Adventures in Spain

Photos: The Feria de Abril

jakemoffat — Tue, 13 Jun 2017 07:30:00 GMT

The Feria de Abril...aka More colorful dresses than you can possibly imagine

jakemoffat — Tue, 13 Jun 2017 07:28:00 GMT

For all of the pageantry of the bullfights, they pale relative to the color, glory, and scope of the Feria de Abril in Sevilla. As early as March, girls in Maya’s class were asking her if she was going to the Feria and if she had a dress. I like the idea of anyone asking Maya about a dress, as it implies that they actually think she might A. Have a dress and B. Care about anything to do with dresses. However, this is the ultimate dress event, evidenced by the fact that it even got Maya to wear and care about a dress. Please don’t tell her I said she cared about a dress...because she will deny it and then punch me in the arm. We knew the Feria de Abril was a big deal in Sevilla, but we honestly did not understand what it really was or how it worked or how one participated. Even after reading and asking questions, we couldn’t grasp much beyond the image of a state fair midway, mixed with Flamenco dresses, horse carriages and a fair amount of drinking something call rebujito...how do those things fit together? I think I got the same answer from three different Spanish men when I asked them for a description of the Feria: “You drink rebujito all day and watch women in Flamenco dress, and all women look beautiful in Flamenco dresses.” This didn’t serve as a clear description of the festival, but each man made the statement with a dreamy look in his eyes. While I admit to being intrigued by their awe, the answer didn’t really give us any idea of how to attend the Feria. So, we decided we would prepare as best we could and then wing it...which might describe most of our travel experiences. That meant Beth and Maya would get the dresses and the big roses for the hair so they could dress the part...whatever that part ended up being. I even decided to buy a linen sports jacket in a lame attempt to keep up. I did have a conversation later with a Sevillano who said that the man’s role, both in his clothing and on the dance floor, was to just be “okay;” he made it clear that you want your wife to look better than you...a goal I seem to master everyday

The Feria always starts two weeks after Easter...ensuring that nothing gets done for most of April in Sevilla; there is really just enough time to rest up between the two events. This year, with a late Easter, the Feria started at midnight on Saturday, April 29, so that at least one full day of the Feria would be in “Abril.” Normally the Feria would begin at midnight on Sunday night. While it might seem bizarre to start the Feria at midnight...when everyone should be asleep...that really isn’t a problem in Sevilla as the whole city stays up for the start of the Feria. Maya and I slept through the midnight opening, but Beth, Weston, and Amy walked across the bridge to see the lights turned on to officially open the Feria. Apparently, people were streaming across the bridge well past midnight to begin the week-long party. Beth only stayed for an hour, but Weston and Amy stayed into the early morning, riding rides and watching the scene. Maya and I did not fully miss out on the people watching as we went for a morning run...at 9:00am on Sunday...and saw a steady flow of people returning home from the night’s festivities...maybe stumbling would be a more appropriate term than flowing. We actually ran to the Feria grounds, which is essentially a series of streets, maybe the equivalent of six city blocks by ten city blocks, that are lined with casetas, party tents that accommodate between 60 and 300 people. Each caseta consists of two rooms: a dining room with a dance floor, and a “bodega” with a bar and a kitchen. Each also has its own bathrooms. For the rest of the year, the Feria grounds are just an empty area with streets and bare concrete slabs. During the Feria it become an entire town of fully functional individual parties. At the west end of the Feria grounds is a full midway with rides, games, and food vendors. It is very familiar if you have ever attended a state fair; however, it is the village of casetas that is the heart of the Feria.

After our run and after we sent Weston and Amy...a little hungover...to the airport on Sunday, we headed out to the “Concurso de los Enganches,” which is the competition/display of vintage horse carts in the bullring. The display of horse carts opens the first day of the Feria because horse carts are the primary form of transportation in the Feria grounds...a tradition that has remained since the first Feria in the nineteenth century. To get an idea of the ubiquity of horse carts during Feria, consider this: throughout the year there are 98 licences for tourist horse carts in the city, and we saw carts throughout the day, every day. During the Feria, there are 1400...YES...1400 horse carts in the city, and almost all of them are carefully restored vintage carts. The jump from 98 to 1400 is pretty noticeable, and many of the Feria carts have teams of four or five horses, rather than just a single horse. As soon as we headed out to the bullring, we saw that the Feria is not confined to the Feria grounds. At 11:00am on Sunday morning, women and girls were already out in the streets in their Feria dresses - bright orange, red, polka dots, aquamarine - with hair pulled tightly back and with a large (fake) rose high on the head. We were immediately delighted by the scene, and we quickly came up to the line of horse carts waiting to enter the bullring. Maya was beside herself when we came up to the mini horse cart with a team of four beautiful white ponies driven by a ten year-old boy in a tux and top hat. Each cart featured beautifully cared for horses, drivers and footmen (yes, real footmen) dressed to the nines, and passengers in full Feria/Flamenco dress. The whole thing was glorious. We found our seats and watched as ten carts would come into the ring and process around...We were not convinced that having 30-40 horses pulling carts in the bullring at once was a safe idea, but it was totally spectacular to watch. Each team of horses was decorated with tassels and bells. I found it pretty hard to imagine where all of these carts come from...how can there be so many meticulously restore horse carts anywhere...no less in one city? The display served as another vivid example of the Sevillanos’ love of their history and culture; they continue to live and embrace their heritage.

Inspired by our first visions of the Feria, we decided that we should head over to the Feria grounds to get a sense the full scope of the fiesta. Like I mentioned earlier, we didn’t really know “how to do” the Feria, so we decided that a recon mission was in order. So, we got dressed up...yes, Maya and Beth in Feria dresses with roses in their hair, and we rented a horse cart to take us to the Feria grounds...it seemed like the only way to do it. The ride over to the Feria grounds - about a mile and half from our apartment- was amazing and bizarre - a real life mixture of past and present driving through the streets. As soon as we got within a half mile of the Feria grounds, we were in heavy traffic, which included cabs, cars, buses full of women in fancy dresses, horse carts of all kinds, people on horseback, and sidewalks packed with pedestrians ...all on city streets in the middle of town. Wherever we turned, we saw something strangely wonderful...a team of four fancy mules pulling a cart with nine women in bright dresses, a line of five Spanish cowboys splitting lanes on horseback, a bus packed with people dressed gloriously. Once in the Feria grounds, car traffic is prohibited, leaving only horses and pedestrians, highlighting the sense of moving back in time. We asked our driver to tour the streets, which ended up mostly meaning getting stuck in a traffic jam of horse carts. However, simply sitting in our horse cart was pretty delightful. I tried to take photos of the Feria scene: the horse carts, the dresses, the casetas, the cowboys, but the immense scope of the scene is nearly impossible to capture; one Flamenco dress is pretty impressive in its unabashed color and ruffle, but thousands upon thousands is almost beyond imagination. Each caseta is full of revellers, with people spilling out onto the walkways in front of the casetas. The streets are full of horse carts, and the carts are full of even more people...AND there are a bunch of people on horseback, simply sitting on their horses, drinking sherry from small sherry glasses that they tie on to their saddles when they are riding. The constant in the scene is the dresses. The men I talked to were right on. Everywhere you look, there are beautiful women in glorious dresses, sprouting roses from their head.

The problem with the Feria for a tourist is that outside of spending an hour or two taking in the vibrant scene, the event is pretty hard to attend if you do not know someone who has a caseta. There are a few public casetas, but most all of them...over a thousand...are owned by companies or by groups of individuals. The casetas end up functioning like a sort of social club, with a group of 20-30 friends who share the costs and responsibilities. Each caseta hires caterers to run the kitchen and bar, and they hire security to work the entrance. Most casetas still charge for food, but the prices are reasonable, and each member has a tab. The result is that each caseta is a hosted party for close friends and family...wearing sweet dresses. The remarkable part is that the party goes on for eight days; the casetas are full from early afternoon until three or four in the morning, with live music and lots of dancing...even Maya!

We were fortunate to be invited to Juan’s caseta and to Elena’s caseta. Elena, the teacher at Maya’s school who coordinated the school exchange, invited us to spend the evening at the Feria with her family. We were thrilled, but also a little stressed by the opportunity. After finding the caseta, we had to negotiate the security at the entrance and then make it through the busy caseta to find Elena and her husband. The caseta was full of people of all ages talking, eating, and dancing. We were soon sharing a plate of Jamon and drinking rebujito, which is a mix of half manzanilla and half sprite. The idea is that you want a drink that is refreshing, cold, and not too alcoholic, given that you will be drinking it for hours….which we discovered is exactly what happens. Elena explained that Feria is the time she sees her friends….basically all of her friends are in the same place at the same time. Sevillanos who have moved to other cities, like Madrid, often come back for all or part of Feria. Elena sees many friends in her caseta, but she will also visit other friends in theirs. Her 18 year-old daughter does the same, hosting friends, visiting other casetas, and going to the midway to ride the rides. Where I had originally seen the Feria as a massive prom for everyone, I now saw it more like 1000 versions of family reunion meets fraternity formal...maybe. The night before we met Elena, she had stayed at the Feria until 3:00am. Her husband described the transformation of their living room during the Feria: with Elena and two daughters, the room transforms into a storeroom for dresses, roses, earrings, and shawls...he can’t even find the TV to watch the evening news. Elena will wear a new dress and shawl everyday of the Feria, adding different earrings, etc. Her daughters do the same. In fact, most kids don’t go to school for the entire week. There are school holidays on Thursday and Friday, but most parents don’t seem to expect their kids to go to school on Monday through Wednesday. At Maya’s school, a third of the kids were absent on Tuesday, and most of the kids who showed up on Wednesday only came because it was Maya’s last day at school.

In a conversation with Elena’s husband, who is an architect who works on restoring churches -- yes, very cool job -- we discussed how unique the whole scene was. I commented that nothing in Barcelona even comes close, and he responded that Sevilla is much more Muslim in its culture, while the north of Spain is much more Catholic. The comment first struck me as bizarre coming on the heels of the very Catholic Semana Santa celebration, but then I recognized that his comment was cultural rather than religious. Again, I enjoyed the notion of a town and its citizens so thoroughly embracing and celebrating their cultural heritage. I also enjoyed how thoroughly most Americans would misunderstand the sentiment given the contemporary political climate. Looking at pictures of historical Ferias, one sees that very little has changed. The streets are full of horse carts, the women wear fabulous dresses, and everyone is drinking some form of sherry. Delightfully, there is almost no technology at the Feria: no screens, no real corporate presence -- just people, food and drink, dresses, and lots and lots of socializing and dancing. We enjoyed having the opportunity to hop from Elena’s caseta to Juan’s caseta. We still didn’t really feel like locals, but it was nice to see from the inside. Rocio’s mom, the Abuela, even got Maya on the dance floor to dance the Sevillana. Maya understood that grand arm movements and a big smile are the key, and she looked spectacular on the dance floor. We have been trying to figure out how to recreate the scene in Menlo Park, but I don’t think we can do much more than dress up and eat and drink on the porch all day...which I do recognize is an awful lot like our normal life...but with fancy dresses. So I guess we will be having a porch party with fancy dresses soon.

Spring flowers and Bullfights

jakemoffat — Tue, 13 Jun 2017 07:26:00 GMT

I am not quite sure what the rules or etiquette surrounding writing a travel journal after you get home, but I feel like I need to try to capture our last couple of weeks in Sevilla before the colors fade from my mind. In many ways the last few weeks of our trip were the most vivid, perhaps because we had become more engaged with our neighborhood and with Maya’s school, perhaps because it was the height of spring in southern Spain, perhaps because we left in the middle of the glorious celebration of the Feria de Abril, or more likely the confluence of all of these. We also got to share our experiences with Amy and Weston for a week, which offered a unique opportunity to celebrate all of our favorite discoveries in the city.

I don’t think I can overstate how stunning it is to see Sevilla in full bloom. When we arrived in January, the city was all orange tree, but with the emergence of spring, the streets and parks come alive with whites and pinks and purples. The gardens have been blooming in waves for the past two months, with orange blossoms, leading to the first bloom of the rose gardens, followed by the pop throughout the city of the jacaranda blooms. I fully expect Beth to comment on the flowers, but when Maya takes to making comments like, “wow, it is really stunning,” or “we need to run through the rose garden,” then you know that the flowers and trees are striking. As a parent, it is pretty delightful to see your child notice and appreciate natural beauty. The walk from the metro to Maya’s school, outside of the center of the city, was surprisingly beautiful. What in January had been a pretty stark suburban street, ended up lined with blooming jacaranda, bougainvillea, lantana, and some pink and white blooming trees that I do not recognize. I start with the description of the flowers, of a city in bloom, because the Sevillanos seem to emulate the flowers in the spring...okay I understand that sounds cheesy, but I think it is true. Between the bull fights and the Feria, the city is awash with color. The people of the city are in full bloom, and the women dress as though they are trying to outdo the gardens.

I admit that we had a little soul searching over whether or not to go to the bull fights. They have been outlawed in Catalonia… and for good reason, I think...but they are still a vibrant part of the culture in Sevilla. Apparently, appearing in the bullring in Sevilla during the Feria is a holy grail of bullfighting. The ring itself is beautiful, both in its architecture and in the richness of its colors. From the ring of arches to the rich mustard-yellow of the dirt, the setting itself is stunningly vibrant. Beth opted not to go, knowing that she would not enjoy the experience, while Amy, Maya, and I decided that we wanted to see the spectacle. I am certain people would and will question our decision to go...particularly my decision to take Maya...but we have been living around the corner from the ring for the last four months, and the event seems to run deeply in the veins of the city, so we thought we should have the experience.

We decided to try to dress the part, so I wore a sports coat and Amy dressed in a dark hued pant suit...the dictates for appropriate attire are very clear for an afternoon at the bull ring. I read a list of ten do’s and don’ts - “No mini-skirts,” “No bright colors...the bull is not supposed to see you,” things like that. In fact, the rules for attire for many events in Sevilla are quite particular...a bit of a challenge for our very casual crew. Of course, there are enough tourists attending events that the dress codes are regularly broken, but the difference between the local and the tourist becomes particularly clear; you simply are not seeing a Sevillano wearing a t-shirt at a bullfight, even if it is 95 degrees. We thought it would be fun to dress for the event. We had front row seats, but they were in the sun in the early evening - the event starts at 6:30. Unlike American sporting events, the price of tickets is largely dependent on sun versus shade. Seats in the shade cost twice what the same seats in the sun cost. Though sitting in the sun was not a huge deal for us because it was a relatively mild afternoon, a week later, when it was 90 degrees, we understood just how brutal it would have been to be in those sunny seats. It did really make me think about the contrasting character of the Spanish and the Americans. In every American sporting event I have ever attended, the cost of the seat is dictated by how close you sit to the event, regardless of the comfort level of that seat...with the exception of the luxury box.Both at the bullfights and the soccer games, seats in the sun are much cheaper, and seats that provide a more complete view of the event are more expensive that those that are simply closer. Also, in both the soccer stadium and the bullring, there is no stadium experience beyond the event itself...no dancers, no jumbotron three card monty, no giveaways. In fact, there is almost nothing for sale inside the events. You can buy a drink, but that is about it. The streets around the bullring were closed to traffic, which created a massive street party as fans billowed out of cafes and bars, but once they came into the bullring, they were there to watch the bullfight.

The bullfight itself reminded me a little of a Broadway musical without the musical numbers; it is a tightly choreographed show that moves through four acts (restarting for each of the six bulls), and it features a flamboyant star...in a crazy costume...with a huge supporting cast...in their own crazy costumes. An afternoon bullfight consists of three matadors and six bulls - each matador fights two bulls, and each fight follows a pretty strict script. After the matadors and picadors march out proudly in their wildly colorful and beglittered outfits, the ring is cleared and a man dressed like an airline pilot...no kidding...comes out, looks around to see that the ring is ready, and he opens the door so the bull can enter the ring. That is his entire job. When the bull runs out, he chases after the matador and his three banderilleros...all of them are dressed in fancy matador costumes. Each chooses some crazy bright color to wear. And, yes, I did consider buying one for myself, and I even talked to the tailor who makes them; however, 3000 euros seemed like a lot for a costume that was not bound to be terribly flattering on my body...very tight pants and high pink socks. Regardless of the color of the matador outfit, everyone wears pink socks - who knew the fashion of the 1980’s (Think Miami Vice) had a bullfighting connection. Anyway, the matador and his banderilleros tire out the bull by taunting him and then running behind a little wall in the bull ring. This goes on until four horn players play a tune signaling the beginning of the next act, at which point two toreadores enter the ring on horseback. They also have silly outfits, which we decided makes them look like dorky knights. The horses are outfitted in a kevlar armour to protect them from being gored. Along with the toreadores, comes about 15 young men dressed like 1920’s newsies...I am not making this up...whose job is to -- I have no idea why they were there! They have blue pants, red shirts, fedoras, and they look like they should break into a musical number...sadly they don’t. They just seem to be sidekicks for the toreadors. The matador leads the bull toward a toreador; he needs to keep him from charging the horse from a distance...because that would be very bad (Maya closed her eyes for this part). Once close, the bull attempts to gore the horse, while the toreador stabs him in the back/shoulder with a spear. Amazingly, the kevlar protected horse stands its ground. After the toreador stabs the bull twice in the shoulder, the horns sound again, signalling the transition to the third act - our favorite. This consists of two of the banderilleros, who we called “jumping stick dudes,” sticking the bull with two brightly decorated sticks (banderillas). They would get the bull to run directly at them, jump to the side while sticking the banderillas in the back of the bull, then sprint and jump over the side of the ring with a bull in hot pursuit. The horns would then play again, signally the final act.

If you think professional athletes in the U.S. strut and preen, they are nothing compared to a matador entering the ring for this final act. They disregard the bull, strut around, and make a show of placing their very strange hat on the ground...attitude appears to be everything. What is fully unique about this final act is the engagement of the crowd. The goal of the matador is to get into a sort of tight dance with the bull, in which the bull makes tighter and tighter passes until he is almost mesmerized by the matador. If this happens, the crowd chants “ole” at each pass, if the matador fails to engage the bull fully, the crowd whistles and gets restless. If the matador is doing particularly well, a full band begins to play - yes, there is a full band there, but they will not play if the matador is not doing well. They might not play at all in an afternoon. For one bull, a man in the crowd called for the band to play, but the music did not start. Who decides when to start up the band and how was they decide was not clear to us, but it was totally intriguing. During the first bull of the afternoon, there was no music, and the matador did a poor job of killing the bull cleanly, as a result, the crowd roundly ignored the matador...there was not even a courtesy clap...just silence and disdain. It was actually a bizarre sort of brutal honesty. Two bulls later, the young Mexican matador, Joselito, got so close to the bull that he held its horn to his chest. The music played and he killed the bull cleanly. For his effort he was cheered mightily, and he was awarded one of the bull’s ears (the highest honor is two ears and being carried out of the main door on people’s shoulders). He took a victory lap with his posse, as people threw their hats to him, and he threw them back. Mostly he strutted while holding a bull’s ear proudly in his right hand. Though I have no real desire to return - the cruelty is a bit much for me - the ceremony and spectacle was pretty amazing.

Photos: Bullfight, Flowers, and Amy

jakemoffat — Thu, 27 Apr 2017 18:03:00 GMT

Photos: Semana Santa, Part 2

jakemoffat — Wed, 19 Apr 2017 19:49:00 GMT

Semana Santa - Part 2: La Madrugada

jakemoffat — Wed, 19 Apr 2017 19:48:00 GMT

After four days of nearly constant Semana Santa activities, we weren’t quite sure what to expect from the Madrugada, the Thursday night through Friday morning processions that highlight the week. Six procession leave their local churches after midnight and process through the night, returning around noon on Friday. Four of those processions are the most famous: Esperanza de Triana and Macarena, with their famous Virgins, huge crowds and rousing music, and Silencio and Gran Poder, two of the silent processions. Beth and I were both interested in seeing parts of them, and Beth suggested that heading out at 4:00 to see Macarena would mean a good view as many of the crowds would be gone...it being the middle of the night and all...and everyone having been out all day already. Oh how naive we were. I decided that I wanted to see Silencio leave its church; during our tour on Palm Sunday, Juan described to me how Silencio’s entry onto the street had been so moving to him that he had decided to join the brotherhood so that he could be a nazareno in the procession. As Silencio is silent, he explained, when they leave the church, the neighborhood shuts off the lights, and the crowd goes silent for the procession, leaving only the sound of the nazarenos walking and the light of the long parallel lines of candles. He also explained that the nazarenos hold their candles down at their sides until the Virgin left the church, at which point they raise their candles as the Virgin rises, sending a wave of candles up the street. Given the description, I felt I had no choice but to go...and it also seemed like a way to honor Juan for inviting me to join him on Palm Sunday.

I headed for the Plaza Del Duque straight after dinner...at 11:30...yes, we have adopted a Spanish schedule. Silencio does not leave the Church until 1:00am, but it seemed like I should get there to find a nice place for viewing. We have been spoiled by getting a front row view from our balcony, and I didn’t want to be stuck behind a bunch of people. It turned out that most of the street along the route was already 4-5 people deep...I was stunned. It was midnight, and thousands of people were already lined up to watch people walk silently by...I did a big circuit and found a spot at the junction of two roads, allowing me a front row spot - the road was transitioning from thoroughfare to standing room. I was amused to be next to two sharply dressed middle aged women with their two older teenage children; it was as though they had met for lunch on a Tuesday...but they were standing on a street at 12:30 in the morning. By 12:45, the street behind me was packed; there might have been 50 rows of people behind me - thousands upon thousands of people were there to see Silencio leave the church - like a silent rock concert almost. I was stunned, and I admit that I was also sort of wishing that I just stayed on my balcony. I knew that once the procession came, I would be stuck in that spot for about an hour, and I never really like that feeling. However, after an hour of waiting in the crowd, I felt like I should hold my spot - resist the temptation of the balcony...and my couch. The procession of Silencio was, in fact, much as Juan had described. A couple minutes before 1:00, the street lights were shut off and the crowd hushed; however, many apartments still had lights on, and with thousands of people, there was still a murmur of conversation, and there were thousands of cellphones raised for photos - mine among them - they are ubiquitous. Still, the silent procession was impressive - there was no candy distribution or wax balls here. The Nazarenos stood straight and raised their candles in unison. To my surprise, each paso was preceded by music, but here it was two clarinets and an oboe playing a quiet, doleful tune rather than a 150 person marching band beating out a rhythm. I looked for Juan, thinking that I might be able to spot him given that he is 6’4”, making him much taller than the average Spaniard, but the two foot tall pointed cap does seem to average out everyone’s height. Though as an American it is hard to shake the KKK image of the outfits, I can understand the anonymity and humility of the outfits.

I did not feel the sense of crowd claustrophobia as the procession passed; on the contrary, there was a sense of calm in the crowd as Silencio moved quietly by. I was pleased that I got the opportunity to experience the scene. I was also fascinated by the twenty minute walk back to our apartment at 2:15 in the morning. The streets were full of people heading in various directions or filling up cafes. I actually walked for a while behind a father dressed in his Nazareno robes and his young son in religious vestments...walking hand in hand under a full moon. I did manage about two hours of sleep before getting up to watch Gran Poder pass under our balcony with Beth and Maya. To our surprise, the streets were still alive with people. Unfortunately, as we watched, we heard a scream and watched as the Nazarenos scattered in fear as spectators ran in all directions. The procession quickly reformed, only to have the same thing happen again twenty minutes later. It turned out that similar things had happened in four other places at around the same time. The authorities do not yet know if the disruptions were coordinated, but they did cause a few injuries from crowd panic. Given events in London recently and Nice last year, a small instigation in a large crowd led to a ripple of rumors that created real fear in those processing and to the crowds around them. Reading the international news made it sound far more tragic than it was (“Tragic Stampede Mars Easter Celebrations”), but it was still a pity that there were such disruptions. Beth still decided to go out to see the Virgin of Macarena...she has diamonds for tears after all...and found the crowds still thick at 4:30 in the morning. We all enjoyed listening to the bands of Esperanza de Triana pass under our apartment at 7:30 in the morning. Despite being out all night and despite the disruptions, they were still at full vigor as they were beginning the journey back across the river to their church.

I admit that when I spent Palm Sunday with Juan and Julian, I didn’t fully grasp their adoration of Semana Santa...yes, I was struck by the splendor of the pasos (floats), but I still didn’t really understand the depth of their feelings for the event. I was amazed by the devotion of the crowds, I enjoyed the pageantry and I loved by the feat (feet) of the costaleros carrying 4000lb works of art through the streets...but that did not seem to correspond to the feelings Juan and Julian - or to the massive crowds, most of whom were locals who come every year. However, something subtle happened throughout the week; Beth and I found that we didn’t want to miss the processions if possible. The mix of ritual and music became transfixing. Beth commented that she wanted to hear the bands in the background everyday - even at home. And, even if it was just watching the Nazarenos, wearing robes and pointed caps, walk in two rows quietly down the street, I wanted to watch...I was drawn to it...there is some peace in the ritual. Perhaps this is where I misunderstand religion; I am so busy rejecting the logic of the story that I fail to appreciate the power of the ritual and of the communal experience. In other words, it was not just the pasos - the massive, moving images of Jesus and the Virgin, it was the music and the movement and the smells and the ritual all combined into one. At the risk of sounding ridiculous, I came to understand how Juan and Julian could fall in love with Semana Santa. The reason, I think, that I didn’t understand it at first is because I was failing to think about how one tends to fall in love. Though one might be attracted to the flash of beauty or to overwhelming charm, one falls in love through a multitude of subtleties: the touch of a hand, an act of kindness, a soft look, an honest smile, an awkward laugh, and perhaps above all, the repetition and constancy of these traits ...these are the traits that actually make your heart melt. I am not sure that I fell in love with Semana Santa, not yet at least, but I certainly grew to understand how and why so many people have.

Semana Santa - Part 1: Domingo de Ramos (Palm Sunday)

jakemoffat — Fri, 14 Apr 2017 02:22:00 GMT

Last September Maya and I met a Spanish family shopping in our local toy store. I introduced myself and asked where they were from; remarkably, they were from Sevilla, but living in Menlo Park for the year for work reasons. We enjoyed a couple of meals with them over the course of the fall, which gave us a nice introduction to Sevillano culture before heading off on our Spanish adventure. Juan, Rocio and their three beautiful kids returned to Sevilla at the end of February, but we had not managed to connect with them in March. However, last week I received an amazing invitation from Juan. He sent me an email describing his love of Semana Santa in Sevilla; he describes the week succinctly and powerfully: “para mí lo mejor que tiene Sevilla con mucha diferencia, independientemente de las creencias religiosas de cada uno. Es un espectáculo para todos los sentidos: vista, oído, olfato… y para el corazón.” As I now set out to try to describe Semana Santa, I will try to hearken back to his simple description of the Semana Santa as the “best that Sevilla has to offer, despite your religious beliefs - A spectacle for all of the senses: sight, sound, scent...and for the heart.” Perhaps what is most powerful for me about Juan’s description is that he is an MIT educated CEO of a biotech start-up, and yet he is fully enamored of an ancient religious ceremony. He would not describe himself as deeply religious, but it is utterly devoted to Semana Santa.

Juan invited me to join him and Julian, his best friend from childhood, on the morning of Palm Sunday, the first day of Semana Santa, to have breakfast, visit many of the pasos (the floats), have a beer, and then join his family for lunch. Juan and Julian have met every Palm Sunday for the past twenty years to enjoy this ritual together, and Juan asked invited me to join them, which really felt like quite an honor. There was a distinctly Spanish note to the invitation; Beth and Maya were invited to lunch, but not to visit the pasos. We would collect them to head to lunch around 1:00. I was pretty sure that I would end up underdressed, as I do not have a suit here, and I was basically right. Most men were wearing suits, including Julian, so I wore the nicest clothes I had - khakis, button up shirt, sweater, leather shoes. I was saved by Juan who was wearing exactly what I was wearing. He said that the work casual approach of Menlo Park had rubbed off on him. This might be true...or he might have known I wasn’t going to wear a suit, and he wanted me to feel comfortable. Thank you, Juan.

Julian and Juan provided a remarkable insight into the workings and culture of Semana Santa. After a coffee and toast, we headed out on a brisk tour of 12-14 of the churches, which were set up to receive visitors who wanted to visit the pasos on Palm Sunday. As the morning went on, the churches got busier and busier. Let me offer a quick explanation of what happens during Semana Santa, so this all makes a little more sense.

From Palm Sunday until Easter Sunday, each of the Brotherhoods (groups associated with a particular church) will process through the streets of the city, passing through the Cathedral and returning to their home church. Each brotherhood has a single procession during the week - always on the same day and always covering the same route. Sevillanos know where the processions will be and when they will be there, and many people have various rituals of where they want to be to see each one. The best way to think about this is to imagine the Rose Bowl Parade or Macy’s Day Parade happening 6-10 times a day on different routes through the city - no kidding. Many of the processions take 10-12 hours to complete their route; on Thursday night some will leave the church at midnight and return after 1:00pm on Friday afternoon. Almost all of the processions take the same basic form: A marching band of up to 150 musicians, followed by up to 1000 Nazarenos (men and women dressed in capes and pointed hoods..that look like KKK capes...carrying huge candles), followed by a massive Paso (A float made of ornate carved wood or silver, decorated with flowers and candles with a life-sized or bigger sculpture of a scene from the Passion of Christ. The scenes depicted progress through the story throughout the week). The paso depicting the scene from the Passion is followed by another marching band, followed by another 1000 nazarenos, who are followed by a second paso (This one topped with a sculpture of the Virgin - each version of the Virgin is well known), which is followed by yet another marching band. A single procession might take up to an hour and a half to pass a single point on the road. Perhaps most amazing, the floats are carried through the streets on the backs of 30-50 men and maybe a few women (costaleros) who are hunched over under the floats. Each float weighs between 4000-5000 pounds and is truly a work of art. Many of the pasos were carved/sculpted in the 16th and 17th century. They are stunning (and priceless) works of art being carried through the streets.

Getting back to my time with Juan and Julian, I was struck by how intimately they knew each paso. We only visited a church for a few minutes, but in each they told me stories about the particular brotherhood or paso. One virgin is referred to as courage because she was the only paso to process in on Semana Santa in the early thirties when the Anarchists were threatening the Church. Another is known for having tall costaleros and a bunch of movement in the procession. Another stops in front of a monastery so the cloistered monks can sing to her from within their cloistered walls. A few of the brotherhoods process in silence, without any bands/music. Juan joined one of these, called Silencio, because he was so moved by their discipline and intensity. They process through the night on Thursday, and apparently the whole crowd is silent as they pass, and the neighborhoods shut off their lights during their procession. There is also a great rivalry between the Virgin of Esperanza de Triana and the Virgin of Macarena - which is the most beautiful? Apparently, all Sevillanos have an opinion. It would be easy...for my untrained eye...to see each paso as quite similar, but in my time with Juan and Julian, I learned that the Sevillanos revere each as unique, meaningful, and powerful. However, as impressive as each paso was sitting in the churches, both Juan and Julian were emphatic that you need the combination of the movement of the paso, the scent of candle wax and incense, the music, and the engagement of the crowd to appreciate the power of the paso.

What struck me while visiting the pasos was the way in which religion, community, culture, and place are so deeply intermingled. Certainly most of the people visiting the churches on Palm Sunday are Catholic, but it felt more like a combination of a social interaction, celebration, civic pride, and piety all mixed into one. Often in the US, or at least in California, religious ceremony seems like a somber or serious practice separated from much of daily life (I recognize my own ignorance here and am only offering my singular impression). As we have experienced the first half of Semana Santa, we have seen a city in almost constant celebration and brimming with civic pride. Throughout the week men have worn suits and women have dressed to the nines; they are as likely to be enjoying a long lunch with friends as following a procession. The streets are full of teenage boys wearing suits and cruising around in groups meeting up with teenage girls sporting their coolest pants (yes - fancy pants are all the rage) and frilly shirts - every school is off this week. Little kids hold out their hands for candy given by the nazarenos, and others work on building wax balls by getting nazarenos to drip wax from their candles on a ball they save from year to year. Every restaurant sets up a window to sell beer and water and sandwiches on the street. It is a week long party. However, when the Virgin passes, the crowd becomes silent and reverent - last night we watched as a young woman wept as the paso with the Virgin passed. She and her boyfriend were otherwise enjoying a beer during a street party - a pretty striking scene.

It turns out that our apartment is directly along a number of the procession routes, so we can watch them pass directly under our balcony, providing a nice respite from the crowds. Last night, the pasos stopped a few hundred feet before our apartment so that a man on a balcony could sing an aria to the paso, unexpected and amazing. I have taken a huge number of photos, but they don’t capture the size of the pasos or the immensity of the processions, and they certainly do not record the sounds, scents...or heart that Juan describes as being at the core of Semana Santa. We are eager to see what happens tonight, which is the night of the Madrugada...the all night processions, which are the most famous of the week. The streets are already full of women dressed in black with the mantilla (The huge hair comb covered with lace that drapes down the back) and men in dark suits. We will follow some of the processions at midnight - 1:00am, and then we will wake up early...4:30am to watch some of the most famous processions pass under our balcony. I will report back on how well we do following through with that plan.

A quick note: our lunch with Juan and his family was pretty memorable. We watched part of the first procession to leave on Palm Sunday near their house, and then we chatted and ate for three hours or more. Maya and Beth both went shopping in order to have appropriate clothes...Maya wore a dress - yes, it is true...and they both managed to maintain conversation in Spanish the whole time (Maya managed to maintain more than converse). I was impressed that Maya made it without wilting. Beth did a great job of engaging in conversation with Rocio’s mother (la abuela), who was fully animated and hilarious. Perhaps our favorite comment from her was that Gran Poder (one of the brotherhoods) is the best procession...and that Silencio is “okay for Juan.” Gran Poder is the other silent procession that leaves in the middle of the night on Thursday. We were certainly in the presence of the beautiful people: Rocio’s brother and sister were also there, and there might not be a more attractive young Spaniard than Tio Luis. Even I thought he was striking and charming.

We are off to dinner and then moving on to see the scene.

Photos: Semana Santa, Part 1

jakemoffat — Thu, 13 Apr 2017 19:39:00 GMT

Ireland...a week of hawks, walks, rocks...and lots of sheep

jakemoffat — Thu, 6 Apr 2017 03:14:00 GMT

For years I have had the sense that I should plan a trip to Ireland, but that trip has always slipped down the travel list, falling prey to the temptations of trips to Italy, Turkey, or Spain. I have had some subtle guilt about continuing to downgrade Ireland. There is such a tight cultural connection between the United States and Ireland. I imagine more Americans than Irish celebrate St. Patrick’s Day...I understand the comparison is unfair because fewer than five million people live in Ireland, and there are almost 500,000 Irish Americans in New York City alone. However, it stills seems like a very American pilgrimage to visit Ireland. Given our proximity this year, we finally took the trip last week. I did not fall in love with it the way I have with Rome or southern Spain. However, we did have a delightful trip. We met my mom in Cork and spent a week exploring the Atlantic Coast and Dublin.

In the interest of not simply cataloging a week of sightseeing, I think I will take an approach that looks more like...dubious beginnings, highlights, and some curious observations.

We flew to Dublin on the weekly RyanAir flight; these flights are both spectacular 9cheap and direct) and bizarre (one a week...don’t be late). RyanAir only staffs the Sevilla airport a couple of days a week, and if you want to fly on their flights you have very limited options - Saturday to Saturday or Saturday to Tuesday...and don’t miss your flight or you will need to wait until next week for the next one. Also, you often see the same folks on your return flight. Our flight to Dublin was probably 50% Spanish high school students on a school trip...three of whom sat behind us and sang along to Spanish pop music that there were listening to with headphones - it was amusing for the first twenty minutes, and then...not so much. They did not, however, sing on the return trip. Once in Dublin, we were set to visit the Irish National Stud Farm and then meet my mother in Cork, but we had to get our car first, which proved almost comical. Along one wall of the airport were six car rental agencies, fully staffed but without a single customer, and opposite those desks was the single Dooley Car Rental (Every customer is a VIP!) desk...staffed by one person with a line, I mean queue, of four customers. The woman in front of me who had just flown in from Chicago had been waiting for a half an hour...with her daughter who had vomited on both of their flights. When she finally got to the counter, her daughter came over from where she was sitting...to let her know she wasn’t…”Oops Mommy!” I didn’t see this, but Beth watched it unfold from where she was sitting with Maya. She was pretty sure the girl was going to throw up on my suitcase, but she missed... One bullet dodged. When I finally got to the desk, I had a pretty ominous conversation with the attendant about insurance. She asked if I wanted it...I said no, like I always do. She asked if I was depending on my credit card insurance...I said yes, but really I just don’t pay for rental car insurance for any reason. She responded that I should check “because 80% of credit cards that offer travel insurance have a clause that says it does not cover you in The Republic of Ireland.” I offered that my card was fine. Then she proceeded to tell me that they needed to take a 4000 Euro hold on my credit card if I didn’t pay for insurance...WOW! I admit that the whole exchange made me think I might be headed out to drive in a war zone or something...maybe I had been a little over-confident about my left handed driving skills. Once in my sweet Renault Fluence - that’s right, a fine French automobile - I began to worry a bit more when I struggled with the clutch...while shifting with my left hand...in a tight parking garage. I cursed the car and the French before I recognized that I was trying to start in 3rd gear...a problem I remedied pretty quickly, and which made me feel much better about the Fluence and the French.The rest of the driving went pretty smoothly...considering that most roads in Ireland are bounded on both sides by stone walls, are remarkably narrow, and have speed limits of 100km...which is laughable. The speed limit is 100km, and if you need to pass a bus going the other way...you might have to back up to a place where the road widens a bit. Driving 100km/hr would be a death wish. And, sometimes there are sheep grazing along the road...Maya tried to pet them as we drove by...I am not kidding...she would reach out and try to pet the sheep as we drove by...Maybe I should have purchased the insurance!

Any doubts we may have had about Ireland were wiped away by the glorious sunny day that turned into a blazingly beautiful pink and orange sunset as we drove into Cork. Apparently it had been snowing the week before, but the profusion of daffodils and the vibrant sky showed no evidence that we had barely missed. We met my mother in Cork, which was delightful. She had flown in a day early from Seattle in order to acclimate, as we were off in the morning to drive the Ring of Kerry, followed the next day by a drive up the coast of County Clare with a visit to the Cliffs of Moher. Both Kerry and Clare were beautiful; each new inlet or rolling hill offered vistas complete with beautiful coastline, sheep (and newborn lambs) in stone walled fields, and ruins of stone towers and fallen houses overgrown with green moss and grasses. Beth most enjoyed the old forested areas, which bring to mind elves and druids; the land simply feels old, rich, and magical. Unfortunately, most of Ireland was stripped of its forests by its early inhabitants. We had a great stop at the Staigue Fort - one of the stone forts from the iron age - in which we had the fort to ourselves. Though we definitely did not have the Cliffs of Moher to ourselves, that stop was simply striking. Beth is pretty sure that the cliffs must have been the model for the Cliffs of Insanity in The Princess Bride, and she has a point. I am sad that the Irish have progressed beyond their policy of not installing barriers - “nature will sort it out.” We also had a great lunch at the pub in Port McGee...outside in the Irish sunshine...a rarity in Port McGee, I imagine.

The real highlight of the trip for all of us came in our three days at Ashford Castle. We just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to stay in a proper Irish Castle, and Ashford didn’t disappoint. The castle, which was the person castle/estate of the Guinness family was fully restored in 2013, and it is truly amazing - from the antique furniture, to the sculptured gardens, to the two Irish wolfhounds that are in the sitting room from 10-11 each morning, the castle is the real deal. One of the Guinnesses even brought trees from around the world (mostly from Washington St). Maya and grandma even had a room with a sitting area facing out over the gardens and lake...complete with a fireplace and a snifter of sherry. On the first morning, I came in to find Maya checking her email, my mom reading the paper, with coffee, juice and pastries on the table. They were pleased as punch. To make the castle even more castley, the irish school of Falconry is housed on the grounds, and we had scheduled a hawk walk for our first morning; the hawk walk might be the best one hour of touristing that I have ever done. It was amazing. We were met by Mel, a sparkling young french woman who had left her career as a dancer to follow her passion for falcons. She had a role in a ballet in which she had a falcon, and she so loved the bird that she decided they were her path. She showed us the facility, taught us what to expect, and retrieved two harris hawks for our walk. We then walked out on the grounds of the castle and let the hawks fly free. As we walked through the forest around the castle, the hawks would swoop past us and perch on the next tree, waiting for one of us to raise a gloved arm, offering the promise of a small nibble of meat. The hawks would glide down onto the glove, take the meat from your hand and fly on. It was simply a stunning experience. The hawks are remarkably light and agile, and they are full of personality; to have them so close and to interact with them was truly magical. By the end of the walk we could understand Mel’s passion, which was nice for mMya to see, as well. Maya was practically jumping around with how cool the experience had been, and my mom described it as a dream fulfilled. I would go back just to do the hawk walk again. Later in the day we doubled down on adventure and scheduled a tree climbing session, in which we climbed about 120 feet up in a Monterey pine. With a background at the Peninsula School, Maya was in her element - on belay, she attempted to do as much of the climb as she could without using any of the ladder steps or metal staples. Beth, on the other hand, went halfway up once, declared that it was much higher than it looked, and decided that Maya could have the rest of her turns, an offer Maya was more than happy to accept.

On the less light-hearted side of things, we also took a day trip from the castle to hike part of the way up Croagh Patrick, the mountain Saint Patrick climbed to perform his legendary lenten fast - yes - all forty days. He is credited with converting Ireland to Catholicism in the fifth century...and of banishing all snakes from Ireland, which he did from the top of the mountain. We also drove along the route of the famine walk, along which 200 Irish died after being denied food by men sitting at a hearty lunch. The stories of struggle and famine seemed to be everywhere throughout County Mayo...still, our drive along the route was really quite beautiful...and it was the site of most of our attempts to pet sheep while driving...don’t tell the rental car agency.

We ended our trip with a couple of days in Dublin, which was pretty interesting, but it also left us yearning to return to Sevilla. The city simply feels dense and heavy - perhaps it is the sky, the population, the squat, brick architecture/construction, I am not sure, but the city simple doesn’t have the light, openness of Sevilla, either in its spaces or its citizen’s faces. We got to fondle the statue of Molly Malone, enjoy a horse carriage ride with Georgie the horse, go for a run in the beautiful St. Stephen’s Green, but I was underwhelmed by the city. It felt a little like it feels in Joyce’s Dubliners...which I guess should be obvious but doesn’t particularly make me want to be there.

One bizarre note: in the Dublin airport, a man sat down next to Beth and set down a newspaper on the little side table between them. When Beth looked over, she saw articles about a terrorist attack on US soil, so she turned over the paper to find out what it was...what she had missed. Shockingly, it was a copy of the Irish Times published on September 12, 2001. Beth was understandably spooked. The man didn’t look at Beth; he just sat stiffly with his two oddly shaped bags. He was older, very thin, and white. Beth had decided in her head that she was not getting on the plane if he boarded and she actually got up and stood well away. He then got up, moved to the next waiting area and sat down. No explanation….

We returned to Sevilla on Saturday afternoon to find spring in full glory. The walk to Maya’s school is amazing - colorful and fragrant, our park run in now through blossoming trees, and the city is bracing for the insanity of Semana Santa...which will be the topic of my next journal entry.

Photos: Ireland: Hawks, Walks, Rocks...And Sheep!

jakemoffat — Mon, 3 Apr 2017 21:03:00 GMT

Cultural Tuesday: El Rinconcillo, Las Setas, and Feria dress shopping

jakemoffat — Wed, 22 Mar 2017 22:56:00 GMT

Given that Maya has soccer three afternoons a week and riding one afternoon, we have decided to make our free Tuesday afternoon “Cultural Tuesday,” where we head out to explore some new part/attraction of Sevilla. Yesterday our plan involved having lunch at El Rinconcillo, the oldest restaurant in Spain, going to the lookout at the top of Las Setas, and going dress shopping for the Feria de Abril. The first two stops make it into most all tourist guides to the city, but it is the third which truly reveals the culture of the city. Lunch at El Rinconcillo was delicious, but it was not really distinguishable from any number of other old bodegas in the city, except for the tile that states that the restaurant was founded in 1670, which is pretty impressive. It felt like we couldn’t leave Sevilla with how eating there, and now we have. The Setas de Sevilla - the informal name for the Metropol Parasol - is an impressive structure consisting of six parasols that together look like a giant field of mushrooms growing right in and above the old section of the city. The mirador at the top of Las Setas provides a wonderful 360 degree view of the city. Maya like cantering the walkways that weave around the top of the structure. Like El Rinconcillo, Las Setas is an excellent tourist stop - but little more.

The real gem of this Cultural Tuesday was shopping for Feria dresses on Calle Francos. Shops in Sevilla are open in the morning from 10-2 and reopen again from 5-8. By 5:15 on Tuesday, the dress stores were full of women of all ages shopping for a dress to wear to the Feria de Abril. I will try to explain the Feria, but I can only do so in a limited way because I have never been to the Feria. What I do know is that the Feria is essentially Sevilla’s dressed up version of a state fair, with rides and food and parties, but for Sevillanos it is an institution and an obsession. The Feria takes place two weeks after Semana Santa, and as far as I can tell, everyone is all in for the festivities. In fact, most of the stores on the Calle Francos are dedicated solely to selling one of three things: objects for Semana Santa, Feria dresses, or the materials to make Feria dresses. Dresses for the Feria actually make up a significant industry in the city, and it appears to be a vital industry, at that. A few weeks ago the fabric stores were full of women purchasing fabric to make their own dresses, while this week the stores with pre-made dresses were swamped. The dresses themselves are full-on flamenco dresses, an ankle length, form fitting dress with complex ruffled sleeves and skirts. While it is easy to think of them as just cheap dresses sold to tourists in gift shops; these dresses are the real deal - unabashed and spectacular. Some are the traditional black or red with polka dots, but many are much more complex with various fabrics, adornments, and multiple colors.

Those of you who know Maya and Beth will find an afternoon of dress shopping to be almost an impossibility, but both of them agreed to the outing...on cultural grounds, I guess. Maya was pretty dubious, but girls in her class have already been asking her if she has a Feria dress, and I think it is becoming clear to her that everyone gets one. As much as Maya might be anti-dress, there is nothing she likes less than being the one person wearing the wrong thing. She agreed to at least try on a dress...Beth too. It took us a little while to get into the groove, but we finally decided just to go for it, and soon enough Beth and Maya were in one of five dressing rooms in a small dress shop trying on flamenco dresses. The scene at the dressing rooms was an amazing snapshot of Sevilla: two of the dressing rooms were occupied with young women (16-20) shopping with their mothers, one dressing room had a mother of an infant, shopping with another mother and her infant, and the other room was occupied by two women in their fifties, trying on dresses together. One of the older woman was taking selfies in each dress, sending them to her boyfriend. One of the mothers was asking if the dress could be taken out later if her daughter gained weight before the Feria...and the daughter scolding her mother for the comment. There were various discussions of flower patterns versus solid colors. Almost everyone added shawls to the dresses to see how the whole ensemble would look. For my part, I was dying to take pictures of the scene rich with color and flavor, but it seemed like a man taking pictures of the dressing rooms at a dress shop might not be so cool.

Both Beth and I commented afterward that it is like the whole city is going to prom: the dresses really are formal dresses and the excitement is palpable. However, unlike prom, everyone goes - from little girls to grandmas. A number of grandmothers appeared to be buying dresses for their granddaughters, as almost a rite of passage. Relative to other expenses in the city, this is a pretty major one, even at the relatively affordable shop we selected. Amazingly, Maya found a dress that she liked...or at least that she said was “probably the best we would find,” which for Maya is a pretty major affirmation. She wasn’t willing to say it, but I think she appreciated how good the dress looked on her. She has agreed to wear it for one day at the Feria...a photo worth its weight in gold for me. Beth also found a dress and a beautiful shawl. I am not quite sure how long either will wear the dresses, but I have no doubt that they will look amazing riding to the Feria in a horse carriage.

Photos: Cultural Tuesdays: Las Setas and Feria dresses

jakemoffat — Wed, 22 Mar 2017 22:41:00 GMT

A delightfully unexpected day on the rock of Gibraltar

jakemoffat — Wed, 22 Mar 2017 22:36:00 GMT

I am not sure that I can say that our experience of Gibraltar was totally unexpected, as I don’t think we had any idea of what to expect. This may be the result of the fact that I only think about Gibraltar in terms of sixteenth and seventeenth century history, a place populated by pirates, British sailors, galleons, merchant ships, etc; stuff out of the Master and Commander novels. (Of course, if that were the case, my expectations would be sky high) I just don’t think I ever really thought about it as a real place in the twenty-first century...where people would live and work and stuff. So when we decided to visit the Rock, so that we could be out of Spain for the one extra day we needed to be out of Spain for visa purposes, we had no vision of what our visit would look like, or even what The Rock itself would look like. How British could a little finger of Spain be? Would we actually see a monkey? I suppose the internet could have easily answered these questions, but we went into this weekend adventure mostly blind. The whole experience was bizarre, but it was totally delightful; I sort of can’t believe I am writing that. Now that I think about it, I guess I didn’t really expect to like Gibraltar, and I feel like we betrayed Spain a bit by enjoying our time in Gibraltar so much. Please don’t tell them; we are trying to keep it on the DL.

From the very first sight of the Rock of Gibraltar, something doesn’t seem quite right. As soon as you turn off of the freeway at San Roque to head south to La Linea and Gibraltar you can see the jutting white rock towering over the bay. The Rock, as a geological/geographic feature, looks completely out of place; there is not another formation like it along that part of the Spanish coast. It simply doesn’t make any geological sense until you look across the Strait of Gibraltar to the coastline of Morocco, and you realize that this rock was meant to be over there in Africa...it just didn’t break off correctly when the continents split. I admit that I thought about the animated shorts of the squirrel and the acorn featured before the Ice Age movies, which I understand is not actually the explanation, but it certainly looks like it. The Rock...and the English...and the monkeys...are totally out of place here, but maybe that is why they are all still here together. Local lore suggests that when the monkeys are gone the British will leave.

We arrived on Saturday night, so we had a full Sunday to explore the rock; after eschewing most of the silly English breakfast (couldn’t be a much bigger contrast between toast in Spain and bangers, beans, tomato, eggs, etc. in GBR) , we hopped on the cable car- a small gondola - that takes 6 minutes to get to the top of the rock at 412 meters. Beth, who is not so fond of heights, suggested that we might want to just hike to the top, but she was overruled. As it was still early, the multi-platform viewing area was mostly free of people when we arrived at the top, but there were plenty of monkeys - a few sitting on the railing, a couple on a roof, and one that had managed to grab a bag of candy from the gift shop. There is a $4000 fine for feeding the monkeys, but they don’t seem to have any trouble finding people food. I guess we shouldn’t have been surprised, but the monkeys were all around. Maya was delighted to see a couple of families of the monkeys playing in a tree just off of the road as we headed out on our exploratory hike. She really wanted to pet a baby monkey, but she was also mortally afraid of the larger ones...I suggested that these two conflicting approaches would not work so well together, but she wasn’t buying it. Within two minutes of walking, we saw a monkey hop on a tourist’s back as he was taking a picture - no big deal - the monkey just sat on the man’s shoulders for a minute. It turns out that these are the only wild (sort of wild, at least) monkeys/apes in Europe. They are genetically connected with similar Macaques in northern Africa. We spent some time while walking coming up with explanations for their presence here, which was a fun game...Maya said they came over with the Penguins of Madagascar. I think the real answer is that they were originally brought over as pets by Moors in the 17th and 18th century. Whatever their origin, their existence makes Gibraltar that much more bizarre. They actually ride on the top of Taxis that take tours around the rock - cool but wierd.

We ended up walking out to the Mediterranean Steps, which is a walking path that descends the eastern side of the rock and circles around the southern face of the rock and back to St. Michael’s Cave. The hike was stunning, as the eastern face offered a profusion of spring wildflowers, as well as spectacular views of the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Beth was a little over dressed in her black Patagonia jacket, and when I asked her why she had bundled up so much, she replied, “I thought the weather on top of the rock would be like the rest of England.” I thought that was pretty funny. It was pretty stunning to be able to take a picture of Beth and Maya standing on British soil with both Africa and Spain visible in the background. Maya, who is not a fan of hiking in general, loved the Mediterranean Steps. St. Michael’s Cave was impressive, both as a cave and for what has been done to make it a tourist attraction. They have taken a beautiful, massive cave featuring drip castle-like stalactites and stalagmites and built concrete platforms, paths, and railings...AND added color changing disco lighting. I suspect that they might use the cave for events, but I am not sure. It would be a rocking dance club. After leaving the cave we decided to just walk the rest of the rock, which Beth began referring to as “a hiking Disneyland,” which she loved! We ended up walking 8-9 miles, encountering monkeys, exploring the siege tunnels (There are thirty miles of them. The place was almost constantly under siege by the Spanish - once for over three years), enjoying the flowers, climbing walls and ramparts, and even watching a plane land on a landing strip that crosses the road we drove in on...and that pedestrians walk in on. As a combinations of fun discoveries and good walking, the rock is perfect.

We finally hiked off of the rock and down into town mid-afternoon and found an excellent outside table at the yacht marina. Hungry and thoroughly amused by our day, we found that most everyone was enjoying a late Sunday lunch of roast meat (beef, lamb or chicken), potatoes, and yorkshire pudding. Again...bizarre that the traditional English Sunday lunch survives in the glorious sunshine in Gibraltar; like the monkeys and the rock itself, it just doesn’t make that much sense to eat a heavy roast and a yorkshire pudding while sitting at a yacht club in 80 weather.. We opted for a bottle of Rose and fresh fish instead, and enjoyed a wonderful meal...as such meals often are after a rigorous day of hiking.

We did get to hear a sad love letter to Sevilla while in Gibraltar. While we were playing cards in the lounge in our hotel (yes, The Rock Hotel...how could we resist), we ended up in a conversation, in Spanish, with our waitress, a bright young woman from Sevilla. When we told her that we were living in Sevilla, her face lit up with joy. However, she went on to explain that despite finishing university with a degree in accounting, she couldn’t find a job in Sevilla and she had ended up as a waitress in Gibraltar, which she hate, monkeys and all. I explained that Maya had questioned why we would leave Sevilla on a Saturday, and she was carried away by wistful thoughts of copas on Calle Arfe, the Feria, etc. We could see, and now personally understand, her love of the city of her youth, but could also feel her pain at her estrangement from her home. Certainly for her, Gibraltar does not make sense. Though we had a near perfect day in Gibraltar, I can see how too much longer would probably be too long.

Photos: Stud farm, Sanlucar de Barrameda, and The Rock

jakemoffat — Mon, 20 Mar 2017 21:11:00 GMT

A Glorious Saturday in Sevilla...and gin and tonic for dessert

jakemoffat — Tue, 14 Mar 2017 08:32:00 GMT

A few weeks ago I asked Beth whether she prefered living in Bologna or Sevilla. If she had to go back and pick only one, which city would she select for an experience like this? After some consideration she decided that she would pick Bologna. I think her decision might have been heavily influenced by the quality of the pasta and limoncello alone - who can blame her. However, by the end of this past Saturday, she told me that she was changing her answer to Sevilla. Though the streets of Bologna blossom with people in the spring, they simply do not simmer with life and celebration the way they do in Sevilla - there really isn’t even a comparison. Beth has remarked on numerous occasions that the Sevillanos seem to be in constant party mode; what impresses me is how fully they embrace the celebration, whether it is a weekday lunch, a bachelor party or a march supporting public schools (I’m not making this up - we saw a full on protest this week demanding that schools not be privatised, and at the front of the march was a spectacular drum band. The march was serious, but it was also a mobile dance party.). They dress up, wear costumes, eat, drink, sing, and dance...all while laughing -- even the serious things are made into a party as far as I can tell. And, we haven’t even gotten to the Feria de Abril, the festival that is famous for truly bringing out the spirit in the Sevillanos. We have seen many women shopping for the materials for their Feria dresses; there are whole streets of shops dedicated to selling the materials for making the dresses and accessories - from flowers to shawls to fans...whole shopping districts dedicated to making dresses for a single week of the year...now that is commitment.For now I can only attempt to describe an average Saturday...which relative to our normal experience is anything but average.

We started our Saturday with a perfectly touristy visit to the Real Alcazar, the royal palace in the heart of Sevilla - our expectations of the Alcazar and of our day in general were about to be totally exceeded. The Alcazar was built in the same mudejar style as the Alhambra, combining the Moorish beginnings/influence with the later additions by the Catholic kings. However, unlike the Alhambra, the Alcazar is magically wedged right in the middle of a vibrant and bustling city. If you don’t go inside the walls, you basically don’t know it is there, but once you enter, you are treated to a palace that rivals the Alhambra in style and scope, surrounded by gloriously expansive and varied gardens. Beth still can’t comprehend how the Alcazar can be so expansive given where it sits in the city. Not only is the palace right in the middle of the city...it is still used as the royal residence - I think it might be one of the oldest continuously inhabited palaces in Europe. The King and Queen still use the palace when they are in Sevilla, AND it is also the filming site for the city of Dorne in Games of Thrones. I’m not quite sure how you convince the King to let you use his palace to film a TV show, but I guess there is a price for everything. I think The Emerald City was also filmed in the Alcazar. For me, the Alcazar is as spectacular as the Alhambra, and it feels more alive and vital...perhaps because it is magically set in the middle of the city or because it is a block from our apartment - either way, a visit to the Alcazar makes for a delightful start to the day.

When we went into the Alcazar in the morning the city was still pretty sleepy - nothing much happens in Sevilla before noon-, but when we emerged from the palace, we encountered a city that was simply exploding with life, and I do not just mean that there were a lot of people (though there were). No, we could just feel the spirit with which the Sevillanos embraced the day. Right near our apartment, there must have been one or two weddings...or other types of parties of some significant pomp and circumstance...because we passed group after group of men in tails and women in elegant dresses and hats stolen directly from the Kentucky Derby. In fact, the streets had a distinctly Kentucky Derby feel...full of revellers - young, sleek, and unabashedly dressed to the nines. We also passed a number of bachelor and bachelorette parties, which adopted a distinctly different feel...a groom dressed as a flamingo at lunch with 20 friends in matching polos or a roaming bachlorette party that had hired a small band to follow them around the city, stopping to dance with people on the street. What was striking was that all of this activity was independent but somehow symbiotic; there was no big event in city on Saturday - there just seemed to be various parties, events, and celebrations throughout the city feeding off of each other. Sitting down for a long lunch at a table on the sidewalk provided constant entertainment...and it was only 2:00 in the afternoon.

After lunch, we got an ice cream...we finally found a place that rivals the gelaterias in Italy...and we headed toward the subway to see the Sevilla FC soccer game. On the way, we ran into the Bolivian Culture parade passing in front of the Cathedral. If I could explain why there was a Bolivian Culture parade, I would. We had no idea that there was a significant Bolivian population in Sevilla, but there they were - a full parade of Bolivians, dancing in remarkably gaudy costumes. It almost felt like there couldn’t possibly be so much going on - the restaurants were full, the Kentucky Derby weddings (or whatever it was) was still in full swing, there were parties of bachelors and bachelorettes all over the place, and there were still enough people to fill a crowd along a parade route...Plus, the Alcazar was full of tourists, and the soccer game we were headed to was sold out. The whole scene was thoroughly exhilarating and delightful. Maya was having second thoughts about heading out to the soccer stadium because she was so enjoying being in the middle of all of the city action. However, she didn’t need to fret because when we returned from the soccer game two hours later, nothing had changed. There was a dance party in one square - partners dancing salsa - and many of the groups we had seen earlier were still drinking small beers and enjoying the sunshine. By evening, when Beth and I went out for a Copa, the Calle Arfe behind our apartment was almost completely full of people spilling from the copa bars, each with its own unique character. We had a gin and tonic and watched as the party continued...seemingly unabated since lunch...and certainly continuing until well after we went to bed. Maya later mused, “I am not sure I can go back to California. It will be so boring.” She followed the comment up with this thought: “I just wish I could have my friends come here.” Makes sense to me.

Some Observations:

I think I got it wrong

When I wrote about our wonderful lunch in Granada, I told a story about asking the waiter about dessert and his reply that they had gin and tonic for dessert. I liked the joke...it made me chuckle. However, I now think it wasn’t a joke, at all. This week we went to lunch at a little restaurant call El Puntal. The food is spectacular..you must try the Scallop Salad with chunks of bacon….and it is tucked nicely in a small side street. At the table next to us were five Spanish men of about my age - all dressed for work in coats and ties - slim, fit professional types. They were at the restaurant when we arrived, sharing small plates and a couple of bottles of wine...and some small beers. Throughout our lunch, they continued to eat, ordering and sharing various plates, and they had another bottle of wine. As I was paying the bill for our lunch, the waitress asked if they were interested in dessert, and they said “no, we will just have five gin and tonics.” So, I guess it wasn’t a joke - a G&T is an appropriate dessert...I like it! And I am assuming that these guys were going back to work at some point. This wasn’t Saturday - it was Tuesday...Impressive!

Empty art museums

For as busy as the Cathedral and the Alcazar get in Sevilla, the city’s main art museum, Bellas Artes, seems to be almost forgotten by tourists. Certainly the collection does not rival the Madrid’s Prado, but the Spanish art is impressive and the building is a work of art itself. However, what struck me about visiting the museum is how much I love visiting an art museum where I can enjoy some tranquility in the space. Looking at the vast Murillo canvases without anyone else talking or snapping photos was wonderful. It made me remember the frustration I felt visiting the Sistine Chapel. There couldn’t be more signs telling visitors to be silent and that photographs are prohibited, and yet, as soon as our group was herded into the Chapel, people started talking and taking photos. Sadly, I tend to remember my annoyance with the scene more than I recall the splendor of the ceiling. Visiting the Bellas Artes with virtually no one around left me appreciating the work of Murillo in a way that I did not expect. Murillo is not Michelangelo, but I might have enjoyed the experience more.I guess art is much like wine and food, the environment and one’s psychological state influences one’s appreciation mightily.

A quick comment on Spanish fashion...at least in our neighborhood

I think that the Sevillano men living in, or at least coming for copas in, our relatively wealthy and cosmopolitan neighborhood dress a little like they have stepped off a polo field in the late 1980’s, except that they stopped to have their shirts tailored - slim fit...maybe with a light vest. The uniform appears to be jeans/khakis with a white/pink/blue button down with a light sweater….yes, that’s right...draped over the shoulders like they are at a country club. I am not sure that I can so generalize female fashion...I expect I would get myself in trouble with that topic. However, I have been intrigued by how many women wear prescription glasses and bold lipstick, a look that is a sort of contradiction at home, but seems to be fully in style here. I think it is fun - I like the spirit.

Photos: One glorious Saturday in Sevilla

jakemoffat — Mon, 13 Mar 2017 03:26:00 GMT

Trekking in the Atlas Mountains

jakemoffat — Thu, 9 Mar 2017 23:26:00 GMT

Just as Marrakesh was a study in contrasts, our experience in the Atlas mountains couldn’t have been more starkly different than our time in the city. We really had no idea what to expect with our three day trek. I booked the trip through a UK tour company and hadn’t really thought too much more about the details. My primary concern before we left Sevilla was whether or not we had the appropriate clothing. I was a little stunned when the tour company emailed me a packing list that suggested that we needed hiking boots, gaiters, and gortex...needless to say, we had none of these things, and I wasn’t sure that we wanted to embark on an adventure in Morocco that actually required that gear. I spent some time looking at long term weather forecasts which were both reassuring and troubling. The week before we were scheduled to trek, the high in Imlil, our starting point, was 39 degrees, which is pretty cold if you are planning to hike up 2000 feet from that starting point. On the plus side, the forecast for the week we were to hike offered a high of 65 degrees, which sounded better. I did buy running tights for everyone, thinking that we would use them at home, and they could serve as long underwear if need be. Otherwise, I figured that we would cross our fingers that the weather report would hold.

A car picked us up at our hotel in Marrakesh and took us directly to the mountain town of Imlil, which ends up being the starting point for most all of the trekking in the Atlas mountains - it is the only valley in the area that benefits from tourism. The weather looked like it would be good for at least the first two days of our trek, so I wasn’t concerned until I saw a series of shops in the town offering crampons for walking in snow...perhaps I should have studied French so I could communicate a little better. We were dropped at a small shop where Hussain, our guide, met us and offered us tea. Turns out it is not really appropriate to do anything in Morocco without offering tea first. We didn’t really want tea, but it seemed only appropriate to accept it when offered. However, Hussain was basically waiting for us to drink our tea, creating.a funny little scene - he is anxious to get going because we have a long day ahead and are getting a late start, and we are drinking tea that we don’t really want because we don’t want to offend him. We suggested that we were ready, and he and the muleteer packed up our mule - the mule being a most impressive little beast. And we headed out. I asked about crampons, etc., and Hussain, who spoke pretty good English, said it was no problem. Imlil serves as a starting point for summiting Toubkal, the highest peak in the Atlas and the second highest peak in Africa, which explains the gear available in the town. It had been snowing in the town the week before, but the sun was out and the sky was brilliantly blue.

We headed out walking up through the town which is built up the face of a hill, and we proceeded to climb about 2000 feet over the course of the next two and a half hours. It was a pretty impressive climb, both for the incline and for the vistas. We walked with a stunning view of the Toubkal and the Atlas peaks, but the trail was vertical enough that we were mostly hiking head down. While this day ended up being Beth and my favorite of our entire time in Morocco, Maya was pretty annoyed with the length of the day’s hike; she had no trouble with the elevation or the milage, but she would rather run and jump than walk. We hiked to a saddle pass at about 8000 feet where Houssain laid out a carpet and some pads for lunch. The Muleteer/cook prepared a huge salad and a tagine of lentils which we ate under a glorious blue sky looking up at the snow capped peaks of the Atlas mountains. I can’t really imagine a more spectacular place for lunch...despite the lack of a icy cold small beer, to say nothing of how nice it is to be served a warm lunch on a hike. After lunch we hiked for a couple more hours before we were offered the option to hike up a valley to a large waterfall. For me, there was no question that you extend the hike an extra couple of hours to see the waterfall - to Maya there was no question that you don’t. Though it hurt me a little to pass up the falls, we chose to head down the valley instead. The decision, I think, was the right one, as we did not get to our little hiking lodge until after 6:00, as the sun was beginning to set - two more hours could have been pretty trying.

In many ways, the hike down the valley was the most impressive part of the journey. We walked through traditional Berber villages built into the hillsides in the valley. Though it sounds a bit cliche, the villages seemed to be functioning much as they had for centuries. Each family had a multi-level house built into the side of the valley, with the bottom floor housing a cow or two. Each of the houses seemed connected in some ways to the other houses in the village, making the whole village appear basically contiguous, with rooftops serving as a flat surface for drying clothes and doing other household tasks. Surrounding the villages are impressive sets of tiered fields, growing crops - barley in winter and vegetables in summer - all with walnut trees throughout. The walnut ends up being a key staple for the Berber in the high mountains; they use all parts of the trees, from the nuts for sale, the leaves for fodder, the bark for fires, and the wood for building. The villages also work communally to tend to flocks of sheep and goats. The villages really felt like they had grown into the hillsides, particularly given that the houses matched the color of the dirt surrounded the village. Some of the villages were distinctly red, while other were more dun/brown, the result of the fact that the houses are made of clay produced from the dirt and rock most readily available. As we walked I couldn’t help seeing northern New Mexico almost everywhere I looked. Both the mountain peaks and the general terrain could be taken directly from the Sangre de Cristo mountains that make up the southern edge of the rockies in NM where I grew up. Furthermore, the construction of the Berber houses with clay/mud construction with wooden ceiling beams had a wildly familiar and comforting feel. Though the Taos Pueblo is built on flat ground, the construction has a very similar feel. As we hiked, we regularly passed men and their mules - each family has a mule -which do a remarkable amount of work up and down the hillsides. We also passed a bunch of children, all of whom poked their heads out and said, “bonjour, bonjour, bonjour!” Each school in the villages has two teachers, one who teaches French and Math and one that teaches Arabic and the Quran. It was pretty fascinating to hike past the tiny schools with Maya; the schools in the villages serve kids from ages 6-12, after which most students stop their schooling. If they want to continue, they need to go to the middle/high school in Asni, which is a six-seven hour walk out of the valley. If they attend, they walk to school on Monday, spend the week in student housing, and walk back on Saturday. Most simply begin life in the village at age 12, their education ended. Maya got to think about what it would mean to be months from being done with her education. She might take the deal if it meant she got a mule...she liked the mules...and the cows and sheep.

Our arrival at the small guest lodge in one of these villages was hilarious and delightful. When we arrived - tired and ready for a break - the older Berber owner offered us a stool outside and a pair of slippers. We took off our shoes, put on the slippers, and he invited us inside. Once inside the lodge (if four rooms counts as a lodge), he pointed to our hands and said in very broken English “wash hands,” indicating that we should hold out or hands. He took a silver water shaker - I know that is not a thing, but is the best description I have. He shook some scented water on our hands and handed us a towel. Then, he pointed to a bowl of dates and said, “in milk,” pointing to a bowl of milk, so we each took a date, dipped it in milk and ate it. We were fascinated -fair to say that we have never been told to dip a date in a bowl of milk before, but who are we to say no. After that he showed us our room and said, “You shower and come up for tea.” We hadn’t questioned him before this, so we didn’t figure that now was the time to start. We showered and went upstairs to the common room for tea.

Much to our delight, we ended up sharing the lodge that night with two British couples on different trekking itineraries. The conversation was lively and fun.One couple explained that they regularly went to the Globe to see Shakespeare, and I ended up answering a bunch of questions about Shakespeare, making for a pretty unlikely scene - An American explaining Shakespeare to the English in the mountains in Morocco. They then asked some questions about the structure of American government - they had just started watching The West Wing, and they didn’t quite understand the House and Senate. They were quite pleased to get their questions straightened out, but they admitted to being frustrated with The West Wing; they described it as sort of a “liberal fantasy show.” They wanted to know why everyone was so nice and civil to each other...they didn’t believe it could be real. They believed House of Cards was more accurate. When the other British couple joined the conversation, we shifted to a conversation about Brexit - one woman woefully pessimistic and the rest holding onto a fleeting hope that it might not actually come to pass. We were intrigued to hear a similar conversation about someone else’s political situation. Our meal was delightful and delicious - a tagine, of course - but food is always better after a full day of hiking, and we were abed and asnooze before 9:00. The following two days were much the same - long days of hiking through Berber villages with delightful stops for lunches. Hussain proved to be a wonderful guide, sharing his knowledge of the terrain and the people. After the initial climb, Maya settled into the days of walking nicely - she has been getting fit and strong, and she could have hiked much more than we did. We were a little sad that we had not signed up for the hike to summit Toubkal, but it is nice to have another trip to look forward to - a reason to come back.

Chaos and Oasis in Marrakesh

jakemoffat — Thu, 9 Mar 2017 23:25:00 GMT

After our trip to Granada, I wrote that taking pictures of the Alhambra made me feel like an excellent photographer. The building, itself, seems to majestically capture a whole era and culture. That is probably not actually the case, but it certainly feels that way, and each photograph seems vivid - almost like it captures more than is actually in the frame. Well, the same is certainly not the case in Marrakech. Though everything in the city begs a photograph, I felt utterly incapable of capturing the chaos of beauty, filth, noise, smells, and intensity that fills the streets.Each photo I took seemed to be missing most of what I wanted to capture, and now I fear that my journal will be equally lacking. Even now as I think back on our experience, the feeling of walking through the medina in Marrakesh feels almost unreal...I apologize if I overuse superlatives in my attempts to capture the sensations of the medina and the streets of Marrakesh.

Our four days in the city was really an experience of contrasts. We stayed in one of the most beautiful and most peaceful hotels I have ever seen. Constructed from three traditional riads, Moroccan homes that are built around an open patio, the El-Fenn is a striking oasis. From the outside the riads appear to nothing more than a door is a dry, dusty alley full of noise, donkeys, motorbikes, and men walking purposefully. Most, including El-Fenn, are hardly labeled; without a guide, it would be hard for most people to find their particular riad. However, once we stepped through the doorway, the world transformed - the contrast seems almost impossible. The maze of hallways upon entering the El-Fenn are pink and yellow, with fabulous Moroccan lanterns casting light on the walls. The entire riad is decorated both with Moroccan lighting and with contemporary art - the hotel/riad is owned by Richard Branson’s sister, and she has amassed an impressive collection of art. At night, the same hallways are also lit with various candles, creating an enchanting environment. Since the hotel is constructed of three separate, renovated riads, the hallways form a bit of a maze, emerging in patios on all three of the levels of the building - some with pools, and all full of plants, flowers, and inviting couches. Our room was one of two rooms on a hallway/balcony that overlooked a beautiful patio and that ended in a large fireplace. The room itself had stitched leather floors, a colored glass door, sitting areas, and a stunning bathtub. The entire roof of the riad is covered with couches, pillows, nooks, a small pool, and even a strip of green grass. The temptation to just find a corner and enjoy the tranquility and beauty of the space was alluring, and from the look of a number of the people lounging, reading, and napping, I think many people do just that.

We, however, did not immediately succumb to the temptations of our riad oasis. After a tour of the riad, we decided that we needed to explore the medina, the old town/market or Marrakesh. We headed out around sunset with map in hand, content to see where the streets took us. Though I tend to pride myself on my ability to read a map and to situate myself, we were lost in the medina almost immediately. Most of the streets are relatively narrow, covered alleyways with shops lining each side. Though there are some sections of the medina that focus on certain items - a spice market, a ceramics market, a rug market, etc - most streets feature a little bit of everything. A fabric and rug stop might be followed by a food stand, followed by a stand selling chicken...and let’s be clear about this...the chicken stand does have some butchered chickens, but it also has cages with live chickens. You know - that way you can select a fresh, live chicken, either to be butchered or to take home still alive. Maya struggled some with this, but it seemed good to see it if you are eating chicken. Anyway, one might be able to negotiate the medina with a map if not for a couple of significant problems. First, not only are the streets narrow, full of sights, sounds, and activity, but people are regularly driving mopeds at high speed, weaving through the flow of pedestrians. Beth found the mopeds particularly unnerving. I think that simply walking and ignoring them is the best way to proceed because trying to avoid them often puts you directly in the path of their maniacal dodging of pedestrians. Furthermore, once you open a map in the medina someone offers, quite aggressively, to guide you to where you want to go...or to where they would like you to go...or some combination of the two. Therefore, the best course of action, I think, is to keep the map in your pocket, walk like you know where you are going, and pretend that there are no motorbikes driving on a full pedestrian street surrounded by mounds of spices and piles of fresh fish for sale. I wanted to take pictures, but bringing out a camera had a similar effect as bringing out a map - it left you standing in an alley unfit for standing, and many vendors demanded that I pay them to take a picture of them...again...best to walk purposefully forward.

After the utter civility of Sevilla, there is something remarkably dignified about the Sevillanos, the chaos of Marrakech was pretty jarring for Maya, or maybe it would be easier to say that she was a little scared, and Beth really couldn’t get over the idea that she was going to be killed by a motorbike. But, as I think is just about always the case, we were eventually spit out into Jemaa el-Fnaa square, the hub of the medina. In the evening the square is full of food stalls, story tellers, musicians, henna tattoo artists, and vendors of all sorts; it is infectiously alive. However, it is also opens to a beautiful, starry sky, so the feeling of chaotic claustrophobia of the narrow streets quickly evaporated. We wandered the square, explaining to food vendor after food vendor that we had dinner reservations, but we might come back tomorrow. Once in the square, the way back to our riad was pretty straight forward, avoiding the heart of the medina, of course. We sampled some street food on the way back to the tranquility of el-Fenn. That first walk through the medina was invigorating, but also pretty disorienting. I was curious how Maya would feel on day two about setting out to explore more deeply on day two.

After the initial shock of the sights and sounds of the medina, we got into a pretty good exploring groove...with the exception of our experience getting shystered by the snake charmers. Our goal on the second day was to head back to the square to see the snake charmers and monkeys and then to take a horse carriage ride through the city and up to the Majorelle Gardens. (Grandma Bonnie: you might not want to read this part of the travel journal).The challenge with seeing the snake charmers is that as soon as you get close enough to see the snakes...and you display some interest in the snakes...they pounce on you like snakes (not the snakes, the snake shysters). So, once we were in range, and with cameras out, the snake charmer handed Maya two small snakes. Here’s the problem: if someone hands you a snake and says”Hold right here! Hold right here!” pointing to a spot right behind the head, it is hard not to “hold right there” because you don’t want two snakes to fall at your feet. So, Maya held onto the snakes - not feeling any more comfortable about Morocco than she did the night before. He then draped the small snakes around Maya’s neck and led her to a stool positioned a few feet behind two cobras and three vipers...just sitting out in the square. I basically assumed that it was safe, but I’m not really sure. Maya managed to smile, despite her discomfort. I managed some photos before the snakes were thrust into my hands, as well. I responded a lot like Maya did...I held on to the snakes, and pretty soon he was holding a thick, sluggish viper over my shoulder. I think I might have thought it was pretty cool if I didn’t know that he was about about to demand a large sum of money from me for being forced to hold his snakes for him. I protested...suggesting a smaller fee, but he was holding a viper. I probably should have just walked away, but, like I said, he was holding a viper, which he mentioned was venomous in the midst of our “negotiations.” I decided I could live with being shystered in this case, if it meant getting away from the poisonous snakes. The rest of our day was far more comfortable. The horse carriage ride was a nice way to get to know the city. I would have a picture of the brightly dressed guards at the national palace, but when they saw me taking the photo they yelled out and stopped the carriage, checked my phone and demanded that I delete any photos of the guards…I’m guessing it was a case of either national security or personal vanity...the pants were pretty silly. Anyway, we ended up at the Majorelle Gardens, the favorite spot of Yves Saint Laurent in Marrakesh. In fact, his ashes were scattered there - it is a beautiful and peaceful garden, and it has a great display of the designer’s annual “Love” collages - they are really cool if you have never seen them.

We ended the day with a traditional Moroccan meal in a riad deep in the Medina. When we set out to find it, we were quickly met by a guide who showed us a badge that proved he was from the restaurant. We wound our way through alleys again, and entered a nondescript door that led to a courtyard with tables covered in rose petals and with two Moroccan musicians playing. We didn’t order - we were just served a full meal, starting with 10 small Moroccan salads, followed by multiple tagines...everything is cooked in a tagine, it turns out. The music, ambiance and food were all quite enchanting. We particularly enjoyed the musician dancing while singing and spinning the tassel on his fez - pretty sweet. The rest of our time in Marrakesh was a combination of soaking in the pleasures of our little oasis: beautiful breakfasts on the roof, a traditional hammam (Moroccan steam bath and scrub), tea, cocktails and reading, while we continued to get comfortable exploring the medina. We had a really fun cooking class that started with a shopping tour with the chef...we learned how to cook a tagine and make the traditional salads. We also happened into a music shop in which we had a great conversation with a musician and instrument maker. Maya bought a drum made with stingray skin, and he taught her how to play it some. That experience showed us a completely new face of the medina. We also found some neat spots to stop for lunch in the middle of the souks - the shops - where we could eat on a rooftop terrace. Despite Beth’s notion of shopping for a redesign of at least one room in our house, we mostly wandered, enjoying the chaos and trying to avoid the motorbikes and the snake charmers.

Photos: Essaouira

jakemoffat — Wed, 8 Mar 2017 04:56:00 GMT

Photos: Trekking in the Atlas Mountains

jakemoffat — Wed, 8 Mar 2017 04:00:00 GMT