A Quick Trip to Seville

Seville has been occupied for a long long time -- by the Tartesians from 700 BC, to the Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, and then the Moors who had a long-lasting influence on the architecture, language, culture, and cuisine. Today, Seville is a modern Spanish city straddling the wide Guadalquivir River but with a skyline much more reminiscent of Cristobal Colon´s day, that´s Christopher Columbus, it still exudes an atmosphere unlike any other city in the world.

The Moors ruled Seville and most of Spain for hundreds of years but with the Christian reconquest in 1248, the grand mosque became an even grander Cathedral, known as the largest (and certainly one of the most opulent) in the world. The Cathedral sports the tall Giralda tower which formerly was the ancient minaret of a Moorish mosque. Begun in 1184, it is the signature monument of Seville.

Tucked in a plaza behind the Cathedral is the monumental complex called Reales Alcazares palaces, a Moorish palace which dates back to 700 AD. A series of patios leads you deep into the palace interiors and then out into alleyways of the former Jewish barrio. Alleys are so close that they are called ´kissing streets´ because the walls almost touch. Here are homes with cool fountains trickling in inner courtyards, tabernas, hostals, and restaurants, all within a short wander from the bustling square in front of the Cathedral but quiet, cool from the shade of orange trees, and tranquil.

The Plaza de España is nearby and a short walk from the Cathedral takes you through shady parks with the constant cool sound of fountains. On this day when I visited Seville, Oct. 28, the weather was perfect, about 23 C/ 76 F but in the summer it can reach above 100 F and is sweltering. The many parks throughout the city give its citizens a place to rest and relax and shelter from the heat of the sun.

I stayed in the Triana Backpackers Hostal and I enjoyed my brief stay there. Below is a photo of the inner courtyard and on the roof of the building was a patio with hammocks, sofas, chaise lounges, and a covered area. I spent a lovely evening there with some young Europeans, a guitar, and 2 bottles of wine, under the stars, in our shirtsleeves. Great place!!

A Cautionary Tale About Homestays

Staying in someone's home while visiting a foreign country is a lovely way to get to practice your newly acquired language skills, get to know locals in their native habitats, learn the customs, cuisine, and culture in a more intimate way than is possible in a classroom.

However, it is the luck of the draw as to what KIND of family you might find yourself housed with. After all, think about your own family . . . Jesus who would want to live with THEM??!!

So I shouldn't have been at all surprised that the Spanish family I found on the internet was a couple who had split up 2 years ago, the kids had fled the nest for their very lives, and the fragile Spanish lady, my 'mum,' the sweet lady above, was having a major mental breakdown.

The first 4 days of my stay she spent crying in her bed. I was paying for half-pension but soon I was buying food and cooking for HER to ensure that I would get fed at all. As for practicing my Spanish, well I did somewhat: I learned lloron was crying, antidepressant medicamente was mood enhancers, and BOO HOO HOO!!! meant no dinner.

Once I realized that she probably wasn't going to slice her wrists or jump from the top storey, life was good although a bit dark. Literally. The blinds and shutters never got raised all day unless I did it. After awhile, I started to live in Calle Ecuador 20, I went food shopping, pondered what to cook us for lunch (served at 2:30 or 3 pm), discovered a fine TV show that we watched at 4:30 pm almost everyday about the Franco Days, called Amor en la Revolucion. A wonderful series on life in the 1950's in Spain with the Guardia Civil skulking around every corner, women yearning to get out of the kitchen and work, and men unsure of who to trust.

If I came out the front door and took a left, a small calle deposited me onto Avenida Dilar, a shopping district of clothing stores (mostly polyester), mucho shoe stores (WHY do they need so much choice in cheap shoes??), panaderias, fruterias, pastellerias, big chain grocery stores, and lots and lots of bars. And a Moroccan hallal butcher. This is also where I could catch a bus to downtown or to switch to get to the bus station.

If I took a right out my front door, I was deposited onto Avenida Cadiz and into a completely different neighborhood than Dilar. Dilar was solid middle-class Espanoles while Cadiz was immigrant -- home to brightly dressed and robed African men and women, Latinos who have been brought to Spain to work in the bars, as cleaning ladies, and construction workers. Here in Cadiz, you can find Latino groceries, kebab houses, and tons of locutorios -- places to call home from a cabine or buy a phone card or use the internet.

I spent my days in Granada walking, sometimes for 4-5 hours. I would walk from my neighborhood, down Dilar or Cadiz, past Avenida Americas to the Palacio de Congreso, along the river, over the bridge, and on into Granada proper. My walks took me through the Jewish quater, up toward the Alhambra but where small casitas straggle just below the gardens of the Alhambra forming their own derelict community, up to the Albaicin and its Moorish neighborhood of stairways, alleys, minute plazas, and roads so narrow the sun never shone there at all.

Al Gore Comes to Spain

Finds Deserts, Floods, Dumb Asses

Al Gore joined other environmental heavyweights at a conference in Spain last week and was probably entertained but not amused by comments made by Mariano Rajoy, the leader of Spain's conservative party who downplayed the threat from climate change. Rajoy, who is leading his party in a general election set for March 2008, admitted he knew "very little" about the subject but cited his cousin to back his opinion.

His cousin??? The BOOKIE?!

"My cousin he told me: 'I've brought ten of the most important scientists in the world here and not one is able to guarantee what the weather will be like in Seville tomorrow'," Rajoy said. "So, how can anyone claim to know what will happen to the world in 300 years' time?"

Spanish Environment Minister Cristina Narbona meanwhile called Rajoy's statements "eccentric and incredible."

"I didn't think that there were any right- or left-wing leaders left capable of speaking so dismissively about the climate change threat," she added.

Meanwhile –

Headlines Oct. 19 read:

One Man Killed in Devastating Storm
Monsoon-like rains hit Granada and surrounding regions on Fri., Oct. 19, forcing enormous amounts of water through the mountains to the sea in riverbeds unable to handle the deluge. Catastrophic floods in the nearby seaside resort of Almuñécar on Friday killed one man and caused more than 6 million € of damage to public infrastructure. Currently, there is no figure for the vast amount of damage caused to private property.

A German man lost his life when a wave of water hit his apartment block's garage on Friday. He had gone back to get his moped when a retaining wall next to a river gave way, and he was swept beneath a wall of water.

The Spanish branch of the WWF environmental conservation organization said in a press release on Monday that urban expansion along the coastline, as well as construction in normally dry river beds, has destroyed the natural ecosystems which act to alleviate the effects of flash floods by their ability of absorbing the torrential rainfall which is common on the Mediterranean coast at this time of year.

Although the Spanish government is well-aware of the enivironmental damage being done by over-development, building of golf courses with little or no water, depleting of the regional aquifiers, and the increasing desertification of some of its provinces, the lure of staggering profits is proving too much to resist.

Spain Warns Desert is Spreading

by Giles Tremlett, The Guardian

The deserts of north Africa are threatening to leap the Mediterranean and creep through Spain, according to government figures made public as part of a national campaign to halt desertification.

A third of the country is at risk of being turned into desert as climate change and tourism add to the effects of farming.

More than 90% of land bordering the Mediterranean from Almeria in the south to Tarragona in the north is considered to be at high risk. But that figure climbs to almost 100% in Alicante and Murcia.

Spain's environment ministry has announced a £50m programme to combat desertification. Over-grazing and irrigation methods that wash away topsoil were to blame for some of the damage, experts said. Building developments and climate change were doing the rest.

Spain builds an estimated 180,000 holiday homes along its coast every year. "We have grown too quickly without protecting areas of nature," Javier Pedraza of Complutense University, Madrid, said this week.

"If things continue like this we won't need to go to Africa to enjoy the tranquillity of the desert, we can just go to the Canary Islands, Valencia or Murcia," ABC newspaper commented yesterday

Halloween Tapas Crawl in Granada

No words necessary, right?!

Children of the World, Run Away!!

And here´s how to do it: There are several associations that, in exchange for 5-6 hours work of various types and difficulty, you receive room & board in great locations, meeting locals, experiencing real life in the real countryside where you are working.


For $30, I joined WWOOF (world wide organic opportunities in farming) before I left the US. I spent several hours contacting a total of about 30 farmers, restauranteurs, and smallholders via short descriptive emails telling them my prospective dates I would be available, work skills, other talents (I am a trained massage therapist and that usually is quite welcome by everyone), and any other pertinent information.

I always ask about the scope of work (one man lived on a very remote farm in the backwoods of Mallorca and was looking for someone to climb olive trees located on a steep hillside and bring home the fruit in a sack -- no thanks), the accomodations (room in a house, caravan, or only a tent?), type of food served (there are some raw foodist fundamenatalists out there!), bathroom facilities (yes, no, maybe?), how far from the nearest village, can you pick me up at the bus station.

Once all these issues have been resolved by both parties, you are on your way to living and working in the country of your choice. For those without deep pockets, this is a fine way to extend your travelling almost indefinitely. And there may be side benefits -- one place in the south of Spain, in the beautiful white hillside village of Vejer de la Frontera near Cadiz, wrote back saying they had a wwoofer but could offer me a bunk in a 4 bed room for 50 euros a week, complete with kitchen privileges, pool, 3 km to village, 5 km to gorgeous beach.

You can´t beat that!!

So here are the three agencies I have heard about and of course there may be others but these 3 have decent reputations:

www.wwoof.org
www.helpx.net
www.workaway.info

Start packing!!

Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely

One of my real treats on the road is my weekly purchase of the International Herald Tribune, published by the New York Times, but seemingly untouched by the self-censorhip that plagues the Times nowadays. They also manage to group together a nice melange of thoughts from very diverse authors. Below is an editorial by Garrison Keillor, of Prairie Home Companion and PBS, two entities I have managed not to expose myself one bit.

But he does write an eloquent little commentary on fall, late parenthood, good memories of school (the two of you out there with these, please raise your hands!), Thoreau the crab, Emerson the smiling pre-Dalai Lama, and Life After Bush.

It´s just swell -- give it a read!

Don't be a morose teenager

Get a grip. We have passed the great test of a republic to survive the most incompetent leadership ever.

By Garrison Keillor

Sept. 19, 2007 That crisp, clean, dry smell of autumn is in the air, so stunning and surprising every year, a smell forever connected to bright colors and fresh apples and cool grass with beads of dew and the eagerness of a boy, pencil box and tablet in hand, wending his way toward Benson School and Mrs. Moehlenbrock's sunny classroom. The pencil box is new. Mr. Truman is president, the neighbor's son Jack is fighting the communists in Korea, and every Saturday we yearn for the University of Minnesota Golden Gophers football team to be triumphant, which sometimes they are.

I loved school, where I excelled for a short time, and now my golden-haired gap-toothed daughter, who is 9, loves it, too. She tolerates weekends pretty well but on Monday she is all eagerness, leaning forward on tiptoes with that heightened sense of possibility that is the basic component of cheerfulness, which is the secret of the good life. She expresses this by clenching her fist in the air and jerking it down and saying, Yes. Sometimes twice.

Cheerfulness isn't the same as happiness. You can't always be happy. Or satisfied. But a cheerful outlook is always possible. Ancient people in wheelchairs in nursing homes, their minds in ruins like the Parthenon, nonetheless beam at the stranger out of lifelong habit, putting the best possible face on things, even during great vacancy.

I turned 65 last month, which is about as festive as walking into a brick wall, but I'm OK now. And when I look back on my messy life with all the wrong turns and failures and days I wish I could rewrite, and then I think of the shining child whose picture is on my cellphone, the door to the past closes. You cannot possibly regret anything in a chain of events that led to her existence. So you turn to the future.

The philosopher of cheerful purpose was Emerson, and for some reason my generation preferred the puritanical Thoreau, a sorehead and loner whose clunky line about marching to your own drummer has found its way into a million graduation speeches. Thoreau tried to make a virtue out of lack of rhythm. He said that the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. OK, but how did he know? He didn't talk to that many people. He wrote elegantly about independence and forgot to thank his mom for doing his laundry.

Emerson was a mover and shaker. He said, "Every great and commanding moment in the annals of the world is the triumph of some enthusiasm ... this is the one remedy for all ills, the panacea of nature. We must be lovers and at once the impossible becomes possible." He said this while he was out on the road plying his trade as a lecturer, peddling his books, earning the money he would use to buy the land for Thoreau to build his little cabin on and pay Thoreau's fine and get him out of jail. Oh well. Never mind.

These autumn days are so golden, if there was a whole month of them, your mailman would feel triumphant enthusiasm and start his own dance company called Deliverance and the woman who cleans your teeth would write haiku --

Into the gorge of
Enamel and spit I thrust
My slim silver pick.

-- and you would have to tell them how much you liked their work, even though you didn't, but bravo for them. Nothing is so cheerful as the urge to commit art. The purpose of all great art is to give courage and thereby cheer us, just as the purpose of education is fundamentally cheerful -- to draw us out of gloomy solitude and into a conversation with other scholars.

Lighten up. Get a grip. Leave morose silence to teenagers; it's too dramatic for you and me. We have passed the great test of a republic, to survive the most incompetent leadership, and now we can anticipate a new era, one with no Bushes. As Emerson said, "This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it ... Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

In other words, cheer up.

(Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion" can be heard Saturday nights on public radio stations across the country.)

Let´s Talk Tapas

Spain is famoso for its tapas but Granada is the BEST because tapas are libre! That´s right, with each drink you get a delectable little morsel which encourages you to have another drink to see what little treat you will be handed next.

For your first foray into tapasland you may stop in a cafeteria, order a beer or vino tinto and be pleasantly surprised when the camerero brings you a bowl of potato chips and green olives. What a nice gesture, you sigh.

But very quickly you turn into a tapas snob, searching out the most generous portions vs. the most elegant offerings vs. 1 drink, 3 tapas for only 3 euros.

After cruising the neighborhoods from the Albaicin to Realoje to Calle Navas and over to Calle Elvira and up some dark little alley, I have my favorite tapas bars but unfortunately, I can NEVER remember where they were and who can read bar signs after serial drinking, eh?

There is the little place off a back street off the Plaza Nueve, very deceptive -- you look into the dimly lit interior and all you see is what looks like a very cramped butcher shop, lots of hams hanging up and people standing at the counter. We were advised to check this place out by a local and thought maybe he was pulling our leg.

'It´s a butcher shop, not a bar, no tapas here' we grumped but timidly pushed open the door which displaced the 4 people standing there indeed having wine and tapas. Oddly, you walk behind the butcher´s counter and enter into a very classical Granada bar, done in Moorish style with long banquette sofas lining the wall, low wicker stools and glass-topped tables.

Forget the vono tinto, we are wine snobs now as well -- Vino Rioja is our choice, deep, mellow, aromatic. The camerero brings us the wine and thick slices of serrano ham with crusty bread. In this bar, meat is their specialty, especially the mountain-air-dried ham of Spain.

Our group of four orders a tabla: for 14 euros we get slices of creamy home-made pate with pistachios, salchichon, more serrano ham, manchego cheese, and a basket of of fresh bread.

Another night, we stumbled through the rain into a crowded bar off the Calle Elvira, near Hannigan´s Irish Bar. Vino rioja came with salmon lying daintily on a slice of ripe avocado placed on toast. We watched as the tapas chef worked with the same precision and artistry as sushi chefs, moving quickly but mindfully as they put together some incredible creations of sauteed mushrooms, fried calamari, steamed artichokes, tastes of sausages.

My favorite tapas offering was a sauteed heart of artichoke with a slice of salmon on top. Tapas hour starts around 7 pm although some bars don´t open for business until 8 pm. Workmen´s bars in the local neighborhoods lying outside the center of the city also offer tapas which can be hearty like tortilla (egg and potato quiche thing), meat stew, fried calamaris, migas (fried flour crumbs with sausage -- is MUCH better than it sounds), or paella.

So it doesn´t have to be fancy to be good!

Farewell to Franco BUT Not Before We Beatify the Catholic Priests

In a move to address the pain and suffering of the Spanish Civil War 1936-1939, a new law goes into effect in Spain on Oct. 30 banning all references, statues, street names, and plaques pertaining to Franco or the dictatorship. Interestingly enough, the Catholic Church is all set to beatify almost 500 clerics who died fighting on Franco´s side.

Hmmmmm . . .

It is difficult to follow the Spanish Civil War without a score card, seeing eye dog, and bottle of aguardiente but in a nutshell, it goes like this: in 1936, there´s a democratically elected REPUBLIC government (you remember those, right??!). However, Franco and the military rose up against this republic as ROYALISTS, which the Catholic Church and clergy supported. During which war many civilians and freedom-fighting Republican guerillas died.

SEE the film Pan´s Labyrinth for additonal footage.

NOW all references to Franco will be dismantled, including that kiss-ass pigeon on the right (on the RIGHT, get it!?). Oh except for the nearly 500 priests who will be formally beatified, just a stone´s throw away from sainthood.

For typical intelligent British news coverage, read below.

Spain to remove all symbols of Franco

By Fiona Govan in Madrid

Last Updated: 3:08am BST 12/10/2007

Spain is to ban all public references to the Franco regime under a controversial Bill that seeks to make amends to the victims of the Spanish Civil War and ensuing 36-year dictatorship.

All statues, street names and symbols associated with the dictator and his supporters will be removed as part of the Law of Historic Memory, which was presented to the Madrid parliament this week.

Even plaques and stained glass windows showing the Falange symbol of the yoke and arrows or the eagle associated with Franco's rule will have to be replaced.

At one time statues glorifying the Generalissimo adorned almost every town square but most have been taken down in recent years.

The decision to remove reminders of Spain's dark past will now be enshrined in law forcing all remaining elements associated with Gen Franco to be stripped from public view.

Opponents of the measure accuse the Socialist government of Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero, which has made the Bill a priority ahead of a general election next March, of "opening old wounds" and "denying Spain its history".

The legislation has set the government on a collision course with the Roman Catholic Church, which commemorates those who gave their lives fighting on Franco's side during the 1936-1939 war.

The Albaicin

El Albaicín is the old Moorish quarter of the city. It's located on a hill facing the Alhambra and there are dramatic views of this area from the Alhamra's famous rose gardens. The Zirid Monarchs first established their court in the Albaicin in the 11th century although little remains from this era today, apart from some crumbling remains of the wall (including the section which used to encircle the Albaicín and the gates of El Arco de las Pesas, Monaita and Elvira).

Lower Granada is staunchly and impressively Catholic, with the immense and ornate Cathedral and ten´s of other smaller parish churches anchoring the barrios.

But as you take a left off Calle del Darro into the Albaicin, you are Somewhere Else, Fes maybe or Meknes or some backstreet of Marrakesh. Here are small smokey teterias, tea shops, darkly lit with groups of loungers sharing a common hookah. Calles and smaller streets, callejons, wander off uphill, passing large villas called carmens for their expressive interior gardens. Shops line the small streets looking as if laundry was hung out to dry but these are the cloths and clothes for sale; also for sale, piled haphazardly, are hammered tea sets, inlaid decorative wooden boxes, fantastically decorated shoes with dangerously pointy toes, jelabbahs more common to North Africa than Spain.

The cobblestoned way is slippery, dangerous, you feel as though with a turn of the ankle and a small stumble you would catapault right off the hill down into the Darro River. The Albaicin is a bit threatening and mysterious, as all things that we don´t understand are mysterious. Maps can´t help you in the Albaicin, you have to blunder out as you bumbled in . . .

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program with this news bulletin:

What the F***??!! Dalai Lama Accepts Bush Award

I googled in these exact words expecting to run into hundreds if not thousands of outraged blog citizens registering their dismay that the Dalai Lama accepted an award from George Bush.

I found two: a woman who was clearly distressed about DL´s acceptance of such a dubious award from such a -- how do we say this -- problematic leader yet apologetic to having doubts about the Dalai Lama´s underlying reasons for meeting with Bush at all. The other blogger reminded all that there are two other dalai lama pretenders who might have different views on accepting awards from 'evil doers.´

CAN THIS BE SO?!?

Is this not akin to accepting an award from Hitler, Pol Pot, or Idi Amin and if so, how can this enhance the position of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan people who he so earnestly and smilingly supports?

the world has indeed gone mad.

Talk to me, explain to me what this really is, tell me it isn´t some moral failure on the part of the Dalai Lama, that what seems to be a photo op maybe really is something else, something better, but please tell me WHAT.

For a lighter touch see this: http://www.zenunbound.com/dogstar101703.html

The Alhambra

On a hill overlooking Granada, the Alhambra—a sprawling palace-citadel that comprised royal residential quarters, court complexes flanked by official chambers, a bath, and a mosque—was begun in the thirteenth century by Ibn al-Ahmar, founder of the Nasrid dynasty, and was continued by his successors in the fourteenth century. Its most celebrated portions—a series of courtyards surrounded by rooms—are a varied repetoire of Moorish arched, columnar, and domical forms. The romantic imagination of centuries of visitors has been captivated by the special combination of the slender columnar arcades, fountains, and light-reflecting water basins found in those courtyards.

The Alhambra became a Christian court in 1492 when the Catholic Monarchs (Ferdinand and Isabel) reconquered the city of Granada. However, during the 18th and 19th centuries, the Alhambra fell into neglect and was occupied by thieves and beggars, until 1870 when the Alhambra was declared a national monument. Today, the Alhambra is a world heritage site, protected, restored, cared for and preserved for the pleasure and admiration of all.

Thursday night across from the Alhambra

Grace, another woman staying with my homestay family, and I spent the evening sipping tempranillo wine, savoring olives and watching the sun go down. Granada is easy to enjoy with so many plazas and the view from each one is very different, relaxing or entertaining or just peaceful. This is the view across the Rio Darro from the Mirador San Nicolas to the Alhambra, a favorite gathering place for the local neighbors who live on the steep hillsides of the Albaicin and also tourists who enjoy just hanging out for a few hours to watch such a simple things as the sun dip down and the sky grow dark.

The atmosphere at San Nicolas is like a fest as musicians sing, the oddly talented perform, and buskers hawk their wares. Dogs run free and often upstage their owners in territorial stand-offs with intruders. But mostly the plaza is quiet, hushed, and you are able to enjoy the evening, the end of another perfect day.

Feast of the Virgen de Granada

This weekend Granada celebrated it´s relationship with the Virgin, with a solemn procession accompanied by high officials dressed in black who carried the Virgin through the streets of Granada, stopping traffic as the parade of dignitaries made their way to a smaller church in the Realoje district. A medieval village of vendors, artisans, and food tents was set up in the plazas and alleyways behind the cathedral.

Streets were jammed with visitors since this wekend coincided with the Spanish national holiday celebrating Columbus and the discovery of the New World. The cathedral is massive, ornate, and costs almost 3 euros to get in. I mention that because I can´t recall paying to get into a church! But I guess they have to raise funds for renovation and gold leaf somewhere. It was well-worth the visit although I would have to say that the glow of evening on the exterior of the cathedral outshines any amount of gold leaf in the interior.

Salobreña, Granada´s coastal town

Only an hour out of Granada, Salobreña is a small hillside village that also has a playa tucked into a cove of the Mediterranean. This mini micro-region is protected by two mountain ranges coming down to the sea and is blessed with a semi-tropical climate. You´ll find mangoes, avocadoes, papayas, and other exotic fruit for sale in the markets. We left Granada in the cool morning with rain threatening and arrived back in summer in Salobreña. Topless at the beach in mid-Oct.! The local bus cost 5 euros one way and left at 11, returning at 5:45 pm, perfect for a relaxing afternoon at the beach!

The day we visited Salobreña was a Spanish national holiday -- Columbus Day. The newspapers urged all Spanish to show their national pride by flying the flag but it seems that the Spanish are a disobedient group -- very few flags were on display and there were no signs of any kind of national fervor. That type of display smacks of fascism and most Europeans still have a horror of any kind of blatant nationalism.

A newspaper article in the International Herald Tribune reported that all reminders of Franco were to be dismantled as soon as possible, including the last remaining statues. This period brings out a lot of emotional response from those who still want an apology for the Civil War atrocities as well as right-wingers who might not be adverse to the return of Franco. On the other hand, a very popular TV series, called Love during the Revolution, depicts Spanish life during the Franco years, with women controlled by their families and husbands and the police generally hovering just behind everyone´s shoulders, an oppressive force that could invade one´s life and home at any time.

Federico Garcia Lorca

From Wikipedia:

Federico García Lorca (June 5, 1898 – August 19, 1936) was a Spanish poet and dramatist, also remembered as a painter, pianist, and composer. An emblematic member of the Generation of '27, he was killed by Nationalist partisans at the age of 38 at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War.

The Franco regime placed a general ban on his work, which was not rescinded until 1953 when a (heavily censored) Obras completas was released. It was only after Franco's death in 1975 that García Lorca's life and death could be openly discussed in Spain.

In 1968, Joan Baez sang translated renditions of Lorca's poems, "Gacela Of The Dark Death" and "Casida of the Lament" on her spoken-word poetry album, Baptism. In 1986, Leonard Cohen's English translation of the poem "Pequeño vals vienés" by García Lorca reached #1 in the Spanish single charts (as "Take This Waltz", music by Cohen). Cohen has described Lorca as being his idol in his youth, and named his daughter Lorca Cohen for that reason.

Lament for Ignacio Sanchez Mejias

1. Cogida and death

At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the cottonwool at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel at five in the afternoon.
Now the dove and the leopard wrestle at five in the afternoon.
And a thigh with a desolated horn at five in the afternoon.

The bass-string struck up at five in the afternoon.
Arsenic bells and smoke at five in the afternoon.
Groups of silence in the corners at five in the afternoon.

And the bull alone with a high heart!
At five in the afternoon.
When the sweat of snow was coming at five in the afternoon,
when the bull ring was covered with iodine at five in the afternoon.

Death laid eggs in the wound at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon. At five o'clock in the afternoon.
A coffin on wheels is his bed at five in the afternoon.
Bones and flutes resound in his ears at five in the afternoon.

Now the bull was bellowing through his forehead at five in the afternoon.
The room was iridiscent with agony at five in the afternoon.
In the distance the gangrene now comes at five in the afternoon.
Horn of the lily through green groins at five in the afternoon.
The wounds were burning like suns at five in the afternoon.
At five in the afternoon.
Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!
It was five by all the clocks! It was five in the shade of the afternoon!

Art in Granada

Art is everwhere in Granada! Not just the expected stuff in churches or framed hanging on walls in some over-priced museum, but up every alley, in the way the light shines at certain times of day, and especially in the Spanish themselves, their aristocratic haughty attitude toward style. Older women are impeccably dressed, made-up and coiffoured while their husbands, in tow, are equally elegante, some sporting a silk ascot or handmade tailored suit. Shoe stores abound, every third shop sells perfect little shoes and boots, while next door are lovely bras and undies, next door to that are handmade haut coutour men´s cotton shirts.

I am put together with string and chewing gum so most of this focus on fashion is lost on me, my clothes and style are practical and I am lucky if on any particular day I am CLEAN much less fashionable. But I can appreciate the style and elegance these clothes and shoes provide.

And I absolutely love wandering the calles and alleyways seeing art for what is was meant to be, a spontaneous outpouring of artistic expression and need to note what we perceive in the world.

Flamenco, ole!

Sat. night I went to a flamenco club, the Upsetter, and was stunned to my core over the energy generated by this music-singing-dancing-clapping-ole-ing event. The club was very small, the stage just a raised platform a mere 3 feet from the first members of the audience. We sat on tiny tiny stools which barely provided enough space for even my small butt, and perched precariously so, we awaited the artistes. Only half-hour late, one young man carefully tuned his guitar, the other joven cleared his throat, and then just began. The singing is more wailing, in true gypsy fashion, and the guitar work is fast and flawless. And so emotional that you can´t take your eyes off these men, displaying their feelings for all of us to witness.

Then up strode the young woman dressed all in red, and the men faded away, just disappeared under the force of her power. Slim, tiny boned, she could slam her heavy-shoes into the floor like a bullet shot. Her footwork did sound almost violent, as did her dancing, quick turns towards then away from whoever was causing this dramatic and emotional reaction in her.

The evening ended as it began, abruptly, with the trio simply walking off stage and out of the club. We lingered, the music was still floating around the room, and I wanted more. Outside, at 12:30 am it was the shank of the evening for Granada - looking more like noon than midnight, people still flooded the streets, restaurants were full, cafes bustling, and taxis were ferrying people from one spot to another. I lingered for awhile in a plaza, enjoying the still-warm evening before flagging down a cab and returning to my room across the river.

Achill Island, Ireland

Achill Island is north of Westport, remote, wild, still undeveloped for the most part. Small scrubby farms are here, and lots and lots of bogs, where peat is cut, harvested, and dried, and still used today for heating homes. The first time I went up here I hitched and I was concerned that although Achill is only 40 miles from Westport it felt like 400 miles into the back side of the civilized world. I managed to get a ride right onto the island with two women who were reporting into work at the call center in Achill town. Then I began to hitch around the island and it was slow going. Not only that, but storms were passing through although cars weren´t. After an hour I gave up crossed the street, and started hitching back towards Westport, comforting myself that at least I got to the island even if I didn´t get to go along the Atlantic Coast drive which was reputed to be some of the most beautiful scenery in Ireland. Soon I became a fixture on the landscape as I hitched for hours trying to get back to Westport. The wind picked up, squalls pulled in then left, and the only thing that comforted me was the police station across the street. If it got really bad, I could go in and report myself missing or something and maybe they would take pity on me and drive me to Westport, where I was last seen.

An old man, a farmer, finally stopped, looking for a bit of conversation and whatnot to ease his long drive to the big town in that area, Castlebar. He drove me right to Westport, bless his soul. But not before we had the Bush Talk, required conversation everywhere now. Amazingly, he was pro-Bush! Of course he didn´t have to live with Bush and the Irish have Bertie Ahern as their president and he is just undergoing questioning on some $50,000 that he can´t quite remember where he got or what he did with it.

The next day I rode back to Achill Island with 2 German woman who had rented a car and didn´t mind my company. What a glorious day and we couldn´t help ourselves from stopping every mile or so to get out and absorb the vistas of land, bog, sea, and sky. We were very compatible travelers, liked the cemeteries, picking and eating wild blackberries, stopping for a tea now and then, or just stopping and each of us wandering off on our own. Beautiful beautiful country!