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?! 

El Retiro

 On the unassuming typical workday morning of March 11th 2004, ten explosions tore apart four commuter trains that had recently left from the Alcalá de Henares station in central Madrid. No one understood why, and no one was untouched. When the count was finished, 191 lives were senselessly lost and Spain was irrevocably changed.  

Upon arriving in Madrid, Carlos and I had decided to battle our jet lag by simply dropping our bags at the hotel and rushing outside to jump into the beauty of Madrid. We spent hours walking through the busy stately squares and dipping into the tiny shops, we talked each other into unnecessary purchases.. "But that lamp will look so beautiful on your piano," he encouraged as I hesitantly held a colorful orange and red glass moroccan lamp. (it does look beautiful on my piano.) We wandered the symmetrical gardens of the Royal Palace and peeked into quiet churches before taking our weary bodies back to our hotel beds. 

So, it was with some grogginess that we found ourselves on the bus the next morning listening to the hypnotic droning of our tour guide, Cristina. As we passed the beautiful train station, Cristina described the horrible scene of the bombing 11 years past in great  gruesome detail…  "there were, legs and arms, and heads…" she continued in her deep timbered tone. Minutes later, our bus stopped in front of the Parque del Buen Retiro and we all filed gratefully off to stroll through the manicured acres of the park..all except one young soul. As the bus emptied and Keri tried coaxing her young son Oliver to jump off as well, Oliver responded with big crocodile tears.  "But I don't wanna blow up!" he whimpered, his child mind wrestling with concepts that adults can't even comprehend. 

The lovely 350 acre Parque del Buen Retiro, home to the crystal palace and the sword of the legendary El Cid, belonged to the monarchy until it was opened to the public in the 19th century. As our group fanned out across the park, I lifted my camera and shifted between taking photos of the delicate flowers, the nobel statues, the stunning landscaping and the gorgeous fit Spanish men running, cycling and kayaking by. (Spain is truly a beautiful country..) Upon entering the Paseo de las Estatuas  Keri and I raced ahead to quickly lean nonchalantly in front of a statue of a man standing on a decapitated head, so to block the image from the young minds of Gilbert and Ollie as they passed innocently by. 

Spain has a fairly violent  history with the battles between the Moors and the Catholics, the Inquisition, Napoleon, the Spanish civil war, WWII and the brutally oppressive reign of Franco, all of which we noticed portrayed quite graphically in the art sprinkled throughout the country. After an independent lunch in central Madrid, we all met up again for an afternoon tour of the Palace Real or Royal Palace. The largest Palace in western Europe, The Palace Real sits on a site that has been occupied since the 10th century Moors first claimed it. (thus disproving the concept of Madrid only being 300 years old..)  Occupying just 1,450,000 square feet, the palace is packed obscenely full with a wealth of fine art, silk and brocade walls, murals and tapestries, priceless furniture, and even a complete quartet of Stradivari.. two violins, a viola, and a cello estimated to be worth more than 100 million euros (which means that they are becoming more affordable to Americans as the Euro drops..) Walking through ornate room upon ornate room, our tour finished in the throne room where we discovered little Gilbert staring up in horror at a large statue of a man eating a baby, a portrayal of the Greek God Cronus who devoured his sons to prevent the inevitability of being overthrown by them. Of course, despite his best efforts, his son Zeuss had other plans.. 

While one of our choir members, Chuck, stared longingly at the lion themed throne of Spain, (we had walked a lot and he does love lions..) I began to ponder which room in my house to convert to a much needed throne room and if I should attempt silk wallpaper... And if radiator heat is good enough for Spanish royals.. well then...

 

La Almudena

"Jen, it's been too long! It's time you come back for another visit!" I smiled as I fit my hand over the familiar shape of the stone scallop shell in the quiet humble church.  

"Soon James, I'll be there soon.. but not this trip!" 

Ever since walking the Camino de Santiago across northern Spain in 2012, I have noticed my dear Saint James turning up periodically for a chat. Upon wandering the narrow streets of central Madrid, I discovered myself in a tiny square surrounded by scallop shells and red crosses. As I wandered into the unassuming church of Santiago full of shiny faced icons and electric "candles" I smiled up at my now familiar Saint Jim. 

"This trip is not about us, Jim. This time I have come to Spain with friends!"

I arrived in Spain armed not only with my backpack and walking shoes but also with approximately sixty of my friends, confidants, and fellow singers. I have come to Spain with my community. 

Under the direction of our fearless leader, Patrick Godon, his horn playing wife and their two cherubic sons, members of the Saint Gregory parish choir and the suburban Tower Chorale have combined to sing a path across Spain, starting in Madrid and wearing a trail through Toledo, Zaragoza, and Alfajarin, before finishing in Barcelona. But we are a lusty group and have every intent of tasting the sweet spanish life along the way...

"Madrid is a new city, only about 300 years old," our tiny task master of a tour guide incorrectly informed our bus full of tired jetlagged pilgrims as we entered the outskirts of a much older Madrid. Her smooth alto voice stretched "s"s to their extreme limits and rolled "rrrr"s for obscene lengths of time, lulling her trapped patrons into a sort of hypnotic trance. Our resident award winning, double Phd holding, spaniard scholar, Carlos, dropped his head to his hands as he unwillingly listened in disbelief.     

We take for granted our Maestro, Patrick. He can convey huge amounts of information with just a nod of his head... dynamics, cutoffs, intensity, rhythm, drooping pitch, bliss or severe disapproval...He leads us confidently into the abyss. So, it was with great horror, that we arrived for our first mass of the tour at Catedral de la Almudena to discover that the choir sits one level below and completely out of eye shot of our maestro at the organ, thus requiring a few choir members to temporarily fill his role of director. I stepped up to the podium with great trepidation, my arms raised, my eyes trained above at the back of  Patrick's head, the choir in front of me, the splendor and majesty of the royal cathedral at my back, while my internal monologue sang a nonstop litany of, "Oh, dear God on high.. Please don't let me f%@k this up!!!"  Moments later, I sat down with jelly knees and relief at not being the cause of a musical train wreck. Following my unexpected, improvised directorial debut, Kim, a beautiful, perfectly dressed, vivacious woman rose from her soprano seat to gracefully direct the next song.  

Situated next to Spain's Royal Palace in Madrid, the Catedral de la Almudena is a massive structure consisting of white marble, contemporary stained glass windows, and a mesmerizing painted ceiling. Despite plans being discussed as early as the 1560s and construction beginning in 1879, due to a few mishaps (such as the Spanish civil war and WWII) the Almudena wasn't completed and consecrated until 1993. La Almudena hosts royal weddings and funerals and is home to an organ almost worth selling one's soul to the devil for (despite it being on a different level from the choir.)   And the six second delay.. well, that's just icing on the cake! As our voices blended for the final song "Heyr, Himna Smiour," we bathed in the royal loveliness of the Almudena.  

"Fancy seeing you here!" As I wandered the Prado museum, my tour guide racing three miles ahead, Saint James winked at me from a dour 17th century Ribera painting while St Roche snort laughed from the canvas beside...