Today we plan to visit El
Escorial, Philip the Second’s masterwork. We take the Metro to Moncloa again. After
careful research (Rick Steves and the internet), we decide to take the bus, which
leaves from the Moncloa metro station, instead of the train. I think that
Americans fear European busses. We shouldn’t. Checking our options, we find
that busses can be faster than trains and also drop you closer to your
destination. Today, the bus terminal lies closer to our destination, so we
choose the bus.
Reaching Moncloa, we wander
up from the subway to the bus station terminal. We approach the bus driver, explaining
that we need the lift. Like the bus to Bilbao, this one has a lift in the rear.
The driver loads me into the bus and straps Bird onto the bus floor. She
wiggles into a comfortable position. Personally, I would rather transfer to a
regular bus seat (sorry, Bird!) but decide it best not to make waves.
Quite rapidly, only half an
hour later, we arrive at the bus terminal in El Escorial. Using his iPhone, Bloodroot
leads us down a zigzag path through the hilly streets of the town to the centrally
located basin. Here, the claustrophobic medieval town flattens out into an ugly
barren brick-scape, where at long last we find the monastery and palace of San
Lorenzo de El Escorial.
Philip II built and named his
creation after one St. Lawrence (San Lorenzo), whom the Romans roasted over a
slow fire. The myth has him (St. Lawrence) calling to be turned over halfway
through the process, making him the patron saint of humor. Finding the entire
myth rather gross, we discuss whether Phillip II found this, and only this,
funny.
Philip II considered himself
the leader of the counter-reformation. He visualized a united Catholic Europe
under his control, funding numerous armies to achieve this elusive and hopeless
goal. Once again, times had progressed, eliminating the possibility of a return
to a more medieval world, featuring one ruler and one way to believe.
His lasting fame in the
English world comes from the armada he launched to depose Elizabeth I of
England, forgetting that God is a Protestant. Bad weather and Sir Francis Drake
scuttled Spain’s armada, thwarting Philip’s mission. His bellicose failures
contributed to years of sorrow to Europe, all with the best of intentions. Brings
to mind the bloated military of the USA today, busy making costly humanitarian
crises and messes throughout the world.
During Philip’s time, the
Church would sell anything to make a buck. Costly indulgences gave you free
entry to heaven while simony bought you a nice Church office. Nothing remained
sacred. Smarting from accurate Protestant charges of corruption, decadent
luxury, and soft living amongst a money-mad clergy, the intensely Catholic
Philip II built El Escorial as a cornerstone of the counter-reformation,
austere and forbidding. He ran the Inquisition from here. While other
counter-reformation edifices lured the peasants back with beauty, Philip’s work
emanates power and power alone. The palace/monastery laughs at luxury and soft
living. Philip II set up both his and his daughters’ bedrooms facing the basilica
high altar. When they awoke, still laying abed, a mass greeted them.
As the sole uncontested world
power, Spain wallowed in monetary glory in the 1500s, pumped up on tons of
silver and cochineal stolen from the Americas.
But Philip’s masterwork easily swallowed the arriving treasure, leaving
Spain virtually nothing to show from her Golden Age, her period of peak power
and influence.
As we travel south through
Spain, into the old centers of power, we leave the joy and mercy of Mary behind,
in favor of a grotesque fascination with hideous pain. The sixteenth century
cult of death replaces Mary with Jesus’ tortured body and ghastly fulsome
depictions of martyred deaths, generally at the hands of the Romans. I grow heartily
tired of these gruesome, glorified horrors. I strongly considered conversion at
Montserrat, because I love Mary. Subjected to this incessant cult of death, I revert
to staunch atheism. Besides, Keith says that he’ll leave if I become Catholic
or adopt a cat. “What about a Catholic cat?” I query. Not amused, the Bear grimaces
in a stoic silence.
Back to the palace. Thanks to
both the Catholic penchant for kindness to cripples and the lack of
accessibility, I enter gratis. We walk down a dimly lit hallway showing scenes
of a battle that the Spanish won against the French (Battle of San Quentin). Bloodroot
disappears, heeding his own inner exploration call. Due to my lack of Spanish
fluency, Bear and I end up in an endless church service. We eventually escape,
garnering looks of disgust from the other parishioners.
While walking through this
endless, very large building made of ugly, forbidding gray stone, we enter a
room where Prado curators have lovingly restored Rogier van der Weyden’s Calvary. Taking four years, the curators
brilliantly resurrected the intense reds of the painting along with the
beautifully crafted faces of Saints Mary and John standing at the base of the
cross, crying over the dead Jesus above them. Bear basks in heaven as he views
the room’s excellent explanation of the exact restoration process. Exhibits
include a “before” photo of the unrestored painting, dull and grayish under the
burden of six centuries of grime and dust. Gazing at the gloriously restored
painting, I remain struck by the intense reds of the work. In an age preceding
chemical dyes, would anyone have seen this brilliant color outside a church?
Bloodroot rejoins us. The
boys visit the mausoleum downstairs, off limits to me. Keith reports descending
into a solid marble crypt, as if entering a marble cave. “Quite amazing”, he says,
“Eerie and beautiful at the same time.” He feels no sense of death at all. The
bodies lie unseen behind highly-polished stone. Philip II built the tomb to
house his family in perpetuity, but it’s already full. Perhaps he expected the
world to end before now. Where will the bodies of Juan Carlos and Sofia, much
less Felipe VI and Letizia, lie in state? In Sofia’s snazzy art museum?
Tiring of Inquisition ghosts,
we return to the bus station, taking a far less convoluted path than we
initially embraced in the light of morning. Ravenous, we eat some incredibly
bad bus station food while we patiently await the 3PM bus. The busses run every
half hour. When the bus arrives, the operators claim that the lift has broken,
instructing us to wait for the 3:30 bus.
These older busses have lifts
in their centers, where the newer lifts live at the back of the bus. At 3:30
the next bus arrives. The employees can’t work this lift either. They proffer
various tools to the ascender gods,
to no avail. They order another bus but can’t work the lift on it either. They turn
to us, telling us to wait for the 4 o’clock bus. Realizing that the problem relates
to employee incompetence, we doubt that the 4 o’clock bus will resolve our
dilemma. We decide to board the bus.
The line gives way as the
boys push Bird and me to the front of the bus with its daunting five steps. I
stand, allowing Bloodroot and a random stranger to load me onto the bus. Bloodroot
moves my feet while the other gentleman holds my torso erect to prevent me from
toppling back down to the ground. I sit in the front seat closest to the
driver. Keith loads a vociferously complaining Bird into the storage space
under the bus. As Blanche Dubois in a so purring Southern Bourbon-filled voice
long ago quipped, “I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.”
The bus returns to Madrid. The
entire trip back, I shake in terror at the thought of my impending departure
from the bus. I have a bad case of the bejeebers! As usual, I worry needlessly.
To exit the bus, Bloodroot holds me upright while Keith moves my legs. The
driver congratulates us as we shake his hand. We ride the subway home.
We exit the metro’s shelter,
stepping out into the pouring rain. Walking home a short block, we nearly
drown. Arriving safely home, we dry ourselves.
The boys want me to sleep to
recover from this adventure. However, the whole event has greatly unnerved me.
I have a glass of wine and only then can enjoy a well-deserved nap.
Bloodroot decides to run out
in the rain to return the empty bottle from the hard cider he bought Thursday. He
now faces an absolute downpour. He steps in a puddle cresting the top of his
boots, soaking his feet. He returns, reporting that the streets are rivers. He
can’t return the bottle because the bar is closed on Sundays. He suspends his
boots from the ceiling and begins attempting to dry them with a hairdryer. As
an homage to Dali, Keith snaps a photo labeling the picture Son Drying with Boots.
Our neighbor Miguel drops by.
“Oh,” he says, “You went out to El Escorial. That’s why Spain doesn’t have any
money.” Touché! I savor the moments when
people echo what I’ve been saying all along.
Tonight, Bloodroot, finding
us far too lazy and old, researches restaurant choices, seeking an interesting,
high-quality place that cares about its food. He finds a restaurant called D’Fabula,
which reviews alternately describe as “Bizarre” and “Delicious”. Sold, he makes
a reservation. Bear and Bloodroot get a well-deserved break from cooking.
Unfortunately, the sky has
opened, pouring down rain. We discuss staying indoors, at home, and cooking,
but decide we should go out to celebrate our last night in Madrid. Around 8
o’clock, the clouds close up, the rain magically ceases. Fickle Spanish
weather! We venture forth to the restaurant, in which as advertised, we find food
both delicious and bizarre. The chef creates many quirky dishes for us with
perfect wine pairings. We rejoice in finding a restaurant that cares more about
glorious food than it does about fleecing tourists. Phillip II, despite his
purported uber-austerity, would be jealous. We enjoy great food and wine. The restaurateurs
are artists. We linger at the restaurant, staying out late (for us), the stress
of our high-test traveling forgotten. We reminisce already about our stay in
Madrid.
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