Tag Archives: history
Boot Key Harbor
Some pretty weird altered boats in the Keys….
And away we go…!
View of the Old Seven Mile Bridge from the Florida Bay side….
Not in Paris
courtesy of CNN
Marcus’s cell phone woke me at 2:00 in the morning with a ring tone notification, a piercing strobe light, and the persistent buzzing of vibration mode. This is the way his phone gets his attention with every new communication, but this time it seemed different—more urgent—but perhaps that’s hindsight talking.
It was an email from his sister Emily: Glad you are not in Paris! Be safe.
Paris? Why Paris?
Marcus checked his news feed. “There’s been a terror attack in Paris,” he said. He read bits and pieces out loud: More than 150 killed in Paris attacks. State of emergency declared. Shooting outside restaurant. Neighborhood evacuated. Night of terror. Chaos in the streets. Explosion heard at soccer match. Gunfire heard outside the Bataclan Theatre.
My mind, still groggy, recalled another news report just ten days earlier: Moroccan Nationals arrested in Madrid; maximum-risk suspects were extremely radicalized and had a full willingness to take action and carry out terrorist attacks in Madrid.
And there I was, listening to stories about terror in Paris while I was lying in bed in Madrid. My heart went out to the people of Paris. I’ve been there, I’ve done that, and I can assure you they weren’t giving out any T-shirts.
Leonardo da Vinci airport, Rome, December 17, 1973. First time I had ever traveled alone. I had turned seventeen just the week before, and was traveling from school in Switzerland to my parents’ home in Saudi Arabia. By the time I arrived in Rome, I had negotiated a pre-dawn taxi ride from school to the train station and a train from Lugano to Milan (where I was chewed out by the conductor in a language I didn’t understand for unknowingly sitting in a first-class car on an empty train), and had agonized through an excruciatingly long taxi ride from Milan’s train station to the airport during a transportation strike, barely catching my flight from Milan to Rome. All that remained was the flight from Rome to Riyadh. One more leg, and I would be home. I only needed to get to my gate and sit tight until the flight boarded.
But fate had other plans for me that day, and Riyadh was not a part of them. As I approached the security checkpoint on the way to my gate, Palestinian terrorists opened fire just fifty feet in front of me, killing two people and taking many more hostage. Thirty more would die in fires on board a PanAm jet in the hellish aftermath of grenades thrown through the open doors of the plane on the tarmac. I saw the tail of the jet explode through the floor-to-ceiling window in front of me as I stood unable to help myself, immobilized by fear. I would spend an hour cowering in a restroom, waiting for the gunfire in the terminal to stop, and then several more hours in a cold, dark parking lot while police scoured the terminal for remaining terrorists. When we were finally allowed back into the terminal, I waited in the mayhem of cancelled flights and anxious travelers for a flight that would never depart.
Before that day, I wouldn’t have thought it possible to define the exact moment when I would pass from childhood to adulthood, but for me it was clear. After quietly enduring the hours-long charade of asking the gate attendant when my flight would depart for Riyadh and being assured repeatedly that it would definitely happen in the next hour or so, I faced him across the Saudia Airlines desk. Always a shy child afraid to question my elders, I drew from some previously untapped well. “I know the flight to Riyadh is not leaving tonight,” I said calmly. “I want you to put me on tomorrow’s flight, and I want you to contact my parents in Riyadh and tell them I’m alright. I also want you to get me a room in the airport hotel—at Saudia’s expense. I will not sleep in the terminal tonight.” The attendant looked at me, nodded, and picked up the phone.
I barely slept that night; I was so afraid I would miss my flight the next day. After a few hours of tossing and turning, I got up, showered, put yesterday’s clothing back on, and returned to the terminal. Despite the congestion from the previous day’s debacle, I made it home that day. The nightmares started two days later.
So I’m lying here in this apartment in Madrid, thinking about the terror in Paris. The Madrileños in the tapas bars below our apartment haven’t yet heard the horrendous news and are laughing and carrying on like there’s no tomorrow…as thousands of Parisians were doing several hours ago.
I wish them peace in their souls.
Our familiar
After 75 days of packing up and moving on to unfamiliar territory, familiar feels good! Don’t get me wrong: We have loved exploring new places, and that is why we weren’t at all prepared for how good it would feel to come back to something we know.
Over two months ago we began this journey in Madrid, a city I expected we’d find too large and uninteresting. Compared to most of the cities we have stayed in, there really aren’t that many sights to see here in the capital. I thought we’d spend the first week in Madrid recuperating from jet lag and adjusting to the language difference. And after driving 4200 miles through the rest of Spain, we’d spend the last week in Madrid winding down and preparing for our flight home.
Madrid may be the largest city in Spain, but the distinct personalities of its neighborhoods, or barrios, give it such character. It is the kind of city you want to wander in. Within minutes you can stroll from the historic barrios of Palacio and Sol to the art museum promenade of Retiro, the international bohemia of Las Letras, the tapas bars of La Latina, or the chic boutiques of Chueca and Malasaña.
After ditching our luggage in the same apartment we stayed in in September—quickest check-in yet, all our host had to do was hand over the keys!—we turned in our third and final rental car and wandered back “home.” We delighted in seeing places we knew and knowing where we wanted to go. We stopped at an outdoor café on the Gran Vía (it’s still warm enough to have tables out in November!), ordered a couple of beers without having to worry if we got all the verb tenses right, munched on our daily dose of olives, and sat and watched the world go by. No car, no map, no worries. It’s good to be back!
Mercado de los Tres Culturos
el Casco Viejo (Old City) in Cáceres
We’re winding down—only four days to go on this Grand Tour of Spain—and it’s getting harder to get excited about venturing out. While I love my Roman ruins, Moorish fortresses, and medieval walled cities, how many can you continue to experience with enthusiasm after three months? We had exhausted Mérida’s offerings the day before and didn’t like the thought of staying in the apartment all day, so we went ahead with my plan to visit the ancient city of Cáceres.
These walled cities, perched high on a hill overlooking what was once their domain, are always exciting on the approach. As the car enters the Casco Viejo (Old City), the roads become increasingly steeper and narrower, the massive stone buildings grow a bit closer together, and the parking spaces are fewer and farther between. There have been many old city streets that we have declared too narrow to be navigable only to see someone’s car parked outside their home farther up the hill. How do they get them up there? Nerves of steel.
jabalí (wild boar) on toast with melted local cheese
We tried driving to the top—car in first gear, mirrors tucked in tightly, breath sucked in, and ears tuned for that dreaded scrape of metal on stone that miraculously never comes. There comes a point where we wonder if we could actually wedge the car into a space so snugly that we wouldn’t be able to get out. That’s when we lose our nerve and look for a road—any road—heading back down the hill.
Safely at the bottom, we found a parking garage in the more modern and open part of the city and set off on foot to climb the hill. We arrived out of breath in the heart of the Old City and made our way toward the Plaza Mayor. As we walked, booths popped up here and there on either side of the narrow alleyways. By the time we reached the plaza, we were in the middle of a full-blown souk, or zoco as they call them in Spain—a Middle-Eastern market. Vendors, dressed in historic garb, were selling all manner of artisanal crafts. Unbeknownst to us, this was the first day of the Mercado de los Tres Culturos, the Market of the Three Cultures—Muslim, Jewish, and Christian. Spain is very proud of their four centuries of prosperity under Muslim rule when all three cultures coexisted peacefully, and well they should be. We could use a little more of that in today’s world.
grilled meat vendor
wood carver using a manual lathe
We had so much fun shopping: saffron and smoked paprika, olive oil soaps, meats and cheeses—all handmade in Extremadura. The food booths were extraordinary—whole roasting pigs and paella pans full of rice and vegetables, local wines and even craft beer. What an absolutely lovely day we had—the kind that makes you glad you ventured out!
Mérida
Augusta Emerita
Despite a fine collection of Roman antiquities, Mérida is one of those cities that doesn’t draw many tourists. It’s located in the Spanish communidad (state) of Extremadura in the remote west of Spain, adjacent to the border with Portugal. We visited the Évora district of Portugal, just across the border, four years ago. Geographically they are mirror images of each other. No surprise that they were once one region in the Roman province of Lusitania. Mérida was its capital.
The landscape of Extremadura is every bit as barren as its name suggests. Not much grows in the dust here except boulders. I have never seen rocks so large and round and smooth! I was looking for someplace different to break up the drive from Sevilla to Madrid, and Mérida seemed to fit the bill nicely.
circus maximus
I am just enthralled by these ancient Roman cities in Spain. I can only guess at their grandeur back in the day. Mérida, named for Caesar Augustus, was called Augusta Emerita, and was quite the place. Expansive ruins have been excavated, and they continue to unearth more. There is a gorgeous circus maximus, the first one I have seen outside of Rome. There is a theater with two tiers of exquisite slender arches that is still used for performances. It’s located next to the ruins of a sprawling amphitheater. There is an old Roman bridge that crosses the Río Guadiana, and two (count them: one, two!) aqueducts.
the ugly one
Our host referred to the aqueduct outside our apartment window as the “ugly” one. Although not as captivating as Segovia’s aqueduct, I thought it was beautiful and had high expectations for the “prettier” one. I was disappointed to find that it’s just a small section of the original structure. It’s built in alternating rows of red and white brick, which makes it appear even shorter and stockier. To me, the beauty of an aqueduct is its length. I love the perspective of arch after arch diminishing into the horizon. That the Romans (or their slaves) could even build these engineering marvels is a wonder. That they actually supplied fresh, mountain water to an entire city—even more so.
the pretty one?
the Alcazaba
As if Mérida needed one more gorgeous antiquity, there’s also the Alcazaba, or Moorish fortress. Built on the old Roman city walls four centuries after the Romans pulled out of Hispania, it overlooks the river. The shady side has several café tables on its pathway serviced by establishments across the street—a lovely spot to kick back and relax!
What a shame that the city doesn’t do more to promote itself. The modern city enveloping the ruins looks pretty rundown, and my guess is that unemployment is quite high, as is typical in Extremadura through the ages. But if you use your imagination, it’s not too difficult to find the diamond beneath all that dust.
Itálica
The Roman province of Hispania, what is now Spain and Portugal, was once an integral part of the Roman Empire. Primarily it was Rome’s bread basket, but it was also an important source of gold, wool, olive oil, and wine. Today we visited the ruins of Itálica, a city built as a retirement home for Italian veterans of the Punic Wars (brutal wars fought between Rome and Carthage). It was never as big as Hispalis (Sevilla), five miles to the south, but it was an important Roman cultural center. And it produced two Roman emperors: Trajan and Hadrian.
I have to say the ruins are quite impressive and extremely well preserved. When the nearby Guadalquivír River silted up during Itálica’s heyday, no one was interested in investing further in a city that had no access to the sea. Itálica’s population dwindled until it was essentially a ghost town. Unlike most Roman ruins, it was never built upon by succeeding civilizations. Much of the stone was carted away by nearby residents who understandably took advantage of free building material, but the footprint is amazingly intact, like a life-sized city map. For the admission fee of €1,50 (that’s about $1.70), you can roam the ancient city to your heart’s content. Aside from the occasional school group, you have the place to yourself.
How interesting to walk down streets that have not been broadened and expanded in more modern times. You can even see the well-defined, original intersections. You can see the outlines of shops that lined the streets and the floor plans of residences. In the gymnasium, you can distinguish the workout room from the baths, and see the outlines of the various pools in the ginormous public baths. (They covered 32,000 square-feet.)
One of the most remarkable features of Itálica is the almost-perfect mosaics found in many of the excavated buildings. One house has a beautiful mosaic of Neptune; another has a mosaic of the twelve gods for whom heavenly bodies were named.
Neptune mosaic
But my favorite structure was the amphitheater. Only half the size of the Colosseum, it is still the third largest in the Roman Empire. Unlike the Colosseum, where you are mostly restricted to exploring the upper seating areas, Itálica is completely accessible. You can walk out onto the arena floor and roam through the maze of subterranean passageways where gladiators and wild beasts hung out waiting to be pitted one against the other. In places the intense Spanish sunshine streams into these cool, dank corridors through the portals leading into the arena, and in others the eerie darkness of the tunnels leaves you dreading what you might encounter around the next bend. I paused at a wide gap in my circuit. To my right was the center arena; to my left, a back entrance to the amphitheater. I could just imagine a chariot rounding the corner and charging through this corridor into the arena, whip cracking, the driver paying no heed to whomever had the misfortune to be standing in his path. The image was so strong, I instinctively stepped back into the maze of tunnels.
This little gem, in the middle of the Andalucían countryside, is a well-kept secret, and on this particular day it was all ours.
Cruisin’ in Santa Cruz
Leida’s courtyard
We were walking through the Judería, a warren of narrow alleyways that made up the ancient Jewish Quarter in Sevilla in the centuries before the Inquisition. Not surprisingly, it’s located in the oldest neighborhood of Sevilla, the Barrio de Santa Cruz. We were quietly talking as we walked, just minding our own business, when a young woman passed us, turned and looked at us, and asked “Where are you from?” We could tell by her accent that she was Spanish, yet her English was perfect.
Surprised, I replied, “Los Estados Unidos (the United States).”
“Would you like to see a typical Sevillano home? I live just up the street. It’s quite beautiful.”
Marcus and I looked at each other and replied in unison. “Yes, that would be very nice.”
She continued walking, and we hurried to keep up. About 30 feet ahead, she stopped in front of a large wooden door in a stucco wall, inserted a key, and stepped through the doorway. We followed. We were standing in a covered entryway. In front of us was an iron grillwork gate. Beyond it, a mass of vegetation. She unlocked the gate and motioned us inside. The courtyard was full of flowering plants and fruit trees – oranges, grapefruit, figs…so many that it was difficult to see to the far end. In the center was a trickling fountain surrounded by white metal benches. Very Moorish; the Moors loved fountains, not only for their cooling effect on scorching summer days, but also for the calming visual and aural aspects.
She paused. “My name is Leida,” she said.
“Cindy.” “Marcus.” We extended our hands, and then continued to admire the garden around us.
In true Andalucían style there were several residences facing inward toward the courtyard. Three floors on the left; three floors on the right. We asked Leida if all the residences were occupied by her family. “No. Three different families live on the left side of the courtyard, one on each floor. And three families live on the right side. My family lives on the second floor on the right side.”
“Has your family lived here for many years?” I asked.
“Yes, so many years that I don’t remember how long.” She smiled. “But come with me. There’s something I want to show you.” She led us through the courtyard. On the back wall was something completely unexpected – an old arched niche flanked by peeling murals. “It was part of a house built for one of the queens,” she explained. I could believe this. This old residence was practically next door to the Alcázar, the ancient royal palace.
built for a queen
Marcus asked Leida what she did for a living. “I’m a lawyer,” she answered. Only 24 years old and most likely freshly out of law school, she is an intern in the field of criminal law. We thanked her profusely for sharing her family’s treasure with us. She saw us back out to the street, said goodbye, and disappeared back into her private oasis. All told: 20 minutes.
Marcus and I looked at each other. Until that moment, we hadn’t had a chance to talk about this unexpected opportunity; it had all happened so quickly. We both laughed. Words failed me. “Well, that was interesting!” was all I could manage, and we continued on our way.
I wonder what the rest of the day holds for us.
Cristóbol Colón
Columbus’s remains in Sevilla’s cathedral
Cristóbol Colón is the Spanish name of the Italian merchant and explorer Cristoforo Colombo, the guy we Americans know as Christopher Columbus. Technically he was not Italian, as Italy as a country did not exist when Columbus was born in 1451 (or thereabouts). He was Genoese, born in the kingdom of Genoa, which is now part of Italy. He went to sea sometime after 1473, settled in Portugal for awhile, and by 1485 was living in Castilla, a kingdom in what is now Spain.
I am intrigued with Columbus’s story, which is incomplete at best. There are so many gaps and contradictions in his life history and so many theories of what really happened; we can only go by a consensus of what historians have unravelled. One thing seems clear: He is not the hero we were taught he was in school.
Columbus monument with Isabel’s and Fernando’s names prominently featured
I was never sure why Europeans were so determined to find a sea route to Asia for spices. Turns out when the Ottomans captured Constantinople in 1453 and the Eastern Roman Empire crumbled, the land route to Asia (Silk Road) was no longer viable. Columbus may not have been the first to theorize that it was possible to sail west to Asia, but he was one of the most passionate. (And, no, the world did not believe the earth was flat at that time. The Greeks had proved it long before the Christian era.) It took him seven years of pitching his plan to five different European governments before Spain reluctantly agreed to fund him. Portugal had just discovered a southeastern sea route around the tip of Africa, and Spain was desperate to get in on the action. Despite their financial risk, Isabel and Fernando didn’t believe he would be successful, but they were willing to let him die trying. In return for their investment, they became the wealthiest country in the world. Columbus didn’t bring back spices, but the lands he claimed for Spain yielded untold riches in silver and gold.
Funny thing, but Columbus never conceded that the lands he discovered and claimed for Spain were not in Asia. Several years after Columbus’s first voyage (he made four round-trip voyages), explorer Amerigo Vespucci landed in the Americas. When he returned to Florence, he was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he had landed on a continent previously unknown to Europe and Asia. And we all know who got the new continents named after him!
And whose head is this way down at the bottom? Oh, that would be Columbus.
That Columbus survived his first mid-Atlantic voyage during hurricane season and made landfall on an island in what is now the Bahamas in just five weeks was plain luck. That he was released from his contract with Fernando and Isabel after eight years for tyranny and incompetence was poor judgment. Historians believe that Columbus and his two brothers practically eradicated the native population of Hispaniola, where they set up operations, through slave labor and cruelty. And they are credited with starting the trans-Atlantic slave trade, bringing captives from the Americas to Europe with each return voyage.
Columbus died in Spain at the age of 54, stripped of his titles and fortunes and riddled with disease, but I have to give him credit for being the first European to take on the open Atlantic. He may not have been correct in his assumptions of where he would land or what he would find, but he was adamant in his convictions.
Sevilla is all about Columbus. There is a monument to him here in Sevilla, so I guess Spain changed its mind about his place in history – although I noticed Isabel and Fernando are featured more prominently on the monument than Columbus is. His first voyage was planned in the Alcázar Palace, where Fernando and Isabel were living after they conquered Al-Andalus (Andalucía), the land of the Moors. And his remains eventually ended up in the cathedral here. He may not be a hero, but what a helluva an accident!