Rembrandt, Cycads, and Good Dutch Food

My love affair with Amsterdam continues unabated (as does my obsession with Dutch bicycles--but more about that later).  Much of today I walked around with a goofy grin on my face, delighting in the city, the people, and the sights.  I first went to Rembrandt's house, which proved better than I imagined.  I had a tough time finding it, as I did in Madrid last March when I searched for Lope de Vega's home (and ditto for Ibsen's house in Oslo several years ago).  I've concluded that the homes of famous writers and artists--outside of Shakespeare, of course--simply do not matter to most people.  Locals can direct confused tourists to the Rijksmuseum or the "Old Church," but Rembrandt's house?  Not so much.


Eventually I found it and was rewarded for my efforts.  At the height of his fame, filthy with money and puffed with pride, Rembrandt purchased a grand home befitting his status--or at least the status to which he aspired.  Eventually he couldn't keep up with the payments and the lavish lifestyle, and he went bankrupt, ending his life lonely and broke in far more modest digs.  The grand house is the one I visited today: an extant inventory of Rembrandt's belongings at the time of bankruptcy, along with various paintings and sketches, have allowed curators to recreate the interior fairly accurately.  Best of all, specialists give splendid lecture demonstrations throughout the house.  I learned about mid-seventeenth Dutch cooking; Rembrandt's engraving techniques; and, best of all, how he mixed pigments.  Given my delight in material history, I was utterly enchanted.

Fortified by good Dutch coffee, I then set out for the Hermitage Amsterdam, the Dutch outpost of the Hermitage museum in St. Petersburg, but I was waylaid by the botanical gardens.  This is one of the pleasures of traveling alone: one can act upon whims.  The Hortus Botanicus, founded in 1638, gives a splendid snapshot of the seventeenth-century penchant for taxonomies and collections.  Plants and trees from around the world are lovingly cultivated and displayed.  One of the highlights of the collection is a 300 year old cycad from the Eastern Cape in South Africa, originally collected by the Dutch East India Company.  In two of the hothouses I saw displays that looked like vestigial cabinets of curiosity, again providing a window into the seventeenth-century mentalite.

Grief, however, still stalks me, sometimes grabbing me by the throat and squeezing hard.  Quite literally, I will turn a corner or, as I did today, enter a room and then find myself gulping for breath, sucker-punched by unforeseen associations.  One of the hothouses contained plants and trees from South Africa, which is entirely understandable given the long historic association, but the familiarity of the vegetation--its appearance and smell--reduced me rapidly to tears.  For half an hour, I sat on a bench weeping before pulling myself together and heading out again.  By then, it was 5.00 p.m. and museums were closing.  Between my terrible sense of direction and the early twilight, I lost my bearings and stumbled around until a local set me straight.  Tired and hungry (no lunch and seven hours of walking), I took up one of Francois' suggestions and went to a restaurant near my B&B, a place best described as nouvelle Dutch.  The food was actually very good, and the service warm and efficient.  I started with a delicious sweet pea soup, followed by hake in a reduced sauce of butter, capers, and a bit of aged balsamic with a side of sugar snap peas and string beans.  Everything was fresh and delicious, and the Spanish white wine, a crisp Rueda, improved my outlook immeasurably.

I will conclude with passing observations about bicycles, expats, and the Dutch obsession with all things American.

My continued fascination with Dutch bicycling resulted in a spin this morning on a WWII model.  On my way to the Rembrandt house, distracted by a shop display, I stepped inside to look at some sweaters and struck up a conversation with the salesgirl, an outgoing, hearty lass.  I noticed her bicycle, a rusted, monstrous thing, and she proudly described the repairs and modifications she had made.  I asked about the weight and lack of gearing, but she goes everywhere on it, hauling groceries and running errands.  Then I was offered a ride.  The bike easily weighed 70 pounds or more and was difficult to get going; once rolling, though, the weight actually worked to its advantage, and it gradually picked up momentum.

If nothing else, the experience of riding a bicycle from the 1930s strengthened my resolve to keep my Pashley Princess, which I bought a month ago.  Bike Space DC has a generous policy about returns, and before departing for Amsterdam, I thought about swapping it out for something lighter and nimbler.    The Dutch, though, believe in heavy, stalwart bikes for commuting, and I have to admit the Pashley, which tips the scales at roughly 46 pounds, is balanced and secure, absorbing shocks and potholes with ease.  She's very pretty too, a traditional British roadster still manufactured in Stratford-upon-Avon.  The next time my legs burn from the effort of pedaling her, I will think of that Dutch salesgirl on her WWII bicycle and man up (or "woman up").  At least I have five gears.

As for expats, they are seemingly everywhere in Amsterdam.  In 48 hours I have met people from Iceland, England, Armenia, Scotland, France, and the States, all contentedly living and working in the city.  They like the laid back lifestyle, the beauty of the city, and the tolerant social attitudes.  At the Rembrandt house, the lecture-demonstration on seventeenth-century pigments and oil paints was given by an American.  Originally from San Francisco, he followed his Dutch lover back to Amsterdam and quickly found interesting employment.  "I get to work in Rembrandt's house and lecture about his painting techniques," he remarked.  "How good is that?"

Pretty damn good, in my estimation.  There is evidently a sizable American expat community here, and Dutch esteem for the U.S. makes getting a work permit fairly easy.  I went back to my neighborhood pub for a beer before dinner, and the half-English/half-Dutch bartender echoed what Marianne had told me the previous evening: the Dutch are crazy about American culture.  He described staying up all night to watch election returns, which surprised me, but others in the pub nodded in agreement.  Not surprisingly, they all rooted for Obama.

Amsterdam

“There is no such thing as Dutch cuisine.” 

 

So pronounced Francois, the proprietor of Posthoorn B&B in Amsterdam.  Hours later I mentioned his remark to Marianne, a delightful food historian I met by chance in the historic pub across the street.  She sighed with exasperation: “He’s French: what do you expect?” 

From Marianne I had recommendations for several Dutch restaurants, while Francois carefully steered me toward Italian, French, and Asian eateries in the Jordaan district of Amsterdam, where I am staying.  I asked Francois why he chose to raise his family here, given his Gallic disdain for various aspects of Dutch culture, ranging from the cyclists (“madmen!”), the food (“barbaric”), and the weather (“grim”).  He nevertheless declared that he “wouldn’t live anywhere else,” extolling the laid-back lifestyle, the village-like atmosphere, the friendliness, and overall quality of life.  “Here,” Francois explained, “you can raise children in a way more normale than in Paris or London.  There is not the same pressure or competition.  Everyone is happier.”  But he added darkly, “the Dutch cannot make a decent loaf of bread.”

Francois’ observation about Dutch contentment is everywhere evident.  People smile, they greet one another while cycling, they chat easily, even with strangers like me.  The Dutch are fond of America and feel especially proprietary about New York.  Marianne said the Dutch rarely watch continental films or television shows, preferring American pop culture in all forms.  Reruns of Seinfeld are wildly popular, as are those of Sex and the City.  At the moment, the country seems to be as fixated on Homeland as we are, and they follow Mad Men obsessively.  The bartender at the pub hummed the iconic James Bond theme song in anticipation of seeing Skyfall later tonight.  American rock and roll still dominates the airwaves.  As I’ve wandered the city and entered various establishments, I am greeted warmly and peppered with questions: where do I live; what is my profession; why am I in Amsterdam?  Perhaps if it were the height of tourist season, I would not be enjoying this friendliness, but in mid-November visitors have thinned out and the locals want to chat over coffee or a beer.

Amsterdam is one of the few cities where I’ve disembarked from the plane and felt instantly at ease.  For one thing, everything works well, but the efficiency is relaxed, not the aggressive perfection one sometimes encounters in Northern European countries.  Take customs procedures: there is no embarkation form to complete; no separation of EU passport holders from non-EU citizens; no questioning by customs officers keen on a bit of payback for our excessive Homeland Security procedures.  You simply get off the plane and walk through the airport, passing attractive shops and restaurants (or stopping to have a coffee) before exiting customs, which took all of 30 seconds.  Indeed, so nondescript is the customs area that I walked by the first time until I realized I was beginning to enter a different terminal.  No one noticed; no one yelled at me.  It was the complete antithesis of the terrifying atmosphere at Dulles Airport, where creepy films blare non-stop from flat screen televisions and officials herd people through the labyrinthine process.

By 8.00 a.m., I was at the Posthoorn, sleepy and jet-lagged after a miserable flight on an old Boeing that should have been retired years ago.  My seat mate said it was part of the Continental fleet United acquired as part of the merger, and I suppose they’re determined to use the planes as long as possible.  So I was all the more pleased to find myself, after twelve hours of driving and flying, in this lovely, friendly city, where things work well and life seems quite manageable.  I spent most of the day just walking; I also took an hour canal ride to see the city from the water.  Periodically I would stop for a coffee or hot chocolate—the damp wind coming off the water is raw—but mainly I looked and listened and smelled. 

I lucked upon the well-known flea market held every Monday in the Jordaan district.  It runs for blocks and has every imaginable item for sale: clothing, food, cosmetics, household items, bric-a-brac.  I noticed bolts of fabric everywhere, ranging from woolens to lace, and I realized some women here still make their clothing, a lost art in the States. 

Like all first-time visitors to Amsterdam, I was startled by the cyclists, who far outnumber motorists.  800,000 people live in the city, but there are 1.6 million bicycles.  While the Dutch are very proud of weaning people from driving, there do worry about the “bicycle problem.”  They are everywhere, and I mean everywhere: chained to gates, railings, posts, and trees, and even suspended from canal bridges.  Old rusting velos scattered throughout the city exist in a state of bicycle purgatory, neither enjoying ascension to regular ridership nor suffering the descent to a waste fill.  No one quite knows what to do with these “orphan bicycles,” as they are called.  The government keeps adding more parking spaces at the train stations, but they can’t keep up: the Dutch have become bicycle fetishists. 

I asked Marianne about bicycling, and she explained that most people have at least two: the traditional omafiets  (“grandma’s bike”) and a peppier touring bike.  The first, a heavy lugged beast manufactured out of steel, provides everyday transportation.  The cyclist rides in the “sit up and beg” position, which provides comfort but, more importantly, a greater field of vision to see oncoming traffic.  The touring bike is used for long weekend excursions outside the city: one can’t really do a 25-mile ride on a 50-pound behemoth.  Most people Marianne knows speak longingly of a third bicycle, but they do not have sheds, yards, or basements to house these increasing acquisitions.  Thus the orphans on the street proliferate.

It is not only the sheer density of Dutch cyclists that amazes, but their insouciance in the face of conditions that would fell most nationalities.  People bike in rain, wind, snow, and ice.  They bike while eating breakfast; drinking coffee; smoking cigarettes, and talking or texting on cell phones.  I saw one terrifying cyclist manage three out of the four activities simultaneously.  Weirdly, cyclists pose more threat to each other than they experience from drivers, who seem cowed by their numbers and meekly crawl alongside or behind.  People also cart an astonishing amount of stuff on their bicycles, including other people.  Mothers and fathers bicycle with one or two children; they carry boxes and groceries; they pack musical instruments and sporting gear; they lug panniers stuffed to bursting.  No one wears a helmet, not even babies or young children, and somehow they all manage.  And while the bikes clearly need to be heavy workhorses to accommodate this extra weight, the riders do not: all that cycling and hauling makes for a sleekly fit populace.  You simply don’t see overweight children, teenagers, or middle-aged people.  Children are expected to cycle independently to their destination by the age of eight.  I was told it used to be six, and the Dutch are now blaming themselves for being overly protective.  Then again, this is a culture where families walk unconcerned through the red light district and light drugs are acceptable commodities.  So far, I find it refreshingly frank.  

Thursday in Seville: The air soft as that of Seville in April (el aire suave como la de Sevilla en abril)

"People in Seville are a bit strange."

So confided Gabriela a week ago, when we lingered over tapas at her fashionable local haunt in Madrid. I didn't quite know how to take the remark, whether to heed it seriously or chalk it up to the usual regional prejudices.

Thus I came to Seville not knowing what to expect other than the sights for which it is known: the third largest Cathedral in Spain; the extant Moorish architecture; and the numerous buildings of historical interest. So far, I have not been able to detect the strangeness that Gabriela spoke of, other than the southern accent (often difficult to understand) and a local dialect that includes words and expressions peculiar to Andalusia. Indeed, people have been unfailing kind and exceptionally hospitable, as I have learned over the last two days of the conference.

I have attended academic conferences all over the U.S., the U.K., and Canada; never have I experienced the sort of generosity on display here. The Spanish organizers hover anxiously and work into the wee hours, caring for the needs of participants and speakers alike. I found myself embarrassed by the effusive introduction to my keynote address, and it was humbling to see the international reach of my scholarship. The talk was warmly received, and I was able to exhale after a nervous morning of anticipation.

An interesting factoid: the University of Seville is housed in the old tobacco factory that comprises the setting for Bizet's Carmen. A moat surrounds the university, originally intended to protect the tobacco from theft. Some of the administrative offices are now in former prison cells (no comment).

Even in these tough economic times, the EU still provides handsome funding by North American standards. We were taken to lunch yesterday, and every session is followed by a break for food: pastries and excellent strong Spanish coffee in the morning; dolces (little sweets) and more coffee mid-day; and tapas in the afternoon. God forbid we should go without food for more than two hours. Last night we heard a concert by a very good early music ensemble that presented a range of Spanish and English songs; tonight we will have a lavish conference dinner at a local restaurant beginning at 9.00 p.m., early for these parts.

The only aspect I have found disappointing over the last two days is the quality of some of the papers. If nothing else, this experience has reinforced my appreciation for the American university system: as much as we grouse about the excesses, we do provide an exceptional education. Quite simply, we demand a kind of intellectual engagement and depth that is unparalleled. My uncle just forwarded a piece from the BBC with the latest rankings of universities in the world: all of the top ten are in the U.S., as are most of the one hundred on the list. I see why.

By 2.00 p.m., I was done, having sat through sessions since 9.30. I walked over to the Puerto de Jerez, just a block from the university, to meet Matilde Romero, the mother of Blanca Ramos, the minister of culture in Madrid. Through Gabriela's generosity, I had introductions to both women: Matilde is her aunt, and Blanca is her cousin. Blanca arranged for me to meet her mother, the scion of an ancient Spanish family with deep ties to nobility going back to the fifteenth century. I was nervous about the meeting. Señora Romero does not speak English, and I was embarrassed about the sad state of my Spanish. Surprisingly, we managed very well. Regal and enormously self-possessed, she displayed exquisite Spanish manners. Being from an ancient family, she spoke a pure, clearly enunciated Castilian, and my ear adjusted quickly. I understood nearly everything, and after a bit of sherry, I relaxed and remembered more verb forms and vocabulary. I'm sure to Señora Romero's refined ear, my Spanish was shocking, but she gently corrected me and, when necessary, supplied vocabulary.

Señora Romero loves Seville dearly, and we walked for an hour in the historic area around the university as she lectured with pride on the buildings and the history. We then stopped at one of those fabulous little tapas bars secreted away in an alley, the sort of place only locals know about, and we had delicious dry sherry as an appertivo, followed by two tapas, a tortilla of eggs and potato, and open-faced sandwiches with a tomato spread, topped by the excellent local tuna (atun). We resumed our stroll and then stopped for coffee and a shared dolce, a slice of chocolate cake that I liked very much but which Señora Romero dismissed as ordinario. We said our good-byes at 4.30, me thanking her effusively before returning to the hotel for a rest before the conference dinner tonight.

I feel extraordinarily fortunate having met someone from a distinguished old family, the sort of Sevillians who normally do not consort with outsiders. And for this, I have Gabriela to thank--even if she does think people in Seville are a bit "strange."

Day 8 in Vejer de la Frontera: They that sleep, catch no fish (Los sue duermen, atrapar ningún pez)

"You can have a dry sherry after you've gutted several sardines."

I looked down at the bowl of fresh sardines, thought about that glass of Jerez, overcame my revulsion, and reached in for one of the silvery little fish. I snapped off the head as Nikki had shown me, sliding my fingernail along the belly to open it. The spine and guts lift out easily if the fish is very fresh, as these were. The first two were challenging--I've never gutted fish with my fingers before--but I quickly got the hang of it. My initial queasiness rapidly disappeared.

Task done, I earned my reward, and Nikki and I sat down to enjoy the sherry with a little snack of sardines macerated in sherry vinegar and a bit of garlic before proceeding to the rest of our afternoon of cooking.

The intrepid Roger had met me at 8.00 a.m., and we drove southward beyond Cadiz toward Barbate, a small fishing village known for the tuna that is caught in the waters between Spain and Morocco. There we rendezvoused with Nikki, a local chef, who took me to the local fish market, where I was something of a curiosity: not many tourists come to these parts. We wandered through the stalls, Nikki humorously sparring with the sellers about the quality of the fish, and poking at fruits and vegetables expertly like an old Mediterranean grandmother. She's actually fairly young, and like many people in Spain, learning to survive in a broken economy through innovation; those who can't develop marketable skills (such as teaching cooking classes to foreigners) join the ranks of the unemployed. I was told that roughly 40-45% of young people in southernmost Spain cannot find work.

Before leaving Barbate, I walked briefly on the beach of velvety sand. The Atlantic here is bluer than what we see from the East Coast, and on a cloudless day, one can glimpse Morocco across the water. We then drove up a steep winding road to Vejer de la Frontera, a stunning whitewashed town of cobblestone streets and Moorish-influenced buildings. The sky was a blinding blue, the temperature perfect, and the strong breeze scented by lemon and orange trees. Perfection yet again.

We unpacked groceries at the house that doubles as a dwelling for Nikki's business partner and the cooking school; shortly thereafter, I found myself gutting sardines. We cooked and chatted easily for several hours, moving in the leisurely but efficient manner that seems to characterize much Spanish life. I learned that gazpacho as we normally make it--a cold chunky soup--is a touristy invention and not at all what people in the south of Spain consume. Instead, one presses the tomatoes and vegetables through a sieve to release the juice, creating a gourmet version of V-8. This is drunk as an accompaniment to a big afternoon lunch. We then moved on to make a salsa verde that would dress our fish; we also prepared for dessert an orange and almond torte, a simple combination of boiled orange (run through a blender), eggs, ground almonds, a bit of sugar and 1/2 teaspoon of baking power. Then I was taught how to pack a whole fish in salt. We took the gorgeous sea bass Nikki had bought in Barbate, cleaned it, and put it atop a bed of sea salt. More is packed around the fish, with only the eye and the gill fin showing to check for doneness. Asparagus was prepared for roasting, and little prawns boiled in water to have with a dipping sauce.

Around 2.30 we sat down for our glorious meal: you can see some of our feast in the photo. Everything was superb, and the fish a revelation. The salt seals in the juice, resulting in some of the best fish I have ever eaten. Of course, the fact it had been caught early that morning helped too. The salsa verde was splendid--I could eat it by spoonfuls--and the orange/almond torte tasty without being overly rich or sweet. This sort of food is more to my liking than the meat-heavy diet of Madrid.

Roger met us at 4.30. I said good-bye to Nikki and agreed to Roger's suggestion of another hike. Glutted yet again, I needed the exercise. We drove to Medina Sidonia, another stunning little town nestled on a hilltop. It's one of those places of which there are many in southern Spain, with the fingerprint of various cultures everywhere evident. Roman walls and part of a road still exist, as do Moorish gates. Even the Gothic church has Moorish decorations interspersed among the saints and side chapels. We climbed the bell tower, a hearty workout, so I could see the plains below, a vista that unfolded for miles. Roger dragged me into a local bakery--and I mean dragged--and despite my protestations against more food, insisted I try a mouthful of a delicacy made only in this town, a pastry filled with an unusual blend of almond paste, cloves, and cilantro. It was admittedly delicious. I have been struck by how much local customs still dominate these small towns and villages, many of which feature pastries or recipes unique to their food history.

From Medina Sidonia, Roger drove me back to Seville. We parted, good friends after two days of nattering about everything from cuisine to politics to literature, and I waddled back to my room, content and sated. Tomorrow, la conferencia!

Day 7 in Seville: A farm without a pig has no owner (Una finca sin un cerdo no tiene dueño)

This morning I was met by Roger, my guide for the next two days. English by birth, he has spent the last 25 years in Spain and rattles away in Southern-inflected Spanish like a native (an accent, incidentally, I find much harder to follow than the Castilian of Madrid). Outgoing and knowledgeable, he was the perfect anodyne to the gloom of the last couple of days. While there are certain benefits to traveling alone--no need to negotiate schedules or preferences--lacking companionship for long stretches is often trying, especially during this period of my life. So Roger's jolly good nature was most welcome.

We drove to a farm that raises the much-coveted Iberian pig. The journey was beautiful, and the day stunning, simply perfect (or as the Spanish say, perfecto). Roger and I hiked around the farm, looking at the piglets and the mature pigs, encountering on our way a few stray horses who came over to greet us. An old grey gelding took a shine to me and followed us for a stretch. The pigs roam free in large fenced fields--no ghastly industrial farming here--and gorge naturally on acorns in fall, a diet that accounts for the distinctive flavor of the meat. Afterwards we drove to Jabugo, a town famous all over Spain for the processing and curing of the pork. We had a glass of dry sherry in the bar/reception area and, of course, a small plate of the ham to sample. It is sliced so thin as to be almost translucent, and I found this particular ham a far cry from the more salty but still delicious version I had tasted in Madrid. Roger explained how the buttery sweetness indicates a finer quality, a difference I easily detected. We then donned plastic robes and entered the plant. The manager described the curing of the meat, which takes three years from start to finish. As we moved from one floor to another, I saw and smelled the ham in its various stages of processing. Periodically he would insert a large plastic toothpick into the meat and then have me smell it to appreciate the subtle variations in bouquet; by the time we got to the three-year-old ham, the fragrance was fully developed. I learned about the mites that attack the ham, and the careful but natural methods used to stave off infestation. Just before the hams are shipped out, they are cleaned and then brushed liberally with safflower oil. Olive oil, I was told, would compromise the flavor of the meat.

While it was a bit unnerving walking beneath hundreds of ham legs suspended from the ceiling, I certainly appreciated the traditional artisanal techniques and their history. Roger informed me that the Celts first introduced the curing of ham, and their methods were further developed by the Romans after the conquest of Gaulle. I also learned that proper Iberian ham actually lowers cholesterol because of the omega oils and nutrients derived from the ingestion of acorns. Fascinating stuff. When I first saw Iberian ham for sale in Madrid--even of the lesser quality--I gasped at the price. Now I understand the cost given the intensive labor that goes into cultivating the meat over three years. The expense also explains why it's served like a condiment: a few paper-thin slices on bread or atop a cooked dish, almost like shaved truffles.

After we finished, Roger took me to a restaurant owned by some friends in Aracena, a lovely town southwest of Seville. We asked for small portions--I warned Roger I couldn't manage the usual Spanish helpings--but dish after dish came out of the kitchen. The food ranged from fresh goat cheese to eggs with wild mushrooms (and topped with thin slices of the famed ham) to roasted string beans to a secreto of ham, a rich, fatty cut of meat, which was accompanied by artichoke hearts. Fresh strawberries emerged, followed by a fabulous chestnut ice cream. Even though I ate gingerly, I was still sated. We had sampled perhaps seven dishes by the end of the meal.

Roger suggested a hike up a nearby hill to see a thirteenth-century Gothic church, and I was grateful for the exercise. The town of Aracena beckoned below, as did rolling countryside topped by a sky of brilliant blue, the sort of intense color one rarely sees outside of the Mediterranean (or California on a smog-free day). Perfecto.

Day 6 in Cordoba: Life is four days (La vida es cuartro días)

As I sit watching the countryside from the window of my high-speed train, I've been reflecting on the tumult of the last year. A friend said to me on e-mail that she thought this trip would mark a turning point in my life, and I believe she is right. Day by day, my confidence grows as I navigate around Spain successfully by myself, perhaps auguring well for other, more metaphorical, journeys.

* * * * *

The landscape between Madrid and Cordoba reminds me of Central California; it looks very much like what one sees when driving north on Highway 5. The topography makes me appreciate (in a way history books never did) why the Spanish settled California. I wonder too if that accounts for my ease here: everything, the weather, the light, even the language bring me back to my Angeleno roots.

As we approach Cordoba, I'm starting to see haciendas with horses. The area immediately around Cordoba is known for breeding Andalusians; indeed, if I can make arrangements, I'd like to visit a farm tomorrow. I also notice that trees and plants are beginning to flower.

* * * * * * *

This trip has been nothing if not an emotional roller coaster: the eager anticipation of my train trip disintegrated into wrenching loneliness as I wandered the streets of Cordoba. The city is certainly worth a visit, and the famous cathedral cum mosque, the mezquita, is breathtaking, but that fact alone may have induced my despair. As I marveled at this striking blend of Catholic and Islamic cultures, I, of course, thought of Rod and how much he would have enjoyed this moment. We shared a geeky passion for history, and we complemented each other's curiosity, with me assessing art and Rod analyzing how things worked.

My gloom deepened over the afternoon. From the mezquita, I walked across the bridge to the fourteenth-century Tower of La Calahorra, where one takes a hokey if nonetheless entertaining audio-visual tour of the Islamic, Jewish, and Christian cultures that once comprised Cordoba. The audio commentary was heavy-handed and, I expect, utopian in its depiction of a golden age of intellectual and cultural harmony. By mid-afternoon, I was finished. Tired and fighting a sinus infection, I attempted to wind my way through the maze of streets comprising the old district of Cordoba, but ended up walking in circles for two hours. I asked for help to little avail, and taxis ignored my attempts to flag them down, even those advertising that they were libre. By the time I reached the hotel, I was blubbering and causing consternation among the staff.

My room at the Palacio de Bailio is truly five-star, and a long soak in a freestanding bathtub improved my spirits, as did a nap. I thought about ordering room service, but I forced myself to put on slacks and a pretty blouse, brush my hair, and apply a little lipstick. I went down to the tapas bar, hoping to find someone to chat with over a light dinner, but the bar was empty except for Alberto, the half-French/half-Spanish bartender. I took a deep breath and sat down. Alberto, like many bartenders, is something of a philosopher, and over the ensuing two hours we exchanged confidences in the manner of strangers who know they will never see each other again. I learned of his disastrous marriage; he learned of my strange history. Before I left, Alberto grasped one of my hands, leaned forward, and said, "Señora Deborah, la vida es cuatro días: be happy," words I will try to take to heart for the remainder of this trip.

Day 5 in Madrid: Until we meet again (Hasta nos encontramos otra vez) )

I awakened with a mild sore throat and sniffles, little wonder given my jet-lagged body and crazy hours. Half of Madrid sounds like a tubercular ward at the moment, and even though I edge nervously away from audible hacking and sneezing, one can only do so much. The last thing I wanted to do was get up at the crack of dawn and dash down to the Atocha station to catch the high-speed train to Toledo. So I didn't. Instead I slept in, answered e-mails, and hand-washed some laundry. I'm crazy about Spain, and I will return. Next time I'll see Toledo.

I thought about spending a quiet day reading and napping, but the gorgeous weather beckoned, and I dressed and headed out, stopping at a typical coffee bar for a quick snack. There are no seats: one simply places the order, stands by a tall table, knocks back the coffee and roll, and then leaves. It's the sort of place frequented by Madrileños, not tourists, since the staff speak only Spanish. I'm finding that even my halting conversational abilities hold me in good stead. Several times British tourists, overhearing me converse with waiters, have asked for help placing orders (and why do most Brits refuse to learn even a few basic phrases?).

I walked to the Casa de Lope de Vega, the home where the famous dramatist lived and wrote for many years until the died in his mid-seventies. The house is located in the Literary District, a terrific neighborhood chockablock with bookstores, antique shops, and literary sites. I had a tough time navigating my way despite the use of a map, and I learned in the interim that many Spaniards are as ignorant of their cultural history as we are of ours. Such is contemporary life. When I asked for directions, no one seemed to know its location; one man expressed wonder that Lope's home even existed. A delivery guy finally helped me out--I figured he probably better than anyone knew his way around the neighborhood--and I arrived ten minutes late for the tour, having walked around in circles for nearly an hour. The Spanish, though, are very laid back about lateness, and the guide was typically relaxed ("no se preocupe!"). The home is quite beautiful and filled with period antiques from the National Museum and books from the National Library. I was especially moved by Lope's study, where he wrote hundreds of plays and poems, including such famous works as Fuente Ovejuna. Some scholars claim he produced over 1,000 scripts, a number I find unbelievable. After the tour, the guide spent some time with me alone. The Spanish, like other European cultures, have enormous reverence for learning, and when the guide discovered my profession, she was more than happy to spend 20 minutes fielding my questions (in rapidly delivered Spanish--I had to slow her down several times). I was fascinated to learn that Lope, despite his prolific output, made little money from playwriting. Evidently playwrights did not profit from writing for the commercial stage in the manner of English dramatists, and even his nice home was the result of patronage, not wages. There is quite a cottage industry here of specialists intent on identifying plays (often published anonymously) by Lope.

I found a little tapas bar on a side street and ate a simple snack before proceeding to the Museo de Sofia Reina, except that I never actually arrived: I was sidetracked by an exhibit on the Ballets Russes at CaixaForum, a strikingly handsome modern art gallery sponsored by one of the largest banks in Spain. Admission is free, and the show is superlative. I tried to imagine Bank of America or Citibank doing something equivalent, perhaps an exhibit on French surrealism (thematically appropriate given the U.S. banking industry of late), but I would expect hell to freeze over first. I know a bit about the Ballets Russes, but I learned much more from this smashing show. The costumes, programs, mock-ups of sets, and film clips were all fascinating, and I was thoroughly delighted.

Indeed, so perfect was my outing that I decided to call it quits: why mess with perfection? For a theatre geek like myself, having Lope de Vega and the Ballets Russes together in one afternoon was sheer bliss. So I hiked back to the hotel, grabbed my laptop, and went to a cafe in the Plaza Mayor, where I worked for a couple of hours and enjoyed the waning sun. Around 7.00 I realized I hadn't had a decent meal since Gabriela fed me two days ago--I've been grazing on the run--and my clothes are becoming alarmingly loose. Too much walking and not enough calories. Most of the restaurants around the Plaza Mayor are tourist traps, but I found a small place that looked inviting. I decided to take a chance, and I order the prix fixe dinner, a real bargain: 14 euros got me three courses and a glass of decent red wine. The food was, to my astonishment, excellent despite the touristy location. I started with a nice garlicky vegetable soup, followed by pork. Originally I wanted the salmon, but the waiter advocated for the pork, and I'm glad I assented. Succulent and tender, it burst with flavor, nothing like the tasteless meat we have at home. Dessert was a nice chocolate confection, but I could only manage a couple of bites; indeed, I ended up leaving a goodly portion of my entree as well. Spanish portions are just too damn big.

So now I'm packing for my trip down to Cordoba tomorrow and hoping my sore throat and sniffles abate. I will be very sorry to leave Madrid, a city that has seduced me utterly. Gabriela is urging me to consider renting an apartment for a month, and I am very tempted to do so, perhaps in May or June of 2013, before it gets too hot. As the radicals said to me when we were out carousing, one can always dream, right?