The 3rd century saw deep fractures in the Roman empire as a fledgling Catholic church gained strength... only to be decimated at will by the sadistic Roman leaders. Born in the Aragon region of Spain, San Lorenzo had stepped into the role of archdeacon of Rome, shortly before seeing his friend and leader, Pope Sixtus II maryred. The greedy prefect of Rome then demanded that Lorenzo turn over all the riches of the young Catholic church. According to legend, Lorenzo asked for three days to gather all the riches and proceeded to use those days to quickly and cheekily distribute all the money to the poor. He then turned up at the end of his three days and presented the poor and crippled as the treasures of the church. The Roman prefect was so pissed off over the disappeared riches that he immediately ordered Lorenzo to be put to death by roasting on hot coals… One telling of San Lorenzo's tale even has him saying cheerfully from the gridiron "I'm well done, Turn me over!" Thus ensuring his place in history as the patron saint of chefs. As shivering members of our choir sat in the icy pews of Escorial, our breaths making little cloud puffs in the air, we looked longingly up at the depiction of the martyrdom of San Lorenzo. "At least HE was warm," we thought.
On the morning of the fourth day of our pilgrimage, we had packed our bags, checked under beds for forgotten items and bid a fond farewell to Madrid before boarding our bus to Escorial, 45 kilometers to the northwest. As we neared Escorial, a large dramatic cross came into view, marking the tomb of Franco and the monument known as the Valle de los Caídos, (the valley of the fallen.) Drenched in controversy, the monument stands as a memorial to those lives lost in the Spanish civil war. However, there are currently many in spanish society who feel strongly that the remains of Franco should be removed as he had brutally oppressed much of the country and had used political prisoners in the building of the monument. As our choir Spaniard, Carlos, looked away in disgust, our bus drove past Franco's memory and on to Escorial, the burial place of Spain's true monarchs!
The Monasterio de San Lorenzo de Escorial was built in just 21 years, which by 16th century building standards is near warp speed! Acting as a showpiece to the power and austerity of Philip II's vision of the Catholic church, El Escorial consists of a beautiful large courtyard, a school, a basilica, a drool worthy library (the books were too big to fit into my purse..) and most interestingly, the Pantheon of the Kings, where almost all Spanish kings from the last 500 years have been interred (and yes, let's not forget the queens..) As clouds covered the sun and a light arctic rain began to fall, we filed gratefully inside, shivering our way through a tour of the the overly pious rooms of Philip II (quite a contrast from Madrid's decadent Palace Real!) and on down the stone steps to the dark golden octagonal baroque mausoleum of the kings and Queens of Spain. (Due to the circular shape of the room, I do not recommend spinning in circles as the ensuing vertigo is extreme!) As our tour ended and we rose from the depths of the Pantheon of Kings, we passed the outer chambers where relatives and those respected were entombed. We also unknowingly passed the private rooms known as the Pudridero Real.. or royal rotting room, where royals hang out (after death) for up to 25 years before being fitted to the final coffin.
After a quick lunch of patatas bravas and a fortifyingly warm shot of whiskey, we returned to the chilly insides of the Basilica where we were joined by the Escolanía del Escorial Choir, a choir of about 45 boys ranging in age from 9 to 17 years of age. World renowned for their clear stunning voices and high level of discipline, the rose cheeked faces of the boys in the Escolanía del Escorial Choir, lined up on the altar steps in front of us. Our director Patrick, who expected to be a blissful bystander, stepped gleefully up to conduct at the insistence of the boys' director. We raised our black music folders as Patrick turned to face us, the boys, empty handed as they easily relied on their youthful memory and hours of practice. As Patrick lifted his hands and gave our downbeat, our voices echoed and blended with those of the diminutive cherubs on the steps in front of us. We forgot the chill as we warmly moved through the notes of the 16 century "Ave Maria," lovingly penned by Spain's very own Tomás Luis Victoria.
Always be sure to look UP!
A room with countless books and naked men painted on the ceiling…
well hmm..
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