Today we leave Madrid for Granada,
a major trek. The high-speed train tracks lead to Malaga. We ride the bullet train
(AVE, or “bird”) from Puerta de Atocha to Antequera Santa Ana.
My computer gives up the
ghost on the train, the battery refusing to restart. Since his arrival in
Madrid, Bloodroot has refused to power down the computer correctly via Windows
10. He simply slams the top closed, so that by the time the poor thing finally shuts
down, he has completely drained the battery. Alas, alack: the computer defeats
us, by simply quitting. Would the battery have given up the ghost anyway? Of
course, but probably not so soon. Going forward, we have only our phones. I
have a dumb phone, albeit with a phone number and international access. Bloodroot
has an iPhone without a number and the disposable phone he purchased at the
Madrid airport. Can we, as 21st-century people, survive with such
limited access to the internet? We boldly venture forth.
In the physical world, at Antequera
Santa Ana, the train abandons us, booting us out to a waiting bus. Fortunately,
we spent all that time on Saturday at Puerta de Atocha (Madrid’s main train
depot), thus RENFE expects us. The employees on the lookout for a family of
three with a wheelchair quickly locate us. Somehow the RENFE bus just feels
higher level, perhaps because unlike the lifts in El Escorial buses, this
operational lift goes up and down. Big bonus, the employees actually can
operate the lift! They rapidly load me onto the bus.
The bus trip allows us to see
things passing by more slowly than the train did. We see lots and lots of olive
trees. According to the Bear, we pass nothing else. He considers our current journey
down to Granada to be a trip through a wasteland. Looking more closely, I feel
North Africa and Maghreb approaching through the dry yellow hills surrounding
us.
For the duration of the bus
trip, I stay in my uncomfortable wheelchair (“Humph!” says Bird) as I really
don’t want to have an argument with RENFE.
I speak of the joys of
various trips with a woman across the aisle. Her fluent unaccented English leads
me to believe her to be a fellow American. Wrong! She’s Dutch. She encourages
me to travel, explaining that she spends all her disposable time and income
doing so. She has just spent a few weeks in the south of Spain. Now heading for
Granada, she sadly admits that she hadn’t booked a ticket in advance for the
Alhambra, forcing her to instead buy a spot on an overpriced tour.
Arriving at the Granada train
station, we leave the bus behind. Accustomed to huge American taxis, we
fruitlessly search for a reasonably sized cab, at least a Prius station wagon,
for goodness sake! Luck deserts us. We pile into a cab far too small for us. In
this tiny car, we hook Tinky the Walker around Keith’s neck and cram his wheels
behind my back. Each time the cabbie brakes, my back uncomfortably bangs
against the Tinky’s wheels. Fortunately, the taxi quickly delivers us to our new
Airbnb flat.
Using the dumb phone, we
contact Emilio, our Airbnb host. He meets us at the apartment and lets us in. Our
beautiful flat boasts marble floors and delightful balcony windows. Keith and I
take the twin beds next to the bathroom so that I needn’t walk so far with
Tinky. Bloodroot gets the big double bed at the opposite side of the flat. Now
the bathroom has a bidet beside the toilet, which I must maneuver Tinky around.
Each time I visit the pot I think, “Who put this fucking bidet in my way?”
Safely settled in, what shall
we do? As the clock says only 2PM, let’s tour! We take off for the Royal
Chapel, Ferdinand and Isabella’s tomb. Entering, we eavesdrop on an English
tour passing by.
History considers Isabella the
brighter of the two Reyes Católicos (Catholic Kings), in our parlance “the
brains behind Pa.” On their sarcophagi, her sculpted face holds greater
intelligence but more otherworldly calm, as if contemplating eternity with
serenity as she faces down Death. I believe Death may have been scared, for
once.
By marriage, Isabella
(Elisabeth in English) and Ferdinand united the Iberian Peninsula, creating
Spain. Together they completed the Reconquista (re-conquest), triumphing over
the Moors. Intensely Catholic, they believed that all of Spain (actually all of
Europe) should have one religion, Catholicism. Earlier, in 1480, to maintain
Catholic orthodoxy and enforce/insure compliance they instituted the Spanish
Inquisition, headed by one Tomás de Torquemada.
After 1492, the Inquisition focused
mainly on the recently, forcibly converted Jews and Muslims. Never the bugaboo created
by the fervid 19th-century Protestant writers, the Inquisition began
as a government sponsored channel to eliminate extra-judicial killings. Historical
records, although undeniably spotty, have the court examining 150,000 people
and murdering 3,000. (Other sources claim 5,000 victims.) But the auto de fes, with the human torches,
provided massive spectacle and propaganda, no? To extract confessions, the
court did use torture (theoretically only in 15-minute sessions and leaving no
permanent damage). Torture, a legal norm at the time, produced acceptable
confessions. The court also relied upon elaborate inter-community spying, reminiscent
of the East German Stasi, 450 years later.
Back to Isabella, who perished
first, preceding her husband Ferdinand in death by a few years. Ferdinand, a
poorly behaved widower, did his utmost to steal kingdoms not rightfully his,
including hers. She died believing she had accomplished great things—Spain regained,
united under one religion, wholly Catholic, rich beyond belief from the
discovery of the Americas. She never knew what havoc her actions bequeathed her
descendants, her country, and the world.
The couple had many children,
five surviving childhood. Their daughter Catherine married Henry VIII of
England. Henry VIII’s & Catherine’s child, Mary Tudor (aka Mary I),
inherited her mother’s and grandmother’s overzealous Catholicism, raining down
disaster upon England during her short reign. Immense joy had greeted her
Spanish princess mother’s (Catherine’s) marriage but times changed. Mary lost
her popular acclaim by marrying her first cousin once removed, Philip II. The
English had no desire to rejoin the Spanish royal family. To add insult to
injury, Mary began burning people, in the name of God, of course. History has
not been over-kind to her. In England, Mary Tudor became Bloody Mary, nearly
universally reviled, yet in Spain, Madrid has a subway stop named for her
(Maria Tudor). Guess it depends which side you’re on.
My favorite of Isabella’s
children is Juana la Loca (Joanna the
Crazy). She married the playboy prince Philip the Fair. Her obsession with him
compelled her to drag about his coffin for years, earning her the ”Mad”
epithet. She inherited the Spanish crown, but her son Carlos, ruling in her
name, ensured she remained incarcerated as a lunatic. Current historians debate
the level of her purported insanity, given her son’s self-serving behavior.
Artists love Juana; we saw many paintings of her in the Prado. Think about it. What
great material!
Returning to here and now, leaving
the sarcophagus, Bloodroot goes down into the crypt, inaccessible to me because
once again we encounter “fucking steps”.
Keith returns to our flat as Bloodroot
and I tour a madrasa or Islamic school. The school hasn’t been operational
since the Reconquista in 1492. A
previous unenlightened generation plastered over the school’s incredible Moorish
engravings in the walls. One day, perhaps 50 years ago, some of the plaster
fell off of the wall revealing amazing hidden beauty. Curators carefully
removed all the remaining plaster to discover that whatever zealous Christian
who had covered all the Moorish artwork had done us all an immense favor. Protected
from the elements, the geometric intricacies carved into the stone retain their
bright green, red and blue paint, reminding Bloodroot of the vibrant medieval
colors in Louis IX’s Sainte Chapelle in Paris, all the more so for its
beautiful tile. An uncovered window points toward Mecca, channeling the prayers
of ancient students in the correct direction.
We return home, retrieving Keith.
Leaving the flat, we walk to the old Moorish neighborhood called the Albayzin, and
begin to wander. Narrow alleys containing lots of steps wind their way up the
hill. The thousand-year-old neighborhood laughs at the concept of wheelchair accessibility.
Fortunately, I travel with two people who don’t believe in handicap inaccessibility.
The shallow stairs have one step up then 10 or 20 feet flat. We pick a restaurant
from Rick Steves’ bible. Bloodroot, using his GPS, guides us on a meandering
path to the restaurant. Looking around we note every available space holds a stall
staffed by merchants aggressively hawking souvenirs, the identical souvenirs probably
all made in China.
As we ascend, a woman steps
out of a restaurant, inviting us in. No way! Bloodroot has decided that we will
dine at the place mentioned in the Rick Steves’ bible. Following his lead, we
ascend the many steps, at long last finding the storied restaurant. We look up.
A flight of perhaps twenty much steeper steps
lies between us on the street and the restaurant. Accepting defeat, never easy
for the males, we began to descend. We return to the restaurant where the woman
had beckoned to us earlier.
This Moroccan-style
restaurant, Terteria Kasbah, has low tables and backless chairs, definitely a
challenge. Somehow, the boys get me out of Bird and onto the edge of the table
in a booth with a back, while they take the backless chairs. (Balance, a big
problem with MS, demands chairs with armrests and a back. I tumble easily to
the floor.) Hookah pipes seem to be everywhere. We try to avoid them as we
really don’t want to breathe tobacco smoke while we dine. Looking in a stall
across the alley, I see some lamps I like. Unfortunately, they don’t match our
mid-century modern house back in Denver. And how would we get them home in one
piece? Easily cowed by the boys, I give up. We enjoy the reasonably priced,
Moroccan food. I devour my eggplant dish. After dinner, we smell more hookahs
coming out to various tables. The tobacco, heavily cut with fruitish smells,
primarily apple, wafts by pleasantly. Remember the old saw about tobacco
settling the stomach? May be true!
Sated, we bumpily return to
our high-end Airbnb and turn in for the night.
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