Friday, May 21, 2010

La Despedida

There's an inevitable feeling, when you leave a special place where you have spent time away from home, that combines two contradictory emotions simultaneously: one half of your brain sends the message that you have lived there forever, the other half insists that you had just arrived yesterday. The past three weeks has been an eternity of events that have flashed by in the quickness of a ray of light. And although we are excited to see our friends and family, no one wants to leave, no one wants to let go. And really, we don't have to.

I have tried to give you all a little peek into the world we have been living in for the past three weeks. A snapshot here and a metaphor there, I wished to give you the full effect of the magic we experienced in Segovia. But the truth is, no amount of words or pictures hold the power to convey the message I am trying to send. To experience something through reading is impossible; the only true way is to live it. Still, I hope that with this blog I have been able to give you a part our journey and given my classmates and I something to reflect on and keep as a memory forever. Because there are pieces of our hearts that still haven't left Segovia and will be there always.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

La Granja

Most students at Elmira College, and even their parents, have visited at least once the Corning Museum of Glass just a short drive away. No matter how many times you have visited, you can always find something new and exciting, another dazzling creation formed with this shiny clear solid composed of tiny swimming molecules of silica, sodium carbonate, and calcium oxide. After class, on this gorgeous eighty degree sunny day, we took a similar tour at La Fábrica Real de Cristal, or Royal Glass Factory, in the nearby town of La Granja, that despite its extreme similarities had one major difference from the museum at Corning: the glass made here was produced specifically for the use by his majesty Rey Felipe V in El Palacio Real de la Granja de San Ildefonso in the eighteenth century.

We began our trip at the fábrica de cristal, where the royal creations glowed in glass boxes that lined each room. Pairs of balloon shaped bottles for olive oil and vinegar were engraved with pencil thin gold flowers. Next to them, was a table of "S" shaped and spiral decorated cylinders that are meant to hold the candles in chandeliers. Aqua colored glass bottles and tea cups labeled with the calligraphy inscribed names of royalty flashed their brilliance, taunting our hands that blocked by glass, could not touch them. What was even better than seeing these antique works of craftsmanship shimmering nicely in their displays, was to see them put in place in the Royal Palace.




It almost makes no difference that photography was prohibited inside the palacio, because no digital image, no matter how refined could capture what we saw today with our own two eyes, some of which, Cassie could tell you, were crying of amazement. Wooden carved flowers and angels adorned with leaves of real gold trickled down from the ceiling onto the walls, whose colorful satin and velvet sides were covered with paintings even more famous than the painters themselves. We continued walking until all students came to an abrupt halt at the hallway crossing all of the rooms in a horizontal line: extending in front of us were lines of arañas, what the Spanish call both spiders and chandeliers, adorned with fifteen square feet of sparkling glass ornaments made at the fábrica real. We worked our way down this hall to the royal bedroom where a bed shaded by a silk canopy faced opposite a large window through which one could see straight into the center of the extensive gardens that surrounded the palace.

The gardens at La Granja are rumored to be modeled after the Palace of Versailles, as King Felipe V was raised in France, and missed his old "backyard." And we were quite lucky to walk through the luscious greens today, for it was one of the three days of the year that the town "turns on" the fountains. Following a man with an ear-piercing whistle who carried the Spanish flag, we traveled to four different fountains, each decorated with statues of humans and animals alike. At the sound of his whistle, three men stood to the side and activated the fountain system, one that involves no electrical or gas powered machinery. Hundreds of chanting children lined the edges of the fountains screaming "¡Mójame, mójame!" "Get me wet, soak me!" Because when each fountain was activated, what started as a simple stream became a towering gush of water that drenched all things within a fifteen foot radius of its outer edges. Some of us rushed to the waterspout with the children, others ran for cover, screaming at the top of their lungs. Despite our contrastive efforts, at the end of our garden tour, everyone had gotten wet. But who could complain? We had the water with a three hundred year royal history soak into our bodies and had made the visit of a lifetime.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

El Acueducto

Before coming on this trip, one of the only things we students knew about the city of Segovia was that it was the site of a landmark aqueduct, one of the oldest, most significant, and best-preserved monuments left by the Romans on the Iberian Peninsula. It is the city's top tourist attraction and its foremost symbol as evidenced by its presence on Segovia's coat of arms. Coincidentally, the first fact we learned about the place we would be spending the next three weeks, turned out to be the first place we stopped when we had arrived. And what before we had only read about on Wikipedia, we can now recite to you our own knowledge and interpretation of this incredible structure.

Today, we began our tour at the far end of the Acueducto. Not where it stands at picture perfect height in the center of the azoguejo, or central market, but a couple minutes walk uphill, where the stones are stacked only a few inches above my head. This superb work of construction held together not by mortar, but by the laws of physics, was built as a means to transport water to the area, and consequently is the reason for Segovia's existence. The water transportation structure actually begins in a region known as La Acebeda, collecting water from the Fuente Fría River some 17 kilometers from the city. After first being gathered in El Caserón, or Big Tank, then led to a second tower called the Casa de Aguas (Waterhouse), the water travels on a one percent grade toward Plaza Azoguejo as the arches continue to grow in length and soon start to pile on top of one another. Although it is an astounding view from the ground at its full height, what is even more amazing is being able to view it up close.

As we walked up a set of steps to stand on the water bridge, we could see far down the canal whose pin straight edges created a perfect line that extended toward the horizon. Small black holes stood out on the gray bricks and marked the use of a type of pliers that the Romans used to place them. Every single stone was cubed and placed in its precise location held there by the force of gravity pushing on the mathematically sound structure dreamed up by the men of Rome. It was almost too hard to believe that as we were walking atop the gray stone, it was only the equal and opposite reactions proposed by Newton, the opposition between the pull of our feet and the push of the pillars below us that keep us from falling away.



In its entire two thousand years of existence, the Roman Aqueduct has kept the city of Segovia alive. First, it provided the essential transportation of water to the entire population. And now it serves as a highly targeted tourist attraction whose presence is vital to maintain the flow of people in and out of the city and to furnish Segovia's economy. And after touring the aqueduct today, I feel like an important part of the two thousand year success of this city, for without my being there, the power of the aqueduct to aid the Segovian people, would be one less visitor strong.

Monday, May 17, 2010

La Catedral




Everyday on my fifteen minute walk to class, I pass on my right side La Catedral de Segovia. With its tall and decorative Gothic style architecture, so high that it blocks the sun from stinging my eyes, it did not seem likely that the amazing building would just be another reference point in my everyday routine. What I first saw as an astounding work of architecture jutting into the sky, craning my head just to get one more look, had begun to lose its magical touch with every time I walked past on the way to my house or to school. But today, I got the chance to relive that magic again, when we took a tour of the building I had almost forgotten.

At the end of the twelfth century a new artistic movement apart from Románico began to move into the Peninsula from northern France. As a protest against the excessive luxury of the order of Cluny, the monks of the order of Cister adopted a naked simplicity of architecture, of pointed instead of rounded arcs, popular among towns in northern Europe and the origin of the name "Gothic." Just as we can with the churches built in Románico style, our class can identify and explain the Gothic elements of the high columns, flying buttresses, vaulted ceilings, and gargoyles for both their symbolic and constructional value. However, it was seeing the beautiful works of art inside the building that truly left an impact that will change my view of the outside forever.

At the center of the cathedral, three aisles are formed that all lead to the highly decorated altar piece adorned with golden flowers and statues of baby angels surrounding Mary and her son Jesus. But I think that the most beauty is actually seen around the edges in the individual capillas that line the edge of the building, each dedicated to a religious figure and each with a story of their own to tell. Past each separate gate stands sculptures and altarpieces of Mary, Jesus, and certain saints. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are pictured holding their characterizing symbols of the angel, lion, ox, and eagle respectively. Spanish bishops are honored, their statues standing high in a three dimensional frame of gold above glass cases of robes worn by the men themselves. The room that had the greatest impression on me was the "Cristo Yacido," which contained a wooden sculpture of the crucified Christ laying in a glass box. Just the way he lay their, wisps of hair lightly touching the pillow as small streams of blood traced his skin flowing from his puncture wounds was eye-catching. And his brown eyes reflected such a serene agony that no matter your religion, you could feel his pain.

Although the cathedral is astonishingly gorgeous from the exterior view, the true beauty in its existence was meant to be in what it represents, the stories of the Bible and the institution of the Catholic church. With excessive ornamentation and brute realism, each capilla tells a story of its own more beautiful than the figures that represent it. After that visit, my morning walks past La Catedral will be forever changed. Maybe my eyes will still gaze beyond its colossal structure, but my mind will always wander inside, to the stories unseen for thousands of years.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Madrid

When traveling in Spain, or even Europe in general, a trip to Madrid, the country's capital located at its center, is an essential part of your vacation. With a population of five million, Madrid is characterized for its intense cultural and artistic activity and a very active night life as a city that is sure to be a destination on bucket lists across the globe. To our great fortune, last Saturday everyone arrived at the bus station on time so we could spend the weekend away from the small, quaint life in Segovia in one of the great cities of the world.

After an hour long bus ride and some time in the subterranean world of Madrid's metro system, we dropped our bags at the Aparthotel Madroño and stepped into La Puerta del Sol, or in English the Gate of the Sun, a wide open plaza that acts like Times Square does for New York City, a place where masses of people from all walks of life gather like ants on an anthill scurrying in and out of designer stores and souvenir shops and scrambling to capture with a camera lens the magic of the city. From there, we took a walking tour of the Antiguo Madrid, seeing the Royal Palace where King Juan Carlos I and his family live, la Catedral, and the Plaza Mayor that is encircled by café tables topped with and café con leche. Everywhere we walked, musicians played flutes, accordions, and guitars in front of an upside down hat that held their coins, and men who appeared to be headless walked the sidewalks in search of viewers. Although one could spend hours just watching the variety of people pass by on the street, the main attractions of our visit were el Museo del Prado and el Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofia that combined hold the greatest collection of the works of Spanish master painters: Diego Velázquez, Francisco Goya, El Greco, Salvador Dalí, José Ribera, Joan Miró, Juan Gris, Pablo Picasso, and many others.

It was crucial that we studied our maps and chose carefully which rooms in the museums we wished to study, because to see the entire museum, would take much longer than the two hours we were allotted. As we entered each room for the first time, it was like the walls were a giant plastic bag, as the paintings hanging there sucked the air out of our lungs and halted our process of respiration; the view was breathtaking. To see a painting you have studied and analyzed in classes for years and years in its true form, suspended and larger then you would have ever imagined raw before your eyes is a completely unique experience. Each painting became a river in the current of our emotions. Some brought tears, like Picasso's Guernica or provoked curiosity like Velázquez's Las Meninas. The feeling was such that everyone who had walked into those museums, had walked out feeling more connected to the world, an essential link on the six billion year old chain of the Earth that without such link, would not exist as it does today.

Following the museum visit, we were of course given free time to explore the city for ourselves. Some took a walk in Madrid's beautiful, nature-packed botanical gardens, others went out to eat at tapas bars sharing small courses of exotic foods, and others headed toward the Corte Inglés, where the street made for shoppers begins. All in two days we had experienced what we could of the capital. After much walking, picture viewing, and spending some euros, we were all exhausted, and despite the grandeur of the city, we couldn't wait to return to the smaller city we now know as home: Segovia.

Friday, May 14, 2010

La Casa de Antonio Machado

We've all seen it on the entertainment channel, the glamorous lives of celebrities with their 2,000 square foot homes and their Infinity swimming pools to match. Just watching them walk with chihuahuas in their designer purses and expensive shades over their eyes, we can imagine the fairytale life that they lead. Even of our own idols who are famous, we seem to dream up a magnificent portrait of how they might live. And although it might not involve limousines and butlers, to us, it still represents something unreal. My freshman year of college, I took a Spanish course called 2oth Century Peninsular Literature, where I read the works of Spain's most acclaimed poets and prose writers. And because I want to be a writer myself, these distinguished authors seemed to me a different breed of human, and I could only imagine how they lived their lives. Until today.



This afternoon after comida, we went as a group to visit the house of Antonio Machado, a very talented poet and one of the leading figures of the Spanish literary movement known as the Generation of '98. Although he was born in Sevilla, he moved to Segovia, where he spent twelve years, in 1919 to teach French at the Instituto de Segovia. As we walked in the rain down the hill in a slippery alley, I expected to arrive at a well-maintained mansion, but we arrived instead to a small five-bedroom pension, where the great writer Machado spent twelve years of his writing career.

Maintained in its early twentieth century condition, we started our tour in the kitchen of the house equipped with cast iron appliances so heavy they could kill a man. In the corner sat a smooth brown rock on top of a wooden stand that was used to pound meat. And hanging from the overhang above the stove were thin wedges of newspaper clippings that critiqued and praised republican Spain. On to the kitchen, we saw a simple dining table decorated with velvety purple flowers and a gold campanita, that would sound its shrill ring when the meal was ready. In what used to be other guest rooms rested cases of Machado originals beneath old photographs and paintings of the poet and his lovers. The final room, just as simple as the rest, was the poet's bedroom, in the same state he left it seventy one years ago. A small bed and a nightstand took up the space on the left, while a table of manuscripts that circled an ashtray on the right gave the impression that someone had been diligently working just minutes before.

On our way out we signed a guest book whose blank pages stared me in the face, taunting my inability to come up with the words I wanted to say. There was nothing magnificent in the house, nothing inspirational that caught my eye, and not one thing took my breath away; it was old, but it was normal. And that's when I realized, that no matter what one achieves or how famous one is, in the grand scheme of things, we are all just regular people living regular lives. In order to be a great writer, you don't need a beautiful house or beautiful things, all you need, is a beautiful mind.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Los Zapatos

Over the course of our trip, we have walked a total of almost twenty miles already. Although it is a city of 55,000 people, all stores, businesses, and schools are all located within walking distance from one's own home. Apart from our field trips, we make our way to every destination, whether it be the school, our homes, the bank, or even the post office, on foot. Because the streets here are made of cobblestone and designed only to fit one car, the amount of walking is sure to take a toll on anyone's feet. Combine this need for comfortable transportation and the high fashion sense of Europe, and you can understand why Spain is, out of all things, famous for its shoes.

When I stepped foot onto Spanish soil with my Payless brand flip-flops, I immediately felt inadequate. Walking past the airport and to our taxi, I found myself looking at peoples' feet rather than their faces; their shoes were breathtakingly beautiful. While I am used to cheap sandals and old muddy running sneakers, shoes here are about quality and style, and nothing else. Even children under the age of two wear penny loafers and leather boots that match their coats and scarves as well. All along the Calle Real, the main street in Segovia, shoes of every kind, boots, heels, flats, peep-toes, loafers, sneakers, high-tops and more glisten under the lights in the well-lit display cases outside of every store. And it works of course, because every time, the gleaming zapatos pull us inside.

All but Sam have bought at least one pair of shoes during our stay here. And how could we not? Every time we put them on it's like slipping elegance onto our feet and standing on pride; because the bottom of the shoes make no reference to China, but rather, they say "Hecho en España." Maddie bought electric blue heels made of suede, that will raise her height so high she will float like a supermodel. Jovanna, half of whose wardrobe is in shades of gray, could not resist the urge to splurge on a pair of snake skin gray pumps to match almost every outfit she has. And Cassie and I both got open-toed black heels with straps that we agreed to share, because finally, we have found someone with the same miniature size feet.



Spain has always had a tradition of great handmade shoes. Dr. Shaw even admits that when she studied abroad in the late 70s that she went a little out of her budget just to get those special pairs. One could even attend shoe-making school in Spain at La Escuela de Diseño y Artes Aplicadas in Palma de Mallorca. And to get by here in Spain, not only do we need to talk the talk, but we have to walk the walk as well.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

El Cochinillo Asado

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IMAGES MAY BE DISTURBING TO SOME VIEWERS. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

One of the most difficult things for students when studying abroad, is adjusting to new eating habits and a new diet. In a different country, the regions where we live, and even in our own family traditions we have acquired a certain taste for food and are drawn to what we are accustomed to eating. However, we all came to Spain with an open mind and were ready to try new things, still making sure to note special dietary concerns on our housing sheets such as allergies and vegetarianism. Although it took some getting used to, we have assimilated well to the culture of the siesta, longer hours between larger meals, and for those of us who eat meat, eating larger quantities multiple times a day. But nothing could prepare us for el cochinillo asado.

Segovia's specialty and claim to fame, el cochinillo asado is Spanish for "slow-roast suckling piglet." Unlike most of the meat products we buy in the United States, this lechón, or baby pig, is served, like a model on a stage, full body mode. This rich delicacy is served in nearly every restaurant, and following another tradition originally imposed by el Rey Enrique IV, these establishments must have royal authorization. Not only that, but as you are served, your waiter will read you the royal decree in Old Spanish and then cut through the piglet with a plate to illustrate its tenderness. Of course no one is forced to eat the Segovian staple, but there is no way to avoid its presence hanging by its pink hoofed toes in the windows of restaurants and carnicerías throughout the city.

Restaurant signs swing in the wind as the image of a flattened baby pig waves back and forth. Windows that maybe some wish were mirrors instead allow our eyes to see through to piglets whose hinds are pinched tight with saran wrap. Even the kitchen in my hosts' home has a post that supports the leg of a pig covered graciously with a towel that every so often Jesús removes to cut some slices of the dried meet to eat with our bread. One of the most gruesome windows we have seen was strewn just like stockings on a chimney, but with cow tongues as long as my arm, the jellyfish looking inner hide of sheep, pink dripping pig entrails, and other various animal parts. And while Dr. Shaw and I took pictures, Maddie and Sam could not turn away quick enough so not to get sick.

Although it may upset your stomach and to some even seem a little barbaric, the roots of this custom are nothing but the need to survive, the importance of protein in our diets, the availability of pigs, and yes, a royal decree by a power hungry king. As a girl who has grown up on tradition, I plan on trying cochinillo before our trip is over. Rather than looks, texture, or taste, it is the custom of eating roasted piglet that entices me the most. As something so unchanged by the course of history and untouched by technology, for once in my life I can truly eat a meal fit for a king.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

El Románico Segoviano

If you ask people to choose their most boring high school class, many will tell you, "history." But as one of the most diverse and interesting courses in general studies, I have to ask, why? It is not that the facts are not exciting, or that it's difficult to comprehend, or even that the professors are unenthusiastic. The answer to the question lies in the fact that for most students, these facts are intangible, an incident recorded on a piece of paper that holds no physical value for the learner. I personally love to read into the past and study stories before my time. But here in Segovia we can read about and look at history simultaneously, a way of learning so deep, my brainwaves extend to the bottom of the ocean.

In class, we are studying the artistic movement of Románico and its presence in Segovia. The movement dates back to the ninth century and has its origins in the French order of Cluny, a monastery of benedictine monks. Just as Cluny received land in Aquitaine and became independent of other authorities in France, the bones and relics of the Apostle Santiago were discovered in in Compostela. Similar to the Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca, Cluny publicized to the people the motive to walk the el camino de Santiago and go in peregrination to Santiago de Compostela. After arriving in Spain, the movement caught on like an alluvium, with the greatest quantity of its works built in Segovia.

Because churches were used as cemeteries (which did not exist in these ages), dozens were built in Segovia, each one housing the dead of a different family. And at all fourteen churches still standing, our class can now proudly name the architectural components and their meanings and understand them in a way we never would have if we hadn't got to stroll through them ourselves. All the architectural characteristics of the churches serve a purpose: to tell stories of the Bible to the faithful (most of whom could not read) through symbols and pictures. We know the floor plans of the buildings, a cruz latina, that is established to remember the cross of Christ and his mystical body that is the Church. We can show you that this body generally forms three naves, or aisles in every church. From the outside we see the sillares, or blocks, as symbols of the faithful and the pilares, pillars, as the apostles and saints that make up the church. It's easy to find the cabecera, the altar, the most sacred part of the church that forms three ábsides that jut out of the sides of the building in semicircles. We have turned 360 degrees with our retina the image of the pórticos, or porches, that are characteristic to Segovia because of its cold yet sunny climate. We can reason why the windows are so small, why the arcs are shaped the way they are, what the symbols mean above the doors and on top of the columns, and the function of the towers that stand tall over the city. All this not just from a textbook but from leaving our very own footprints in the structures we're studying.



More than just a museum tour, the possibilities of learning about Spanish history in this environment are endless. Class cannot be boring because we are not only talking about events that occurred in the past, but journeys we have taken in our own lives. We're not only learning about history, we are living it. And as for our exam tomorrow, we're all shooting for an A.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Los Cafés


After only one day here in Segovia, our group made a special pact. Pinkies crossed, we promised never to enter one café or pastelería more than once. This way we would be able to sample the delicacies of every pastry shop in Segovia. But only if it were that easy. Here, it is nearly impossible to walk a couple hundred feet without passing a coffee bar of some sort. And given the weather, we have tasted sweet treats from already over a dozen Segovian eateries. To do so is almost irresistible. Because as you open those glass doors to the new world behind them, something magical happens.

As the air circles around you with the closing door, the bold aroma of coffee beans wafts up to your nose at the same time your eyes reflect the images of tiny squares of chocolate filled pastry dough and kiwi topped tarts. For a second it feels as if, maybe, you have already arrived at heaven before you knew you were dead, until you realize that you have to choose which one you want. Most often, we order tea, coffee, or cappuccino, but on those special occasions, we drink chocolate caliente. Much different than your average ski mountain chalet hot chocolate, the Spanish serve their chocolate thick and rich. Rather than adding chocolate to milk or water, they add hot milk to a steaming cup of what is as thick as a melted bar of fudge. And if the chocolate was not enough of a deadly sin, the desserts are to die for.

Multiple glass counters containing three or more shelves of treats line the edges of the room like garland on a Christmas tree. A favorite of Cassie's are mantecados, one of Segovia's specialties. These traditional crumb cakes appear to be just a typical cookie but your mouth will tell you other wise. Light and full of flavor, the sweet delights melt in your mouth just like a snowball in your bare hand. Ricardo praises the polvorones, or almond cookies whose rich insides dissolve around the almond slices on your tongue. Mazapán is served in layered squares alternating flavored custard with marzipan almond paste for a fiesta of flavors. My favorite are the chocolate filled waffle cones so small they can fit in the palm of my hand and so good they are gone before I leave the store. And of course, Spain's famous flan, a vanilla egg custard topped with caramel sauce, is served in a variety of flavors that all come in single portions.

Although every café we go to is unique, and we have experimented with a wide variety of Spanish delicacies, every establishment we have been to has had one thing in common: an atmosphere conducive to and reminiscent of a love for conversation. Of course the treats are positively delightful and hot tea sure hits the spot in this cold rain, but I could never remember what exactly I had purchased at each store. But none of that really matters to me, because the memories I will keep forever, are the words and laughs that flow out of our mouths and into our ears, a cycle that has built a stronger friendship with every café we visit.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Toledo

This morning, I was awoken suddenly by the shrill oscillating tones of the telephone. I rolled slowly over to my other side to continue sleeping in a lazy state that would soon change, as I glanced at the clock that to my horror said 9:30 a.m. Like a jack-in-the-box I jumped out of my bed and began to throw on my clothes and find my belongings; at 9:30 all students were to be at the acueducto, a fifteen minute walk from my house, and ready to leave for our trip to Toledo. On my nightstand sat my alarm clock, set with the perfect time, but with a knob placed oh so inconveniently by the word "off." I could hear the voice of Jesús downstairs talking to our guide Ricardo, and before he could tell me to do so I threw my unwashed hair up in a bun and flew down the stairs so he could drive me to where the other tired students sat waiting. I will forever be grateful that the bus waited just fifteen more minutes for me to arrive, because the city of Toledo is the visit of a lifetime.

Capital of the Autonomous Community of Castilla-La Mancha and the province of Toledo, Toledo is known as the "city of three cultures," a reference to the Christian, Muslim, and Jewish cultures that coexisted there through various centuries and that give the city its unmistakable character. There, the assimilation of cultures is evident right before your eyes, in the architecture, even in the souvenir shops. Like a giant blender Toledo has mixed together the three major religions of the world to make something new, hybrid products that cannot be seen anywhere else in the world. All its beauty lies in the intersections of cultural lines that zig-zag and cross each others' paths in a web of integration.

Our first stop on our tour was La Catedral. What began its construction in 1226, combines Gothic elements with other styles in a way that can take your breath away. As we lined up outside to take pictures, our guide, Gloria, could only laugh. "The outside is nothing," she said, "compared to the beauty inside." If a picture is worth a thousand words, and because photography was again prohibited, I could not type in my lifetime what the church, tall with arcs decorated with marble statues that burst out of the wall, painted angels that flew over the ceiling, and intricate works of wood and gold that adorned every element inside, looked like. The altar, which faces East where the Sun rises in order that the people walk toward the light of God, had not always been the centerpiece of this church. In fact, this building had not always been a church either; it was a mosque. The centerpiece of the mosque is the mihrab, or a small highly decorated niche in a mosque that always faces Mecca (in Toledo's case Southeast), so that believers will know inside which direction to pray. After the Reconquista, the Catholic "reconquest" of Spain, the rebuilding of this cathedral over the original mosque required an entire reorientation of the building.

Another example of the Christian influence left in the path of the "reconquerers" is La Sinagoga del Tránsito. Unlike any synagogue in the United States, this building had on its far wall images of baby angels and even a cross. Just as well, the Muslim influence was undeniable. Facades were adorned with beautiful works of plaster in the mudéjar style characteristic of Muslim architecture. The arches too were not curved in one smooth line, but rather shaped like a keyhole, a foundation of Muslim architectural style. Sam, the only Jewish student on the trip, said he hardly felt like he was in a synagogue at all.

The melting pot of religion has survived through time in art as well, a phenomena we could see even in the gift shops. The art of Damascene, interlacing gold on iron or steel to produce beautiful decorative designs has become a trademark of Toledo. Practiced for centuries in Egypt, the origin of the word is thought to come from Damascus, now the capital of Syria, that was once capital of the Muslim Empire. But in every shop we went, this Arabic art form was used to decorate both crosses and the Star of David. Windows shimmered with a Damascene splendor that reflected parts of three cultures at once. But still, it is hard to explain the magnificence of Toledo. I could write forever on what these three cultures brought to the city, yet something would be missing, an element so distinct I had only seen it in this city. Because as we all know, just in the taste of Mom's homemade mashed potatoes, that the whole, is more than just the sum of its parts.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

El Escorial

Although we keep the thought filed back in the corner of our minds, most of us plan on doing something nice and memorable for our parents when they die, in order to honor their life. We plan funerals and celebrations, start traditions, buy headstones, coffins, spread ashes, and with today's technology even make videos and photo-books. In the mid sixteenth century, el Rey Felipe II of the Spanish empire had the same kind of idea for his parents, only his plan was a little more extravagant. Felipe's grand idea was to build El Mausoleo de los Reyes (Mausoleum of Kings), that would house all the remains of all Spanish monarchs from Carlos I up to Alfonso XIII, with the exception of the first king of the house of Borbón Felipe V and his son Fernando VI. But that's not all, this room stacked with marble coffins held up by golden lion's paws, is only a small part of the magnificent temple of El Escorial.

We left Segovia for the first time today to tour the monastery, but only had time to see the highlights of the building that at 207 meters long by 161 meters wide, contains 9 towers, 88 fountains, 16 outdoor patios, 2,673 windows, and 1,200 doors. The temple was constructed in the honor of San Lorenzo, in order to commemorate the Spanish victory over the French in the Battle on San Quintín and to show gratitude to the saint who shared that date of August 10th. San Lorenzo, who was martyred by being burned alive on a grill, is pictured outside, his symbol, the grill, by his side. Because photography was prohibited, and we were confined to taking pictures outside, there is no way to show you the sheer beauty of the church, the library, and all the rooms whose ceilings bore large scale paintings of Christian images that seemed to take on a third dimension and come to life. However, no photograph would have sufficed.


Of all the rooms in the temple, the one that affected me the most was El Mausoleo de los Reyes. Opposite the stairs in this circular room, was a gold sculpture of the crucifix that floated under Hebrew words that Sam translated roughly as "Christ sees high over his kingdom." The ceiling was adorned with golden flowers and a chandelier hung with intricate designs of children playing among bunches of grapes. The green marble boxes of each ruler was engraved in Latin stating the king or queen's name whose bones occupy the inside. It took a minute to sink in, but I soon realized, I was standing in the same room as the royal family of Spain, taking up the same space as men and women so powerful that they shaped the history of the entire world, and I was surrounded by dozens of kings and queens. If you have ever felt at a funeral, a certain electricity running through your veins, that tells you that the person inside the coffin is still very much alive, multiply the voltage you experienced by a thousand; that was the charge I got standing in that room.

There are three chests that remain unnamed, although their occupation has already been planned. The remains of Juan de Borbón, father of current king Juan Carlos I, and one more monarch, can be found in the pudridero, the rotting room. This special room, off to the side, serves one purpose: to house the remains of monarchs that must rot completely, a process of around thirty years, so that just the bones can be carefully placed in their proper resting place.

A symbol of the power of the sixteenth century Spanish empire and an illustration of Spanish Renaissance art and architecture, El Escorial has done its job to reflect the imperial ideals of Felipe II. In the past, members of the royal family have claimed divine power, having special permission and communication with God that allows them to rule. Although the claims of course now seem completely ridiculous, after my visit today, I am certain, that here in Spain, kings live forever.

La Tormenta

Before coming to Spain, in order to prepare what to pack, I had set the weather widget on my Macbook to tell me every day, the forecast for Segovia, Spain. To my excitement, the numbers continued to read in the mid 70s as seven glowing pictures of suns shined through the computer screen. Cassie and I got together and decided to pack dresses, in order to conserve room, and to limit ourselves to four pairs of sandals and two pair of sunglasses. As our date of take-off got closer, everything seemed to be going our way with nothing but sunny skies ahead. Until Monday.

Like a magician, Mother Nature had turned over her cards just at the moment we weren't looking. When I pulled up the forecast that morning to decide which dress to wear, every sun had been replaced by dark gray clouds that cried blue drops of rain. Suddenly, what Cassie and I thought was preparation became an unnecessary section of our wardrobe, and a very long section at that. Wearing jackets and scarves borrowed from our host families we quickly went shopping for our own warm clothes because everyday except Thursday, has acted just like a hooked fish, cold, wet, and ready to twitch and surprise us at any moment.

Yesterday, was the beginning of the Titirimundi festival here in Segovia, a week of títeres, or puppets, with different shows from performers around the world circulating the city. Because many of the indoor acts we already reserved, we planned to spend our afternoon at La Plaza Mayor, watching "Dirk et Fien," a presentation by Belgian acrobats that perform all pieces on a giant piano. We hadn't taken more than a couple hundred steps over the cobblestone when Mother Nature decided to change our plans. What started as a low grumble began to roar across the sky, accompanied by buckets of water. We were caught in the middle of la tormenta.

Children shrieked and shoes (very nice Spanish ones at that) scuffled over the stone to find shelter. Our group found a cozy gelato and espresso shop to step into, coincidence or not. Even after finishing our treats, the rain still came down, sheets of water separating us from the performance. Keeping the same attitude as we have had from the beginning, we decided to brave the elements and make the trek toward La Plaza Mayor.

Twelve soaked shoes and one brand new umbrella later, we arrived, and as we had feared the show had been canceled. Despite the clouds that crawled across the sky and the weather channel, we still chose to look on the bright side of the situation and decided to take the opportunity to do some shopping.

Though many will comment on how awful it is that the weather was poor during our trip, I truly believe that it is not the weather that is miserable, it is the people. Sure we had hopes of sun and sporting our new shades, but that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves. We have a very special group on this trip, that in spite of what happens around us continues to stay positive, be creative, and have fun. We are just so happy to be here in Spain, not even for one second will we let ourselves feel "under the weather."

Thursday, May 6, 2010

El Mercado

La Casa de Trastámara, one of the royal dynasties in Spain, ruled from the mid fourteenth century until the death of the Catholic King Fernando II in 1516. During their reign of power, the nobility was in constant warfare, and new territories were constantly being divided and established, forcing the kings to rule an unstable Spain. Enrique IV, rey de Castilla, nicknamed "El Impotente," the Impotent, ruled the area of Castile, now the autonomous community that houses Segovia, from 1454-1474. As he ruled, the nobles gained power and the nation became less centralized. His exercising of this supreme power, can still be seen today in Segovia, stemming from a law older than the United States that lives in the tradition of el mercado, the market.

One way Enrique IV really showed of his guns, was to restrict open markets and the selling of objects to certain days of the week. Only with royal authorization could merchants gather in La Plaza Mayor and sell their products. And so, certain days of the week, tents would be pitched and tables would be lined with buttery smooth sheets of silk and the air filled with the sweet sting of spices. As time passed, the custom continued through today, when every Thursday, in La Plaza Mayor, the people of Segovia gather in clusters of food, flowers, clothing and other goods in order to sell, barter, and share their products.

After class, our wallets stuffed with euros, we all walked to La Plaza Mayor, where voices echoed off of the buildings an into our ears before we could see where they originated from. When we arrived, the place we had passed yesterday was hardly recognizable, and as we weaved through the sea of Spaniards, blouses swinging in the wind, boxes of shiny red tomatoes, and faded cassette tape collections, it was clear that we would not get out without buying something.

Cassie's sweet tooth got the best of her, as it pulled her like a sled down a hill toward the strawberry gummies. Madeline, with her unassuming sense of generosity, walked casually to the flower stand and bought a bouquet of lilacs for her host mother. One vendor almost convinced Jovanna two buy a tee-shirt for a special deal, but her rational half stopped her at the last moment. And Sam and I both bought gifts for those whose names shall remain anonymous until we return home.

Like most things in Segovia, the rush and excitement of this weekly market stemmed from a ritual as old as your grandfather, twenty-two times great. Even though the shoppers have changed, now representing countries across the globe, the clothing styles have become more modern, and the prices have undergone a substantial amount of inflation, I believe that the atmosphere is probably the same. Whether its spices from Asia or strawberry gummies, the exhilaration of buying these special items remains unchanged.

Futbolmanía

Around this time of year back home, basketball fans are at full speed in a whirlpool of sweat, beer, adrenaline, shouting, and big screen TVs, as the NBA continues deeper into the playoffs. When the leaves fade to red and fall in the wind the same scene will cascade into the baseball world, and "American" football shortly after that. But here, all year round, even as those same leaves are disintegrating under the icy layers of snow, it's all about soccer. Fútbol, that is.

Although unfortunately the sport is not on the top of the list for U.S. viewers, soccer is the most popular sport in the world. It combines all the values of raw athleticism, tight competition, the importance of teamwork, individual drive and determination, and a broad understanding of the game. But most of all, with its quick pace and relatively simple rules, it has become a sport that all of the world can watch and adore. As our first day with free time after class, we did our homework early, and even did a little shopping, so that tonight we could watch the pivotal match between Real Madrid and Real Mallorca.

Tonight, you could see through every window blurs of green that flashed a soccer field on the television screen of every home. For months, Real Madrid and its bitter rival, Barcelona have been battling back and forth, like two brothers over the last chocolate chip cookie in the jar, just to have a taste of the title of la Primera División de La Liga española. Before tonight's game, Barcelona was slowly inching away from Real Madrid, closer and closer to the Spanish League title.

As I prepared to leave my own home, tucking in my scarf so I could zip my jacket, I told my family, as a fan of Madrid, how excited I would be to see them win. Not two seconds had passed when I looked up and saw three gaping holes for mouths and six wide eyes staring at me. Let's just say the de Frutos Álvarez family are devote Barcelona fans, and with a Yankees to Red Sox quality, they hate Real Madrid. Jesús quickly told me that Madrid fans were not allowed to sleep in his house. But it was a joke, I hope.

We planned to meet at the bar El Gato, but as I was walking I could hear crowds of voices. Masses of bodies were strewn like bunches of grapes in the streets surrounding the bars to watch the game. In El Gato however, we had room to sit. The bar was blasting with the bellowing voice of the announcer as all eyes fixated on the screen. In the back of the room was a futbolín, a foosball table, one team dressed in the white of Real Madrid, the other adorned with the red and blue of Barcelona. As our eyes danced before the field, star player Cristiano Ronaldo of Real Madrid produced a brilliant second half display, sticking his first hat-trick for the team. After defeating Real Mallorca 4-1, they trimmed the gap on Barcelona with only two games remaining in the Primera División. This victory, only increases the restlessness of fanáticos, and builds the base for the chaos to come.

Soccer has brightened the life of Segovia, bringing heat, passion, competitiveness, and even a certain aggressiveness to the old city. As time builds the word fútbol dances faster, promenading from one tongue to the next. I can only hope that tomorrow morning, I am not put on the street.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

La Alameda de la Vida

This afternoon, a blusterous day of rain and yes, snow, that kept the mercury levels below the Fahrenheit level of 50, we all agreed to brave the conditions and walk the Alameda, or tree-lined path, that wanders around Segovia. The tranquil dirt path populated with trees and people blew Central Park out of the water like a whale spraying tiny organisms out of its blowhole. From the path we could see the old city walls made of scattered blocks each a different tone of ivory. A river flowed along its side and tiny caves sat nestled in the surrounding rock. At the end of la alameda we could see the Alcázar from the opposite side still holding our gaze with its genuine beauty. But the most remarkable thing I saw strolling la alameda, was the stark difference in the pace of life between Spain and the United States.

On the path, Spaniards walked just to walk. Joggers passed by without headphones but rather, conversing with each other. Even the wind that tangled our hair was not rushed. Here, city life has a different feel. Instead of the New York City bustle of swift steps and honking horns, it seems there is more appreciation for the surroundings and the moment that is, every step of the way. Yes, the streets are often crowded with people, but in the simple way that they move their feet, turn their heads, and move their mouths, their walk is marked more by pleasure than purpose.

Even the pace of food here is different. In New York City, the streets are lined with vendors and mouths are stuffed with juicy hot dogs, while walking. In Segovia, not a soul walks the streets eating food. Meals are not seen as an ends of fast nourishment but rather as an indulgent process to be enjoyed with friends and family. We eat breakfast around eight or nine, even earlier depending on when we get up. This is a very small meal and usually consists of some galletas con leche (cookies and milk), tostada (toast), cereales, or sometimes bizcocho (a sweet bread like a lighter version of pound cake). Comida is not served until 2:30 and is the biggest meal of the day with two courses and dessert. Just as well, from 2:00-5:00 in the afternoon, all shops are closed (except some restaurants) for la siesta, a time of rest. In this way, lunch is never part of another stepping stone on the blazing path back to work. Finally, la cena is served around 9:00 pm, when here, darkness begins to blanket the sky. And of course in between the meals some people often eat snacks like fruit, pastries, small sandwiches, and hot drinks. Furthermore, each meal is eaten with the family, at home, accompanied by much conversation. While it may seem difficult to endure such a long time without eating, after three days my body has felt the best it ever has. In a way, the routine sets up the body to think about eating the food, not finishing it.

Passing through La Alameda brought to life one of the oldest clichés in the book, that here in Spain is not just a saying but a true moral of existence: Life is about the journey, not the destination.

Monday, May 3, 2010

El Alcázar


Pop in any Disney movie at home and you are sure to see the scroll of Walt's famous signature hovering below a magnificent castle as a shooting star arches above its towers. Where did Mr. Disney get his inspiration for such a magnificent palace? Look no farther than the fairytale land of Segovia, Spain.

After our first morning class and comida (what we call lunch) with our families at 2:30, we walked down the historic Calle Daoíz, where I live, to the Alcázar (fortress) of Segovia. What inspired the infamous Walt Disney castle had its earliest blueprints drawn up in 1088. When El Rey de Castilla y Leon Alfonso VI was given the task to repopulate the city, he mused of a palace where kings and queens would live. And let me tell you, this castle sure was fit for a king.

Before we entered into the stony halls with golden ceilings, we had to first cross what used to be a draw bridge over an ancient moat. The bridge stood 75 feet off the ground that at one time water trickled and bears grazed with their large paws to protect the royal inhabitants from intruders. In the first room stood hollow figures of authentic "knights in shining armor," the silver curved and pointed at the toes, knuckles, and shoulders in order to both protect themselves and maul their opponent. The halls then moved into an open courtyard whose upper level houses the library of the Spanish artillery. As we continued on, I began to notice just how little Cinderella would fit in there.

In one room sat the two royal chairs on the thrown of Los Reyes Católicos: Fernando e Isabel with the words "Tanto Monta," she rules as much as he. To the left of the seat of the monarchy synonymous with the Spanish Inquisition was a vidriera, a stained glass window. What at first appeared like any storybook painting, a victorious king riding his horse, became, as the Sun shined through the pixels of colored glass, a horror story: the hooves of Enrique's horse, were galloping over severed Muslim heads. Paintings conveyed a certain brutality not found in the fairytales of Disney. Santa Lucia, patron saint of the blind, is shown holding her own eyes on a golden platter. Another woman is painted with a breast in each hand, both had been twisted off of her own body. Despite the beauty of the golden pine cones hanging from the ceiling, the walls aligned with life size models of prominent Spanish rulers sitting casually with their staff and crown, or the light pouring in from the tall arched windows like milk into a cereal bowl, the open halls of the fortress were filled with sacrifice. While Cinderella had left her glass slipper, these people had left their blood.

Regardless of what you may think, walking into a castle did not feel like strolling into a fairytale at all. Better than that, it felt real. Every element, the beautiful and the ugly was so tangible I felt I had lived and breathed every second of it. Although Disney looked to great places for insight, no matter what kind of computer graphic technology his company uses, it can never accurately illustrate the profound sublimity of the Alcázar. Because it is not a graphic at all, it is real.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

La Máquina del Tiempo

If you have ever traveled to Europe from the United States, you know what it's like to simultaneously move forward and backward through time. Marked by the weight of jet lag on our eyelids, we arrived on Spanish soil after a race against the rotation of the Earth. What was officially marked on our ticket as a seven hour flight carried us through the jet stream an additional six hours into the future, giving us the power every child dreams of: being able to jump across a gap in time, press skip on the VCR of life and arrive later than what your ticking watch can predict. While the fresh Spanish air, compact, fuel efficient, and hybrid eurovehicles, and circular road signs paved the way for our timely triumph, our arrival at Segovia stopped us dead in our tracks. After what seemed to be a trip to the future, had we really gone back in time?

The ancient city of Segovia was originally a Celtic possession, its name originating from the Celtic "castle" or "fortress." As power later transferred to the Romans and the Moors, like a shaken up bottle of Coke, the city now bursts and fizzes with bubbles of Roman history with Arabic undertones. The driver from Madrid dropped all students off at the base of the oldest Roman aqueduct still standing in Western Europe to wait for our host families. My neck arched back and eyes squinted, I had only a few minutes to get a good look at the stony layers of history before Jesús de Frutos Álvarez lifted my bag from under my arm and drove me to his home.

Although I was excited about having my own room and private bath, this was the least amazing thing about la casa. As Jesús bobbed up the swirling staircase with my 24 lb. suitcase, I noticed that what we had been twisting around was a giant hole that continued three stories up. This, Jesús pointed out, is an aljibe, or a cistern that the Moors used in the beginnings of the years A.D. the bring water to their homes. Water that was so easily directed by the colossal, man made, cement free, acueducto. Even more stunning, the side of the house, a giant window that looks to the West over the Alcázar (fortress) and a green field of trees, though seemingly new, is not at all a contemporary fixture. The column in which I was standing and watching the movements of the Sun was a renovation of a Church steeple that had been there since 1100. Then I knew, I was no longer moving into the future. I was zipping back into the centuries so fast, it seemed my heart too had to slow down and remember which way blood came in and which way it went out, so it didn't end up pumping backwards.

After a brief tour of the city, two meals consisting of cheese covered ham, bruschetta, fish filled manicotti, soup, Spanish pizza, parfaits, bizcocho, and yes, Reese's, and laughs with my family, I know that three weeks will not truly be enough to fit it all in. But no one really has 2,000 years to spare do they?