THE PLAN:  We had bought the plane tickets weeks ago.  We were going to fly from Bilbao to Oslo.  Then we would change planes and fly to Boston.  This was the determining factor in our drive through Asturias, the same province we had visited at the beginning of our time in Spain when we hiked through the Picos de Europa (see post, Picos de Europa, September 2015).

The hearts of the parents were full  — the beauty of the countryside and the excitement of the cities, the warmth and generosity of the Spaniards, the same old tortilla española (which we ate) and the same old jamón ibérico (which we didn’t eat), no matter the restaurant, no matter the town.  The hearts of the children were beating steadily — wanting to go to the beach, refusing to go to the beach, wanting to eat at this café, spurning that other café.  We were going back.  Volver.  Did they know what it meant to return? 

We drove east on A-8, leaving the highway somewhere near Niembro to make our way on narrow roads to Playa de Torimbia:  a kilometer walk in, a lively beach-side café, a clothing-optional beach, gorgeous sand and waves. 

You must walk to get there.

But something wasn’t right.  Not everyone wanted to walk that far.  The outdoor café was busy and full.  Naked people frolicked in the waves or lay serenely on a blanket on the sand.  

Two of us forged on!  Two of us lagged, but we all made it to the beach.  Two of us defied convention and wore swim suits as we splashed in Mar Cantábrico!  Two of us refused to go in at all.  Eventually, all of us trudged back up the hill, got in the rental car and ate papas bravas and gambas a la plancha at the next beach over, complete with parking lot, empty café, and people wearing clothing when they went in the water.  And so we made our way to Bilbao.

THE SETTING:  Bilbao was as dynamic on ground level as it appears to be in the image above — a rock pigeon’s view of Museo Guggenheim complete with Jeff Koons’ “El Poop” looking longingly towards Parque de Doña Casilda de Iturrizar (Casilda Iturrizar Parkea in Basque).  Here we would relax and prepare ourselves for eventual reentry and splashdown in los Estados Unidos.  

SAN SEBASTIÁN:  With San Sebastián only 60 kilometers away, we were eager to explore this “stunning city…cool, svelte and flirtatious by night, charming and well mannered by day” (Lonely Planet).  We chose to visit during the Charming and Well Mannered hours.

As quite a few gourmands know, there are 11 Michelin-starred restaurants in San Sebastián alone, and yet another 7 within a twenty-five kilometer radius.  Impressed?  Not us!  We weren’t seeking to plunk down 200€ for a tasting menu that featured the same dang hake the kids had to chaw through in the comedor at Colegio Público Gómez Moreno. Granted this hake would be steamed in seaweed with plankton and oyster leaves and arrive with risotto-like squid and butter blossom.  Nope.  We were going to parse our pennies and eat a simple Bacalao al Pil Pil, the traditional Basque dish known throughout Spain and available in almost any restaurant, at any time and at any temperature, even in San Sebastián.

Described as one of the best city beaches in all of Europe, Playa de la Concha is the place to be on “another sweltering summer’s day” with “thousands of tanned and toned bodies spread across the sand” (Lonely Planet).  No doubt, the guidebook writers were thinking of the month of July when temperatures average well above 23° Centigrade (73.4 ° F) and the number of rainy days subsides to eight.  

Playa de la Concha on July 20, 2016 at 10:43 a.m.

Hanging out on the beach, playing catch with a Rocket ball, kayaking there and back, these were just a few of the gerund phrases that capture our good times at Playa de la Concha.

As good a day as any to kayak.

The water was warmish.

Destination: Isla de Santa Clara.

Almost there.

This photo left intentionally blank, as no picture was taken of hanging out on the beach or playing catch with a Rocket ball.

MONTE IGUELDO:  With el sol a mere memory, we boarded the third oldest funicular in all of Spain to ride to the top of Monte Igueldo.  Having scoured the internet, all we can attest to is that Igueldo Funicular began running in August 1912 and consists of two railway cars running up and down a single track, the length of 320 meters. 

Stock Image.

Tourists having fun.

The track is covered in greenery.

Both a steep ascent and a steep descent.

Funicular + Advertising = 2.30 Euro for round trip, youth fare.

Once atop Monte Igueldo, we found ourselves in El Parque de Atracciónes, a land out of time.  This amusement park, described as “slightly tacky” by the misinformed staff at Lonely Planet, offers delights for the young, the old, the bored, the optimistic, and the lonely.  For us, it was a way to get out of the continuous mist that shrouded our visit to beautiful San Sebastián (or Donostia in the language of Euskara [Basque]).

La Concha on a day when we weren’t there.

El Parque de Atracciónes boasts nineteen amusements of which we mastered five, riding one of them numerous times with glee.

19 amusements await the intrepid visitor.

Intrepid visitors.

Los coches de choque!

Family aggression.

The name…

…over the entrance…

…says it all.

The Swiss Mountain…

…required multiple rides.

Some people had to wear other people’s clothes to keep warm.

The best ride: Un café bon bon.

GUGGENHEIM BILBAO:  Time continued to pass, and is passing right now if you, reader, subscribe to the concept of relative time.  Only a few more days were available before we boarded el avion, leaving España and so many cañas and Fanta naranjas behind. 

Bilbao provided plenty of excitements:  hanging out in the apartamento and watching cartoon videos, exploring the Zubiarte Merkataritza-zentroa (Zubiarte Shopping Mall) to buy a piece of luggage, doing laundry and hanging it out a window on a clothes line fifty feet above the ground.  And yes, going to Guggenheim Bilbao to see Puppy, Tall Tree and the Eye, Maman, and Tulips. 

Guggenheim Bilbao by Frank Gehry from afar.

Up close.

Closer.

Puppy by Jeff Koons from afar.

Up close.

Closer.

Very close.

Tall Tree and the Eye by Anish Kapoor from afar.

Up close.

Maman by Louise Bourgeois from afar.

Up close.

Tulips by Jeff Koons up close.

Mise-en-scène by M. Rose.

The interior of Guggenheim Bilbao contained the Atrium, the Skylight, twenty galleries, titanium and glass elevators, staircases and a hell of a lot of Art.  People were in there too.  Refusing to confine ourselves to this fanciful edifice, we made our way to Parque Guggenheim where performance art was the main attraction at the Jolostokia (“playground” in Basque).

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Pinxtos, helado de calamar en su tinta, casco viejo — these were things in Bilbao that we either ate, looked at or walked through as clocks ticked, a planet revolved, and the KLM 13:15 to Oslo waited its turn.

Pinxtos – ¡Delicioso!

Casco Viejo – ¡Pintoresco!

Helado de Calamar en su Tinta – ¡Nunca! –

SAN JUAN DE GAZTELUGATXE:  On our last full day in Spain, we drove to the coast of Biscay to walk to a castle on a rock by the sea — Gaztelugatxe — which is pretty much pronounced how it’s spelled.  Translated from Basque as either “castle rock” or “inaccesible castle,” this islet (which features a hermitage dedicated to John the Baptist) has been a site of pilgrimage for Game of Thrones fans ever since it was forced to take on the role of Dragonstone in the HBO television series.

The formation of biostromic calcarenite limestone and synsedimentary gaps (opaque terms, as mystifying perhaps as Euskara or the plot line of Game of Thrones), was an adequate metaphor for our time in Spain:  San Juan de Gaztelugatxe was challenging to get to, took determination and good cheer to navigate its contours, and served up continuous refreshment, beauty, and reward.

BYE-BYE, BILBAO:  Now it was time to leave.  We had spent our year in Spain.

During that year, Spain’s unemployment rate had remained around 20% and for ten months there was no agreed upon government leader, even after multiple elections.  Europe received over a million migrants from Syria, Eritrea, Iraq, and Afghanistan, among other countries, with Germany, France and Spain agreeing to accept the most refugees.  Our British friend Nicola’s friend collected supplies for a refugee camp in Greece and went to Calais in France to help out where more than 3,000 people were trying to get to England.  It was a time when terrorists hatched plots in Paris, Brussels, Nice and Munich, and when almost 200 international state governments signed the Paris Climate Accord to reduce global warming.

For much of that year, we had placed our attention elsewhere.  Kids went to school and soccer and birthday parties and school trips and guitar and oboe lessons.  Parents went to grocery shop and file government forms and figure out the bus lines and take Spanish lessons.  We were tourists, no matter how we might try to convince ourselves otherwise.  We were happy hanging out with our friends, staying up late, going to hear music or going to a party.  Sometimes all we wanted to do was walk down Calle Zacatín, and marvel at all the shoes in all the shoe stores.

Every encounter felt distinct because everything appeared new and different:  the papelerías with their unending assortments of notebooks, pens, pencils, erasers and sharpeners; stone pathways in the Albayzin that led to wide terraces or shaded courtyards; dark, cramped tiendas the size of minivans that managed to offer any item you needed at a moment’s notice, but never kept regular hours.  Each and every day people spoke Spanish, both to us and at us — even if we didn’t!  (Though three out of four of us actually did speak it quite well, for the circumstances, by now.) 

For a year or so, everything was fresh; nothing was commonplace.  How could we take hold of that feeling and stash it in our suitcases along with the souvenir magnets and scarves and notepads?  Could we write it all down?  Take a photograph of every moment to remember it later?  To capture it all would be to acknowledge what Federico García Lorca wrote in one of his plays:  “Si te contara toda la historia, nunca terminaría….”  If I told you the whole story, it would never end….

But our travels had to end.  Word has it that everything has to end at some point, or change and become something else.  The next morning we drove to the airport, we returned the rental car, we bought Spanish junk food, we boarded the plane, we wondered how it would be in a new land. 

Designed by Santiago Calatrava.

Oceans apart.

Some of us wore our souvenir camisetas.

It was the last call.

We did it!

Something happened in February, but we have little documentation to show for it.  Nevertheless, we are most certain it occurred. 

Three of us took a train to Madrid, Comunidad de Madrid, España and one of us took a plane to Atlanta, Georgia, United States of America.  In both cases, the camera was left behind.

Cartography – Atlanta

Post card – Madrid

Cartography – Madrid

Post card – Atlanta

With the aid of smart phones, however, we were able to capture a semblance of the flavor and appeal of both cosmopolitan juggernauts.

First off, let’s get things straight:  compared to Madrid, Atlanta is more expensive in areas of health care, groceries, transportation, and rent.  Yet you can bet your last euro that you will pay around 35% more to eat at a McDonald’s in Madrid than you will in Atlanta.  And the price will be even higher if you factor in the air fare to get you there.  You decide.

In Madrid, visitors are free to explore any number of sites:  El Museo Prado, of course.   Also, high on the list are the Plaza del Torros, Calle Gran Via, Palacio Real, Plaza Mayor, and the not-to-be-missed Parque del Buen Retiro.  We can rely only on the following documentation to account for sites seen.

Parque del Buen Retiro.

Parque del Buen Retiro.

Parque del Buen Retiro.

Parque del Buen Retiro.

Parque del Buen Retiro.

Parque del Buen Retiro.

Parque del Buen Retiro.

Meanwhile, 6,961 kilometers away in Atlanta, Georgia, visitors are welcome at the Atlanta Aquarium, the World of Coca Cola, the High Museum of Art, the Martin Luther King, Jr. National Historical Park and the Atlanta Botanical Garden.  One visitor, however, chose to join with celebrants who were honoring Naval Commander M. H. Rose, Ret. (US Naval Academy, Class of 48 A) on his 90th birthday.  This event, ninety + years in the making, took place at Maggiano’s in Buckhead.  Cmdr. M. H. Rose, Ret. was surrounded by his two beautiful, intelligent, successful, loving, dynamic, and articulate daughters, and by his gorgeous, loving, devoted, intelligent, smart and stylish wife, and yet not one of the many guests managed to snap a group photo of the family of four.  Let these random pictures suffice as proof that this gathering occurred.

Guest of Honor: M.H. Rose

With beloved wife.

Intelligent and beautiful daughters.

Documenting dessert.

Proof that party actually happened.

We miss him.

Ultimately, comparing Atlanta and Madrid is like comparing turnip greens and boiled peanuts or las manzanas y las naranjas.  It cannot be done….can it?  Which would you prefer?

Churros con chocolate, Chocolatería de San Ginés.

Chocolate cake with icing, Magianno’s.

“Luck is to have a clean neighborhood.”

Picking up the dog.

Atlanta Botanical Garden.

El Parque del Buen Retiro.

Eventually, we all met up again in Granada, in the Albayzin, and decided that we were now in the best place of all, for the time being.

The best place of all.

The best way to get to Oviedo is by way of Santiago de Compostela.  Lots of folks know that Santiago de Compostela is the capital of the autonomous community of Galicia.   {See previous post:  Galicia, an Autonomous Community of Spain and Historic Nationality Under Spanish Law.)  But not everyone knows that it is the destination for many a pilgrim along the Camino de Santiago, a journey taken afoot from France, Portugal or Spain. 

The Way of St. James leads to the center of the town of Santiago de Compostela where enormous hunks of granite that have been ornately carved, decorated, recarved and redecorated over the centuries rest assuredly on the cobbled ground.  In contemporary times this edifice is photographed almost daily.  It is named after St. James, the Slayer of Moors, in keeping with a general theme in the history of Spain — La Reconquista.  For our family, as our year-long stay was coming to a close, it was a chance to wave an “adiós” to a structure both significant and ubiquitous throughout the Iberian Peninsula, la Catedral.  In this case:  La Catedral de Santiago de Compostela.

Our visit was brief, long enough only to survey the exterior of the structure, listen to exceptional street musicians, eat lunch at an out-of-the way vegetarian restaurant, and discover that it was finally our time to proclaim:   He encontrado piojos en el pelo de mi hijo.*

(I have found lice in my son’s hair.)

Throughout the school year, the teeny tiny piojos were announced by parents and teachers with regularity as they made their way from the heads of one group of students to the heads of another.  Spanish parents accepted the inevitability of these pests and tended to ignore the regular e-mails from the school director imploring parents to keep their children at home when the little lice made an appearance.   For our family, these almost invisible creatures seemed out of a fairy tale, diabolical characters that all of us knew about, though none of us had ever encountered in real life.  We didn’t feel them.  We didn’t see them.  We seldom pronounced their names out loud.  It wasn’t until Jonah’s unstoppable head scratching on the Rúa de Fonseca, that our moment of reckoning arrived:  They were there on his scalp, moving about, lots of them.  Dismayed as we were, this did not prevent us from proceeding to Malak Bistro and ordering the tofu zatar skewers on our way out of town.

From Santiago de Compostela, we headed to Oviedo, “head” being the operative word as our mission was now two-fold:  pedal the Via Verde Senda del Oso the following day and find a farmacía that would still be open by the time we arrived in town late at night.

We drove north and east through Asturias, 324 kilometers towards our destination, with lots of time to mull over the origin of these piojos.  Did they arrive via the cap that Jonah found in a park on the ground outside the Oceanário de Lisboa days ago and which he had worn consistently since?  Did his classmates infect him in the weeks before we left Granada?  Did his compañeros de equipo de Rayos de Aneas?  We decided it was the cap.  We placed the beloved item in a plastic bag and shoved it in the bottom of the suitcase.

Their heads are so close together!

Somewhere there is a louse.

The culprit?

Oviedo recommends itself not only for being the home of the Sudarium of Oviedo**, but also for offering passersby the chance to have their likeness snapped with the famous/infamous director Woody Allen⊕⊕.

** The Sudarium of Oviedo is a blood stained cloth measuring 84 x 53 centimeters believed to have been wrapped around the head of Jesucristo after his death.  It is now housed in the Cámara Santa of the Catedral Metropolitana Basílica de San Salvador (in Oviedo, ¡claro!)

⊕⊕ “A life-size statue of Woody Allen ∇∇ was set on Calle de Pelayo in 2005. The statue was inaugurated after the famous film director dedicated compliments to the city of Oviedo upon receiving the Premio Príncipe de Asturias de las Artes. In 2005, Allen came to Spain and reached an agreement to film “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” in Avilés, Barcelona and Oviedo. Shooting in Ovideo started on July 9, 2007.” (https://www.gpsmycity.com/attractions/woody-allen-statue-54397.html)

∇∇  https://www.theolivepress.es/spain-news/2018/01/23/feminists-demand-removal-of-woody-allen-statue-in-oviedo/

What we were eager to experience was Farmacía Cavia, the only farmacía in Oviedo open 24 hours, located conveniently at Calle Dr. Casal, 8.   We bought enough product for four, now convinced that we were all hosts to these parasites, and spent the rest of our evening in Oviedo delousing. ℑ

We got there around 8:30 p.m.

What we bought.

The next morning, our heads freshly oiled and then raked with a fine-tooth metal comb, we headed to the village of Entrago to ride the Via Verde “Senda del Oso” down roads, through tunnels, skirting villages, past rivers, and by bears.  [As you recall from previous posts, Via Verdes are former rail lines, converted to pedestrian and bicycle-only paths.  This one passed through some of the last remaining brown bear habitat in Spain.]

ℑ   “[H]ead lice are found nowhere else on the planet except in human hair.  Head lice have adapted perfectly to life on us. They have specially designed claws at the ends of each of their six legs that are perfect for scuttling up and down the shafts of hair….So, what is the point of head lice? Perhaps they don’t have a “point” at all…..They don’t pollinate plants, they’re not food for other animals, and they don’t exactly bring joy to our lives in the way other, cuter animals do….I think lice see us as playing a role – providing them with food – but the reverse may not be true” (https://theconversation.com/curious-kids-whats-the-point-of-nits116158#:~:text=But%20perhaps%20head%20lice%20don,way%20other%2C%20cuter%20animals%20do).

We would ride some, though not all, of the Senda del Oso.

We begin.

The scenery is beautiful.

It is all down hill!!! All of it!

We pedal through tunnels.

We pose for pictures.

We dally by rivers.

We rest in the hot sun.

We imagine an idyll.

We read about bears.

We do not know if this is Paca….

…or Tola.

The brown bears were contained behind green metal fences and enclosures.  It could be there were other brown bears in the wooded hills and mountains surrounding us in the Tervega Valley but we did not see any.  We were going to leave Spain in about a week and head back to the United States  — no more Via Verdes, cafés con leche, amigos de españa, churros y chocolate, catedrals, pueblos blancos, playas, fiestas, ex-pat amigos, partidos de fútbol, cañas, vinos tintos, papelerías, burocracia.  But it was best not to think about any of this and just enjoy where we were and keep on pedaling.  We had stopped thinking about the piojos as well.   

Where we were.

For those who think there is nothing of informational value to be gained by reading this travel blog, take note!!!

The political structure of Spain consists of 17 autonomous communities and 2 autonomous cities (which are located on the coast of Northern Africa)!  Spain is officially designated a decentralized unitary state, rather than a federation!!  Spain possesses 6 official languages!!!   ¡¡¡Es cierto!!!

Castellano/Catalan/Basque/Occitan/Valenciano/Galego plus a dozen or so regional languages make up the polyglot land known as España.  (For our purposes, we will continue this blog post in English.)

Galego is spoken primarily in Galicia and in those places outside the boundary of Galicia by those people who know Galego and choose to speak it either with one another or to himself or to herself privately.   Located in the northwest Iberian Peninsula, Galicia includes the provinces of A Coruña, Lugo, Ourense and Pontevedra. 

We hope your time has been well spent up til now reading this post entitled Galicia, An Autonomous Community of Spain and Historic Nationality Under Spanish Law.

It is to the city of Pontevedra in the province of Pontevedra that we journeyed to celebrate the birthday of one of our party of four.  The plan was to take to the sea and enjoy the natural delights of Galicia’s only national park, Parque Nacional Marítimo-Terrestre das Illas Atlánticas de Galicia, a series of islands each located at the mouth of one of the four Rias Baixas.

One of our party of four.

The Rias Baixas (pronounced RI-as BY-shas) are a series of estuarine ecosystems on the southwestern coast of Galicia.  As you know from your earth science class, an estuary is “a partially enclosed body of water, and its surrounding coastal habitats, where salt water from the ocean typically mixes with fresh water from rivers or streams” (Mr. Portello, 7th grade, Neal Junior High School).  

On 14 July we drove to Portonovo, expressed a difference of opinion with a ticket agent regarding the validity of our previous on-line ticket purchase, then boarded a ferry for the beautiful island of Ons, located at the mouth of the Ría Pontevedra.

The beautiful Ons Island.

“Illa de Ons” in Galego, “Ons Island” in English, “Isla de Ons” in Castellano, or “Ons Uhartea” in Basque — no matter how you pronounce it, the place is delightful.  Getting up in time to drive to the ferry, anxiously scouting a parking spot, rushing to the pier, standing in line to process our tickets, disagreeing with the ticket agent (aforementioned), positioning ourselves for optimum seating on the ferry, and riding the chop of the waves to our destination — all mere appetizers for what awaited us on “Iscla de Ons” (Occitan).

Ferrying.

Debarking.

There are no trash cans on the island, neither in Castellano nor in Galego.

We had hours to explore before the ferry returned to pick us up.

We situated ourselves.

We explored buoys.

We explored a beach.

Who could argue?

As it was someone’s birthday, expectations were high!  And with expectations high, there was only one direction in which they would go.  

Things started out pretty good.

Then a feeling emerged.

Someone wanted to be alone….

…and far away.

So some of us walked in another direction,

around the Island of Ons,

which we had studied on a map,

heading toward the Faro de Ons,

laughing along the way….

and posing for a picture.

Faro de Ons: Tourist Brochure.

Others decided to go an opposite way,

running….

and running….

and running…

and then stopping

and stopping some more.

Looking

and sitting

and posing

and smiling

and happy

to be alive.

Illa de Ons is beautiful.  If you want, you can take off all your clothes at many of the numerous beaches.  (We did not.)  You can stay over night and camp.  (We did not.)  You can drink a beer and eat an ice cream at a quiet café.  (We did.)  You can learn stuff.  (We did.)  You can make amends and feel good about each other by the end of the day.  (We did.)

These are considered delicacies.

No comment.

Someone thought it funny that birds pooped on a sign about birds.

Amor fraternal.

A good day.

Because we couldn’t get enough of the warm sand, hot sun, and frigid waters where the rivers of the Rias Baixas converge with the waves of the North Atlantic Ocean, the following day we proceeded to another magnificent landmass, A Illa de Arousa (Las Isla de Arosa in Castellano), the only island municipality in Galicia.

You Cannot Fight This Establishment: Concello da llla de Arousa: City Hall.

It is located somewhere on this island.

A road connects the main land to the not main land.

We made our way to Playa Sualaxe, one of more than fifteen beaches on the island.  A  boardwalk, bathrooms, beach umbrellas, canoes and paddle boats were available for use, along with the ubiquitous café.  A game of volleyball/soccer was easy to join, if one belonged to the proper age group.

Boardwalks!

Boats!

Sport!

Cafe! (Don’t look!)

We drove all around the island, searching for el Faro de Punta Cabalo.  We discovered that this lighthouse is situated quite close to Playa Sualaxe and that we had been lounging right next to it all day long, the landmark being hidden by some pesky rocks.  

Pesky rocks.

The rocks also hid this cove.

And this boat, resting during low tide.

Up close, we agreed it was orange colored.

The anchor proved interesting as well.

Someone tried to mimic an anchor.

The water was cold.

But not so cold….

…that you wouldn’t go under.

One person chose not to go in.

We explored the area surrounding the light house.

El faro con dos chicas.

The lighthouse was a short walk from Playa Suxalaxe,

but it was hidden by all these rocks.

We wanted each day to last forever, to grab hold of Sir Arthur Eddington’s “arrow of time” and snap it in two, as impossible a wish as to find a restaurant in Pontevedra later that evening that did not serve jamon.  

Sir Arthur Stanley Eddington.

The Arrow of Time.

An Iberico pig eating acorns.

 We settled, instead, for the illusion of time passing, and dinner at a chain restaurant that served cheese pizza and green salad in the centro histórico district of Pontevedra.  All in all, not so bad.

FUN FACT:  “[Lisboa] is a city founded and named by Ulysses as Ulissipo or Olissopo, which has its origins in the Phoenician words ‘Allis Ubbo’, meaning ‘enchanting port’. It is from there, according to legend, that Lisbon got its name” (Brief History of Lisbon).  

Thus did we make our way up the coast of Portugal to Lisbon, crossing the mighty Tagus River atop Ponte 25 de Abril* from the south, hanging tight on the A2, somehow taking a wrong turn onto the E1 and heading out to the airport, then back into the city again from the north and eventually to our lodgings at a time of great importance:   the 2016 UEFA European Football Championship game between France and Portugal held in Stade De France in the northern commune of St. Denis in Paris.

WHY WE STOPPED IN LISBON

Best restaurant in Lisbon!

* 25 de Abril – The Carnation Revolution :  the 1974 non-violent military coup which overthrew the authoritarian Estado Novo regime *.                                                 * The Estado Novo regime – The Second Republic of Portugal, beginning in 1933 that featured a corporatist form of government. *                                                               * Corparatism — A political ideology which promotes the organization of society by corporate groups, such as agricultural, labor, military, scientific, or guild associations on the basis of their common interests.*                                                            * Common Interest — The opposite of what this blog post you are reading has devolved into.

Not only was Cristiano Ronaldo forced to leave the pitch in the 25th minute (in tears) due to injury, but the game also remained scoreless until the 99th minute (in overtime), at which point, Portuguese substitute Eder struck the ball 25 yards out for what became the winning goal.  At game’s end a great explosion of sound criss-crossed Lisbon consisting of horns tooting, people singing, bottles breaking, music blasting, cars revving and the soft whishing sounds of the Portuguese flag heralded by many a joyous Portugese.

Ronaldo leaves the field in distress.

Antoine Griezmann leaves the field in defeat.

The losers still get medals.

The winners also get medals….

and a trophy.

Soft whishing sounds emanated from flag-waving Portuguese citizen on eve of victory.

FUN FACT:   “An area of former royal summer residence, Sintra possesses a beauty that was celebrated by Lord Byron in his poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, and English author Robert Southey referred to Sintra as ‘the most blessed spot on the whole inhabitable globe.’ Sintra was designated a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1995″ (Britannica.com).

Thus did we take the subway to Rossio Station*, boarding the line to Sintra and arriving forty minutes and 25 kilometers later to arrive at one of Sintra’s most significant destinations.

WHY WE STOPPED IN SINTRA

First stop in Sintra!

* Rossio Station – Situated in Rossio Square, one of the main squares of Lisbon since the Middle Ages.  The name “rossio” is equivalent to the English term “the commons”, and refers to commonly owned terrain, making it an ideal location for executions during the Inquisition,* the first one of which took place in 1540.  On a lighter note, according to Wikipedia, “On 3 May 2016, a 126-year-old statue of Sebastian of Portugal that stood in a niche between the entrance portals was accidentally destroyed by a person who knocked it over by climbing up for a photograph. The person was arrested.”                                                                               * The Inquisition – In Portugal, targets were primarily conversos, suspected of secretly practicing Judaism while disguised as Catholics.  Many of these were originally Spanish Jews, forced out of Spain during the Spanish Inquisition.  Ultimately, a bummer.*                                                                                                             * Bummer – The current tone of this footnote.

The aforementioned statue, now destroyed.

  Delights beyond ice cream awaited us, as Sintra was (and perhaps remains) the go-to playground for the rich and famous, once the Moorish rulers were finally defeated sometime in the 12th century.  Great was our delight as we gazed from afar at the structural beauty bestowed upon We the Public and “rubbed shoulders” with the literati of the 19th century (or at least pawed at their commemorative placards).  

Edifices fanciful,

unusual,

and impressive!

Popular destination for the literati!

Byron slept here.

We did not pay to enter this palace.

The Castle of the Moors…until it wasn’t.

In Sintra, we wandered through Quinta da Regaleira, a place of fancy, marvel, whimsy and water and which can be investigated thoroughly via this web site:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quinta_da_Regaleira.

Quinta da Regaleira = Estate.

Atop the bridge.

Frozen in time.

The Labyrinthic Grotto.

A candid moment.

Leda’s Grotto.

The Initiation Well.

Also the Initiation Well.

A map of the premises.

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All in all, a great place to visit!

Girl with flower sculpture.

Girl with abstract sculpture.

Girl with armless sculpture.

FUN FACT:  “Expo ’98 (Exposição Internacional de Lisboa de 1998) was an official specialized World’s Fair held in Lisbon, Portugal from Friday, 22 May to Wednesday, 30 September 1998. The theme of the fair was ‘The Oceans, a Heritage for the Future’, chosen in part to commemorate 500 years of Portuguese discoveries. The Expo received around 11 million visitors in 132 days, while 143 countries and many organizations were represented” (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Expo_%2798).

Thus did we board the Metro and make our way underground to Estação do Oriente in order to witness the many discoveries* that Parque das Nações (the Park of Nations) had to offer.

WHY WE STOPPED AT PARQUE DAS NAÇÕES

Mascot “Gil” selected from over 300 entries!

* Discoveries — From the beginning of the 15th century until midway through the 17th century, this period was known as the Age of Discovery or the Age of Exploration, initiated by Portuguese explorers* such as João Gonçalves Zarco, Tristão Vaz Teixeira, Lourenço de Almeida, and dozens of other men whose names are difficult for us to spell (except for Vasco da Gama which isn’t really all that hard). *                                                                                                                                  * Portuguese explorers — Notably Infante Dom Henrique of Portugal, more familiarly known as Henry the Navigator, is credited with bankrolling those first forays into commercial exploration and colonization of the African coast that led to the African slave trade *, trans-Atlantic trade routes, and the discovery of numerous lands previously discovered by the people who were actually born in those said lands.                                                                                                                        * The African slave trade — See Roots, by Alex Haley, The Middle Passage, by Charles R. Johnson, Kindred by Octavia Butler, Beloved by Toni Morrison, along with hundreds of other books, paintings, monographs, documentaries, songs, interviews, dance pieces, poems, sculptures, blog posts* and graffiti that continue to describe and define the experience and legacy of human beings being bought and sold as market commodities over hundreds of years.                                * Blog posts — what you are now reading.

Gare do Oriente designed by Santiago Calatrava.

Interactive sculpture.

Compelling photograph.

Worth spending the day when you next visit Lisbon!

Sun Man by Jorge Vieira.

Aboard the Telecabine Lisboa high above the Rio Tagus.

Taking in the magnificent views.

Passing by the famous Super Bock Super Rock.

We approach Oceanário de Lisboa.

Steel kelp hang from the aquarium’s entryway.

A boy marvels at the ocean’s wonders.

Actual wonders! (We mean it.)

Humans captivated…..

…by otters, who are in captivity.

From an anthropomorphic view, this fish is quite happy.

We took the long way home, first heading west through the south of Spain to Conil de la Frontera, then through the Algarve in the south of Portugal and north to Lisbon.   Why stop in Conil de la Frontera you may ask?

ANSWER:  “It has six beaches: La Fontanilla Beach, El Roqueo Beach (with a 1936 Civil War bunker), Fuente del Gallo Beach, Punta Lejos Beach, Cala del Aceite Beach and Los Bateles Beach. Playa los Bateles is the longest and the most popular in the summer. Conil de la Frontera is primarily a vacation town and the majority of the tourists are Spanish although you often also hear German as well in town.” (Wikipedia)

In addition, we arranged to spend a weekend in Conil with some American friends before we all went our separate ways.  We visited the beaches, we spent an afternoon in the pueblo blanco Vejer de la Frontera, and some of us climbed a tree.

Our separate way led along the A-48, skirting Cádiz {see “Cádiz,” posted October, 2015}, Jerez de la Frontera, and Sevilla {see “Sevilla,” posted December 2015}. {Note for lovers of Sherry:  “Sherry can only be made in one place, the area lying between Jerez de la Frontera, Puerto de Santa María and San Lucar de Barrameda in the province of Cádiz, the so called Sherry Triangle. The secret is the combination of soil (the chalky, crumbly, moisture-retaining albariza), the damp climate which encourages the growth of the flor (a coat of yeast that forms on the aging wine and prevents it from oxidising) and the solera system used to blend the different vintages“ {see the website andalucia.com}.

At the junction to Sevilla we took a sharp left on to the A 49 and made our way west to the Rio Guadiana, demarcating Spain and Portugal.  

Don’t forget to order the gamba a la plancha in Ayamonte.

QUESTION:    Why did we skip the tourist-saturated south coast Portuguese towns of Lagos, Praia da Rocha, and Albufeira, you are wondering? 

ANSWER:  So that we could explore the wild weeds and sandy plots of the hidden west coast gem, Carrapateira!

The name of the street where we stayed. (Bakers Street)

Pensão das Dunas: where we stayed.

It kept getting lovelier.

In the morning, breakfast was served here.

You could also prepare meals in your suite.

A weedy, sandy plot of Carrapateira.

An important object was trapped there.

An attempt was made.

And another.

Many attempts were made.

Until the final one,

which proved successful.

We celebrated later at a local café.

Our neighbor in Granada, Antonio, had promised us that Carrapateira was worth the long drive and the isolated feel.  He was right.  The village was part of a protected nature area so there were no high rises or hordes of tourists or golf courses or disco bars.  (If those are the sorts of things you are interested in, we suggest you visit Lagos or Praia da Rocha or Albufeira.)

The Portuguese people whom we met spoke English — and Portuguese — and usually Spanish, along with one or two other languages.  When you went to a café you didn’t have to order ham.  Mostly, we went to the beach.

It was an easy walk from Pensäo das Dunas to the beach at Carrapateira.

You crested a small hill.

Crossed the tidal river,

or stayed to play in it.

And pretty much had the beach to yourself.

Other beach goers are outside the frame of this photograph.

Our worst sandcastle.

In addition to the beach at Carrapateira, we also made our way to Praia de Odeceixe, Sagres, Salema and a hidden beach situated somewhere off the N125  that requires a 1.5 kilometer walk in through a dirt path traversing a coastal woodland and that’s all I’m going to say about it.  (Except that it was incrível!)

QUESTION:  Why do these people look so happy?

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ANSWER:  Because for a particular moment in time, they are.

A crackling was in the air — electric, discordant — the energy of ex-pat friends making decisions:  should we stay or should we go?  The family from Ireland was leaving and so was the one from New Zealand.  The Australians were staying on.  An American couple had bought a carmen in Sacramonte!!  Pete was still commuting to work in St. Paul, Minnesota every few months, and was going to keep on doing so while he and his wife and kid spent the next few years in the Albayzin, at least through elementary school!  The Californians were all going home. 

Why?  Why go home?  Why not find a way to stay?  Stay forever and walk everywhere and drink café con leche in the morning and cervezas in the afternoon and vino tinto in the evening….Let your kids stay up until eleven or twelve at night, running in the streets with their schoolmates….Bump into friends spontaneously in Plaza Larga and hang out for hours at a time just because…..

Some of the other ex-pats from England and from the U.S.A., who had married Spaniards and had already made Spain their home for years and years, resented us dilettantes.  Here for only a bit of time, not committed to a life in Spain, capable of leaving whenever we chose.  We didn’t know anything about living a day to day life in Spain.  To them, we were mere tourists, able to escape the stifling bureaucracy and extreme underemployment and high cost of living on a Spanish salary.

We took pains to distinguish ourselves from the hordes of other tourists, actual tourists, who tramped through the Alhambra and through the Albayzin with their tour guides and guide books and their mouths agape.  We had kids in the local public schools and had negotiated the customs bureau and the oficina de ayuntamiento.  We had figured out how to acquire the prized and essential NIE -the Número de Identidad de Extranjero — that would assure our stay in Spain for up to a year.  We knew how to take the C-2 bus and which restaurants offered the best tapas and where to go for pizza secreta in the hills of Sacromonte.

But now we were leaving and it was time to say good-bye.

Zsa Zsa waves good-bye. She was the first to leave.

We arranged to send suitcases back to the States ahead of us, so we wouldn’t have too much to carry on our way.  When we sent them, we acknowledged that home was some place other than where we were living our daily life.

Our daily life was walking through the Albayzin…

…School projects…

…Upside down birthdays….

…Spying the Alhambra from afar…

…Upright birthdays….

…Buying pipas at Hay de Todo….

…An occasional midday drink…

…Goofing after school…

…Playing for Rayo Eneas…

…Riding the C2…

…Kicking it around Huerto de Carlos…

….Café con leche with pan tostado at Café Cuatro Gatos…

…Classmates and friends…

…Friends and school chums…

We started our good-byes.

Good-bye to San Miguel Alto.

Good-bye to school mates.

Good-bye to beautiful flowers.

Good-bye to Patio de los Leones.

Good-bye to abandoned buildings.

Good-bye to Anya’s wonderful oboe instructor, Paloma.

Good-bye to the Sierra Nevada.

Good-bye to street art.

Good-bye.

The ex-pats decided to throw a big, enormous, gigantic party in the woods surrounding San Miguel Alto.  We brought in food, beer, sangria, music and invited all the Spaniards who had been so generous to us throughout the year.  We called it Guirifest 2016, in honor of the derogatory term “guiri”applied by Spaniards to mostly Anglophone tourists.  We wore it with honor.

We had to say good-bye to Jonah’s soccer team, Rayo Eneas, the coaches and the players and the parents and siblings.  Jonah had made the team, no easy feat for an American, and they were sad to see him go.  The team organized a small Despedida to say good-bye to the end of the fútbol season and  then a big Despedida to say good-bye to Jonah at Terrazas del Albayzin, the cafe and bar run by Rai, who assured us that Jonah was destined for fútbol greatness and so wanted to take his picture as a memento for things to come.

The good-byes went on and on and on.  It included the pub crawl with Ladies Night Out, our ex-pat women’s group that allowed our straight women friends to drink while their husbands looked after the kids, and for which Diana and I always had to hire a babysitter.  We managed to fit in Bar Poë (at La Paz and Calle Verónica de la Magdalena), Taberna Gastronómica Chantarela (a short stumble toward Calle Aguila), Ávila Tapas II (easy to find once you cross Calle Recogidas) and some bar in the Realejo whose name we can’t recall due to overconsumption.

We said good-bye quite a few times to our landlord, Ricardo, and to Estefania, our friend from Gómez Moreno.  We packed up the rental car and said good-bye to the Albayzin and to Granada.

We say good-bye to Ricardo.

We say good-bye to Faní.

We say good-bye to the Albayzin.

We say good-bye to Ricardo again.

He takes our photograph.

We load up the car.

It’s time to go.

We go.

Not a bad idea after all.

We made friends.  Some were Spanish and some were not.  Some were American and some were not.  Some spoke English and some did not.  We have included pictures of some of them, but not all of them. 

Chris and Valerie. One is from the southern portion and the other is from the northern portion of California.

Diana and David. They are both professors, one on the west coast and one on the east coast of the United States of America.

The Rayo Aneas fútbol club. They all spoke Spanish.

Anya and Violet. They both spoke English.

Anya and Leila. They both spoke Spanish.

Theresa and Chris. They are married to each other.

Jane and Pete. They are married to other people, not pictured here.

Jonah and Felix. They spoke English to each other.

Jonah and Mariam. They spoke Spanish to each other.

Leigh and David. They are the parents of Ruby and Felix.

Anya and Ruby and Luz. They spoke Spanish to each other.

Skinny shoulders. All bilingual.

Cheris is from the U.S.A. Therese is from Ireland.

By now, you should be able to identify everyone in this photograph, including the gentleman with the plant growing out of his head.

Teammates who spoke Spanish exclusively.

Chris and David, amigos.

Leigh, Theresa and Jane, amigas.

Rhadika is from Wisconsin.

One is from New Zealand and the other is from France.

Both hail from Austin, Texas.

A friendship was formed through discussions (in Castellano) about education.

At our intercambio we spoke Spanish and English.

Three out of four in this picture are from the U.S.A. One is from España.

Our Spanish friends were welcoming, generous, friendly and warm!  What was up with these people who had no reservations about inviting us into their homes, feeding us elaborate meals, and bestowing upon us besos y abrazos?

As mentioned in a previous post, each week day J. and A. would walk up a series of steep cobblestoned lanes to get to their elementary school, Colegio Público Gómez Moreno.  In a matter of months, they were fluent in school-yard Spanish, had progressed academically, and were attaining a cross-cultural pedagogical experience.

Compelled to hold unintelligible sign.

Does not yet understand message he is promoting.

The walk up….

…and up….

….and up….

…to get there.

A.’s 5th grade class.

Months later, sign is easy to read and understand.

Throughout the school year, the comedor remained a place of noise, confusion and interesting lunch options.  The kitchen staff made healthy, organic fresh food every day.  The children who ate it remained unimpressed.

Wonderful Spanish meals were offered every day.

A lot was accomplished in a small space.

Unable to properly capture chaos and anxiety of lunchtime.

Seat choices were limited.

If you turned away, some kid might put her or his food on your plate.

The staff changed the seating arrangements every couple of months.

You had to stay until you finished your meal, even if you hated gambas.

Mesa 9 turned out to be a good arrangement for a certain A. and R.

Lavado de manos was strongly encouraged prior to eating.

Learning took place in all manner of shape and form.

Learning through writing and drawing.

In the class room.

On the school buidling.

On overnight trips.

Learning by playing.

Via cooperation.

Through joy.

On bulletin boards.

Learning by sitting.

By remaining still.

With positive results.

At the end of the school year, any pretense of study was abandoned as students, teachers and parents were ready to celebrate the coming of ¡Felices Vacaciones!  After-school parties, in-school parties, and spontaneous gatherings ruled the day.

Home made treats to celebrate the end of the year.

A. & R. whooping it up.

Random children.

A school assembly marked the close of the semester:  dance, music, poetry and drama all took place in a raucous gymnasium with poor acoustics and ecstatic displays of joy.  Good-byes were heartfelt.

The director of school emcees the event.

J. recites Rafael Alberti’s “Se Equivocó La Paloma”*** while dressed as Sancho Panza.

J.’s classmate F. is also dressed as Sancho Panza.

Dancers and performers wait stage left.

A. had a speaking part…..

….but it was difficult to hear her lines.

In the end, it didn’t really matter.

J. says good-bye to Muestra Auri.

Josephina, the Spanish tutor, says good-bye to some of her ex-pat students.

A. and M. say good-bye to Muestra Maria Angeles.

***  “Se Equivocó la Paloma” by Rafael Alberti

Se equivocó la paloma,
se equivocaba.
Por ir al norte fue al sur,
creyó que el trigo era el agua.
Se equivocaba.
Creyó que el mar era el cielo
que la noche la mañana.
Se equivocaba.
Que las estrellas rocío,
que la calor la nevada.
Se equivocaba.
Que tu falda era tu blusa,
que tu corazón su casa.
Se equivocaba.
(Ella se durmió en la orilla,
tú en la cumbre de una rama.)

“The Dove was Wrong” by Rafael Alberti

The dove was wrong.
The dove was mistaken.
To travel north she flew south,
Believing the wheat was water.
She was mistaken.
Believing the sea was sky,
That the night was dawn.
She was mistaken.
That the stars were dew,
That the heat was snowfall.
She was mistaken.
Your skirt your blouse,
Your heart your home.
She was mistaken.
(She fell asleep on the shore,
You at the tip of a branch.)

La graduacíon de los estudiantes de sexto grado signified the completion of all activities for the year.  More performances, more cervezas, and more clapping marked the occasion.

Parents, teachers and students offer their rapt attention.

A discerning critic surveys the scene.

Daniel receives his diploma!

By the end of the school year, even D. and M. had something to show for their efforts.

Newspaper editor Arthur Brisbane (New York Sun, New York World, and New York Journal), in his instructional talk to the Syracuse Advertising Men’s Club in March of 1911, advised “Use a picture.  It’s worth a thousand words.”  Taking that adage at face value, we have been able to eliminate at least 275,000 words in the blog, til now.  In this post, we provide an assortment of replications — visual “tapas”, so to speak — to stimulate your appetite to take a trip to Granada.

{Contest, optional:   Please calculate the number of words “saved” in this post.  Then send your answer via post card to win an equivalent number of words to use at your own discretion.}

Here is a picture of J. having mastered el trompo (a wooden top).

And here is a picture of J. waiting for a ride to un partido (a soccer game).

This is a picture of a telephone booth at the border between the Albayzin and Sacromonte.  (We never saw a single person using it, except to stand under its metal bower as the rain poured down.)
And this is a picture of a flamenco performance we attended at Tablao Flamenco La Alborea in the Albayzin.

Here you will see photographs of graffiti on Granadian city walls,

Dramatic.

Assertive.

Colorful.

and next you will witness sights from Parque de las Ciencias (the Science center).

These photographs depict our wanderings  in Carmen de los Mártires (once a holding place for captive Christians during the time of the Nasrid dynasty).

Entrance to Carmen de los Mártires.

Quiet and peaceful.

Stones of the past.

A child of the future.

We took many photographs of our neighborhood and home.  Six of them are included here:

Placeta de Almez, a place to play fútbol up the lane from our house.

The patio was situated above the cobbled lane.

And you could look down on the pedestrians below.

Eventually, all the fish died. There was not enough oxygen.

We had room to eat on the patio.

The Alhambra was a silent friend who was always around in a good way.

These are random images of random phenomena.

We have also included representations of actual people.

Grandparents and others in front of an olive press (Valle de Lécrin). .

Young and old at a ropes course (Serrallo Plaza).

Around town we could frequently espy images of arches, that in form, ran counter to words in a line.  For example:

“It was Islam that first introduced the arch as a popular element in Europe.” (From: The Arch as an Architectural Symbol – Evolution and Technology” by Ashish Nangia)

Arch in the shape of a cistern.

Cypress trees in the shape of an arch.

Children near fountain with arch form molded in bas relief.

Puerta de Las Granadas (16th cent.), leading to Cuesta de Gomerez.

Boy on arch-shaped object covering aljibe.

Who said: “Does architecture take on the forms of shapes found in our organic environment?”

Pictures and depictions of animals have been included to demonstrate the daily integration of human and non-human existence.

A shepherd, a dog, a donkey, some sheep and a cellphone on the road to El Fargue.

A lost animal.

Two found horses.

Horse shoe turned into image of animal.

Another lost animal.

Phylum: Chordata; Class: Mammalia; Order: Primates; Family: Hominidae; Genus: Homo; Species: H. Sapiens.

Many words are needed to describe Fiesta de Las Cruces, a holiday rooted in the search by the Byzantine Empress Helena for the cross on which Jesus died. With these pictures, we hope to eliminate thousands and thousands of words, not to speak of the letters of which they’re composed.  (50 words)

In the following pictures you see evidence of la convivencia — a concept that we helped manifest in contemporary Granada, 523 years after Muslims and Jews were expelled from Spain.

In the Albayzin, in Granada, and in many other parts of Spain, children are loved, cherished and left to their own devices.  Occasionally, adults will step in to drive them places, check for head lice, and offer hugs and kisses.  Words cannot adequately describe this bond, hence, we offer these images in their stead.

A sister and brother rambling hand in hand on the streets of the Alhambra.

A loving, maternal embrace.

Children looking yonder (San Miguel Alto).

School chums on an overnight outing.

A child has climbed a tree.

Children with neighborhood feline.

Happy children.

A mother and child explore the Albayzin.

A photographer and mother contemplates the wind, while thinking of her children.

About town, we grew accustomed to sights that continued to surprise us, even as they grew familiar and dependable.  Without words to describe these images, we offer photographs instead. 

Controlled fires in la vega de Granada in autumn..

The C2 bus as it made its way by the tienda Hay de Todo.

Abandoned buildings.

The Alhambra.

Mirador San Nicolás. (From below.)

A bolsa from our local tienda.

Our favorite heladería.

The Albayzin from across the Rio Darro.