Coming Full Circle

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.
--T. S. Eliot

SAN CARLOS, CALIFORNIA
These words have come to mind at many junctures in my life—and now they seem especially pertinent and poignant.  During our last few days in Europe, we became conscious of “closing the loop,” returning to what we’d seen or experienced before either to reinforce an impression or evoke a new perspective. 

In Madrid, on our last day, we followed a walking tour laid out in our guidebook and happened upon an exhibit about Yves St. Laurent and his revolutionary effects on women’s fashion—going through the exhibit gave us a better understanding of his attraction to Morocco and his beautiful gardens that we visited in Marrakesh.  Later in the walk we passed by the Plaza de Colon or “Columbus,” appropriate for us on the threshold of returning to the New World, and the location where, when we first arrived in Spain two weeks earlier, Lily met the high school teacher with whom she’s been corresponding about setting up an exchange program for Sequoia Spanish students.   We walked back to our apartment via streets of the Chueca District, retracing the path we had taken our first night in Madrid, when we dragged our recalcitrant bags from the rental office over what seemed an endless maze of streets.

Returning geographically was necessary and obvious.  We had to fly back to London for one more day in order to catch our flight out of Heathrow.  Abby wanted to re-visit the highlights of central London in an effort to delay preparing for our departure.  Lily wanted me to go back to the corner grocery shop to buy croissants for our final morning—she and I had been treated to croissants from the same shop on our very first morning in London.  Indeed, we were coming back to our landlord’s house where our luggage was stored and to meet for the second time, his former graduate student, Mansour, who had so kindly waited up until midnight for Lily and me when our flight arrival was delayed. 

Instead of repeating visits as the girls did, Peter and I chose something new for our last afternoon in London.  We decided to visit Highgate Cemetery as I had found out that my favorite Victorian author George Eliot is buried there.  But I realize now that going there was also circling back, in time and history, to visit the graves of some of London’s most famous and infamous residents.  Along with other devoted tourists, we stood by the tomb of Karl Marx and reflected on Marx’s impact as well as more recent notables like Doug Adams, author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  The dusty remains of thousands of former Londoners now rest along muddied meandering tree-lined pathways below headstones of carved angels draped in ivy. 

As twilight approached around 3:30 pm (what people in Devon call “dimsey” I recently learned), we decided to walk over to Hampstead Heath, where the girls and I had rambled three weeks earlier to see the swimming ponds (they are open all year!) and find a “mirador,” or viewpoint from a hill, to look out over the city.  Londoners were out in large family groups enjoying the last minutes of daylight, racing around on bicycles and putting away fishing gear.  We joined them as we sauntered up a grassy slope to reach a perfect vista looking south to the center of the city in the distance.  The girls were down there somewhere, breathlessly running across the Millenium Bridge or dashing off to Convent Garden.  We could see the Gerkin Tower and the unfinished Shard Skyscraper with St. Paul’s outlined very clearly in front of it; the London Eye was off the right, quite faint but still visible in the twinkle of lights just coming on like a haze of summer fireflies. 

I wondered when we might come back to London—not for the Olympics in a few months, surely.  But certainly in the not-so-distant future.  Abby is determined to return before her under 16 Oyster Card expires; Lily is vaguely considering going to school in London sometime.  For our family of four the return home to San Carlos is both an end and a new start.  We’ll relive many of our experiences of the past four months for years afterwards through shared anecdotes, photos, joking references. 

For now, until familiarity returns,  we see our California home in a different light.  Opening the front door to our house and stepping inside we felt foreign; our eyesight had changed and all the angles and colors in the rooms looked different.  It will take a while to re-settle I’m sure, and we’ll probably bore everyone with our comparisons between European and American culture, but I hope we’ll follow T. S. Eliot’s prediction or benediction and ultimately better understand and appreciate our lives here as a result of our explorations.

Beth

Memory Lane

SAN CARLOS, CALIFORNIA
As I sit here in our disgustingly large family room in San Carlos, I'm remembering all the wonderful experiences that I've been able to enjoy and positively aching to go back "home." Our last day in London will stand out clearly in my memory. We packed it with as many things as we could and it renewed my obsession with the amazing city.

As soon as we arrived back to Boundary Road from Gatwick Airport, we spread out our baggage and stuff in the living room and repacked, making sure there was plenty of room for all the contents of our Christmas stockings. Lily and I rushed the process, finishing early to make lunch. We then hurriedly ate then grabbed our purses and made our way to our beloved Turnpike Lane Station.

On the tube, we consulted the map and decided to get off at Russel Square to re-walk the heavily trodden path to our weekly BLC classes. As we set out towards the University though, everything seemed different. There were no students. As we passed by the place where the Hare Krishna man had always been giving away free lunches to the mile long queue of University students, all we saw was an empty stretch of concrete. Lily and I entered the deserted campus and passed by the ULU store to find it dark, locked up and closed. We realized that the University of London was out of session, so we decided to take a short cut through the British Museum to escape the eeriness.

We found the entire population of London crammed inside the British Museum and lost all our feelings of loneliness as we exited through the grand marble gateway onto the correct street (we were heading to Covent Garden). Newly re-energized, we walked passed adorable pubs and chic fashion stores until we arrived at the two floor Covent Garden Market. I was filled with happiness as we stepped inside my favorite place in London. I was flooded with memories as we passed by the spot where we had listened to a man with a guitar and a voice just like Bono sing all our favorite U2 songs a few weeks earlier. It all felt so familiar. We then found a Barclay's map and plotted our course to Trafalgar Square.

Lily and I passed the National Portrait Gallery and were reminded of the stiff Tudor portraits and the lovely cream tea we had had down in the museum's basement. When we went by Saint Martin in the Fields we calculated that we had attended a total of three concerts in the sanctuary and had three highly enjoyable lunches in its historic crypt.

As more and more memories came pouring in, I felt happy to revisit but so sad to be leaving. From Trafalgar Square we walked down the Royal Mall towards Buckingham Palace and the huge monument to Queen Victoria. There were lots of people and tourists promenading down the mall and others with their faces pressed up against the bars of the palace watching the guards. I could just see us a few months ago on our Barclays bikes coming around the corner and seeing the palace for the first time on our trip.

Next, we walked through St. James Park and watched tourists snapping their fingers at fat squirrels to make them waddle dangerously closer. When we reached Westminster Bridge, we saw intricate Big Ben which looked amazing in the setting sun. We crossed the bridge to the South side of the Thames and found ourselves gazing up at the London Eye. I had ridden it four times in total but the last time I rode it the view had the most meaning because I was getting a view of my new favorite city. We walked by the Eye and down the Thames River walk towards Tate Modern.

Lily and I were pointing out our favorite sites and places we'd been without each other and retelling our favorite London stories. When we reached Tate we bought an orange fizzy drink and walked across the Millennium Bridge. Everything seemed so right. The Globe Theater was silhouetted against the 3:30 pm darkening sky, St. Paul's was perfectly centered on the other side of the bridge and there was a candied nut stall where we got two cups for only 3 pounds.

At St. Paul's we sat and ate our nuts and watched as the cathedral began to light up. Then we walked around the mostly closed up financial district. As we went down yet another alley with darkened shop windows I said to Lily,
"You know, I don't want this deserted Square Mile to be my last experience in London."

"Me too." She replied, so we popped on the tube to the British Museum.

We looked at the Olympic Medals on display and a Japanese print of a wave. When we were satisfied we hopped back on the Piccadilly Line to Turnpike. We walked the familiar path back to Boundary Road and the 123 bus passed us. Suddenly I had an idea, we could hop on that bus and go to swim practice with Haringey Aquatics; it was the right time after all. My logic quickly crushed the idea but just the thought of seeing our friends again brought back even more memories.

I'm missing London so much every day. Waking up in my own bed, watching SUVs prowl in parking lots and unloading boxes of junk back into my room feels wrong, but I have memories to live on and my tube card is still in the front pocket of my purse ready at a moment's notice when I get the chance to revisit my home.

Abby

Final Ride on Our Piccadilly Line

LONDON
We board the Piccadilly Line at our Tube stop: Turnpike Lane.  At 10am the commuters who would normally crowd the platform are already at work.  There is plenty of room.  We see on the screen that the next train terminates at Heathrow – good.  The train slows and stops.  The doors slide open.  Dragging our 13 pieces of luggage, we lumber into the car with effort but without incident.  The Piccadilly Line cars are designed with luggage-bearing travelers in mind because it serves King’s Cross-St. Pancras train station and Heathrow Airport.  Each of us claims one of the corner spaces on either side of the four double doors and arranges our luggage.  There aren’t available seats next to our luggage yet, but we know folks will get off at Finsbury Park to switch over to the faster Victoria Line.

When we pull into King’s Cross our train car is full.  We are all seated next to our bags, Lily and Beth across from each other.  There is an exhalation of people heading for trains and the Circle Line Tube.  Our car inhales an equal number of people and more luggage.  Two families with teenagers board.  They appear to be eastern European or Russian.  The boy gets caught in the door as it is closing.  It reopens with a jerk.  He slips into the car.  His mother scowls and scolds him.  By Holburn the train is very full.  As usual many business people get off with their brief cases and shined shoes.  A woman in a black knit dress and neat black raincoat absorbed in Buying Fashion, which appears to be a text book, gives a starts.  She jumps up and exits through the doors pushing past incoming passengers as she stuffs the book in her shoulder bag.

At Leicester Square two middle aged women sit down across from me.  They are deep in animated conversation.  The shorter woman is wearing black leather calf-high boots.  The top four inches have a decorated LV (Louis Vitton) pattern.  When her friend with a dozen bangles on her left wrist and oversized black and silver watch on her right crosses her legs I see her black boots have a bold “CC” (Channel) logo.  Without stopping their conversation they exit three stops later at Knightsbridge -- the Harrod's department store stop.

A Sikh boy and his father are standing opposite my luggage.  The boy is maybe ten.  His hair is tied up in a black bun.  His father’s short cropped black hair is uncovered.  They exit at South Kensington.  I imagine they are going on a school-holiday outing to one of the museums. Science?, Natural History? V+A?

By Baron’s Court nearly all riders have luggage in their laps, propped in front of them, or in the luggage corners like ours.  We’ve passed out of Zone One and are heading on the long stretch west toward Heathrow. A Chinese man has joined us.  He has two enormous bags that make our large bags look like carry-ons.  In Zone Four a woman with luggage gets off at Hounslow West.  She must live out here and arrived in London from somewhere by train. She is South Asian.  This reminds me of Bend it Like Beckham, a movie we saw recently about a soccer-mad Indian girl who lives near Heathrow.

It’s been 90 minutes since we boarded.  Lily has finished Room.  She’ll leave it at the airport to save space and weight in her carry on. Our train’s automated voice finally announces “Heathrow Terminals 1, 3 and 4.”  The four of us rise, along with our other passengers, and arrange our luggage around us.  Our Tube cars trundle along.  Conversations have picked up as people confer about tickets, terminals, luggage. We sway forward as the car brakes.   The train stops and the doors slide open.  I pull the two sets of rolling bags off behind me.  I look down the platform and there is Abby with her two rolling bags and purple JanSport backpack.  Lily winks.  Beth has her luggage and is smiling.  Lily straightens the hood on Beth’s black coat.

We move off in a line toward the escalator and exit barriers leading into the airport. 


Peter

A United Luggage Strategy

WOOD GREEN, LONDON
Beth: “But if one of our pieces is over weight then they may weigh each and every piece of our hand luggage.  And we know that Abby’s backpack stuffed with text books is way over the 10 kg limit. Remember, that’s what happened to Lily and me in Montreal.”

On Christmas in Madrid - The tree is packed but will be jetisoned if necessary

It’s breakfasttime on the morning of our flight back to San Francisco from London and we are working on our luggage weigh-in strategy.

Abby raises another complication: “We need to let one of us do the talking with the agent to make sure we don’t contradict each other.  We don’t want to make a mess and have them force us to fly on to Monterey.”  When I purchased our tickets nine months ago I saved $400 by buying return tickets with a routing London-SFO-Monterey, California.  At the time I was certain we could just leave the airport in SFO and skip the final leg.  But I had never received firm confirmation of this and the uncertainty was weighing on us.  Should we ask if we can get off in SFO or just do it…running the risk of an unexpected problem in SFO after 11 hours in the air and possibly having to arrange last minute ground transport home from Monterey?

Beth and I had already discussed the weight problem several times in the last 24 hours and had agreed on this final summit meeting to effectively synchronize our strategy.  Beth had her notebook out.  First, we had agreed preemptively to pay the 31 GB Pounds for an extra bag.  This bought us an additional 23 kg (50 pounds).  Even so, without a scale, and with unpleasant experiences on Beth and Lily’s flight over and our intra-Europe EasyJet (see previous blog) flights fresh in our minds, we worried that one or more of the five big bags we had spread out across the living room would be overweight.  


Lily exclaims: “That’s 250 pounds of checked luggage!”  We all feel sheepish.  “It has been four months...  We have bought a few presents…  Books for teaching and airplane reading are heavy…”  What can we say?

The discussion continues.  The croissants are eaten.  The coffee and tea are nearly gone.

With our luggage, ready to walk to our Tube Station

Beth referring to her notes: “In summary, we’ll hope for scenario A: all of our bags are less than 23 kg and we check in without a hitch.” 

She continues: “If we face scenario B -- one or more bags are over and the agent is going to charge us, we will jot down the weight of each bag, take them off to the side to let others check in, and on the floor of the hall reallocate dense items in the offending bags to the lighter bags.”


Peter: “Everyone needs to know where the heaviest items in your checked luggage are.”


Abby:  “The bag of presents for my friends is dense – pure chocolate.  I can grab them out easily.”

Beth moves on to scenario C – our worst case: Bags are overweight and the agent insists on weighing all 13 bags (2 each carry-ons plus the five to be checked).  “In this case we’ll check my roll-on bag which is already heavy with books and pay a second extra-bag fee.  In that case everyone move some heavy carry-on items into my roll-on and I’ll take lighter stuff in an extra carry-on shoulder bag.”

After a few more refinements we are clear.  Next we agree I should do the talking with the agent.  However, Lily insists, “But we shouldn’t be hard on them.”  I get defensive, “If I’m going to do the talking, I’ll do it my way.  I always try to steer between firmly defending our needs against arbitrary rule enforcement and being obnoxious.  I’m never mean or obnoxious.  The staff is just trying to do their job by following their rules.”  My family doesn’t look reassured.  But they allow me to hold onto my role as spokesperson.

Now it is time to revisit the Monterey problem.  Beth puts her foot down: “You need to say what we agreed-on yesterday.  Just tell them we want to get off in San Francisco.  Don’t get fancy.”  I withdraw my fancier proposal to start with an oblique confirmation of where we will be processed through US Customs.

The meeting adjourns.

Two hours later we reach the head of the United Airlines line at Heathrow Terminal 1.  Our agent is a middle aged black man with a Caribbean accent.  We nonchalantly approach the counter with our thirteen pieces of luggage.  I smile and hand him our passports and internet-printed boarding passes.  As agreed, Abby and Lily subtly stack our carry-on items in a neat scrum away from the counter and position themselves to screen them from the agent's view. While he processes our paperwork I slyly place each of our five bulbous pieces of luggage on the scale:  Beth’s weighs in at 22.5 kg.  The girls give each other a discrete knuckle tap.  My bag is 20.5, a light-weight.  The girl’s are the same. And our extra bag full of books and paperwork weighs only 16 kg.  Scenario A, here we come.

Feeling a surge in confidence I broach the subject of Monterey.  “Is this the last flight on your itinerary?” he asks.  “Yes.”  “Then no problem.”  I notice another knuckle-tap by our hand luggage screeners.  He prints luggage tags only to SFO.  We are golden.

With a mixture of triumph and relief we proceed through immigration.  Beth reflects, “My bag was the heaviest!”


Peter

Christmas Kabap

MADRID, SPAIN

As we walked out of the one thousandth museum in Madrid and I was craving a döner kabap. For those of you who a not familiar with this European traditions, a döner kabap is a falafel sandwich with meat shaved off of a huge rotating spit made of a compilation of many different meats.We found the perfect place in a corner of Madrid's plaza del sol. As we walked in, we were cheerfully greeted by a young (middle eastern?) man who took our orders in a friendly way and even accepted Mom's order of a drink even after we had already paid. 

Once we had received our enormous döner kabaps, I sat down and began to eat, very satisfied. Little did I know that I would soon be grappling with a violent internal struggle. Dad said to me, "I know you'll hate to hear this but he's your man," he pointed to our server "you should ask him about the Christmas traditions" 

I almost choked on my kabap, "What??" I gasped. It slowly dawned on me that he was referring to the spanish assignment I had been given before I left, that I had conveniently pushed to the way back of my mind. The assignment was to ask (in Spanish) about the Christmas traditions in Spain as well as ask for directions and order in a restaurant. I had done both the latter but still had the most awkward one left.

"No, no no no no, please no dad!!" I pleaded but it was no use, I had no alternative. The rest of my döner became tasteless and I didn't even finish my Fanta, which is a very rare occurance. After about two days, we finished our food then dad said, 

"Now"s the time!" I got to my feet and began to walk up to the counter, but then sat back down. "He's really busy dad," I said this despite the fact that there was no one else in the cafe. My mom and dad ended up going to the counter and asking him over to our table. It turned out he was Muslim, but he knew a bit about Madrid culture so he came over.

The already awkward situation became even more awkward, how was I supposed to ask someone who doesn't celebrate Christmas, their Christmas traditions? I started out,

"Para mi escuela, nececito aprender los traditiones para la navidad en españa" 

"¿que es? I added helpfully.

After a bit more clarification he started to speak about their traditions. Because of his rapid spanish, it was hard for me to understand all of what he said but I go the general gist of the conversation. Here is what I learned:

- spanish people all get together with family and friends on the 24th of december

- they also give gifts on the 24th, parents to children, friends to friends, boyfriends to girlfriends, relatives to relatives

- only children 7 and under receive gifts on the 25th from "papa nöel"

- they also celebrate "tres Reyes" (three Kings) day on the 6th and 7th of January where the little kids get more presents

-there is lots and lots of dancing on both dates 

Relieved, I said a hasty "muchas gracias" and started to get up from my stool, but my mom began to launch into whether he celebrated Christmas or not. It turned out that he did not but he did acknowledge the birth of Christ. 

With another "muchas gracias" we left the shop with him telling us we could come back any time. 

"Now wasn't that fun?" dad asked as we walked back down toward the plaza mayor "let's just say I can check this one off my list, it was memorable." I replied. 

Abby

Guernica

We have visited three fabulous art museums in Madrid: the Prado, which houses a superb collection of 17^th and 18^th century Spanish art, including major works by Velasquez and Goya; the Thyssen-Bornemisza, a private collection of 13^th century to contemporary art; and the Reina Sofia, which houses Spain’s 20^th century art collection.  I wanted to visit the Reina Sofia in particular to see Picasso’s Guernica.  Vaguely, I remembered seeing it in NYC in the fall of 1977, when I was on a college tour with my dad—but how could that have been?  I found out why later.

Guernica is a huge black and white mural painted with cubist and abstract figures representing the massacre that occurred in the Basque town of that name during the Spanish Civil War.  It’s both a moving and a daunting portrayal of terror.  And it was every bit as memorable and disturbing as I remember it being over 30 years ago.

After visiting the museum, I decided to find out more about Guernica’s history.  Picasso was commissioned to paint it for the Paris International Exposition in 1937.  It was meant to—and it did—bring attention to the Republican forces fighting against Franco in the Spanish Civil War.  Since then it has become an anti-war symbol used by many, including the Basques themselves and protestors against the Vietnam War. 

I found a couple of ironies associated with the painting.  First, it was exhibited at the MOMA in NYC essentially from 1939-81 (with some tours elsewhere including three years in Brazil), hence the reason I saw it there in 1977.  Picasso didn’t want the painting to return to Spain until the country became a republic.  But in 1978 Spain became a constitutional monarchy.  The MOMA, however, didn’t want to return the painting to Spain claiming that the country wasn’t a true republic yet.  International pressure fortunately convinced the MOMA to return it in 1981.

The second irony concerns protecting the anti-war painting.  At the MOMA in 1974, the painting was attacked with spray paint and had to be repaired.  When it came to be displayed at the Prado in 1981, it was protected behind bullet-proof glass and was flanked by guards with machine guns. I wonder what Picasso would have thought?

Now, luckily, Guernica is at the Reina Sofia, no longer under glass or guard—you just can’t approach the painting too closely (as we did by mistake).

Seeing the painting and thinking about all the art we’ve seen these past four months makes me especially aware of the incredible power of visual art—not just as propaganda, but in this case as a profound symbol of the human spirit.

Beth

LH: Christmas in Madrid

Above: our stockings, hung on the bottom of Mom and Dad's bed.

Below: our Christmas tree with Abby's leg as a size comparison.
MADRID
"I like this one," I say, pointing to a foot-tall (including the pot) light green tree.

"That's much too small, it won't fit any of our ornaments. I liked the one I saw in the shop window on our way," Mom says.
"But it was fake, I will not have a fake tree."
"Well, we can look some more, but this one's definitely too small." We're standing outside a florist shop near our apartment in Madrid. It's the 22nd, and we're looking for a Christmas tree. Unfortunatley, there aren't any Christmas tree lots in the city, and all the table decoration ones are too small to fit our five ornaments.

The next day we set off on a walk around the city. We come across the Plaza Mayor which is full of stalls, all selling figures for belen (see previous blog post) and other Christmas decor. We look hopefully around the edge at the stalls with moss for the belen and trees. Again, the trees are either much too small or adorned with fake snow (which in my opinion is even worse than having a fake tree).

Finally, we come across a stall with lots plastic trees hanging upside down. We settle on one about 1 1/2 feet tall with a little stand and a few light green tips to its needles (to make it look as though it's fresh and growing ?!?) I was very disappointed that we stooped low enough to buy a plastic tree, but it was either fake or none at all. For the rest of the day Abby carried around our tree wrapped in two plastic bags.

When we got back to our apartment we erected our miniature tree and put on our five star ornaments, which had been brought from California. We also put up a banana leaf creche we had bought in Tanzania this summer. Abby made a paper chain out of wrapping paper (the only type we could find that didn't have Disney princesses or Bob the Builder on it). By Christmas Eve our little apartment was looking quite festive. We hung our stocking at the end of Mom and Dad's bed, and piled a small mound of presents around the tree (they wouldn't fit underneath). After a lovely soup dinner we went to sleep with visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads.

One of my favorite parts of the holidays is decorating the house, so I was glad we got to do it on a small scale this year. It was fun to scrape together a tree and some wrapping paper to create a traditional Christmas, but to be able to experience the Spanish customs as well.

Lily

Birth of Jesus in Spain

Belen scenes for sale - Seville

Waiting in line to see Store-Window-Belen

MADRID
"Belen" is a new word for us.  It refers to displays of the birth-of-Jesus. We've always used the French word "creche", in Mexico we saw the "nacimiento".  Here in Spain it is a "belen".  Each church has one on display in scales of 1/2 or 1/3...in one case a 1:1 scale!  In the square in front of the grand Seville cathedral there is a public square dedicated to extensive booths selling figures and props for home belen.  In Madrid many stalls sell live green moss, which gives the belen a northern european green lushness out of place with the landscape of Bethlehem or - for that matter  --southern Spain.

Modern interpretation of the Christ Story

The Spanish belen range from cutesy dolls to hand crafted wooden figures in scales from tiny to grand.  Near our hotel in Seville is an exhibit of Playmobil belen. We are surprised to see the display of belen in what we consider secular settings.  On our first night in Seville we found a large department store in Victoria Square featuring a sequence of four belens showing the story of Jesus' birth from the annunciation through to the arrival of the wise men.  We stood in a line cordoned off by velvet ropes.  In front of us were a group craning their necks to see the displays.  They were wearing paper Burger King crowns.  Modern Magi.


Peter

"Over here"

Above: the dessert cart that came by our table.
Below: all the stalls and people in the middle of the square.
Below: our stall with meat kebabs in front and roasted vegetables at the back.
MARRAKESH
"Look over here"
"No, thank you"
"Come to number eighty four--we will give you free mint tea"
"No merci!"
"You look hungry."
"We will come back."
"Look over here."

For the past few days we've been in Marrakech, one of the main cities in Morocco. On our second night in the city we had just gotten back from a trip to the Atlas mountains, and we were in need of some dinner. We walked through the alleyways from our riad to the main square. After looking around at several of the cafes, we decided to walk through the food market before deciding where to eat.

As soon as we turned down one of the aisles between the stalls, we were surrounded by a men in white coats and hats, all pointing towards their stalls, shoving menus at us, and promising free mint tea (a staple drink in Morroco). I felt like a piece of fly paper. One man pulled out the bench behind a table, and we sat down. There was much fussing, and then the men all disappeared back to the beginning of the aisle to start over.
 
Bread and sauces were brought over from behind the stall holding all the food. Three of us ordered couscous, and Dad had a selection of fish. We ate while we watched other people being shepherded to other stalls surrounding ours. As we finished our meal a man with a cart full of little pastries came by, and we got a selection. Dad had to pay with a big bill, and the man didn't have enough cash. He ran off into the crowd (with the money), while we nervously kept an eye on the cart in case the man took the whole bill. Finally he reappeared with the change, and we started in on our dessert. A few minutes later, one of the men working at our cart came over and pit a few euros on the table. At first none of us understood what he wanted, but somehow we managed to figure out that he wanted to exchange them for dhirmas (the Moroccan currency). We tried to ask him what the rate was, but we ended up just setting it ourselves and giving him a bill. He promptly came around to serve us each another glass of mint tea. As we left, one of the men told us to remember Number 97, and to come back tomorrow.

The next day we walked through the square on our tour of the old city, only to find a slab of cement where a tent city had been the night before. Our guide explained to us that everyone comes to set up at about five, and then they knock it down at the end of the night. Sure enough, as we walked through that evening the stalls were back and a group of men was surrounding a family of confused tourists. 

Lily

El Alhambra

GRANADA, SPAIN
Visiting  El Alhambra was a highlight of our trip to Spain and of our whole European adventure so far.  Apparently, El Alhambra is the most visited site in Spain—receiving over 2 million visitors every year.  It’s an imposing and beautiful ancient city built in the 14^th century within the Andalucian city of Granada, which is also several hundred years old and contains an old Muslim quarter called the “Albaicin.” 

Purchasing tickets for our visit proved to be surprisingly difficult.  We were warned to buy them ahead of time to avoid long lines at the entrance, so I tried several times to order them on the internet site but my credit card wasn’t accepted.  I called and was put off by the operator who said there were no English speaking agents available until the next day.  I called again and was disconnected twice.  We tried to order tickets at the tourist information center in Seville and were again denied.  Finally, on the way to Granada we stopped at a town twenty kilometers away and Lily used her brilliant Spanish to find out that the Caixa Bank sold tickets through its ATM machine.  My first time at the ATM again denied my credit card, but it did accept a debit card the second time through.  Whew!  I’m glad our tour proved more than worth the trouble. 

We started early from our hotel to climb the hill toward the Alhambra in the frosty morning chill.  At the entrance gate, we were among a small knot of tourists renting audio guides.  As we strolled through the ruins of the old military fort—the alcazaba—and climbed the stone towers for panoramic views across the hills and back down on Granada. 

Then we walked over for our timed entrance to the Nasrid Palaces.  These are the residences of the last Muslim dynasty in Spain, which was finally pushed out by the Christians in the 15^th century--Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand. I’m glad we visited Granada after Seville, for as impressive as found the Real Alacazar, the Alhambra eclipses its grandeur and scope.  Our trip was planned to begin in Morocco in order to understand the roots of Moorish architecture in Spain, although we learned that there was actually a cross-fertilization of styles as waves of immigration moved back and forth between the two cultures.  The style of architecture at the Alhambra is called “Mudejar” named after the Arabs who stayed on in Granada after most of them in the rest of Andalucia had been driven back to Morocco.

At the palaces, we walked through room after room with archways, alcoves and niches carved with elaborate geometric designs, Arabic calligraphy and flowers—no animal or human figures are allowed in Muslim art.  We examined the colored motifs in the tiles on the walls and floors and wondered what the palace must have looked like when the walls were painted with bright colors centuries ago.  The whole scene was magnificent.

After touring the palace we visited a special exhibit about Owen Jones, the British architect and designer who researched and introduced Islamic art to the west during Victorian times.  It’s fascinating to think about the currents of Islamic art and architecture have influenced not only Spain, but in the 19^th century the Art Nouveau movement in France, Christopher Dresser and William Morris in Britain, and even perhaps indirectly the American Frank Lloyd Wright.

Beth

The Next Night - Flamenco in Seville

Guitar and singer

SEVILLE

To round out our Flamenco experience in Seville the next night we attend the 7:30 performance at the Flamenco Museum theater.  We’d visited the museum earlier in the day.  It was as dramatic as the art form with lots of complex overlaying video of dancers, fabulous costumes, music and “sets.”  The theater is small – maybe 150 seats, not sloped.  The seats wrap around three sides of the bare wooden stage, which rises a few feet off the floor.  The boards on the stage were once painted but now show exposed raw wood. We enter 20 minutes before the show and find all but a few seats occupied.  Our fellow audience members are Americans, Europeans and  Japanese (Flamenco, we learn is VERY popular we learn in Japan and Finland; in fact some of the best Flamenco dancers and schools are in these countries!)  The audience whispers.  They rearrange seats.  The bar is open and some have drinks.

At 7:30 sharp the lights dim and two hostesses welcome us, one in Spanish and the other in English.  They leave and out walks a man with a guitar and chair.  He is in shirt sleeves -- all black -- and has curly brown hair, a round face and glasses.  He sits down in the wood, spindle-backed wooden chair and, without further ado, crosses his leg high and begins to play rhythmic, soft, strong guitar.  He exudes confidence.  After several minutes a woman appears next to him but in the shadows.  She taps her feet in rhythm to his guitar so we hear her before we really see her.  Then she moves out onto the stage.  She is tall with, red highlighted black hair held tight to her head with pins reminiscent of a 1920’s style.  Her skirt, layered with ruffles, falls straight to her ankles.  Her sash is pink and she wears a black blouse.  Her dancing interacts with the guitar.  It is not clear who is leading.  And her feet serve as a percussion section.  They slide and scrape, they tap and stomp.  They can sound like a machine gun and then are unexpectedly silent.  She moves around the full stage, turns.  Her shoulders are back.  Her arms move around and above her head like a dancing couple in themselves.  The guitarist watches her feet closely.

With the end of the piece we applaud and she disappears off stage.  

Our guitarist now pulls his chair out to the middle of the stage and performs a fabulous piece that crescendos to a climax which includes his rhythmic rapping on his guitar and stomping feet.  We are very enthusiastic.  This is a real, professional performance!

Our guitarist moves back to his original spot at the back of the stage and is joined by a woman and a young man who each bring out a black, straight-back chair.  They sit in a line.  Our guitarist starts up joined by the singer.  Her voice is sharp and penetrating.  The song has episodes, verses.  It builds, subsides, builds again.  She taps and stomps her feet, the young man adds precise clapping like I saw last night and foot taps.  Then again from the shadows appears our dancer.  She is in a new outfit, a splendid long, bright green dress with deep red frills trailing several feet behind her.  She adds to her previous repertoire the maneuvering of the train of the dress – this way and that – with twirls and kicks to the train.  She picks it up with her hand, flips it, spins, stomps and before she trips over it has kicked it free again.  (Later Abby tells us she has fallen in love with the dress.  Lily spent the piece worried about the dancer tripping over the train.)

Our guitarist and singer now perform a piece together.  While we can’t understand the word it feels like the Andalucian version of Billy Holiday.

Our dancer joins them now on a chair. A new piece starts and our young clapping and stomping man arrives on the floor next to the stage.  He is now in a black suit jacket and vest with a silk scarf.  His feet rap away, warming up to the guitar and clapping on stage.  Then wow!  He steps up on stage and stands tapping away, building the tension, acting out the story of the music.  Then he begins strutting about the stage, spinning, tugging at his jacket.  His stomps and moves become faster and more forceful. The jacket comes off.  His feet are aggressive on the floor.  He nearly backs into the singer as, like a bull, he paws at the floor and attacks the front of the stage again.  His exit is a rush off the stage.  We love it.  It’s been 90 minute of intense music and dance.  We applaud and they bow.  They come back for an encore. Now it is both dancers.  This couple dancing is different from last night's.  They are two stars dancing on the same stage.  Each fabulous but without the intimacy seen at Casa Anselma.

We leave the theater buzzing with the energy and exquisite performance.  I leave caught by surprise by the difference between last night’s intimate Flamenco party and tonight’s performance.  And its only 9:30, time for and early dinner.


Peter

Casa Anselma - Flamenco in Seville

SEVILLE
At 3:00am I arrive back at our hotel room in Seville.  I am turning in early.  Thousands of Saturday night revelers are still out clubbing, sitting and talking at bars, walking the streets on wobbly legs.  But I have had a wonderful evening and am ready for bed.

When we checked-in that afternoon I had asked the concierge at our small hotel where we could see the “real” flamenco.  He pulled out a brochure on one of the tourist “shows.”  I pressed, however, and eventually between my guide book, a 2005 blog and his phone calls to a friend, I settled on Casa Anselma.  The blog warned me not to expect anything before 11:30, so I left my warm bed and lovely family at 11:15pm to walk across downtown and over the Guadalquivir River to Triana – the notorious Gypsy, working-class part of town where the guide book tells us the fun is a little more unpredictable.

Casa Anselma (after the metal shutters are raised)

It is cold out.  The address is 49 Calle Pages del Corro.  I find 51.  I cross a street and find 47, so  49 must be the yellow building on the corner with the metal shutters down.  As I turn back to look at it I notice a few people out on the sidewalk in front.  I count; there are 15 people in two's and three's.  It is 11:25.  By 11:45 there are 50 people. Two young men arrive.  They are part of a large party.  They each hold a highball glass and are in an intense, nose to nose conversation – each trying to impress on the other in their slurred earnestness with their position.  The man with the cravat gesticulates for added emphasis and spills a dash on the sidewalk without noticing.

The steel shutter on the side door rises with a rattle.  From inside the building steps a small, elderly woman with reddish hair, a sharp nose, a straight mouth.  She holds herself erect and certainly must be Anselma.  The 75 people now gathered on the sidewalk all move up to crowd around Anselma in the doorway.  She looks us over and soon to whom she waves.  A group of six people move forward.  She exchanges kisses with each of them and they pass into the club.  We can now see inside.  There are rows of simple wooden chairs and on the far side of the large room is a bar.  It is low lit with memorabilia on the walls.  Soon several groups  have been welcomed into the club.  The rest of us wait outside.  There is a general banter back and forth between Anselma and the crowd.

Anselma, our host (6 year old photo)

10 minutes go by and 50 or so people have been let in.  Anselma has instructed the “not-chosen” to go around to the other side to wait at the “front” door.  I take my cue and get in the “other” line.  I’m sixth.  But another few minutes go by and I return to the main door wondering if maybe I’m missing my chance to get in.  There is Anselma still bantering with folks and a letting a few more in.  “Will I be left out?” I worry.  Another woman from the “loser” line comes back around and convinces Anselma she really is a long lost friend and slips in with her partner.  Now I pluck up my courage and say in my fluent sign language: “I’m only one, and I’ve been waiting here so patiently….etc., etc.”  Anselma looks me in the eye and tells the remaining crowd to go over to the other door and wait.  She then lowers the steel curtain back down.

Returning to the loser line I am now at the back.  There must be 20 people in front of me.  I brood.  Everyone else is relaxed and chatting with one another.  Finally at 12:00 the main door opens and there is Anselma.  She greets people as they file in.  She shows each of them exactly where to sit on the remaining chairs.  I reach the front of the line.  All the chairs have been taken.  All that remains is standing room around the bar.  Except that there are eight prominent seats vacant in the second row.  I helpfully point to those seats thinking maybe Anselma hadn’t noticed them.  She shakes her head and points me toward the bar.

Casa Anselma - this is the stage

At the bar I order a tap beer for2 Euro – a very reasonable price in a club.  There is no cover charge.  Anselma's only revenue it seems is the bar tab.  But as I look around the room it appears the tab will be significant.  There are two waitresses moving expertly around the room.  Everyone has a drink.  In front of some of the chairs are small coffee tables, but most people are holding their drinks.  The crowd ranges from early teens – a group of girl friends – to white haired men and women.  Most are between 30 and 50.  I have found a nice metal column supporting the roof near the bar.  I lean up against and have a good view of the room.  The standing room is quickly filling up and I see that outside the door there are a clump of people waiting to get in.

Now two men with guitars are moving to the “stage” area.  The stage itself is about 5’ x 6’.  Tiny.  Behind it are three empty chairs.  Behind them are a final row of audience chairs, so the stage is surrounded by people.  One man on stage reminds me of a mechanic at Cummins.  He is middle aged with short cropped white hair and tunes his guitar.  The other guitarist is younger, 30’s?, and handsome.  A third man now walks through the crowd to sit between them on a wooden box the size of a wine crate, which he is carrying.  A fourth man sits on a chair.  He turns out to be the lead clapper.  He claps all night and sings.  The room is loud with peoples’ conversations, laughter, calls for drinks.  Anselma is showing up all around the room.  Now she is on her cell phone.  Now she is talking to customers. 

Drummer's drum

At 12:15 the guitars start and the man sitting on the box turns out to be the drummer. By beating on his box he sounds like a full drum set.  The crowd calms some, the older guitar player sings a soulful song with four or five repeated verses with growing intensity.  He is a tenor straining with an emotion style of singing.  Many in the crowd are clapping in a three on, one off beat with the 4 bar song.  And they know right when to start up and when to stop.  Clearly this is not an amateur clapping crowd.  I observe and try to figure out how to join them.  When the song ends there is rousing applause.

Anselma + band - r-l: guitar, drums, clapper, guitar (can't see)

Anselma appears at the “stage” and rearranges a few chairs.  She motions for a man who is sitting on a white cardboard box near her to take an empty seat in the front row.  He does.  This leaves the white box open.  The crowd is watching.  Anselma motions toward the bar, or is it toward me?  I look behind me.  Then I see everyone looking at me!  Anselma is pointing at me.  She points at the box.  My moment has come.  Anselma herself has offered me a box to sit on at Casa Anselma.  So I step up into the front row right next to the Cummins guitarist and sit down.  I’m a little flushed with this brush with fame.  Then I see that Anselma is pointing at me again.  Her motioning leads me to understand that I am too tall on my box and am blocking the view of one of her preferred customers.  So now she motions for me to move my box over in a corner where I won’t block anyone.  Now, I don’t want to argue with Anselma, and I am clearly the center of quite commotion now, but I also want to have a good view of the stage.  I decide to negotiate.  I point to my bar pole and indicate I will take my box back there and sit where I had been standing.  Anselma seems to accept this arrangement.  I make myself comfortable on my box and take a sip of beer.

Couple dancing on "stage"

As the next song begins, a man and woman from the front row stand up.  They take center stage and hold a stylized pose with their arms raised.  They stand just inches apart. Their rehearsed moves tie to the music.  As a verse ends with a flourish they finish with a flourish turning with raised heads and flipped hands.  The crowd is very pleased and many are clapping the special clap.  The mood is ebullient.  People are talking.  iPhones are snapping photos.  Drinks are being ordered and served.  It is a wonderful scene.  With each song now a new couple stands.  Clearly Anselma has orchestrated it telling each when they are to perform.  These must be regulars.  The first two couples are older.  Then middle aged.  Then a pair of young women performs beautifully.

At 12:45 there's a flurry of activity at the door, and 12 young women arrive.  These were the women for whom Anselma had been saving the chairs.  They thread their way to their special seats and order drinks.

At some point Anselma sings a song.  The crowd is now 150 strong with a thick mob standing around the bar and around the corner out of sight of the stage.  The noise of talking is continuous but people don't mind.  During some songs couples around me and around the room are dancing.  Mid-song Anselma calls one of them forward to the stage to be featured.  Next the box drummer stands and sings a long, emotional ballad which is well received.  Many people sing along with his chorus. During a song Anselma calls up individual dancers for each verse.

It feels like a party of friends having fun, singing, dancing, sharing a love for their music and all hosted by Anselma.

At 2:00 the two guitarists, lead clapper and drummer all stand and face the wall behind where they had been sitting.  Upon it I now see a shrine to the Virgin Mary.  They sing a heartfelt, long, unison chorus to “Maria.”  People sing along and clap, and talk with each other, take photos, order drinks.

There is a final general applause and I see that the party is breaking up.  The musicians start to chat with the audience.  Everyone mingles to greet each other.  Anselma is moving through the crowd.  Jackets and scarves are put on and people slowly move toward the door.  I wander around to look more closely at the wall-to-wall memorabilia.  There are hundreds of photos of Anselma with various people – important looking people, dancers, and many men in bull fighters outfits. There are dozens of unfolded hand fans of various sizes and decoration, clearly from the days when she danced herself.  There are dozens of photos of bull fights and matador spears.  I get the feeling that, at least for Anselma, bull fighting and Flamenco are closely tied.

Fifteen minutes have gone by and still the room is crowded.  I notice that half the crowd has moved toward or out the door and the other has moved to the bar to order another drink.  I move outside into the cold, fresh air.  No one is in a hurry.  Many are standing and chatting on the sidewalk.  I begin to retrace my steps back to our hotel.  As I do I pass dozens of groups of people – five middle aged women walking home in a ricochet of laughter and conversation, a group of young men and women, two couples looking tipsy.  I pass a McDonald’s express and there is a line of 20 people waiting to place orders.  I pass a bar with ten tables occupied by people eating late night tapas and having drinks.  The garbage trucks are out as well.  A man in his green uniform is sweeping Victoria Plaza with a large broom.


Peter