Painted Streets

We were a lazy bunch, lingering in our plush beds past set alarms. A cold damp rain fell through the weak morning light, taking me back to another such chilly day years before, in a beautiful Parador to the north in the tiny village of Hondarribia. That particular morning had been full of mussed covers and pastries in bed and wrinkled newspapers in three languages, the rain outside cocooning our warm world inside. But fast forwarding a few years to present time, such languid luxuries were not to be had, as Zaragoza beckoned and a morning mass wasn’t going to sing itself. We wearily brushed our teeth, tamed our hair, packed our bags, hastily sucked down coffee, and reluctantly settled in on our bus, glancing backwards through the rain splattered bus windows as our beautiful Brigadoon parador disappeared in the distance. 

Knowing nothing of the city except for the silliness I felt at pronouncing it’s name with the Spanish lisp, (Thhah rrrah GOH THHah..) I was  surprised at the prettiness of the outline of multiple ornate churches lining the river, signaling our entrance to Zaragoza.  Located halfway between Madrid and Barcelona and lining the banks of the Ebro River, Zaragoza traces her origins back to the time of Christ, when she existed as a Roman military camp. The two millennia since then have only added to her beauty with stunning  architecture influenced equally by the Moors, Jews and Christians. As we filed off of our bus and scrambled through the main square to our mass, our eyes happily flickered from one lavish bell tower to the next.

Even my dear Saint James, as full of perseverance and eagerness as he was, had low points, and it is said that Zaragoza was the place of one such moment. As Jim sat dejectedly, his head falling forward in his hands, his heart sick and his will discouraged by the endless task of bringing Christianity to Spain, Mary appeared before him, reassuring him of his eventual success. However, before leaving his side, she asked that a church be consecrated in her name, marking the spot of her appearance.  And so, The Saint Gregory the Great Parish Choir raced to line up inside the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, singing in the very place where Saint James and Mother Mary had their much needed pep talk.  

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

In it’s most recent form as the second largest church in Spain, the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar was constructed in 1681 and boasts 11 colorful tiled domes. As we sat through the mass, tucked away in the elaborately carved wooden chairs of the choir, cameras flashed and a TV reporter quietly interviewed our Spanish speaking members. While the priest performed the familiar steps of the preparation, our choir stood and commenced singing painfully slow, long, blue- faced lines of music. Despite our director’s wildly waving arms, an unfamiliar though lovely organist slowed our tempo to that of a listless, gasping, dirge. Even so, the mass ended with many happy congregants approaching us with hearty handshakes and thanks. 

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

One should never hand 

one’s camera off to a five year old if one will be upset by the fact that the five year old takes better pictures than her.  After finishing our mass at the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, we wandered across the town square to La Seo, to strain our neck muscles further. With Carlos as our freakishly well informed tour guide, we took in the beauty of the 14th century Unesco world heritage site, our shoes and voices echoing throughout. As Patrick gleefully sat down at the 13th century organ, filling La Seo with sound, I sat with little Gilbert, quietly talking though the buttons of my camera. With only a trace of adult fear, I placed the camera strap around his neck and sent him on his way. I watched curious at what his young eyes would see and I chuckled at his fledgling efforts to remain still to avoid blur while taking a photo. 

At the completion of our tour, some choir members headed for scattered lunches, while others wandered towards our hotel in search of a much needed rest.

I spent my afternoon, pastry in hand (really... is there any other way to be?) meandering through the quiet corners of the city, dipping into perfume scented stores full of soft cotton and taking photos of unexpected urban art and shiny rain painted streets. 

Pastry Abstinence…Pfft!

"Hmm.. just out for a stroll, you say?"

Back in the early 1500s, young Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada knew exactly how the world should run, and she wasn’t afraid to make it happen. So, it was with no great surprise that her father discovered her and her easily led brother, Rodrigo, outside the city walls of Ávila, attempting to run away in order to fight the Moors. At the time, our little martyr wanna-be, Teresa, was seven years old.  Amazingly, this was only one of many attempts and each time someone showed up at the door toting a runaway future saint, her parents must have rolled their eyes and tugged at their hair in bewildered frustration. One can only imagine that this was the true origin of the current “free range” parenting method..

"What? I am soo NOT reading a romance novel!!"

 Though Teresa’s teenage years were    marked by a slight obsession with self  image  and popular fiction (knights  tales) She didn’t take long to get herself  back on track. Upon entering the  Carmelite order, she immediately felt  frustrated at the indifference of the other nuns towards their vows. Teresa set about creating a new order, much more formal and austere, a new order recognizable by their lack of shoes and shirking of extravagance. Of course, those around her were less than thrilled with being called out and spiritually shown up.. 

It was with great irony that in the home town of a saint known for her strictness and self restraint, I found myself nearly licking the window of a bakery on a sunny late afternoon. In Ávila, thoughts of pious abstinence fled from my mind. Despite having lost the rest of my group, despite not knowing where the bus was and despite the very real threat of having to take a train to Zaragosa if the bus left without me, Satan tempted me and I succumbed to gluttony in it’s most delicious form. As I opened the bakery door, a warm breath of sweet cream scented air greeted me along with the guilty gazes of other straggler choir members. I pointed out my chosen sinful decadent pastry to the woman behind the counter and as she rang me up for the unexpectedly low price of one euro, I instantly regretted not buying five more pastries. I still regret that... In fact, I would greatly enjoy one more right now. 

The problem with villages built on top of hills is that the church is always at the top, and our choir always needed to get to that church. Our afternoon began by being herded from our bus, up a series of escalators (much like Toledo) and through the lovely, upward slanting, narrow cobbled streets. The town of Ávila, having existed in some form or other for a couple thousand years, had surrounded herself in the 11th century with a still intact 39 foot wall, serving as a chastity belt for her Christian values. By the time Teresa entered the scene in 1515, the great expulsion of the Jews and Moors was already 23 years in the past and her grandfather had long since been condemned to death by the inquisition for returning to his Jewish heritage. Teresa existed in a world almost entirely occupied by Christians of varying devotion (or lack thereof..)  

Convento de Santa Teresa

When the Saint Gregory Choir stepped into the Catedral de Ávila, five hundred years later, Ávila, located about 60 miles northwest of Madrid, had become a Unesco World Heritage sight, and home to approximately sixty thousand residents, still predominantly Roman Catholic. As we craned our necks to look at everything at once inside the 12 century cathedral, the smell of cool, stone infused age surrounded us. We lined up, pulled out our creased copies of Saint Teresa’s Bookmark, and blended our voices in a series of unexpected dissonance and occasional resolution, portraying the difficulties of praying for calm and patience amidst turmoil.

We stepped back out into the day, continuing our walk through Ávila, past men carefully placing the individual stones of a new road, past lovely little storefronts temporarily closed for afternoon siesta (our tour had impeccably bad timing in this regard..many times wandering through sleeping villages.) and on to the Convento de Santa Teresa, where we 'oohed' and 'aahed' over a preserved finger of Saint Teresa. After enthusiastically emptying our wallets in the gift shop, we strolled along the sun warmed walls surrounding the city as we slowly and reluctantly made our way back towards the bus... some of us slower than others, as there were bakeries in need of patrons..

Late that evening, while some choir members dreamed away in their plush luxurious beds, others gathered downstairs in the overstuffed chairs and couches of the Parador Nacionel Castillo de Sigüenza. Though once merely old moorish ruins, the castle was rescued and restored in 1971 by the ministry of tourism. Now a high end hotel, the parador, full of beautiful carved wood furniture and hand woven textiles, offered warmth and sanctuary to a group of weary singers. 

Giddy at staying in a castle and full to our throats from a decadent, well prepared multi course dinner, we lounged sated with drinks in hand, laughing, talking, sharing stories, singing and living... though perhaps not in the way that our dear austere Saint Teresa would have approved of...

Let nothing disturb thee,
nothing affright thee,

All things are passing;

God never changeth.

Patient endurance attaineth through all things

Who God possesseth, nothing is wanting.
God sufficeth. 

-St Teresa

My, how we fall...

.

Roasting Saints

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..

Holy Toledo!

There were stairs.. stairs and more stairs.. Dear God, did they stretch all the way to heaven??!! And who could possibly get to heaven if the pathway up was an infinite climb of stairs?? We would reach Saint Peter, panting and gasping, doubled over in worldly overworked muscular pain, but at least we would reach the presence of God with strong calves and fit thighs! Fortunately though, for our choir, the climb up the steep hill to Toledo, consists of an efficient network of escalators, thus merging the beauty of an ancient royal city with the modern practicalities of today. 

After a cultured morning of wandering the impressive Prado art museum in Madrid on our third day (some of us will admit to being completely lost from the group while surrounded by breathtaking art,) we filed obediently onto our bus for the 70 kilometer drive southwest to the dramatic loveliness of Toledo. A famed haven to religious tolerance, Toledo was home to Romans, Moors, Jews and Christians up until the final Christian conquest in the 11th century and the expulsion of the Jews in 1492 and the last of the Moors in 1502. From it's high perch over the Tagus River, Toledo remained the capital of Spain until the 1500s when the Royal court ran off to Madrid. (I'm sure it was for the shopping..) 

Upon arriving at the foot of the town, the choir rushed the public restrooms for a much needed potty break (these may have been one of only two public restrooms in all of Spain, or so it seemed… this constant bathroom quest would become a theme on our cross country journey..)  After receiving the blessings of our happy bladders, we ascended the stairs to old Toledo, following our two attractive male guides (I adore Spain.) 

While meandering through the narrow cobbled streets of Toledo we passed the Catedral de Toledo on which construction began in 1226, we wandered between the hallowed pillars of Santa María la Blanca rumored to be the oldest standing synagog in Europe, and ironically built in 1180 under Christian rule by Islamic architects, and we stopped to stare at the different ornate door knockers embellishing the simple wood doors of the city center. 

Our tour's end filtered us into the vestibule of the Iglesia de Santo Tomé   where we sat and stood, our eyes trained on the vibrancy of the 16th century El Greco painting 'El entierro del Conde de Orgaz' (The Burial of the Count of Orgaz)  Built and expanded upon in the 14th century, thanks to funds donated by the Count depicted in El Greco's famed painting, Santo Tomé, had a lovely little choir loft overlooking the yellow walls and white trim of the church below. After an excessively short warmup in a pretty interior courtyard, we lined up compactly in the choir loft, listening intently through the Spanish mass parts in order to anticipate our musical entrances. As the mass finished, we walked down, took our place on the alter steps, turned to face an audiences made up half of our own and half of those who call Toledo home, we acknowledged our maestro, raised our music, inhaled deeply, and proceeded to fill the warm church with our pilgrim voices.  

Holy Toledo!!!!

My future car! 

Pretty Details...

Well, Hello Saint Chris!! Are you watching over all of the travelers?!