The gaita bands are still playing, one following the other. Groups of all ages come, even small children, in the traditional costumes of Galicia, playing the ancient instruments in the old plaza. This is the capital, Madrid, and these musicians have come from their remote region to celebrate the festival of their patron saint, to perform for their countrymen. The sound of the pipes and drums is timeless, brought into the present by brightly colored lights illuminating the stage. Here the old is ancient, and the new is so recent.
This is the Plaza Major, which has seen many such musicians, and enveloped the hundreds of murmuring voices countless times. Here people have met and eaten and celebrated with friends for centuries. But this is now. And this is me. It is my last night in Spain, and all that I have seen, heard, smelled and tasted in the last six weeks has culminated here, in this place.
Alicante, on the Mediterranean, is a modern city of 250,000. My friend, Carolina, and her family, live and work there. They have a modern apartment near the center of the city, and drive to work in a neighboring town about 12 km away. The beach is a few blocks away, and the tourist trade is brisk. There are department stores, supermarkets, theaters, and traffic jams. But a short walk from the apartment took us to another time.
An ancient castle stands guard over the city, looking down on the modern port and busy commercial district. Below the castle are tiny houses built into the face of the mountain, connected by streets that are nothing more than stairways. As we walked there late in the evening, the narrow streets were filled with flowers, children playing, the smell of frying fish, and the sound of an occasional television, pulled outside as families enjoyed the cooler part of the day. Further down toward the water are centuries-old stone streets lined with old apartment buildings and shops.
The city grew out from the castle, so each step took us gradually into the modern age. I enjoyed so much walking through the flower-lined promenade in the evenings, then along the modern pier, past the pleasure boats, out among the throngs of people, to drink horchata at a little cafe, and to look back at the ancient city, with the castle above, lighted up in the night.
The region of Catalonia is green, mountainous, and peaceful. In Tarragona , an ancient Roman city, Carolina, her husband Manuel, and I ate a Fourth of July picnic of paella, under a juniper tree near the stone wall of the city. We happened upon a wedding in the cathedral, with traditional choir music echoing from the stone walls. After climbing the hot stones of the Roman Coliseum, we drove into the countryside to our hotel, once a large country home, in the pueblo of l'Espluga de Francoli. On a hill above vineyards and the monastery of Poblet, we had dinner on the patio of the hotel, where the gracious owner was our waiter. He brought out each course of the dinner, stepping patiently over the old dog lounging in the doorway. We dined by candlelight on bread with tomato, garlic and olive oil, Catalonian sausages, langostino and asparagus, pork loin sauteed with apples and prunes, and lemon sorbet, served in a pastry cup, garnished with cream and chocolate mousse.
Under a tree outside the monastery at Santes Creus, we began the next day with croissants and cafe con leche, then toured three monasteries, at Santes Creus, Vallbona, and Poblet. The fifteenth century Cistercian monks realized that the church had become corrupt, and dedicated their lives to simplicity and order, working in agriculture to build up the reclaimed Spanish land for the glory of God. Their monasteries were designed very simply. But as the centuries passed in the completion of the buildings, more ornamentation was added, and money and power corrupted the original intent of the design. The monks who live at Poblet still live a very simple life. The bells that rang for them at 5:00 a.m. are the ones that woke us at our hotel.
After siesta, our evening was spent in the walled city of Mont Blanc. We came upon a classical concert in a 12th century church. The sound of the music against stone walls, accompanied by a little bird swooping and flitting above the performers, made a moment I will not soon forget.
The rolling hills of La Mancha are covered with yellow wheat, green vineyards, and now and then a freshly plowed field of red soil. In places, hills are filled with olive trees, and the scent of olive oil fills the air, reaching even to the high speed highway where we traveled. Castles guard the high places, and windmills dot the hills.
In the pueblos of central Spain, time seems to have stood still. Residents still carry their drinking water from the plazas, and gather there in the cool of the evening. Tiny stone churches recall the important moments, the births, marriages, and deaths in an endless cycle.
It was late in the evening when we drove through the little village of Arisgotas. Women in dark housedresses chatted in the streets outside their curtained doorways. A herd of sheep blocked our way along a narrow street, as the shepherd patiently guided them through an opening in the stone wall. As I stopped to take a picture, a woman called out,
"Dont take a picture only of the sheep, but of the man, too." (I did.)
"Yes, I am very handsome," said the man. (He wasn't.)
Carolina and Manuel are proud of their industrious hometown of Sonseca, about an hour's drive from Madrid. Mazapan (marzipan) has been produced here since the time of the Moors, and the factory makes delicious turron from the abundant almond harvest. There are clothing manufacturers here, and people make a good living from the work. Modern subdivisions are springing up among the olive groves.
We shopped for our day's supply of fresh fish, fruits, and vegetables in the little shops in the old part of town, then paid a brief visit to Carolina's dear friends, "the aunts." They are two elderly ladies who shared their home with Carolina's family when she was a small child.
Entering their home was like discovering buried treasure. From the street, we saw only a simple door set in grayed stone and stucco walls, no different from the others along the street. The younger of the two ladies, in her eighties, opened the door to our ring.
The gate opened onto a hot stone courtyard, surrounded by small trees and shrubs. Another door led us to a cool and pleasant covered patio. Two more courtyards ajoined the patio, full of hydraengas and geraniums in terra cotta pots. Curtained doorways of the house faced the various patios. The older lady didn't speak, but seemed pleased to see Carolina. I also was silent, after a brief greeting, content to listen to their conversation, of which I understood little, and to enjoy a cool drink and the peace of this lovely home.
Historic Toledo, home of the church of Ferdinand and Isabella, where Manuel and Carolina were married...
The ornate 18th century summer palace, nestled in the pine covered Sierra de Madrid...
The simple, tiled elegance of the monastery of Felipe II at El Escorial, encasing the marble and gilt crypts of the royals...
The Roman aqueduct at Segovia...
And now, Madrid.
We visited the Prado this morning, then met Carlos, Manuel's brother, here at the Plaza Major. It was so hot, 107, that we spend most of the afternoon indoors, going from cafe to cafe. We attended a traditional Zarzuela musical at a small theater near the center of Madrid. The sets, costumes, and music were beautiful. Then, in the relative cool of this evening, we walked around the royal palace and the cathedral, and came here to the Plaza Major to eat tapas and enjoy the music of the gaitas.
Tomorrow morning, I will board a plane for home, and go back to the future. But right now, I am frozen in this moment, surrounded by stone facades and archways, by pipes and drums and history. And I am encircled by the good friends who are a part of this magical place.