On Spanish Invasion Day we arrived at Donostia (San Sebastian), unaware of the protests that had been staged in various locations of the Basque Country, and the arrests of several members of the political arm of radical left-wing separatists ETA (hello, tourists)... to an idyllic seaside town where not much was going on, but in which for some reason it was nearly impossible to find a hotel room.
Starving and looking for a place we stumbled across another one of those happy culinary accidents, Juantxos (literally meaning "Johnny's"), a take away joint that specializes in the bocata with tortilla, a bagette stuffed with an omelette of whatever combination you want: traditional tortilla with potatoes, or whatever Spanish cured meat, fresh mushrooms, pimiento or asparragus. To drink, beer, wine or the local specialties: apple cider or kalimotxo (red wine & coke). The bartenders comunicate with the kitchen via what would seem a more sofisticated method than the traditional yelling, an tinny 70s intercom. After several attemps at getting an order through, the bartender gives up and says 'domo arigato' and other such random Japanese phrases. Reply from the kitchen: "Vale" (OK). Smoking inside is again totally fine, people walk in with dogs despite a no dogs sign on the door, everyone speaks in Basque except for us (and the Japanophile bartender) and we decide to make this our breakfast joint. The clientele in the morning included old men having a bocatas and wine at 8 am, construction workers, students, and office workers in suits, all locals. A bloody gem.
On Tuesday night things return to normal, every place in town is open and we venture into what until now has been the most memorable food experience in Spain (I think I speak for us both): the pintxo, I guess you can call them super tapas. The bars in town all try and outdo each other in coming up with the best possible combinations they can fit on a slice of bagette, piled on as many plates as can fit on the bar. You take your pick as in most places all pintxos cost the same, help yourself and be honest about how many you ate at the end of your stay when you settle the bill. The place to go, we decided after much experimentation, making and breaking of rules and consuming a large part of our budget, is Martinez on 31 Agosto street. The owner must have been a 2001 Space Odyssey fan as the ceiling is all curved white formica with sparse but bright white flouro lights, the bar a clean, wide slab of white marble packed with pintxos. Amelia's pick: the medallion of creamy bonito wrapped in salted cod and sprinkled with herbs and olive oil; my pick: the red smoked pimiento stuffed with cod coleslaw drizzled with lime and olive oil.
The town? Amazing. Made famous by queen Isabella who came to holiday there in the 19th Century, it's all grandiose colourful buildings with gargoyles, ornate streetlights, tree-lined boulevards and a great network of bike lanes...a bubble of cuteness popped when you see the bullet holes that pepper the town hall facade, the stickers of dissapeared unionists, and of course, the news: the latest topic to divide the Spanish. Should the radical left be allowed to resurrect their party? Are they showing signs of rejecting the violence of ETA? Is the government putting them in jail before they can answer questions?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Bilbao
So we arrived into Bilbao on the long weekend that was 12 Oct and felt the beggining of European autumn. Also, Saturday turned out to be the alternate national day in Bilbao, the celebration of the Virgin of Begoña.
At night the streets in the Casco Viejo, or old city, are packed with people hopping between pintxos bars. The pintxo is the Basque version of the tapa, and can be a true artform (more on this later). The other thing they do is sip small glasses of wine they call txiquitos (smalls) and eventually make a pilgrimage of sorts to the corner where Amelia and I were staying. We noticed a stone efigy of the virgin that looked more pagan than Christian and people came over to touch, then turned in a certain angle and crossed themselves. I asked a local what it was all about, she grabs Amelia and directs her to a tile on the floor pointing to the place everyone turned to. From that angle, between the laneways, you get a perfect view of a church way up in the hills.
Not only is the Virgin the patron saint of Bilbao, but she's also the patron saint of the txiquiteros, or the tavern owners, who came up with the idea of the small glass of wine so that people could handle their drink and share the love among the different pintxo bars, sampling little bits from place to place all night. You've got to love that way of looking at the world. Forget about becoming a colonial power, let's drink to the publican!
More still, every bar has its bunch of aficionados who form choirs, so you walk around town basically getting samples of choral ensembles on every block. Or, if you happen to be on the corner on Santa Maria Street, you get the chants from the choir of the Athletic de Bilbao Fútbol Club.
At night the streets in the Casco Viejo, or old city, are packed with people hopping between pintxos bars. The pintxo is the Basque version of the tapa, and can be a true artform (more on this later). The other thing they do is sip small glasses of wine they call txiquitos (smalls) and eventually make a pilgrimage of sorts to the corner where Amelia and I were staying. We noticed a stone efigy of the virgin that looked more pagan than Christian and people came over to touch, then turned in a certain angle and crossed themselves. I asked a local what it was all about, she grabs Amelia and directs her to a tile on the floor pointing to the place everyone turned to. From that angle, between the laneways, you get a perfect view of a church way up in the hills.
Not only is the Virgin the patron saint of Bilbao, but she's also the patron saint of the txiquiteros, or the tavern owners, who came up with the idea of the small glass of wine so that people could handle their drink and share the love among the different pintxo bars, sampling little bits from place to place all night. You've got to love that way of looking at the world. Forget about becoming a colonial power, let's drink to the publican!
More still, every bar has its bunch of aficionados who form choirs, so you walk around town basically getting samples of choral ensembles on every block. Or, if you happen to be on the corner on Santa Maria Street, you get the chants from the choir of the Athletic de Bilbao Fútbol Club.
"Hispanidad" (parenthesis and rant)
At some point it was decided that Spain would celebrate the 12 October as national day. That way people could commemorate the arrival of Christopher Colombus to the Americas, and the beginning of this concept now widely known as "Hispanity". The date had before had been called "The Day of Discovery of the Americas", then abbreviated to "Day of the Race", then politically corrected to "Day of Hispanity".
It shares all the wrong things with for example Australia Day. They tell you it's the day they celebrate all the great things about being Spanish and the fact that they share this big love with 21 other countries that speak the same language.
What it really celebrates is the colonization of what are now 21 countries for 300 years and the gradual empoverishment of said territories after the theft of their natural resources; the extermination of indigenous language, memory and culture (priests in Mexico/Guatemala for example took the liberty of rewriting the Maya dreaming to make the creation of man seem a bit more like the bible); and the installation of endemic dictatorial bureaucracies we still have to this day in Latin America.
They call it the "meeting of two cultures". My arse. As if all the indigenous cultures of the Americas had been one big blob of indians, or the Spanish hadn't brought over any African slaves.
To give credit to your every day Spanish person, most people really don't care. A religious celebration from Aragon seems to have more relevance. Ask someone on the street what happens on the 12 October and they'll tell you it's the day of the Virgen del Pilar.
Just in case we did come across some form of nationalism, we headed north to the most fiercely independent region: Euskal Herria, or Basque Country, where 12 October really means nothing: only once in the history of the celebration has the Basque government sent a representative to the official national day celebrations in Madrid...
It shares all the wrong things with for example Australia Day. They tell you it's the day they celebrate all the great things about being Spanish and the fact that they share this big love with 21 other countries that speak the same language.
What it really celebrates is the colonization of what are now 21 countries for 300 years and the gradual empoverishment of said territories after the theft of their natural resources; the extermination of indigenous language, memory and culture (priests in Mexico/Guatemala for example took the liberty of rewriting the Maya dreaming to make the creation of man seem a bit more like the bible); and the installation of endemic dictatorial bureaucracies we still have to this day in Latin America.
They call it the "meeting of two cultures". My arse. As if all the indigenous cultures of the Americas had been one big blob of indians, or the Spanish hadn't brought over any African slaves.
To give credit to your every day Spanish person, most people really don't care. A religious celebration from Aragon seems to have more relevance. Ask someone on the street what happens on the 12 October and they'll tell you it's the day of the Virgen del Pilar.
Just in case we did come across some form of nationalism, we headed north to the most fiercely independent region: Euskal Herria, or Basque Country, where 12 October really means nothing: only once in the history of the celebration has the Basque government sent a representative to the official national day celebrations in Madrid...
Monday, October 12, 2009
Córdoba
As I’ve said earlier, relations between Muslims and Christians in Spain have been like an unhappy marriage that went for about seven centuries. The most romantic, tourist friendly view of history tells us this time gave birth to the things that are quintessentially Spanish, and Catholics, Muslims, Jews and Gypsies managed to live in harmony. Currently it is widely understood that coexistence only happened for a brief period of time and never smooth.
Whoever was in power used their scholars to refute other religions and their soldiers to persecute their believers. Córdoba is a living example of this. We wandered around the laneways that like in so many other places in the South of Spain follow no logical planning, finding along the way little traces of buildings not wholly demolished from one era to another, recycled for the purposes of a new religion.
The mosque (or cathedral) of Cordoba is a stunning mish-mash of Islamic and Catholic symbols. Above arched doorways decorated with Arabic scriptures from the Koran are 17th century carvings of angels and saints. The private room where the Caliph would pray, all mosaics of the Koran were left untouched as the inside perimeter of the mosque became private chapels. The arches and pillars that support the flat, ornate ceiling of the mosque were also left untouched, bar the centre, where they became the support for a 17th century cathedral nave.
Why? When the Christians took over the city in the 1400s, they decided as was custom to demolish the mosque and build a cathedral on top of it, but the citizens of Córdoba threatened to riot if the plan went ahead and kill any builder who worked in it, so the new lords had to find a way to refurbish the place instead of destroying it. This is usually touted as example of how tolerant a society it was, but it doesn’t always add up. Every now and again, we were given grim reminders of what happened during the overlapping of religions and empires in Córdoba.
Walking down the street our hotel was at, we came across an abandoned building with an arched alleyway on the side, and on the front a plaque related Arab historian Ibn Hazn’s chronicle about how in that house one of the local defeated Christian lords was kept under arrest, while the severed heads of his seven sons were placed atop each arch as a warning to other Christians. The street we’re on is called Cabezas (Heads).
Amelia recommends Raymond Carr’s Spain: a History for some middle age mythbusting in Al-Andalus.
Whoever was in power used their scholars to refute other religions and their soldiers to persecute their believers. Córdoba is a living example of this. We wandered around the laneways that like in so many other places in the South of Spain follow no logical planning, finding along the way little traces of buildings not wholly demolished from one era to another, recycled for the purposes of a new religion.
The mosque (or cathedral) of Cordoba is a stunning mish-mash of Islamic and Catholic symbols. Above arched doorways decorated with Arabic scriptures from the Koran are 17th century carvings of angels and saints. The private room where the Caliph would pray, all mosaics of the Koran were left untouched as the inside perimeter of the mosque became private chapels. The arches and pillars that support the flat, ornate ceiling of the mosque were also left untouched, bar the centre, where they became the support for a 17th century cathedral nave.
Why? When the Christians took over the city in the 1400s, they decided as was custom to demolish the mosque and build a cathedral on top of it, but the citizens of Córdoba threatened to riot if the plan went ahead and kill any builder who worked in it, so the new lords had to find a way to refurbish the place instead of destroying it. This is usually touted as example of how tolerant a society it was, but it doesn’t always add up. Every now and again, we were given grim reminders of what happened during the overlapping of religions and empires in Córdoba.
Walking down the street our hotel was at, we came across an abandoned building with an arched alleyway on the side, and on the front a plaque related Arab historian Ibn Hazn’s chronicle about how in that house one of the local defeated Christian lords was kept under arrest, while the severed heads of his seven sons were placed atop each arch as a warning to other Christians. The street we’re on is called Cabezas (Heads).
Amelia recommends Raymond Carr’s Spain: a History for some middle age mythbusting in Al-Andalus.
Granada
There’s something that happens to a place that houses one of the wonders of the world. I’m going to call it the Taj Mahal syndrome. The monument is so overwhelmingly beautiful that tourists from all over the world come around to see it, and destroy the town around it. Agra, the town that was there before the Taj Mahal has become a monumental shithole. People like me get to places like this cynical about the whole affair from the beginning, arriving with a ‘I’ve seen it all in pictures, but I’ve come all this way so why not’ attitude, and walk out completely slack-jawed, dumbstruck, and in love after taking a million photos. Now it’s happened to me at La Alhambra...
A poet once wrote there is no misfortune worse than being blind in Granada and he was right. Unfortunately I still have that niggling feeling that I went to a theme park. Even Federico García Lorca’s grave is a tourist attraction. I read a newspaper article about how Granada’s tourism board opposes the wish of a high profile judge to exhume the poet’s body and reopen the case of his still unsolved assassination by fascists in 1936. (There’s circumstantial evidence as to who it might have been, yet no one has ever been taken to trial). The family, who opposes the exhumation has reserved the right to decide whether they would prefer to have his remains cremated or reburied next to his father or mother if it eventually happens. But the reasons why the local government opposes also has some citizens of Granada livid; the site is a common grave for other republicans of the area who were killed in the horrible weeks around the coup de état that brought Franco to power. Lorca may be the most celebrated of the dead in the grave, but to say that if he’s not there the site has no value is quite offensive.
Guadix
During our brief stay in Guadix, we’re going to concentrate on the unhappy marriage that has been religious diversity in Spain.
As a tourist you go to various monuments and hear stories about how, as if by the clicking of fingers, the Catholics chased away the Romans and built a cathedral on top of their temple, then the Muslims came over and demolished that cathedral to make way for a mosque, and finally the mosque was destroyed to make way again for a catholic church. Same goes for various palaces and forts.
In the middle was a tide of poor people who really couldn’t do anything about the power and land struggles, yet needed somewhere safe to live. That old refugee chestnut in Guadix goes back to the 9th Century. The way that at various times persecuted Catholics, Muslims, Jews and Gypsies found a safe haven was to literally dig their houses into the hills as man-made caves.
Nowadays, the Cave Museum operator assures us, it’s quite a fashionable thing to do. The Barrio de las Cuevas, or Cave Suburb in Guadix has hotels, restaurants, bars, a church and souvenir shops all in the comfy settings of caves. Actually, it does work. Because the hills are mainly clay, it was quite easy to carve rooms into the hillsides and make them weather proof: a cave house maintains a stable temperature of about 18 C year round. And we paid to sleep in a cave? You bet ya.
What we ate: pretty much everything was a highlight, Calatrava’s free tapas – juicy, grilled lamb and potatoes, gherkin-stuffed olives, toasties with jamon and crushed red capsicum; and El Churrasco’s deer cooked in a cognac, mushroom, shallot and garlic sauce with fruits of the forest. The restaurant is owned and manned by outdoor enthusiast Rafael, who hangs heads of whatever he’s hunted throughout the years including two of his house specialties: wild boar and deer. He assures me that the former bodies of the trophies have all been hunted ‘in the region’ by himself and eaten at the restaurant, like the deer we just had on our plate. As Amelia has said, this country is no place for vegetarians.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The grim reality
We drove out of the mountains towards the sea, just to get a glimpse of the coast, and as we hadn’t read anything about the towns directly south of the Sierra in our guide books, we thought they may have been miles of unspoilt beaches free of British tourists.
What we found though was the answer to one of our constant questions on this trip. The Spanish like to eat so well but live in such an arid country, so where do they grow so much food? Answer: the coastline of Andalucia between La Rabita and Almeria, 70 odd kilometres of greenhouses. Is this the farming of the future...?
Click on image for bigger map. All the white squares are greenhouses. And if you want to read up on it, here is an article from the Guardian that goes back to 2005
What we found though was the answer to one of our constant questions on this trip. The Spanish like to eat so well but live in such an arid country, so where do they grow so much food? Answer: the coastline of Andalucia between La Rabita and Almeria, 70 odd kilometres of greenhouses. Is this the farming of the future...?
Click on image for bigger map. All the white squares are greenhouses. And if you want to read up on it, here is an article from the Guardian that goes back to 2005
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