coffee and dessert. Mine consisted of a small scoop each of fig ice cream and dark chocolate mousse, a frozen-whipped-white-chocolate-foam-filled cannoli-type shell, and finally, a fig. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. That is, until Taya pulled some amazing feat trying to save the wine glass she knocked over, somehow scooping it up mid-spill and creating a geyser of wine followed by some profuse wine-rain, which somehow got all over us but remained unnoticed by the diners at every single table around us (thank god). Truth be told, I am pretty pleased that this happened, as it provided us with more laughter than our full-bellies could probably take (unless laughter aids digestion) and it was something I will never forget and will never see again. Thanks, Taya.

Today, Sunday, we finally had sun. That was perfect because we went to the famous Spanish El Rastro market which is basically the size of a small town. It was hard to stay together and still peruse according to our different interests, so we basically all took out own route. I spent way to many euro, but that goes without saying I probably spent a third of the worth of what I got. There are stands selling everything from genuine leather bags to euro-boxers, fútbol jerseys to antiques, toys, designer shoes, makeup, music, and more. It's jam-packed and the vendors are shouting orders at peopl to come check out the "moda, calidad, rebajas!" I even saw a mind-blowing professional street performer playing wine glasses. He sounded incredible, producing harmonious layered melodies that were surprisingly complicated, and had even made a CD which he had for sale.

Finally, this afternoon I got a cheaper but still authentic Spanish lunch. An empanada--a savory, sandwich-sized filled pastry--with bonito in it for 1.50 euros, and an agua gaseosa for .50 euros. This I followed with a siesta--a little nap and then a run around the perimeter of El Retiro park. It was just before dusk in that brilliant, pre-sunset glow, and of course I wished I'd taken my camera because I am always seeing more of that incredible park; there was picture after picture I could have taken of people and fountains and domed architecture-all bathed in that heavenly golden light which I love.

The Trip Within

The first week in Spain was like a constant incredible high...

I felt this unfamiliar and incredibly strong sense of Self throughout--
Independent of external variables.

Also a freeing sense of trust and spontaneity, which is unusual for me.
I had hoped I could bring some of this revived quality back home with me.

The past few days though, old feelings have begun to stir. And, terrified I of losing that elated sense of self and of trust, I am desperate to push the old feelings away.

Just last night I felt like I was cycling between feeling panicked, broken-hearted, incredibly tender and open-hearted and then electrically terrified again. I could almost feel the fear physically pulsating through my muscles.

I don't want to feel like this in Spain! I thought.

But the truth is. I do. I probably will again, more than once. The sooner I stop trying not to the sooner I can probably let it go.

If I have learned nothing else from this course thus far, I have learned that many of the most inspired artists in history were sentimental, dark, twisted, and led emotionally-troubled lives.

I saw a peacock in the park just now. It seemed to re-open my heart again. I guess as long as I'm here, I may as well hang on for the ride!!

Perhaps the more my heart breaks, the more open it may become.

Last Weekend...

So I haven't posted in almost a week now--mostly due to being locked out of my apartment last weekend and then it being so darn rainy I haven't felt creative or inspired to do much of anything. Although I wasn't sure I wanted to include the more negative events of this trip, they are a part of it; so here is a long-story-short version of what happened last weekend:

I returned home first from Granada, and couldn't get my keys to work. First I wasn't too worried, and didn't even think to ask for help when the young woman who lives to the right of us walked out, passing me as I began the first of what would become many battles with the deadbolt. After about five minutes, I tried walking down a few floors and knocking on the least-sketchy looking doors hoping to find a neighbor who could help me with the keys or tell me where I could find our Señora. At every door I tried I either heard people cease making noise after I knocked in order to appear out-of-the-house, got a brief cold refusal to help through the door without even opening it, or a quickly opened door followed by a quick dismissal. How different the attitude between neighbors is here than in Boulder!

Anyways, skipping forward four-odd hours, there I was again furiously trying to compromise with the keyhole. I noticed the light was on in the apartment to our right--the woman must have returned. I rang her bell, expecting another hostile response. When she opened it, I tried to spit out my story as fast as I could before getting shut-down. To my surprise, she listened to my sloppy Spanish, interrupted by blubbering tears which I could hold back no longer. She invited me in, gave me water (and offered me food), let me use her phone, internet, and bathroom. She even listened to me vent about my disappointment as she chain-smoked and we watched American Dad in Spanish. Her name is Monica, and she is a PR agent, a closely-related field to that of Journalism, which I am in school for. Eventually Pedro came and picked me up.

But the next night, when Pedro sent me back with a new set of keys, I still could not get in. I had taken three metros home, but it was too late for me to be able to take them back to the seven-girl apartment. I had no phone and was on the verge of wetting my pants. I rang her bell again, feeling like a nuisance. She answered sleepily---I had woken her up---but again she graciously invited me in and offered to help. I ended up taking a taxi soon anyways, but at least I got in touch with Pedro and got to relieve my bladder.

The day after that--Sunday--we finally got in. That evening Monica knocked on our door to check on us just as I was sealing the envelope of the Thank-you card I'd gotten her. I laughed, amused by the timing, and told her I had something for her. as I retrieved the card and bouquet I'd bought across the street that afternoon. She thanked me warmly, and I thanked her again. I really don't know what I would have done without her either of those nights. There would have been a lot more tears and a lot less humor and lightness. Turns out Monica was a bit of a blessing in disguise. I made a new friend, got help with a sticky situation, and got to practice my Spanish for an hour. The other neighbors, Monica says, are just old and trust no one.

A Cluster of Culture

Granada was everything I could have hoped for, and then some. Set beneath the purple and white Sierra Nevadas, it is a far cry from bustling Madrid, a sort of indulgently-cultural utopia that harbors colliding and yet co-existing Muslim and Christian influences. The first day we walked up through the Albaicín--Muslim neighborhoods and markets--tall, beautiful buildings separated by narrow, cobblestone alleyways and adorned with truly artistic graffiti pieces. We ate dinner on the roof of a restaurant at the top of the hill overlooking the city and witnessed the sunset from that location which Clinton himself has called "the most beautiful sunset in the world."

The next day we awoke early and went to tour the Alhambra, the last palace ruled by the Nazariths before the last sultan surrendered to the Christians only then, according to legend, to be scolded by his mother: "You cry like a woman but you did not defend like a real man." It is all stucco, marble, and brick, full of water-features, gardens, and orange trees, and almost every surface is adorned with intricate, patterned engravings and the Muslim phrase, "God is the only winner." Windows called "jealousy windows" were grated so that the Sultan's wives could look out but no men could see in them. Although Napolean destroyed the majority of the city surrounding the Alhambra, the palace itself was left intact, if somewhat altered, by the Chrisitans because of it's beauty. From the Alhambra we could see the hills with the caves that Gypsies still live in. You can actually buy a cave here.

We also had a chance to go to the Féria de Corpus Christi while in Granada, which is one of the biggest festival of the year. The entryway looked much like a fairy-palace built of Christmas lights, and a canopy of lights crowned a walkway framed by treat stands offering sweet wine, sweet corn, indulgently-topped Belgian waffles, and baked potatoes baked in makeshift ovens in upright aluminum barrels. Colonial tents housing the food and music of Costa-Rican-Spanish, Puerto-Rican-Spanish, Mexican-Spanish, and other immigrant communities. Women young and old were donning their best Flamenco dresses, and we witnessed a genuine, fiery and passionate Flamenco show. Not to mention all the theme park rides.

I had a chance to shop at the Muslim markets in the Albaicín after touring the Alhambra. The markets themselves are a like a vibrant quilt of colorful scarves, dresses, gaucho-like pants, Turkish tea sets, evil-eye trinkets and silver jewelry. I bought some wonderfully-unique souvenirs, including a coin-laden belly-dancing scarf and powdered black eyeliner worn by Muslim women and applied with a thin wooden stick.

Finally, the hostel we stayed in the second night there, (the Oasis hostel) was one amazing experience in itself. The staff was friendly, almost familial, and we were given a free welcome drink at the bar along with a plate at the "dinner party" for a modest 4 euros. The dinner was at 9:00, and consisted of a huge plate of seafood paella that they cooked for several hours, and tasted ten times better than the 15 euro-paella we had eaten at a restaurant in Madrid. There were backpackers from all over at this hostel, and it had the truly charming--if a bit cliché--vibe of "backpacking through Europe"-vibe.

Granada literally means "pomegranate" in English, and it really seems like it is one. It seems like a fertile, dense cluster of plump, sweet, and exciting seeds, cultural gems just waiting to be tasted. I tasted it only briefly this time around, but it was de-licious!

Off to Granada!

We will be in Granada tomorrow through Saturday, so I will probably not have access to a computer. I will update the blog as soon as I can when I return. I went back to the Park today, and discovered even more of it's beauty as I explored farther and farther in. There are so many statues in the park-white marble figures that seemingly hover over fountains. I found the man-made lake where people can boat--it's huge and is framed on one side with the silhouette of yet another architecturally incredible building. There was also a block-long labyrinth made of perfectly-trimmed square bushes, containing two fountains and overflowing with the sight and scent of roses. I think that is where I will spread some of Gene's ashes when I come back this weekend. I also had some of the most amazing gelato this evening at the heladería below our apartment. It was one scoop of nata (which tasted a lot like milky-coconut) topped with a sample scoop of trufa, a smooth, rich chocolate taste, all served in a little waffle-cone cup: much smaller than those in America. I'll definitely be returning for more!

El Palacio Real

We had a Goya day today at the Prado. It was incredible--truly the more I learn about him the more I love his work. Progressing from light, tapestry designs to dark satirical works depiciting his views of society, Goya maintained good enough relations with the court, aristocracy, and church to be employed throughout and retain his influence throughout a civil war and an affair with the wife of a wealthy aristocrat. I love his piece about the dog, and how it represents pathos and fidelity. Also the raw beauty and penetrating gaze of his Naked Maja, the electrifying tension in the piece of the cat fight, and the tragedy and raw human desperation in The Execution of the 3rd of May. I can't believe six of his seven children died!

After the museum I sat on a hill and ate the lunch I packed on a grassy hill listening to a street Spanish-guitar player, really feeling and absorbing and loving that moment and my life.

This afternoon we visited the Palacio Real, the Royal Palace. It is no longer the dwelling of the Royal family, but it is used for international conferences, meetings, and banquets. We saw the room where the first Israeli-Palestinian peace conference was held, with Clinton, and Spain signed into the European Union. Each room was for a single person for a single purpose. Example: the King's dressing room where he was publicly dressed and undressed for two hours. And the King's private dressing room. Ridiculous.

Charles the III was one of Spain's greatest King's, according to our guide. He looks noble, in his portraits. His son, Charles the IV, was less commendable. His wife basically held most the power, along with her lover Godoy, who was elected Prime Minister. But Charles IV's son, Ferdinand, collected clocks which now adorn the Royal palace, each a work of art. There are some 400 clocks in the palace and that's not even all of them. One had a thousand of diamonds inlayed all over the face of it making up the numbers! Another was a globe that opened to reveal a mechanized, moving solar system.