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.