Spain, Day 27-31

Andres Recovers, Stumbles, Dies, and then Revives
A Play in Five Acts

Sunday ended with a visit to the haunts of the old people: a plaza near the hotel where all of Granada's AARP members congregated after buying an ice cream cone (or, knowing AARP, after having collected their free ice-cream cone). Actually, with a Sprite and Spanish braided pretzel in hand (unfortunately, this is a misleading description of the pastry I was eating, the only thing it had in common with a pretzel was its shape, aside from that the dough, consistency, and taste were quite distinct, but alas) I didn't feel considerably out-of place because nestled amongst the forest of canes there were the sons, granddaughters, and great-grandchildren of all our AARP friends. I perched on a bench watched them all go by, just as they all watched each other pass-by, and we had a lively old time. I returned to my hotel feeling passably better, and I slept excitedly with great anticipation of tomorrow's activities and my presumed recovery.

Day 27

I awoke eager to pursue an interview I had scheduled with the Head Chef of the Parador of Granada's Restaurant. Somewhat inconveniently, the Parador is under construction, so it was difficult to secure a time for this meeting, but after confirming and reconfirming that this was the most appropriate time for a visit I prepared to undertake the normally slightly taxing but in a weakened state Herculean task of alighting the Alhambra to reach the Parador, which is actually among the buildings of the historic palatial complex. Fortunately, a bus runs up the hill and I took it. Through a convenient chain of events I wound up actually speaking with the Associate Director of the Parador, who was formerly Head Chef, and then moved on to work in the administration of the Paradors at a regional level before accepting his current charge. The insight he offered into the workings of this regaled gastronomic institution was priceless and underscored the impact of tourism and globalization on the design and structure of the menu and the restaurant.

Needless to say, the warmth with which he received me and his accommodating manner invigorated my spirits greatly, to the point that I felt it would be appropriate to descend the “mountain” (please remember that I’m from Chicago) unaided. I was so enlivened with my success that en route to my hotel I suddenly changed course and opted for lunch. I had spied a nearby restaurant offering Vegetable Soup, which I thought would fit today’s profile perfectly.

As I would soon discover over the course of the week, it’s tricky ordering Soup in Spain.

The thick green aromatic liquid seduced me, despite my better sense, and I consumed it nearly to the last drop. I should have continued to slop it up, realizing that having spared three spoonfuls after having consumed an incalculable quantity already was pointless. I enjoyed my soup and fizzy water, however, and gladly paid my bill and left. That evening, post-nap, I felt stronger and well en route to recuperation. Around ten, however, my stomach was struck by an odd sensation, which I soon pegged as hunger! I was overjoyed but these stomach growls. So enfeebled was my condition over the past two days that I had even lost appetite, and to have it return was surely a sign of better things to come. I satiated myself with bread and water however, and resolved that I would continue to gather strength in preparation for a full meal, which I planned to be enjoying the following day in Seville.

Sadly my intestines had other plans for me.

Day 28

A few miracles occurred today, and for a moment I considered them as divine intervention in thanks for having visited more churches over the past months than most Biblical figures probably managed to do. But in consideration of how much I suffered as well today, I realized that all in all I broke out about even.

Miracle Number One

Freakishly planned travels like mine involve hotel reservations and itineraries created months in advance, yet so great was my pain this morning that for 30 grueling minutes this morning I considered deviating from my schedule. I almost forfeited an already paid night at a hotel in Seville for the comforts of not having to move from my bed in Granada.

Almost as startling as the idea of abandoning my schedule was that I resorted to a nap this morning. It lasted only half an hour, but for the rest of the day I counted myself among the believers in the wonders of the nap, for the first time in almost two decades.

Miracle Number Two

Though I had to resort to a taxi to take me on a trip that would have lasted an equal amount of time on foot, but would have been too taxing and also sweatier, I actually arrived at the train station with time enough to spare for another nap, this time on a bench in the station. Classy, I know.

Sadly, there were just three benches on the platform, and I wasn’t sharing mine. Needless to say, I was nobody’s favorite tourist today. Nevertheless, my luck held and after hogging a bench for an hour amidst swarms of jostling travelers, I actually boarded a train to discover that I had my own two-person seat. Of course, if I hadn’t been on a liquid diet for the past 48 hours I would have needed the extra room to accommodate my frame that has swollen from exaggerated pork consumption, but thanks to my debilitating illness I could curl up in the fetal position and nap, again.

Miracle Number Three

The only good thing about being sick today was that today was a Tuesday and the Spanish world was functioning. In other words, the supermarkets were open. Of course, my first question upon checking into my hotel in Seville was “where is the nearest supermarket,” which instantly pegged me as one of those tourists who purchase groceries at the supermarket, smuggle it into their rooms, and closet themselves–scarfing up their acquired vittles rather than fueling the local economy and overtaxing their wallets. Unfortunately, there has been a rash of news reports in the past weeks about the rising numbers of such tourists on the peninsula. Thankfully, the order hasn’t yet been given to have them rounded up and shot, or expulsed.

Yet, returning to me and the receptionist at the hotel: I asked, she snickered, and then she admitted there was a Corte Ingles (a local department store, which usually has a supermarket in the basement) in the vicinity and she even consented to point out its location on a map for me. Admirably, she managed all of this without actually saying the words supermarket, weirdo, or making any other derogatory remarks.

It goes without saying that Tuesday improved post-supermarket visit.

Day 29

Seville appears beautiful, welcoming, and comfortable from what I have seen on television, gathered from the colorful brochures, and imagined from my bed. Of course twice a day I actually do get to experience Seville, and I shower and fix myself up for these outings. I am referring to my twice daily returns to the Supermarket. I have resolved single-handedly to tear through El Corte Ingles’ supply of fresh bread, saltines (or “English Crackers” as my preferred brand is called), water (with and without gas, though the variety of the latter is surprisingly limited), and Jell-O. Between these staples of the diet of the infirm I plan to scare away death if not hunger. As an interesting perk, I also get to make friends with the bread lady who sells me my loaves twice a day. Sadly, it appears I am more committed to pursuing the relationship than she is.

Meanwhile I am still confined to quarters, but my mood was mildly cheered (ok, I admit it: much cheered) by a call from my mother. Yesterday, Tuesday, she made her first contact since I had fallen ill on Sunday. Kindly, she didn’t admit that her call was prompted by a plaintive text message I had sent to my father earlier in the day, demanding that they call. Mommy promised to call every afternoon until I got better, and as of today she was on target with her goal.

Her first order of business yesterday was to dictate the items that I should purchase from the Supermarket (hence the Saltines and Jell-O) and also to send me to my local pharmacy. I fulfilled both tasks Wednesday morning before crawling back into bed, gladly, however, because I now had crackers and Jell-O within arms reach (plus the room had a fridge! A rare luxury in Spanish hotels, but it meant I had cold Jell-O).

On the plus side, my meal expenses have decreased significantly…

Day 30

I have been cleared for Banana consumption today. The relaxing of dietary restrictions are quite welcome considering that I awoke with great hunger today.

But Mommy never called today; I think she may have forgotten I am sick. In light of the situation, I cleared myself for further fruit consumption this afternoon. Pears were right next to the bananas so they appeared to be the natural choice.

Of course, this means meal expenses have begun to rise again. Expenses soared 300%. We broke the 7 Euro mark for the first time in four days. To celebrate I allowed myself time out of the cell. I managed over an hour of walking, traveling over twenty minutes past El Corte Ingles into the legitimate downtown of Seville. I actually saw the famed Giralda (the minaret turned bell-tower that distinguishes Seville’s Cathedral) albeit from down the block. Who knew there was such a world of non-edible entertainment beyond the supermarket? Although it may pale in comparison to browsing the water aisle at the store, I think tomorrow I will be cleared for exploration. Just in time too, Friday is my last full day in Seville.

Day 31

Yup, Seville has a Cathedral too, and it’s big, and gothic. There is also a castle here, for the Christian monarchs. To top it all off, there is a handsome Bull Ring too.

Yes, I think the cattiness has returned and we are safely en route to recovery.

An exhausting day, for sure, and my body actually withstood it. I rewarded it with crackers, pears, and bananas–all at the same meal! There was fresh bread too.

The day blossomed with breathtaking tours of the royal gardens in the Alcazar of Seville, and it continued to mount in beauty as I admired the city from atop the Giralda. I even had the privilege to be in the tower when the bells rang. Oddly enough, they are no more charming than when they wake me up at school on Saturday mornings, even if these are historical foreign bells.

After popping back to the hotel to rest during the hottest hours of the day I ventured out anew to discover the Plaza de España, which for anyone who watches Star Wars, could best be described by referring to the colonnade on Naboo that the Senator and Anakin walk under in Episode Three (yes, I actually thought about that while I was alone at dusk in the Plaza; suit me…).

Aside from reminiscing about Star Wars, and enjoying my rejuvenated immune system, I also took a moment to bid farewell to my solo adventures in Spain. I will be returning to the real world tomorrow and be expected to sustain conversations, maintain a pleasant demeanor and remain an accommodating and understanding guest.

In all seriousness, however, I am not overly concerned with these expectations–there will be no children at this next home-stay.

Spain, Day 36

A warm baguette, perfectly flaky yet sufficiently supple to envelope the slices of sausage and aged Manchegan cheese and softly balance their strong flavors--I can imagine no better way to celebrate a return to health, an end to my hermitical life-style, and my final week in Spain. The scene was a knoll along the edge of the Parque del Retiro, overlooking the Bosque del Recuerdo, and bordering boisterous activity of some frolicking, scantily-clad French youths. The weather was a warm sun hovering around 30 degrees, but with a refreshing breeze, especially in the cool shade far below some thankfully bug-free branches. Nursing a classy Supermarket plastic bag, I trundled through this sweeping arboreal escape snuggled near the bustling heart of Madrid. I pushed aside the aesthetics of my appearance, however, as I scoped out the perfect place for my solo picnic (a bit more graceful than my umpteenth solo meal in a restaurant).

Desperately worried that the park was too pretty and manicured for a picnic I finally settled on a welcoming hill a bit off the main path and I set out my spread: rich slices of Iberian ham, some aromatic sausage, and two regional cheeses, the first an aged Manchegan cheese similar to that we enjoyed at a certain Bread and Cheese Party in the Pierson Courtyard during Finals Week, and the second cheese a semi-cured sheep's milk cheese, and finally some sun-dried tomatoes (which, sadly, were not half as flavorful as how I imagine those sun-dried tomatoes from the vegetable market in Granada that appeared much rosier and full-bodied would have tasted). Of course, the crusty loaf is a given, and the bottle of mineral water though refreshing was a lackluster substitute for a bottle of fine Spanish wine, but I settled upon the water in a concession to common sense and health.

My only disappointment at lunch time today was when I reached into the bread sleeve only to discover that piece by pleasurable piece I had dismantled almost the entire loaf leaving only the end with which to pair a couple remaining sun-dried tomatoes and a selective sampling of meats and cheese. I polished off the sausage and the semi-cured sheep's cheese and re-wrapped my remaining Ham and Manchego Cheese for supper, then lay back and enjoyed the scenery for five minutes before I started to notice the ants, the prickly grass stalks, and the encroaching sun and decided to pack-up my picnic. It's amazing the powerful enchantment that food can cast, dulling every sensitivity to all other possible stimulation. During that picnic, my focus was not the landscape, nor the people around me, nor the clean breeze that blew through the park. I noticed those things only before I pulled out the bread and after I crumpled up the bag it came in.

Spain, Day 26

God-Awful
Being sick in a hotel is no more comfortable than being sick at home. I woke up this morning feeling a tad less than perfect, but steeled myself to venture out to forage. I bought myself the Sunday paper, which was no more exciting than the Saturday paper, seeing as it was STILL consumed with news of the New 7 Wonders election, and then sat down to enjoy some bubbly water and toast with jelly. I read my paper cover to cover, drank my water, ate my bread, and headed back to hotel to plan how to overcome Sunday doldrum.

We all know Spaniards latch onto nap-time as a time-honored tradition and have resolved to shut down the nation for two-hours every afternoon, but this pales in comparison with their Sunday boycott on business. Other nations mirror this Sunday relaxation of work-hours but I found it painfully obvious today for two reasons: disappearance of entertainment, and loss of supermarkets, pharmacies, and other locales that pick you up when your down.

In conclusion, those who are sick on Sundays in Spain are screwed. Sadly, I was in that club. Perhaps the pathetic-ness of the day is exemplified best in the following email I sent to my dad yesterday night:

I was sick today. I just wanted to share that with you. I considered calling, but...it's very expensive to call from cell phones. Anyway, I am feeling much better, but the day was rough, especially because EVERYTHING SHUTS DOWN ON SUNDAY, so trying to find water and coke and bread (which is all that I've eaten) was tough. At about 9:30 p.m. I felt well enough to venture out to look for dinner. It was much cooler, thankfully, but I decided against dinner and opted instead for some more bread from a bakery and a can of Sprite. I trust that tomorrow will be much better.

Well, I was thinking of you and mom a lot today and just wanted to share that with you.

Love,

your son

Spain, Day 25

Saturday, 7/7/07, finally arrived and the wave of Al Hambra furor that has swept the country has finally crested. But for us foreigners, Saturday was more important as the commencement of the weekend. So, I turned off the alarm and decided I would wake up when I would wake up, and slept until 11 a.m. at which point I was afraid it would be too hot to go out and subsequently considered just trying to force myself to sleep more, but realized that I didn't like sleeping nor Spanish TV that much.

The bright, hot, day (this seems to be a recurring pattern) convinced me that I should search for indoor entertainment, like a museum, which we all know to be air conditioned and relaxing. Sadly, the last time I followed this train of thought, it failed me even more miserably than it did this time. In Cordoba, it was actually hotter inside the museum than outside. Saturday, however, in the Archaeological Museum of Granada I proudly noted that it was no hotter inside than outside, plus there was guaranteed shade (albeit substituted for desired air circulation). As in Cordoba, however, the term museum was used rather lightly. Sure it was nifty to be inside a Medieval House and explore its rooms that were now decorated with Roman Capitals, Islamic pottery, and prehistoric tools, but it could only entertain for so long. Even dork-a-saurus-rexes would have been hard-pressed to summon prolonged interest in these "Archaeological Museums." The offerings of the Museum of Granada were more extensive, and the house bigger, but still I regretted--slightly--the sweat I put into finding the museum (this is one of the problems when a museum is housed inside of a house, you can walk right past it a half dozen times and not actually realize that you are passing it, instead you think "hmmm...pretty house!").

The Archaeological Museum of Granada, however, is at the foot of a hill that harbors the vestiges of the arab culture in Granada. As the lady at the hotel's front desk pointed out out to me on a map when I checked in, "this is the Albaicin. It's where the gypsies are. This is a day-time trip." I've never met a gypsy, or much less seen one, so I decided to scale the hill and go gypsy hunting.

The hill lacked observable gypsies, and I can't say I was particularly surprised. Instead, I discovered a drowsy neighborhood withering in the mid-day heat, kinda like I was. At the foot of the hill, nearer to the tourist paths, i.e. flat, shaded, roads, there were tourist-trap vendors selling colorful scarves, hookahs, cold water, your name in Arab Calligraphy, and other stereotypical "gypsy fare" (perhaps an amalgam of North-African, Middle Eastern, and Muslim culture?). My destination, however, near the top of the hill was a Convent that was built before the Christian conquest of Granada, and that showcased the Christian adoption of Arab art and architecture, even in religious settings. On route, I suffered unrelenting sun, the fear that I was going to become too dark for my mom to recognize me, heat, and gorgeous views of the city.

Sadly, the Convent of Sta. Isabela failed to justify my climb (though the views of the Al-Hambra and the city definitely substituted well). I learned upon trying to enter the Convent that only guided tours were permitted, which, to my luck were on Saturdays, but unfortunately, there was only one and it had already started. But my final decision to turn away from the convent hinged upon a 10-euro entrance fee, which is greater than the cost of exploring the entire Al-Hambra complex.

Fortunately, I had ascended the Sacromonte (the hill) with two goals in mind. The first, admittedly, had been unrewarding, but the second involved lunch, which is an always pleasurable pursuit. I had been recommended a restaurant called Abn Umeya, which was conveniently just blocks away from the Convent. After wandering in crazy figure-eights along narrow , ancient, twisting streets, en route stumbling upon the ruins of the medieval walls, I finally asked for directions and arrived at the door of my coveted restaurant that rested on the lip of the hill with breath-taking views of the Al-Hambra and the city below. But even the divine food guides refused to take pity on me that day: the restaurant only opened from 8:30 p.m. to 1:30 a.m. My options were either wait six hours for dinner, ring the bell and demand lunch (which I almost did), or descend to greener pastures.

45 minutes, later, perched on a bar stool with a delightful Bocadillo, and the caña (glass of beer on tap) and tapa (today was paella) special to boot, I was contented. In Granada and Cordoba, and perhaps in Andalucia in general, most restaurants have bars, at which it is perfectly acceptable and quite normal to eat at, especially when having a tapas dinner. At lunch, when it's a fast one, most area workers with short lunch breaks and also neighborhood regulars will crowd around these bars for a quick beer (caña), which comes with a complimentary serving of the house tapa. In tourist centers, like Granada, this custom has developed into a happy-hour of sorts to lure famished foreigners. Thus, area bars and restaurants all boast a caña and tapa special, hovering in price around 1,50 euros, a tradition I have gladly embraced.

Trudging home for "nap-time," however, I decided to ditch the habit and go explore the Cathedral of Granada and also to head over to the park from which this evening's "7 New Wonders" festivities would be broadcast. The Cathedral also cost more money, and turned out to be a Cathedral with a gift shop, cf. Italy, and every other Catholic country in the nation... The park was close to the hotel and so I headed back to freshen up before testing dinner possibilities.
After two nights "tapeando" (eating tapas at tapas bars) I yearned for a quiet sit-down place, and the one I picked attracted me for its "traditional dishes" section. I admit, I was suckered in like a novice tourist, and wound up with a less than desirable stuffed pepper dish. In my defense, the dish itself, and stuffed vegetables in general, have deep roots in the region, but the cook appeared to have less knowledge than myself in preparing it. I elected a lemon dessert to try and assuage the pain, but in the end only the Granada 7-New-Wonders Concert with musicians I had never heard of livened up my evening.

Despite Granada's exclusion from the New 7 Wonders list (a kitschy substance-less private undertaking, if you really want my opinion) it did not bother me as much as its substitution for the Colosseum and the Christ Redeemer statue in the final selection. But the thought occupied me for all of 10 seconds, before I headed to bed and left Granada to wallow.

Spain, Day 24

Andres has no internet. He has to use the hotel computer. Everything is in Spanish. The keyboard is too. Now he can do awesome things like this: ñ¿çÇǨ´+^++ºª\º.

Actually, it occasionally frustrates him when certain letters and characters are not in their proper place. Also, this Computer uses Internet Explorer, which means no spell check. Oh Mozilla, ::sigh::

Furthermore, this means no picture uploading (because he is too lazy to drag the USB cable from his room, and also does not wish to upload his pictures onto a foreign computer). Also, the unpredictable computer access suggests that it is highly probable that there will not be daily updates. Instead, Andres may have to take up napping during nap time, since reading NYTimes, playing with the blog, and checking facebook were how he occupied his time when Spain shut down [editor´s note: Friday may or may not have included a three-hour (or longer) nap, which recasts the Thursday afternoon ¨pass-out¨(c. 1.5 hours) as more of a cat-nap. Thankfully, Saturday has been nap-free.].

Of course, anal Andres cannot bear a disturbance in his perfect sequence, so chances are that even if the blog is not updated daily, every day will be accounted for, if only to avoid going straight from Day 23 to Day 25, as he was close to doing today.

Now, to conclude this act with a final trick, Andres will produce the elusive ¨@¨that so often eldues him on foreign computers (he is not even going to bother trying to figure out how to delete the above hyperlink, seeing as how he cannot even imagine how to say ¨hyperlink¨in Spanish...).

Adeu

p.s. Daniel Barenboim and lang lang (asian, can you tell?) are in town, but Andres didn´t bring appropriate clothing to attend their concert, and he is much saddened. He is tempted to shop for some but would rather spend that money on food. Thankfully, he has seen both musicians perform sufficiently.

Spain, Day 23

7 Reasons why Andres is floating right now:

1) Granada
Think of Venice vs. Florence, with Cordoba being a prettier Venice and Granada being a gorgeous Florence without the David...

2) Carlos V
The Web Site worried me, the location appeared uncertain, but the "lujo" (luxury) remodelling of 2004 really touched up this hotel, and I´m staying in it. If only they could fix the reception on the TVs and expand their wireless signal.

3) There is a Supermarket around the corner
2 Liter bottle of water, cold: 0,37 Euros...

4) It didn´t reach 40 degrees C today, or maybe I just slept through it
Oh Siesta time, bane of my existence, yet so seductive. Sheesh!

5) Dinner was a plate of sausages

6) Granada is pretty
...wait did I already mention that?

7) I think the beers are stronger here

SEVEN reasons (as opposed to a normal number like 5, or 10) are listed in support of the Al Hambra´s Candidacy as one of the 7 new Wonders of the World. The final list will be announced on 7/7/07 (this Saturday!). Unfortunately, not having visited the palace yet, I can´t say how I would declare myself in this contest.

Spain, Day 22

happy fourth...

Spain, Day 21

Appreciating the tough lessons yesterday's heat taught, I ventured out before 9, when the streets were still cool and devoid of vendors and restaurant hosts supplicating tourists. I embraced tourist attraction #1 and the object of considerable study in my freshman seminar: the Great Mosque of Cordoba. Cordoba, as the Medieval Capital of Al-Andalus, possesses a magnificent Arab artistic heritage, the Mosque being the prime artifact testifying to the eminence of the Medieval Iberian State. In the early morning, it was still relatively free of tourists and allowed me free reign to explore the forests of columns and marvel at the ingenious arch designs and impressive engineering that characterized the monument. I shall resist from prattling on further, and instead refer the reader to their local library or the Internet to read about this civilization and its feats. Anyway, though I'm in Spain for the art, it's mostly the edible art.

Finally tearing myself away from the mosque, I went to a 13th century palace built by the Christian kings upon their conquest of the city. Unsurprisingly, it incorporated many arab design elements, most dazzlingly were their cultivation of lush gardens that I wandered through until I remembered I didn't like nature much. This also coincided with the time that it started warming up a bit more than I cared for and I began noticing some bugs and then ran into a spider web.

Fortunately, however, it was time to head to the library. Convenient, since we were approaching noon and the heat showed no signs of abating its intensity. Itching to tackle my stack of books, I appreciated that they were exactly as I had left the day before. The only difference was that I sat in a much more comfortable silence with my recently acquired patron. An hour into my reading, however, I finally broke the ice and asked him a couple questions and that's all it took, suddenly we were fast friends.

The conversation blossomed and took a life of its own as we tackled the continued oppression of Jews in Spain (let's just say we won't be celebrating any Sedars in Spain), discussed an upcoming exhibition at the museum on Inquisitions (both the Early Renaissance one and modern Inquisitions and Persecutions), and lamented the loss of Ladino (the classical language of the Sephardic culture). Again, however, I got the boot after a couple of hours, but this time just before embarrassing stomach grumbling episode number 2.

I eagerly exited, however, anticipating my lunch date with the restaurant I had postponed entering yesterday. A convenient couple of blocks away from where I was working, I arrived with barely a glint of sweat. I checked out the daily menu, and though not particularly impressed with its observation of traditional cuisine, I hungered for a decent meal.

Almudaina did not disappoint. Perhaps it was just effect of comparison to Monday's lunch that I was so moved I began to take notes. I was alone so I didn't much care who saw me; besides, I enjoyed playing the dork and surreptitiously photographing the dishes before me, and to tell the truth the meal deserved chronicling. Sadly, however, it is later than I realized, I need to shave (don't look too closely at any pictures of me) and I plan to wake up early again tomorrow, though I don't have any specific plans in mind. Plus, my writing currently couldn't do justice to the experience. A fitful nighttime rest, however, will allow the memories of the moment to sweeten even further. Until then.

Spain, Day 20

In the daze of the smothering heat, it is impossible to distinguish one minute from the next in Cordoba. Unfortunately, they say it's going to get hotter, but on the flip side, I don't know what hotter means because past 40 degrees C, I just chalk it up as hot. Though I polished up on extreme Celsius when last in Colombia, three years of neglect has left me a little rusty.

Needless to say, I slept in Monday morning and awoke to a steamy walk down the Medieval streets of Cordoba, which though I had undertaken the night before, was refreshing nonetheless because this time there were a) people (even if they were tourists), b) open shops, and c) open restaurants! Now, Monday is a particularly good day to sleep in because, like the exhausting French work week, the draining task of tending to tourists every evening and early afternoon (they get a siesta break too) leaves museum keepers and monument caretakers pretty darn petered out and deserving a day off!

On Mondays, tourism closes, not just in Cordoba, but in much of Europe (hence the reference to mon ami, Francois). A couple of museums usually remain in operation to avoid throwing tourists into a tizzy, but Monday really is an independent day, which paired well with the new autonomous Andres.

In Cordoba this Monday, however, one of the museums that appeared to be opened was an establishment called "Casa Sefarad," which floored me. Now, as we all know, the Jews are critical facet of my studies in Spain seeing as how they are underwriting half of this trip, and now I find a house in Cordoba dedicated to promoting the Sefardic culture in Spain? Needless to say I wattled right over (yes, I'm in that stage now, we're going on three weeks of eating), introduced myself, my mission, and asked to speak to someone smart.

I should stop now and note that I am tired of this whole interview business. I always begin by explaining my business quickly to obviously uninterested waiters in hopes of securing some time with barely useful restaurateurs/head chefs/owners who are usually too preoccupied with chopping precious veggies or counting napkins (because you know, the kitchen assistants can't do that...). Then I dumb myself down and worship their every utterance just to keep them talking, in the hope I'll discover a single syllable in the conversation to merit the sweat I dripped in dragging myself to their restaurant. It is one of the few instances I wish for the Yale name recognition, which I normally dread dropping. Here, it's only the "I'M FROM AMERICA AND SPEAK SPANISH" that really seems to get any attention, or the fact that I had just paid for lunch. Anyway, with three weeks experience with this routine, I knew who I needed to ask for in the Casa Sefarad and how vital the quick talk would be if I was going to maximize this opportunity. I needn't have worried.

I'm not sure I said a single word to the man. Suddenly, I found myself ushered upstairs to the beautiful private library of the museum director who instructed me to sit while he began pulling stacks of books. I sat in stupefied silence as two piles grew around me: on the left, all his books on hispano-judeo cooking, on the right all his books on andalusian and hispano-arab cooking. I was handed three sheets of paper, and then he smiled and broke the awkward stunned silence I had slipped into. "I assume you brought a pen," and so I pulled it out and started reading.

All I had hoped for was 10 minutes to talk to someone knowledgeable on the conditions of the Judaic traditions in Spain, instead I found a new home. When time was up and he kicked me out an hour and a half later (thankfully, because my stomach was making those embarrassing loud grumbles that I know could be heard across the room where he sat) he told me to come back the next day at 12:30. Now it was off to lunch to celebrate.

Earlier in the day, I had stopped by the tourist information booth in the plaza and explained that I was in Cordoba to investigate the preservation of traditional regional cuisine and asked for recommendations of restaurants that may have distinguished themselves for their preparation of traditional dishes. Of course, there was a brochure dedicated to the topic already, but the kind guide pointed out the legit places and supplemented some names not in the brochure. So, after my dismissal from library fun-time, I decided to explore one of these restaurants.

The guide had warned me that these restaurants remained on the pricier side, but I shrugged off the financial worries. Anyway, Yale was treating me, and today called for celebration. My first choice restaurant appeared appetizing, but I felt under-dressed. The "Menu del Dia" was a tip-top 21 Euros, but my glance inside revealed a beautiful setting in an old arabesque house from the late Medieval Era (?). I resolved to return the next day a bit more smartly dressed.

Undeterred, I wandered around the Medieval Quarter of Cordoba, glancing at Daily Specials and subconsciously accepting that I would be dining aside tourists, but I was hungry and it was creeping past two. If I waited any longer, food would run out (or at least not be as fresh)! During my walk, a restaurant I had noticed the evening day before caught my eye with a menu item that looked straight out of an Cordovan-Arab Kitchen 700 years ago: Lamb in a prune and sesame seed sauce. After a bit of hesitation, I went in and ordered the dish.

My first worry arose when the dish was listed without a price, and, you know what they say, when you have to ask the price, you probably can't afford it, but the restaurant didn't look like it could break the bank so I filed the worry away. Upon ordering my califal banquet reincarnation, I waited with an ice cold bottle of bubbly water and hoped for the best.

What came out failed to impress. I won't lie, however, the meat deceived me at first glance, and I was anxious to scoop up the sauce that was loaded with prunes and a thick succulent extract, albeit skimpy on sesame, but I assumed the flavor was cooked into the dish and that these flakes were just to decorate. I was wrong.

I'm glad the meat caught my eye first, however, because the French fries and the white rice flanking it would probably have derailed any appetite. French fries are not my favorite in the first place, and I rarely eat them, and never order them by choice, but to find it here--all I could do was groan and curse tourists and curse Francois. I turned to the rice hoping for salvation, but one forkful of the watery, fit for the toothless mush that resembled rice only in that it was white, convinced me that all I would be touching was the lamb. Thank goodness for the roll.

Upon attacking the meat, however, it resisted, barely, but enough to cause some pause. I expected the meat to just fall off the bone. Instead I had to intervene with a knife and coax it off the bone, of course after finding and separating it from all the muscle and tissue that I'm sure added taste, but could not substitute for edible material on my plate. Sadly, the meat I thought would be bursting with the rich flavors of the dried fruit and nuts needed to be dipped and redipped in the sauce to absorb some taste.

All in all, the meal surpassed terrible, but did not merit what I ended up paying for it. The dish, in fact, may have been eagerly soaked up by some other patron. Perhaps I just entered expecting too much. The disappointment hurt, however, especially on Lunch #1 in Cordoba. This meal also testified to the influence of setting and mood on the enjoyment of food. Though we were in a courtyard of what used to be a house in the Medieval quarter, the restaurant was short-staffed with one waiter manning all the tables, and his only help was that the tables were all so close together that my table of one, was really a party of three. My companions were two effusive middle-aged French ladies. Actually, intently focused on snatching up every last kernel of corn while huffing away on cigarettes and nursing their mineral water, I don't suppose they even noticed I was inches away.

This meal was not the first, however, nor will it be the last to disappoint me. But fortunately, a bread pudding and dulce de leche ice cream cone later, ice cream being my remedy for every let-down--culinary or otherwise, and I was cleansed of the sour experience. Actually, this ice cream business is evolving into a suspicious nightly tradition to cap off my evening walks and celebrate urban rebirth post-siesta. But to abandon my course now, while there are still so many flavors to try, anathema! And the problem is, the shop is literally at the entrance to my hotel. Plus, all the rest of Cordoba seems to be enjoying it, why shouldn't I?

Spain, Day 19

In "Pre-cursor to Independence" Move #1, I undertook a solo trip to the supermarket Saturday night. The first and foremost purchase of the evening now sits on my nightstand (unfortunately, within arms reach), and it eased the pains of the 7 hour train ride into the interior of Spain during which the on-board entertainment consisted of the Robin Williams Opus, RV. Surprisingly enough, the purchase was non-alcoholic, though the fun aisle tempted me, especially after ultimate-nanny-Saturday. In fact, my prime Supermarket snag was healthy (I hope). I am now the proud owner of my very own box of Muesli (I picked out the mix with fruits and nuts). I thumbed my nose at those novice tourists at the mercy of hotel breakfasts, and who may suffer entire city-stays denied their beloved Muesli (like in Rome, hotel #1). Now, not only had I seized my freedom, but I could now enjoy this treat independently, outside the hours of 7-10 a.m. I celebrated this Sunday morning by waking up early and enjoying a pleasant breakfast in a very still house, where the loudest activity was not the arguments of children or the roar of Toon Disney, but rather the crunch of oat clusters and walnuts and tantalizing flakes of coconut. Then I finished packing, patted the children, kissed them goodbye, and drove off to the train station, finally understanding why Mary Poppins never cried like I did at the end of her movie.

The glimpses of the Spanish countryside between naps, snatches of RV, and fistfuls of Muesli instilled a surprising tranquility in me. The flush of reds, browns, and yellows, decorated with orchards of powdery green olive tress, appearing as rustic as the pictures of the typical wood plank presses, and the fields of gangly sunflowers that blossomed in the simmering heat of the Andalusian sun recalled the wild beauty of the central plains of the U.S., but with a more yellowed palette and plenty more hills and rocky outcroppings.

Though generally not given to wildlife appreciation, I credit the Muesli with having started my day with crunchy, fruity, joy, which sustained itself well into the evening, which I capped off the night with a delectable ice cream cone of turron and nata con pinones (pine nuts) in a dessert spectacular that rivaled the Gelato of Bologna (by far my favorite). And while I had hoped that the walking I would have to commit myself to while exploring Spain independently might balance the overconsumption I submitted my gut to over the last two weeks, the fact that this heladeria sits at the foot of the stairs of my hotel threatens to dull any prospects of recouping lost ground. Alas...

Spain, Day 18

Into the Abyss
They say in the South it's hotter, the spoken Spanish is relieved of stuffiness, and the folks are friendlier. I find few reasons to complain, then, as I strike out on my own to explore España. Truly, the independence may weigh heavily on me, but it pales in comparison to "nannying," or serving as a "permanent play-date," to better describe my role in the family. Though I profess annoyance, however, I must admit some enjoyment in the antics of a nine-year old, even the 20-minute tantrum during which a bottle of milk was taken hostage and denied refrigeration. Thankfully, Europe can't often be bothered with refrigeration or clothes dryers.

Post-crisis, however, my charge continued to devour over-easy eggs, as he has done every day for the past week, and there-in lies the root of my embarrassing attachment to this child. I must profess sincere admiration for this boy's persistent value of his personal gastronomical satisfaction above all else. He nurses no qualms in begging, pleading, bargaining, threatening, taking, or engaging in any other tactics to barrel through any hurdles between him and his culinary craving. He obliterates protest without the least bit of remorse. This ruthless eating machine bears no complaints from nobody, and any suggestion contrary to his designs, he sidesteps with the speed and ease with which he prepares his prized undercooked egg (I swear, one of these days, the yolk will actually start tottering about on his plate and cry to be fed).

I understand the urgency with which this child believes he must be satisfied, yet I succumbed to social norms and political correctness long ago, and sacrificed my opportunity to wield a wail or two to ensure preparations march to my meter. Yet this nine-year-old , who half asleep in bed tonight demanded another meal and resisted any attempt to pacify him until the appeasement included a sweet yogurt, has stripped me of a blind prejudice towards children, and has forced me to acknowledge that they possess characteristics that merit our admiration. Fortunately for me, I have not been bullied into admitting any blanket approval of children, and I have simultaneously realized that to extend to them this fraction of praise does not commit me to having to spawn my own. Instead, I have learned that the children can be admired from afar, in a setting devoid of ownership and responsibility, yet still rich in color, cries, and childhood ingenuity...similar to this morning's excursion to the Aquarium. Nothing like a bunch of tanks to awe them into silence. And if anybody asks, yes, dolphins do eat children, especially the whiny ones.