Life in Spain so Far: Lo que pica, y lo que non

Lo que pica:

• Salads.  As Zoë has amply demonstrated on her blog, the Spanish concept of a salad is completely alien to us.  I am even less enthusiastic about canned tuna than she is.
• Noise.  On our street on Friday and Saturday nights.  When people are stuck in traffic on the Calle del Prado, instead of honking their horns, they should use the opportunity to reflect upon their own foolishness in choosing to drive to our neighborhood on a weekend night.
• Smoking.  There are laws that require a certain percentage of the Spanish population to be smoking at all times.  
• Pharmacies.  You have to go to the counter at the pharmacy, and ask the pharmacist for whatever it is you need.  He/she sizes up your symptoms, needs, and perceived ability to pay, and then recommends something.  This is not usually what you want.  A power struggle ensues.  A sale is made before it can escalate into violence.
• Air conditioning.  Less of an issue now that delicious fall weather has set in, but Spaniards in general do not appreciate the joys of human refrigeration, as we do in the US.  Not even in the Biblioteca Nacional.  Perhaps especially not there.
• The educational system.  Spanish schools have been caught completely unprepared to face the huge influx of immigrants the country has experienced during the past 20 years.  Pedagogy is less than cutting edge.  More to come about this.  
• Madrileño Spanish.  Spoken rapid-fire and with a rather closed mouth.  I have been to 13 Spanish-speaking countries and I find madrileños harder to understand than anyone.  Even harder than Dominicans.  

Lo que non:

• The Food.  Deliciousness abounds.  Garlic.  Oil.  Meat.  Salt.  Combined in different ways.  To my delight, potatoes count as a vegetable, not a starch.  More to come about this as well.  
• The art/cultural scene.  We are dazzled by our options when it comes to museums, exhibits, concerts, and the like.  Yesterday we went to a lecture/concert about the Spanish influence on Latin American folk music at the Museo de América.  And it was free.  My favorite price for anything.
• City life.  Everything is in walking distance, or a short metro ride away.  We have no car, and do not miss it.  
• Prices.  Life in Madrid is not cheap, but neither is the city as expensive as other big cities we know, like Boston or DC.  An apartment equivalent to ours in either of those cities would cost twice as much.  Groceries are more affordable than we thought they would be.  Which is a good thing, because we like to eat.  
• The lifestyle.  How can you dislike a place that has snacking and downtime built into the daily schedule?  During the middle of the afternoon, when I usually have no energy to be productive, everything around me tells me to take a break.  Or even a nap!
• Madrileños.  They can be brusque and foul-mouthed, but so can we.  On the whole, friendly and helpful.  

My favorite new Spanish word: Palomitero

I suppose that everyone, when they go live abroad, has his or her non-negotiables, the things from home that you just cannot live without.  I certainly have them.  They are cold cereal, and pizza.  As my mother will attest, I adore cold cereal, especially the sugary kind.  Captain Crunch is my favorite.  Thanks to the wonders of globalization, I can count on getting cold cereal just about anywhere I go.  No matter what the continent, what the language, Tony the Tiger will be waiting for me there (although, sadly, not the Captain).  The name may change.  Frosted Flakes are known as Zucaritas in much of Latin America, and as Frosties here in Spain, but the sweet, crunchy goodness within is always the same.  Just add cold milk and crunch away.

Pizza presents even fewer difficulties, thanks to its Italian origins. Pizza places abound in Madrid, and it just so happens that a truly excellent one is down the street from us, not even a block.  Nice crispy crust.  Excellent sauce.  A selection of toppings, including a four-cheese pizza that is to die for.  So, I figure I'm set.

Santiago has at least one non-negotiable, peanut butter.  Not thinking to bring this from home, we ended up paying through the nose for a jar of Capitán Maní at the grocery store of El Corte Inglés.  More about this store in a little while.  Capitán Maní has been the subject of some invective in the Spanish blogosphere, where some have identified it as yet another piece of disgusting yanqui imperialism, and others have simply identified it as a disgusting sandwich spread. One blogger said he had to try it, because he'd seen it in so many American movies, but found it overpowering and sickly sweet.  Maybe he should have added tuna.  Or jarred sausages.

But I digress.  Zoë has her non-negotiables as well.  In fact, she informed me early in August that these were ice cream and popcorn.  Ice cream posed few worries, largely because Zoë likes both American-style ice cream and gelato.  True to our expectations, we have found excellent ice cream throughout Spain, although special kudos must be given to the helados artesanales (home-made ice cream) that was available all over the place in Cádiz.  AND, should one day the gelato not do the trick, there is a Ben & Jerry's right off the Puerta del Sol.  There's that good ole yanqui imperialism again, making sure that we can raise our blood-sugar and cholesterol levels in comfortably familiar ways, no matter where we go.

The real issue, as some of you already know, was the popcorn.  You see, a few decades ago, Europeans did not even eat corn.  They considered it animal feed, and laughed at Americans for eating it.  Now that has clearly changed, and corn (from a can) has even appeared on the bizarre vegetable plates that we have had the misfortune of ordering with our tapas.  But popcorn?  We were afraid that it would be something like peanut butter or cranberry sauce, something so horribly American as to be entirely unavailable.  I did not want Zoë to go without her favorite snack – I cannot overestimate how much my beloved wife loves the stuff – so I suggested we do what we could to make sure she could have it while in Spain.

The first step was to do research on the internet, and to ask some of the few friends that we were not too embarrassed to approach with this concern.  It soon became clear that Spaniards do indeed eat and enjoy popcorn (although some seem to worry about the fact that it might be fattening), but it was unclear if hot-air popcorn poppers were readily available in Spain.  Enter El Corte Inglés.  Those of you who are familiar with this Spanish hypermart know that you can buy just about everything there, although rarely at the best price.  Cameras.  Clothing.  Plane tickets.  Groceries.  Consumer electronics.  Comic collectibles.  Hardware.  So, I figured we could look on their website for a hot-air popcorn popper, and if they had one, then we knew one would be available there or elsewhere.

The trouble is, how does one say "hot-air popcorn popper" in Spanish?  Or, for that matter, "popcorn"?  I should know, since popcorn is eaten in Ecuador, where it's often used as a garnish on ceviche.  But what did we call "popcorn" in my house growing up?  We called it "popcorn" (with a Spanish accent).  "Rosetas" was one possibility, but my friends agreed that "palomitas" was probably more common in Spain.  No one had any idea about "hot-air popcorn popper."  So I searched www.elcorteingles.es for "palomitas" thinking that the description of the popper was certain to mention "popcorn."  I got only one hit.  This thing.   A TOY popcorn maker.  Horror of horrors!!!  IT was clearly impossible to buy a hot-air popcorn popper in Spain!!!!

Our electrical transformer

There was only one solution possible.  We would have to buy an Orville Redenbacher hot-air popcorn popper and ship it to our apartment in Spain, no matter what the cost.  We would also have to ship various jars of popcorn as well, no matter what the cost.  This we did, at great expense.  Upon arrival in Spain, we bought an electrical transformer, a device that would allow us to use our US popcorn popper with European electrical current.  The one we found was manufactured during the Franco era, but was available, conveniently, at a local store.  Again, at great expense.

The moment of truth had arrived.  I would prepare Zoë a delicious bowl of popcorn.  For some odd reason, Zoë likes the popcorn I prepare best.  I'm completely indifferent to the stuff, but I seem to have an uncanny knack for getting the balance of butter and salt just to her liking.  Hers and the Kid's, by the way.  I hooked up the transformer to the socket, and the popper to the transformer.  Immediately I heard the satisfying whirr of the popcorn maker, and soon the pop pop pop of the kernels exploding into magical white fluffiness, and pouring from the spout of the popcorn maker.  Then I smelled it.  Was the popcorn burning?  No.  It was the transformer.  Smoke was streaming up from it, and the stench of burning electrical parts filled the room.  Oh, my god, the thing was gonna blow!!!  Our Spanish adventure was going to end promptly and badly in a fiery maelstrom of home electronics shrapnel and unpopped kernels!! I snatched the plug out of the socket before the thing could blow us all sky high, melted some butter and served Zoë a disappointing half-bowl of chewy popcorn.

A few days later, Zoë was doing some shopping at www.carrefour.es, which allows you to order your groceries online and have them delivered to your home, and – LO AND BEHOLD!! – what did she stumble across?   A palomitero.  Yes, my dear readers, a hot-air popcorn popper, of European manufacture.  It arrived in our house two days later.

Our palomitero

Last night, we settled into the sofa, put Airplane on the DVD player (because it's always good to introduce your children to the classics) and munched on perfectly buttered-and-salted popcorn made in our European-manufactured palomitero purchased right here in Madrid.  The popcorn, Zoë and Santiago noted, was a bit chewy, but it was good.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, El Corte Inglés does indeed sell a palomitero.  And the ad even mentions "palomitas," and how you can enjoy a delicious "bol" of "palomitas" while you sit and watch movies.  No duh!!!!!!  And it looks like it's better than the one we bought.

Madcap Mob Scenes

This is the story of two madcap mob scenes: one suburban, the other urban; one commercial, the other playful; one diurnal, the other nocturnal; one obligatory, the other … Oh hell, I could probably think of more contrasts, but it's 1:30pm, and I've only been awake for 2 hours, so I'll cut myself a break.

Yesterday we went to IKEA.  Now, a shopping errand is usually as blog-worthy as cutting one's fingernails, but those of you who have been to an IKEA can imagine the epic proportions of this particular sojourn.  We debated renting a car, because IKEA, inc., assumes you own one, and designs everything about your experience on the basis of that assumption.  Instead, we took the metro out to almost the end of the line to a suburb called Ensanche something-or-other, and walked the 5-10 minutes to the store.

A word about Spanish suburbs.  They are both like and unlike American ones.  "Unlike" in that they do not consist of single-family homes, but of huge apartment blocks.  "Like" in their general dehumanization.  This place was clearly designed to be walkable, but no one was walking.  An occasional family with a stroller appeared to remind us that this was not an empty movie set.  "Like," too, in they are the place to find shopping malls and big-box retail.  You'll be happy to know that we found we have access, not only to a Starbucks, but to a TGI Fridays.  I can sense your collective sigh of relief, readers.  Where would we be without ready access to a TGI Fridays?  Good thing we're not in Cambodia.  I hear they only have Bennigans there.

Incorrigible in our newly-minted urban hipsterness, we WALKED from the metro to IKEA, only to be sucked into the gaping maw of this enormous Swedish retail establishment.  We were quickly accosted by a young woman who wanted us to sign up for an IKEA Family card, which we did, although we were entirely unaware of the benefits because she recited her canned speech so damn fast.  We were then ushered into the Exhibition space.  You see, I have never been to an IKEA, despite the fact that one is available only an hour from where I grew up. The stores actually have a designated route through them.  You gape at exhibition spaces, where all the beautiful furniture is assembled and sharply accessorized, then you go downstairs, still following the designated route, first through the spaces with the accessories and then through the warehouse with the boxes of unassembled furniture.

Half of Spain is following the same route, debating the same throw cushions and dishware.  The prices are astonishingly cheap, which is why everyone is there, but you soon arrive at the creepy realization that literally hundreds – no, thousands – of people are going to live in spaces decorated exactly like yours.  Right now, I know that throughout Central Spain, there are people sitting at a table exactly like mine, drinking out of a glass exactly like mine.  (The entire apartment, we realized, is furnished with the cheapest possible furniture form IKEA) I wonder if they are also blogging about the experience.  Perhaps they are even wondering, like I am, if someone else is blogging about IKEA.  But perhaps, they are also looking around at all the stuff they got for next to nothing and, like me, are finding that possibility a lot less creepy.

So, we took a cab to the metro, metro to the city, cab to the house, and plopped down exhausted.  Zoë was down for the count, but the Kid and I eventually recovered enough to participate in another madcap mob scene, La noche en blanco.  This is something that many European capitals have, a night where they turn the city over to the arts and to fun.  Not that Madrid doesn't do that all the time, but it does so more intensely on this particular night, and everything is free of charge.  Art exhibits.  Concerts.  Installations.  Outdoor dance parties.  This year's theme was "¡Hagan Juejo!" or "Play!" and the point was to turn the city into a giant playground with installations that would involve heavy participation from members of the crowd.  This was wildly successful, as you will see.

We kissed Zoë good night (She's coming down with my stomach bug - I am revising my self-diagnosis of food poisoning – while I am on the mend.  The Kid, as usual, is unaffected.) and headed out to the city.  Downtown was cordoned off to vehicular traffic, and the streets were soon packed with people enjoying the night.  We hit the Plaza Lavapiés, where a totally incoherent art installation provided metal things for people to bang on.  The Kid's inner percussionist came out with great glee.  We hit the Plaza Tirso de Molina, where someone was ranting about state secrets.

Crappy iPhone pic of faux Ghandi at Sol

Along the way, we hit a small plaza whose name we didn't know and played games with this random group of West Africans.  No one really understood the rules, just that they involved everyone having a number and having to run to grab a hat when your number was called.  The organizers were constantly discussing the rules in their own language, but clearly did not have enough Spanish to explain them to everyone.  This made the whole thing hilarious.

We hit the Puerta del Sol, with its usual complement of people pretending to be statues, as well as an enormous photography installation that was being filmed by TVE, Spanish PBS.  Then the Gran Vía, which had been converted into an enormous playground with swing sets and see-saws made out of tires. Then the Casa del libro, where a jazz quartet was playing.  The Kid browsed comic books as we listened.  The Kid was not alone.  There were plenty of families out, with kids of all ages, because that's how Spain is.

Crappy iphone pic of the battle

Finally, way up to the north of downtown, the plaza with the beach balls.  Early in the night, they had released thousands of beach balls into the plaza to see what people would do with them.  What ensued was Lord of the Flies.  Young men, many of whom may very well have been intoxicated, were clustered on either side of a barrier hurling beach balls at each other with as much force as the could muster.  Occasionally, one side or the other would spontaneously organize into a combined volley, propelled along with screams and cheers.  The game had clearly been going on for ages, with people dropping out and in as they could, and a crowd of thousands gathered around watching.  The Kid and I descended into the mosh pit and grabbed all the beach balls we could, started hurling them at whomever we saw.  I got a bit fearful for the safety of my glasses, and extricated myself, but the Kid refused to leave.  He moved up right to the barrier, where he could bombard and be bombarded at the closest possible range.  It was nothing but a welter of body parts and beach balls in perpetual motion, constantly refreshed by the arrival of new bodies, and the infusion of more beach balls.



Eventually the Kid came out of the mob, complaining that he had gotten hit in both eyes, and that they stung.  No freakin' duh!  We walked home, tired as hell, the Kid a bit whiny, through Chueca, the gay neighborhood.  I did not point out the store that advertised "Leather accessories."

1am.  Home.  Embarrassingly early by Spanish standards, but, after all, it was our 2nd mob scene of the day.
1:30am.  Showered and in bed.  The heavy indoor shutters blocking the noise of the mob outside perfectly.

If it's Monday, it Must be Mudéjar (Part 3)

If you're wondering why I'm not rhapsodizing about food, it's because I've brought a little souvenir back from Andalusia, a touch of food poisoning.  I don't know what it was, but I want this to be over.  Not having very much fun, or being very productive these days in Madrid.

When last we met, dear readers, you found us in Cádiz, happily enjoying the company of our SAS friends and the charm of this coastal city.  The next day we were off to Granada, by way of the pueblos blancos.  So it was back in our little Ibiza, and on the road for an hour and a half to Arcos de la Frontera, a rugged little mountaintop town with one of the prettiest churches we've seen in Spain and commanding views of the surrounding countryside.  Looking back on it, I think it's like something out of The Lord of the Rings.  Should tourism ever slow down, they could change the name to Arcos de la Frontera de Mordor.  Perhaps the church could be repurposed as an elvish temple or something like that.  Pictures here.

From there it was off to Ronda, where we had not been planning on stopping.  Why, you ask?  Zoë was eager to get to Granada, to maximize our time there, and was afraid that the detour would extend the drive too much.  You see, she always drives, while I navigate.  This has to do with the fact that she has no sense of direction, and I am a very distracted driver.  On the other hand, I'm a mean man with a map, and she learned to drive in Boston.  How are Spanish drivers, you might wonder?  Zoë found them cautious and law-abiding.  Putty in her hands, in other words.

So, the Ronda stop came about because of two reasons: misinformation from the tourist office in Arcos about driving distances; and our eagerness to stop for lunch.  And lunch we did, at a slightly over-priced and mediocre place that we settled for when we couldn't find the spot recommended by Lonely Planet.  We took in the gorge, strolled through the streets, and got back in the car.  Ronda was undoubtedly beautiful, but we wished we'd seen the two towns in the opposite order, because it paled in comparison to Arcos.  Or maybe we just weren't as fresh.

In any case, we were in Granada by 7 or so, ensconced in our room in the Alhambra Palace Hotel.  This was a splurge, and one well worth it.  The room was comfy, with great air-conditioning, and a commanding view of the city.  Dinner at a place in the Albaicín, the Muslim quarter, and then off to bed.

The next day we got up, saw the Cathedral and the Royal Chapel, where Ferdinand and Isabel are buried, and then off to the Alhambra.  The Alhambra is Europe's answer to Macchu Picchu.  A palace complex so large that it counts as a city, and sits on a hilltop to boot.  But while Macchu Picchu is all about the stonework and the rugged setting, the Alhambra is about the delicate grace of the built environment, particularly that of graceful interiors that open out into equally graceful courtyards, or onto windows that overlook the city.  We spent about 5 hours there, and in the adjoining garden, the Generalife, and only left because our feet couldn't stand it anymore.  Like the Mezquita in Córdoba, the Alhambra was a place we were sad to leave.  Pictures here.

That night we rounded off our trip with a magnificent dinner at the Restuarante Carmen San Miguel, in the company of Peter, Kathleen and Danielle, the family from the ship, and our friends from SAS summer '07.

Now, to round off the tale, my promised account of a bizarre rest stop.  On our way back the A-4 to Madrid, we stopped off at another of these all-purpose rest stops with a bar-cafe-restaurante, a shop selling local foods and random odds and ends, and a hotel.  In this case, there was also a shop selling massive quantities of mass-produced "handicrafts" for you to take home with you.  Among the pieces on sale was this one:

This, dear readers, is a pitcher.  And, yes, the contents do indeed flow out that way.  

Notice the subtle artistry, and the quality craftsmanship.  Dazzled by the delights of our aesthetic romp through Andalusia, tired from being on our feet, Zoë and I were baffled by what the artist may have wanted to communicate through this inspired piece of folk art.  Or maybe the sublimity of the Mezquita, the grandeur of the cathedrals, the romantic tracery of the Alhambra, the majestic scenery of the pueblos blancos, simply had left us unprepared for our encounter with this penetrating exploration of the human condition.  I can only speculate.  Somehow, this object evokes the soaring verticality of the pueblos blancos, of so many a minaret-cum-cathedral-spire, not to mention that of the Giralda itself.  But while it erects a monument to so many of the marvels of Andalusia, it also gestures aggressively toward Andalusia itself.  As you can see from the shadow, the pitcher points south, toward that gap in the mountains penetrated by Castille's reconquering armies, en route to the nation's historical destiny at the Battle of Navas de Tolosa, and from there into the very matrix of Andalusia.   No mere objet, this is an installation, at once a simulacrum of the wonders of the South, and a reenactment of the troubled historical relationship between Castille and Andalusia.  Or maybe it's just a tacky piece of crap.  

If it's Monday, it Must be Mudéjar (Part 2)

From Córdoba it was off to Seville, where I had spent about a month while in grad school.  I had lived at the illegal hostal of one Doña Carmela, an elderly sevillana who took guests into her house because she had raised something like 257 children and didn't like having the house empty.  She charged a ridiculously low price for room, board (3 squares a day), and laundry.  Most occupants were academics doing research at the Archivo General de Indias, Spain's archive of documents related to its empire in the Americas.

We did not stay at Doña Carmela's for the following reasons:

1. You are required to eat her food, whether or not you are hungry.  The food is good, and it is served in large quantities.  I gained 10 pounds in the month I lived in her house.  We decided it would be better to avoid this.
2. I was not keen on revisiting her nostalgic musings about how good life was under Franco.
3. She might very well be dead.

Instead, we found a hotel in Doña Carmela's neighborhood, the Barrio de Santa Cruz, the old Jewish quarter near the Cathedral, and an attraction in its own right.  Doña Carmela attempted to teach me to navigate its rabbit warren of streets the way she did, by associating one little plaza with the next according to the interlocking legends that wove them together.  After seeing me arrive from where I had been by what she considered to be entirely the wrong route, she tried to teach me in one afternoon what she had learned over the course of a lifetime.  This did not work.  I thought of Doña Carmela as I struggled to find our hotel after spilling an entire cafe con leche all over my clothes.  

We saw the Cathedral.  Climbed the Giralda.  Visited the Alcázar.  Then we cheated on the rest by taking a hansom carriage ride to the Plaza de España, the University, and the Parque María Luisa.  I've always wanted to like Seville's Cathedral more than I do. It's huge, and it's over the top in many ways, but I don't think it all comes together as something beautiful, like other cathedrals.  See pics here.  The Alcázar - the palace in Seville - was fabulously impressive, as was the Giralda, the minaret of the mosque that was pressed into service as a cathedral spire when they tore the mosque down and replaced it with the cathedral.  But what's really lovely about Seville is the overall effect.  One of the most beautiful cities you can ask for.  

For those of you wondering, by the way, the Alcázar is a great example of mudéjar architecture.  A mudéjar was an Islamic Spaniard who lived under a Christian king.  The name has been extended to refer to the artistic and architectural products of Christian medieval Spain that show heavy Islamicate influence.  I took a whole class on "mudéjar literature."  Bet you wish you could have too!  (Dork)   

The next day we were off to Cádiz, a place I had not visited when I was here in grad school – much to the dismay of that Andalusian professor – for the simple reason that it seemed lame.  You see, Cádiz does not have A-list attractions like other Andalusian cities.  We were only going there because the Semester at Sea ship, the MV Explorer, was docked there, and we had friends on the voyage.  In fact, we had wheedled our way onto the ship for two nights as visitors, and were looking forward to its deeply air-conditioned comfort, and its endless supply of purified water.  

Cádiz, it turns out, is absolutely charming!  The historical part of the city is on the tip of a peninsula, so you end up with the narrow streets and small plazas surrounded on three sides by water, with plenty of opportunities to see the ocean.  Parts of the original walls, fortifications and lookout towers remain, making the whole place feel kind of like old San Juan, Puerto Rico, or like Havana, Cuba.  One of these towers has a camera obscura, a sort of periscope thing that allows you to look out over the city from inside the tower.  We looked and looked for people we knew doing things they would be embarrassed to have us see, but no luck.  See pics of Cádiz here.

The best part about Cádiz was seeing our friends who were on the ship.  These included folks from Charlottesville, a couple Santiago and I had gotten to know on the Enrichment Voyages, and a family that we had shared the Summer '07 voyage with.  I'll leave the details about food and drink to Zoë.

OK.  Enough for now.  Next post, the pueblos blancos, Granada, and the bizarre rest stop on the way back. 

If it's Monday, it Must be Mudéjar (Part 1)

The Plan: Hit the highlights of Andalusia (aka Andalucía, Beatica, Al-Andalus, the South of Spain) in 7 days or so.

The Route:

1. Madrid to Córdoba
2. Córdoba to Seville
3. Seville to Cádiz
4. Cádiz to the pueblos blancos
5. The pueblos blancos to Granada
6. Granada to Madrid

Assets:

1. A rented Suzuki Ibiza with a full tank of gas
2. A suitcase full of clothes and other necessities
3. A backback with 10 small stuffed animals (the Kid's, not mine)
4. A road atlas gotten for cheap

Liabilities:

1. No international driver's licenses
2. An imperfect knowledge of the route, particularly regarding the pueblos blancos
3. Complete ignorance of Spanish road signs

Our first Spanish road trip.  Planned at the last minute.  Executed at full speed.  We had not been intending to go to Andalusia, but we realized two things.  One, if we were going to meet the ship (i.e. the Semester at Sea ship, the MV Explorer) in Cádiz, and see our friends who were sailing on it, we might as well do other things in the area.  Two, we only have three chances for big road trips, due to Santiago's school schedule, and this was one of them.  So, Wednesday of last week we made some reservations, and Thursday we took off for the south.

Four hours or so from Madrid to Córdoba, first through Castilla-La Mancha, the land of Don Quixote, and then into Andalusia. Along the way we made one stop, at a bizarre roadside rest stop.  The place had the obligatory cafe-bar-restaurant, decked out with a fake windmill in honor of Don Quixote, as well as a shop selling local delicacies (cheeses, sausages), but it also sold shoes and knives.  Knives, as in folding pocket and/or hunting knives.  Why shoes and knives, you ask, rather than, say, coats and automotive tools?  The answer was beyond our ken.  The place was staffed by two illegal immigrants from Ecuador who sold us cafe con leche and stone-cold churros.  We bought neither knife nor shoe.  As you will discover at the end of my tale, this rest stop was actually one of the less bizarre establishments along the Autovía del Sur in Castilla-La Mancha.

Now, you may wonder why I fasten on this particular detail, and it has to do with the fact that Castilla La Mancha, at least along highway A-4 heading south, is incredibly boring.  It's arid.  Flat.  The only things to see are the enormous wind farms that dot the landscape.

Not so in Andalusia.  A mountain range separates the two regions and the mountains themselves are gorgeous.  Rugged and rocky.  Once you get through them into Andalusia, you find yourself among rolling hills covered with olive groves.  We made it into Córdoba around lunchtime, and ate at a place called Casa Pepe de la Judería, which was a bit on the pricey side but well worth it.  I had two Andalusian delicacies, salmorejo (a thicker version of gazpacho) and rabo de toro (braised ox tail).  Then we were off to Córdoba's star attraction, the old mosque.

I had been to Andalusia once before, during grad school.  I'd gotten a grant to do research in Seville, and had been primed for the experience by a professor of mine who was a native of Seville and a Hispanic medievalist very interested in the interaction of Muslim, Christian, and Jewish cultures in medieval Spain.   Nothing can replace the experience of seeing wonderful places for the first time, particularly when you've been studying things that really prepare you for it.  But, then again, wonderful places hold up to repeated visits.  The mosque in Córdoba definitely does.  It's one of the most extraordinary interiors in Spain.  See for yourself on Zoë's Facebook album.  

We didn't get to see much else in Córdoba.   By the time we finished wandering around the mosque, everything else was closed.  So we strolled across the Roman bridge that spans the river, and stumbled into a "living museum" dedicated to the culture of Al-Andalus (medieval Muslim Spain).  This was a weird little place where you put on these headphones and wandered from one room to the next, listening to audio about different aspects of the culture of that time and place.  Cheesy as hell, really, but it was worth it for the detailed model they had of the mosque.  The structure today is not what it was in Muslim times.  When the Christians conquered Córdoba in the 13th century, they converted the mosque into their cathedral.  Over time, the physical structure was altered, as Catholic chapels were added along the walls, and a choir and sanctuary were plopped down in the middle of the thing.   The model in the museum helped you visualize the mosque in its original state.  Very cool indeed.

That night we spent in Córdoba, and the next morning we were off to Seville.  Tune in again soon!