Cordoba Spain

I miss Cordoba. X

Clinging on

Roof tops, The Church of St. Peter and the Artisans' Courtyard.

Not quite over.

I've just read the title I gave to the lost post and feel suddenly saddened by it. It's been an amazing week in many different ways and looking back on it as opposed to when I was experiencing it, if feels suddenly sad that it is over and in the past. It's distanced now, gone and I wonder if I will actually go back. Must be my mood today, feel lousy as can feel the first stages of a cold coming on and my head is fuzzy. Get a bit weepy as well when I'm ill, so this probably isn't the best time to be writing an uplifting travel blog on Cordoba and Jerez. And I should be writing about Jerez today, but I don't want that to be anything but capturing how I felt on that exact day, that Saturday, 13th of February, setting out early, before other Cordobans were up, passing strange figures dressed as cockerals and archbishops and clowns as they returned home from the train station and the first night of the festival in Cadiz. It's all the off-kilter moments that make travel, or I suppose any event special. It's who you talk to, an exchange, the sight of a figure silhouetted against the sky, of a cloud, of sun on water, of someone you don't know smiling and saying hello. Early dawn and fancy dress figures. A cold station platform and the smell of fresh coffee. Dusk and clearing away pavement tables. A man smoking a big fat cigar and looking content with the world. Of two women who speak different languages and understanding each other. These things make life and travel exciting. I'm going to stop. Today is not the day to say goodbye to Cordoba.

Cordoba coming to an end

Friday afternoon in a cold Cordoba

Maimonides (Moses ben Maimon) born in Cordoba in 1135 and died in Egypt in 1204. He was a great Jewish scholar, philosopher and physician. At the age of twenty three he fled with his family to Fez to escape religious persecution by the fanatical Almohads in al-Andalus.
I kept seeing his tempting figure trying to find the synagogue in Calle Judios. Eventually found it today, opposite the back entrance to the Courtyard of the Artisans, hidden behind a statue, through a small courtyard. It is tiny and empty. Except for a large group of Japanese tourists today. It is the only synagogue left in Cordoba. Tall and square and empty but for the inscriptions and motifs on the walls.
Apart from finding this building, I have half hunted all week for gifts to take home for my daughters. I've looked at so much jewellry, been tempted by beautiful hair combs, but very expensive. And would they wear them? The people in the shops have been very helpful and kind. The only person who I felt was slightly too helpful shall we say, was in the Courtyard of the Artisans just by the synagogue. There is a great deal of filigree around, very pretty, but we have some and it can go green if not worn regularly. Today, the right gift appeared. It was in a leather goods shop and I would definitely recommend leather as a gift. Two little bags, one dark, one light, long handles, pockets. Perfect. And the shop owner, after wrapping them, stuck little labels on them so that I called write their names and so know which was which. There was a massive old cash register on the desk. Very pleasant shopping.
Fourteen euros each.
Lunch in the little cafe in the square by the archeological museum. The tables and chairs were all piled up as it was cold. Inside, empty, but for the barman and one customer watching a bonkers show on the wall mounted television. Obviously hilarious, but lost on me. Had a slice of thick omelette and a fino. So delicious.
And the cold potato omelette, bit heavy. Like cake.

A breezy, chilly day growing colder. I would recommend gloves and a scarf. I had a scarf, but didn't think I'd need gloves. Of course, it's unusually cold this year in Cordoba, but I could have done with a pair.
I feel I belong here, winding streets, children being picked up from school, often by their fathers, grandparents, mothers, different times of day for things to happen than in England, an easy mix of young and old, new and ancient, smooth and crumbling. Crumbling doesn't mean, 'knock it down' here, it means, live in it, it's a home and the streets aren't precious, drive down them, pedestrains, get out of the way. No street too narrow, not a four wheel drive in sight. Now, in a city, doesn't that make your heart sing? Cordoba seems to have got it right. Oh, did I mention it has a communist council? I'm sure I have.

Sights

An entrance to the old town.

Friday in Cordoba

It's cold, cold, cold today. Later in the afternoon there is a brief snow flurry. This is highly unusual here. Crazy weather.
It's a day of getting jobs done. Jerez de la Frontera tomorrow (I'm getting nervous) so booked the ticket. Trenhotel on the way there, departing 7.28 (love the way these times are worked out) arriving 9.50am. Twenty-four Euros ninety-five. And on the way back, Ave Shuttle, leaving Jerez at 8.53 pm (?) and arriving back in Cordoba at 10.40. Cost Twenty four euros eighty.
This was done in a local travel agent, so booked my return train ticket to Malaga as well for Sunday. I'd looked up the time and price, Trenhotel, leaving 7.18 arriving in Malaga 8.30 am. Twenty euros eighty-five. Now watch this as the bloke booked the ticket, I didn't check it and it turned out he booked me with the massive comfy seats, which was great, but it cost thirty-three euros eighty. Just so you know and don't assume they'll ask you about the seat you want. Anyway, all done and isn't getting your tickets sorted a relief?

Had a cafe con leche (coffee with milk) and this sickly, heavy long sausage thing that's like a doughnut called a choro. The plate arrived with three actually, but I could only eat part of one of them. The coffees were good though. Had two. And the coffee place, it was up in the main shopping pedestrianised area. Called El Guido. Art deco, bar station in the middle, waiters alerted to your every whim. Mid-morning and men talking, standing, sitting, drinking anis and coffee, smoking, dealing, talking. A group talking business, some land deal being made. And amazingly, as a contact lens wearing gal, the cigarette smoke didn't bother my eyes. It didn't get under the lenses and cause havoc. Didn't bother me at all. Nor did the smell. It didn't smell of ash and greyness, but was subtle and aromatic under the coffee beans. Spaniards are ignoring the ban of smoking inside in public places and don't you love them for it? I'm not a smoker and I loved this place. Could have sat there all day, watching people, mainly men, come and go. It seemed to be the business and the friends' meeting place. I seem to be saying this a lot, don't I? "I could have stayed there all day." Maybe I should move here.
The picture at the top is in the Mezzquita. Just liked it.

Cordobans

Old road sweeper smoking a large fat cigar smilingly saying, "Hola."
Well dressed woman in her fifties, raising her sun glasses, stopping and saying, "Hola, que passer?" I said 'Hola' and we both moved on. Maybe she mistook me for someone else.
Finally, a young spanish couple asking me, in spanish, "What's down there?" and pointing down the street. I shrugged, "I'm sorry, I can't help, I'm english." Funny what we say when we have only a few words we know in another language.

The Alcazar Take Two

Lemons looking like grapefruits and oranges hang from the trees in the green of the courtyard and the aroma of citrus fills the air. Water and dappled sunshine. Peace. A hidden pool in a small stone cave, steps, ochre sandy paths, dense conifers, flat-topped, long fountains, pots of lilies, four italians cooing, "Bella, bella," and taking another photograph.
I left behind the slightly eery Royal baths, room after stone room, empty, unsettling to be alone in, underground, feeling that if the rooms continued to lead off one another, you could be lost, wandering around, forgotten, no-one knowing you were there and the lights going out. I didn't linger here. I've put them out of order. I saw them before strolling outside to the citrus filled Moorish Patio and sunshine. I lingered through the trees, stepping over fallen oranges, breathing in the scent of the air. And catching sight of flickering light on water.
And the tall cyprus trees, dark shapes against the blue sky and water, sun-kissed water. I don't want to leave here. It is so peaceful and summery warm sitting by the water soothing jets splashing down.
Light. Light bright and white and blue and green, changing as the sun hits the water and all the time, the deep green towers of solid foliage.
This place is good for the soul.

Closed Doors

Cordoba Art Galleries

Umbrella up, strolling past more closed churches, beautiful, but closed to the Protestant, went stone, tiled saints in search of the Museums of Fine-arts and Julio Romero de Torres Museum. Do look him up and look at his paintings of tragically sad but stunningly beautiful and erotic images of the Andalucian woman. She is of another time, another place to a girl from Yorkshire, but she pulls you in.

Now the museum. Places are on the map here, they look easy to find, but they seem to lose themselves in the maze of streets. Eventually arrived, crossing a major road which I did not expect and the museums were not there. They should have been. I strolled towards another ancient, decaying church and there was the sign. "The Museums of Fine-arts and Julio Romero de Torres Museum." At the bottom of the square, more work going on, the fountain, wetter in the rain, a small, gift filled shop opposite.
I went in. The museum shop was closed, the man at the entrance kiosk let me in. No cost. I entered the inner square, bushes and trees perfectly clipped. Dark green in the rain. First, on the right, was the Julio Romero house and gallery. A guard sat with his eyes closed, listening to his i-pod. A room to the right looked like the artist's living room. The paintings upstairs were of twenties Spain and its men and women. I studied their dresses for Tessa's family in Jerez in Leaving Coty. Long straight dresses, three quarter length sleeves, belts, hair in low buns, low heels, the heat of the sun on their skin.
Simple with sheened stockings captured in paint.

And names. Rafael, Horacio, Manuel, Joaquin, Flex and Cristobal.
And the women, Concepcio, Maria, Rosarill, Ysolina, Benedicion, Rafaela, Nine, Eva, Amalia, Mari Liuz, Ines.

And one other couple.

Across the courtyard is the other art gallery. I put my umbrella in the compartments in the entrance. Guards strolling, talking.

Lots of religious work, but the most stunning are the sculptures. Fabulous. I loved that the galleries are so small, little houses housing art.

Then up to the Place de la Correda to see if there was a market. No, just a vast open space that will hold markets and events and used to be the bull ring. People live in the apartments looking down onto the square. This was unexpected in its size and the colour, green and red. It felt like communist Spain, it felt edgy, dodgy, not pretty, but passionate with an edge of danger. In sunshine it would be transformed with food and voices and music. But not today. Today it was raining.

I wanted to find a church open today. Not even the local St. Basil's would let me in. I'm thinking of writing a letter about this problem.

The Archeology Museum

Fino and olives

This is my table in the square of the Archeology museum. It was late afternoon and I could see a school party inside the entrance to the museum and as it was late, I thought I'd return tomorrow. It's one euro fifty to get in, but free to members of the European Union, so take your passport. It's worth doing that anyway to all the museums in case.
I'm feeling more at home here by the hour as I get to know the way around the winding streets and speak a little more spanish all the time. Confidence in that is growing.
I've been wondering what opportunites are like for young spaniards here, but have seen a dance school and a college for arts and a youth scheme, and of course there's music and all the usual opportunities, many ride scooters and english is compulsary in schools and some have private lessons. Over the following days I see evidence of this.
And the spaniards here, body wise, fairly short in general, strong, good sized bums, many are attractive, some, like everywhere, look as though life is tough too.
Feel relaxed with my fino and dish of olives. The sun is dappling the buildings. It is warm. The people in the bar were great and after I'd ordered at the bar, brought my goodies outside to one of the little tables. Birds are flying around, the trees are full of oranges, a man is sitting on the steps as his son runs around.
The road leading to this square is 'Horno del Cristo. I'm writing in my diary, keep looking up at the glowing light and shadows. Loving it. Going to leave soon, but don't want to, hoping the barman will come and bring me another glass, maybe order a tapas, but the television and conversation inside must be too good to leave and I'm too lazy to go back in and this is lovely and enough anyway. Slow wander back. A woman tries to give me a sprig of rosemary, but I say I'm not cooking, she takes my palm, but I don't want it read, she asks for a cigarette, but I don't smoke so have none.
Wander back the way I came that morning, satisfied with day, looking forward to the next.

Evening

The River Guadalquivir

Vastly stretching cold milky coffee of a river, wide between the two sides of the city that the Romans first entered. Every time a road is dug up, or a pavement or the authorities want to set up a market place or a new building, then they find roman remains that they have to excavate and exhibit. So cranes and builders and old and tourists combine.
On a sunny, breezy February day, two London tourists, seeing me alone, took my photo. I took photos of the swirling, wide river and the cranes and old town. A good day.
And a man, born in a village near Cordoba came with his family to the city when he was still young. They told him he was too shy, he should talk to people, be a man. So he went, aged 19, to Madrid to make something of himself. He came home after a month and they said, "Why have you come back? You will never make it in this world, you are too puny, too scared, go back to Madird and show you are a man."
He didn't go back to Madrid because he didn't want to. Instead, he travelled the world to prove he was a man. In Australia, he tried out for a football team, because he was a good, fast player, but the english coach chose someone else. He married, had a daughter and travelled again, ending up in Reno, America. He travelled down the coast playing flamenco guitar. He married, had a son and left when it fell apart. He came back, working for the navy, to Cordoba. And he'd spent the morning playing flamenco with friends and was going to the cinema that evening. He was called Angel.

The Roman Bridge seems to be a place that people stroll from the far side of the river and back, in groups, talking so loudly you think they are arguing. And the river, fawn, beige, flowing vast and wide.

Cordoba, The Metzquita and River Guadalquivir

I walked this way on the way into the old town of Cordoba every day. Through an archway by the cafe El Olivo, past the restaurant, La Meson de Luna, across a courtyard, straight across a cross roads, I say crossroads, more the crossing of paths and veering out to the right into the square where the magnificent mosque, the Metzquita towers. Little shops, restaurants, cafes, courtyards, line the square and inside, walking through the massive gateways into the sun filled inner square filled with trees and paths, a fountain for drinking, and the site of the mineret rising into the cloud filled blue was breathtaking. I strolled around for ages, men in blue gardening, guards strolling too. It was Eight euros to go inside the mosque. Now this is what really made the week: the personal moments. The buildings, atmosphere, everything I saw, were stunning, but the human moments made me smile.
There were two spanish women entering the mosque in front of me. The guard, with a little machine snipped the corner off her very attractive ticket. She looked at it, looked at him and, and this is amazing, I could tell what she and he were both saying, but she said, summarised, "I wanted to keep that and you've wrecked it!"
I was handing him my very attractive ticket as she was scolding him, and I pulled it back from his fingertips, he pulled it back, and I pulled it back. We were smiling, I add. His machine was poised. It was down on the ticket, he was clicking... and then he released it and handed it back to me. Ticket intact. Gracias.

Inside. Wow, wow, wow. So quiet. I definitely recommend going to Cordoba in February. Wrap up, but definitely fantastic. No crowds so you can gaze and walk and enjoy and take as long, long, long as you want. I spent hours in the Mezquita. No signs saying not to take photos, so took loads. It's amazing. Around the outer walls are little chapels to different saints. Very ornate, paintings and gold and oozing catholicism. And then the arches of the mosque stretching into the darkness. And in the centre, the towering catholic cathedral with it's gold on gold, painted ceilings, chandeliers sparkling, dark ornately carved choir stalls polished to shine, the alter and candles. Pretty and majestic and vast. I sat for a long time.
I didn't want to leave either the cathedral or the mosque, but eventually I left the chilly dimness and went out into the sunshine.

Cordoba, Spain

TRAVEL DEFINITELY KINDLES FIRES WITHIN US.

I was in Spain from the 8th to the 14th of February. I went in search of history, atmosphere, people, my family and to learn and push myself. And it was superb, surprising and life enhancing. Superb in everything I saw and did and experienced. Surprising in that I am determined now to learn spanish and feel I can do it, I really liked the people and I'd heard the spanish had turned off the english, and that Cordoba and Jerez, the places I visited were so, so breath taking, for different reasons which I shall go in to later. There will have to be many entries on Spain.
People:
People in Cordoba are on a mission when they are walking. They do not get out of your way and they don't expect you to take all day to get out of theirs. I learned this quickly and could soon side step and move on. You must not hesitate, that is the key and don't be precious about personal space. It's not meant as an affront, it's just the way you walk. And old don't expect young to move and vice versa. Only some, if blocking the pavement.
Rumanian gypsy women with their children outside the supermarkets and tourist sites, giving away rosemary in the main square and keen to read your palm and ask for a cigarette. A roadsweeper smoking a fat cigar. Dogs with jackets on.

I can see this is going to be all out of order, but after this introduction, I will try and go day, by day.

I arrived in Malaga. Easy taxi ride from the airport to the train station. It cost Sixteen euros. (Eighteen on the way back) There's loads of building and construction work going on. The shopping centre here is fantastic. Very tempting. The train platform is shiny clean. And you cannot get on the wrong train because every platform (Via) has a seperate check through. There's not long once you're through, get on the train and it's off. You are given a seat when you book your ticket. Incidentally, when you go to the booking office at the station, take a ticket from the machine and this will give you your number in line. When it comes up, go to the desk. Like at a supermarket deli. (21 euros to Cordoba one way.)

It took an hour and a bit to get to Cordoba. A beautiful, majestic city. Cranes, buildings, apartments, difficulty parking, quiet at night, surrounded by rolling hills which now are green and will be sandy grey in the summer. From the train saw olives bushes, remote farms, a harsh near, nearing Cordoba, more vines, less barren and lusher, more affluent.
Sandy stone, terracotta roof tiles, washing hanging on roof tops, small balconies, plants, a chair, orange tree lined streets, cobbles, narrow passages, trees emerging from between buildings, breaking the sky line, cranes next to ancient buildings, palms and deciduous trees and conifers. A massive river. No crime. Higgledy piggledy rooftops, all shapes and sizes. Morocco.

Colder than usual here. Definitely not Manchester.