Youngs Around the World

Granada is one of Spain’s hippest cities, home to 60,000 college students, countless cervecerias (beer bars) serving free tapas, corner kebab stands and heladerias (ice cream shops). But the reason that millions of tourists flock here every year is to visit the Alhambra, a hilltop fortress-palace overlooking the city. The Alhambra, meaning “red castle”, is another – many would say the finest – example of a structure, marked by the handprints of alternating Muslim and Christian rulers. Stretched atop a hill, it began as a fortress in the 9th century and was converted by Nasrid emirs in the 13th and 14th centuries into a palace complex with an adjacent medina. When the Christians returned to power in the 15th century, the Alhambra’s mosque was replaced with a church and a huge Renaissance palace was subsequently added. The main attraction of the Alhambra is the Palacio Nazaries, built by Mohammed V in the 14th century. Aaron’s meticulous due diligence told us that six thousand visitors a day traipse through the Alhambra but only 2,000 tickets are sold at the door. To ensure admission, you must purchase tickets online for a specific time slot for the Palacio Nazaries and be there on time or be declined entry. After a kilometer walk uphill to the entrance, we arrived sweaty and ready for our 8:30am slot and were among the first to enter.

The palace was exquisite. The rooms were elaborately decorated with mosaic tilework, carved wooden ceilings, molded stucco walls with intricate lace patterns, and traditional Arabic calligraphy. There were picturesque courtyards with manicured gardens, reflecting pools and a labyrinth of covered corridors connecting it all. The design and décor of the Palacio Nazaries was similar to the other medersas and Arab-Islamic palaces that we’ve seen in Morocco and southern Spain but we were awed by it nonetheless. The sheer magnitude of the Alhambra was impressive. The Generalife, or architect’s garden, was a pristinely manicured labyrinth of hedged corridors, arbors, cypress trees, and flowers of every imaginable color. Its magic compelled even the most macho of men to pose giddily for photos among its storybook backdrops.

After the Alhambra, we spent our remaining days in Granada eating gelato, drinking sangria, and fitting in some of the city’s other sights in between. As a side note, Tina got her first-ever stye in her left eye, which did not inhibit our activities but she was nonetheless perturbed about not being able to wear makeup for the next couple of weeks. Thankfully, her husband, a former pusher of eye drops, easily diagnosed the problem and had a bottle of antibiotic drops in the first-aid kit. She is still annoyed about the makeup thing but is on the road to recovery.

The Albayzin, the old Muslim quarter sprawling up a hill facing the Alhambra, afforded the best views of the fortress-palace. The Albayzin was a maze of narrow alleys meandering within the old stone ramparts. The neighborhood, though largely residential, had lovely plazas with outdoor cafes, small shops selling souvenirs and Moroccan imports, and remnants of mosques-turned-churches. The five kilometer walking tour, winding through zigzagging streets, up and down the hillside, was a great opportunity to stretch our legs and work off some of that gelato.

Granada was our last stop in Andalucía, the most quintessentially Spanish region of Spain. We have loved our relaxed travel pace of late. The Alhambra is the city’s star attraction and it was magnificent but, after the exhilarating intensity of that experience, we enjoyed melting into the fold of daily life in laid back Granada for a few relaxing days.

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We arrived in Cordoba in mid-morning with a single beautiful day to explore. We settled into our hostel and set out at once for the Museo Julio Romero de Torres, which we were delighted to discover was free on Fridays. The artist Torres (1873-1930) was a respected local painter who specialized in the sensual portraits of Cordoban dames. The small museum housed in a former hospital, exhibited two floors of what could have been Torres’ life’s work.

The mostly female subjects of the paintings all seemed to be bathed in a soft ethereal glow, as if to accentuate both their eroticism and innocence. The artist portrayed everything that is passionate, delicate, and demure about women. He painted their souls onto their faces. I was deeply moved by Torres’ work – I have always been a fan of the portrait – and I was almost saddened when we had seen them all. I wanted more but such is the sentiment regarding all of the brilliant artists of our world. A lifetime is never long enough.

After a casual lunch at one of the ubiquitous outdoor cafés, we made our way to Cordoba’s most impressive sight – the Mezquita, meaning mosque in Spanish. The Mezquita is also commonly referred to as the Cathedral of Cordoba, which seems contradictory until the story of its current incarnation unfolds.

Following the Islamic invasion of Cordoba, the ruling Muslims began construction of the Mezquita in 785 on the site of a razed 6th century Christian church, which had been the center of the community. Some of the church’s columns and materials were incorporated into the new structure. The mosque was enlarged and handsomely embellished in the ninth and tenth centuries, making it one of the world’s biggest and most architecturally stunning mosques. The prayer hall incorporated 1293 columns supporting the Mezquita’s most esthetically striking feature – seemingly endless rows of two tiered red and white striped arches. The completed mosque was an ostentatious display of power, a work of Islamic architecture to be used as a model of reference.

In 1236, Cordoba fell back into the hands of Christians and the Mezquita’s transformation began. Rather than razing the magnificent architectural treasure or adding on to its exterior, the ruling Christians built a cathedral right in the center of the mosque and incorporated as much Christian iconography and artwork into the existing interior as could ever be thought possible. The result is either a gaudy, incoherent contradiction or a beautiful idea of Muslim and Christian faiths converging into a glorious house of God. I can’t decide.

Stepping into the Mezquita for the first time was an eye-popping, jaw-dropping experience. The red and white striped arches were the focal point and seemed oddly festive. The arches continued on further than the eye could see, catching rays of sunlight from the high windows and creating a kaleidoscope effect that was magical to behold. Everyone who walked inside stopped to marvel at them with the same expression of awe.

We walked slowly around the inner perimeter, pausing to admire each of the chapels, with their artifacts and furnishings. The cathedral in the center of the Mezquita, added by the Christian reconquerors, consisted of a main chapel, transept and choir. It was small in comparison to the size of the original mosque. Throughout the Mezquita, Christian embellishments abounded. Biblical-themed sculpture was incorporated into some of the mosque’s beautiful arches. A crucified Christ adorned a wall covered in a masterpiece of Islamic stonework. Saints were sculptured into the molding of the vaulted ceilings and into the tops of the marble columns. Icons graced the walls facing stunning mosaic archways with the traditional Islamic keyhole design. The thought that kept echoing through my mind as we explored the various sections of the Mezquita was that, despite the innumerable Christian “reforms”, it was still a mosque.

Muslims consider iconography to be idolatrous. The symbols used in the decoration of their mosques are lotus flowers (representing purity), stars and Arabic calligraphy, and there is always water within or near a mosque for the ablutions. Christians adore their paintings and sculptures and their treasuries of majestic gold, silver and bejeweled objects. Mosques are generally filled with light from big, arched doorways or open ceilings while any natural light in a Christian church is usually filtered through deep-hued stained glass, accented by dim chandeliers and the flicker of candlelight. The nineteen doors that once filled the Mezquita with light now remain closed. The two styles so defiantly contrasted one another that slapping one style on top of the other created a vulgar and gaudy, though fascinating, effect. Jesus Christ, Superstar of the Mosque. Thankfully, much of the dazzling work of the Mezquita’s original artisans remained untouched by the transformation and the aura of the Mezquita, in its unblemished form, predominates.

Our brief visit to Cordoba was full of interesting contradictions: eroticism and innocence; destruction in the name of God; Muslim and Christian perspectives on the architectural and artistic glorification of God, or Allah as the case may be. We had a lot to contemplate. We left Cordoba with one certainty however: the Mezquita was AMAZING! After a year of traveling the world and visiting many of its most spectacular natural and manmade wonders, we find that it takes a lot to impress us these days. The Mezquita was a simultaneous glimpse into two worlds; an experience that left us in a breathless, awed, controversial state of wonderment.

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From Tangier, the fast ferry carried us only 35 minutes to Tarifa on the southern coast of Spain but disembarking that ship was like stepping into an old familiar world…and that world was full of boobs! Hooters, knockers, jugs, chi chis…whatever you want to call them, Mediterranean sun-tanned boobs were bulging out of push-up bras, bouncing and jiggling above plunging necklines. After Morocco, it was a bit of a reverse culture shock but we weren’t complaining. Although these were my first steps on Spanish soil, I felt myself thinking, It’s good to be back! Only when you’ve spent time in an ultra-conservative environment, like a Muslim community or perhaps a convent, do you come to truly appreciate the ways that women beautify the earth like bright summer flowers.

From Tarifa, we still had a long day of travel ahead. We had narrowly missed the morning bus to Seville and had to wait hours for the next one…but we were in Spain! We finally arrived in Seville in the early afternoon and humped our packs about a kilometer from the bus station to our hostel in El Centro. The summer sun emitted a heat as intense and oppressive as the Moroccan desert and we found ourselves running for shade at every opportunity.

The first thing we noticed about Spain (after the boobs) was the architecture. Ornate, colorful building facades lined narrow winding alleys, pedestrian walkways and romantic plazas. The unique exteriors were adorned with sculpture in a variety of styles; stark white molding and wrought-iron ornaments leapt off vibrant painted backgrounds. Lush tree-shaded parks and public fountains completed the town’s storybook appeal. By day, the streets were thronged with summer tourists scurrying between Seville’s two main historical sights – the Cathedral and the Alcazar – but, as we would later discover, the city of bullfighting, flamenco and tapas bars comes alive at night.

The Cathedral and the Alcazar are Seville’s fascinating architectural remnants symbolizing the entanglement of Muslims and Christians in southern Spain’s war-torn history. “In the 12th century, a strict Islamic sect from Morocco, the Almohads, took over Muslim Spain and made Seville the capital of their whole realm, building a great mosque where the cathedral now stands. Almohad power eventually crumbled and Seville fell to Fernando III (El Santo, the Saint) of Castilla in 1248” (Lonely Planet Spain, March 2007). For a century and a half, the ruling Christians used the existing mosque as a church before eventually deciding to tear down the mosque and build a church so extravagant as to defy the laws of reason. Interestingly, they decided to preserve the original mosque’s minaret (the Giralda), which now stands at the cathedral’s northeastern corner.

The inside of the five-naved cathedral is extraordinarily ornate; the sacristies and chapels are heavily ornamented with sculpture, deep-hued stained glass, stunning iconography, and other grandiose religious artwork. The cathedral’s main altarpiece, the Capilla Mayor, is reputedly the largest altarpiece in the world. The Gothic vaulted ceilings imbue a sense of reaching into the Heavens. The top of the Giralda – a crowded, claustrophobic climb – offers the best panoramas of the city. The Cathedral’s most interesting feature is the tomb of Christopher Columbus, marked by a grand monument of four sepulcher-bearers representing the four kingdoms of Spain at the time of Columbus’ famous voyage in 1492. (Lonely Planet Spain, March 2007)

The Alcazar, a palace complex expanded and modified over eleven centuries to suit the tastes of the Muslim and Christian rulers, is a polyglot of Arab-Islamic and European architecture. The main building is distinctly Arabic – a grand rectangular structure built around an open garden courtyard. The interior walls are adorned with beautiful tile work, intricate lace patterns and Arabesque inscriptions etched into plaster. Stucco stalactite detail drips from arched entryways. Marble and granite columns abound. Elaborately carved and painted wood ceilings loom overhead. The style is identical to that of the palaces and medersas of Morocco. The tone of the design is cool, quiet, and clean.

Beyond the main building are the additions of the Christian rulers – new wings of residential quarters, entertaining halls, and a chapel – all lavishly decorated with paintings and tapestries. The tone of the Christian additions is contrastingly warm. The most interesting work of art inside the Alcazar is a painting reputed to be the oldest known depiction of Christopher Columbus’ discovery of America. The contrast of the Islamic and European styles is obvious but one look at the exquisite beauty of the Islamic designs immediately clarifies the Christians’ reluctance to destroy them.

After the Cathedral and the Alcazar, our heads were spinning with intrigue from the sensory overload of religion, art, architecture and history. We were overwhelmed and exhausted. We desperately needed what is commonly referred to in Spain as a “siesta”. Similar to Arab cultures, the Spanish seem to relish the afternoon snooze. Shops and restaurants close down in the afternoon hours and reopen at night. Dinner time is around 9pm and nightlife begins around eleven. The only way to embark on a full day of sightseeing and then sample the nocturnal delights for which Spain is famous is to succumb to your body’s natural desire to melt into dreamland in an air-conditioned room during the hottest hours of the day.

We slept…and when time had turned the day’s hot yellow light to the smoky blue of dusk and when our thirtysomething batteries had been sufficiently recharged, we resurfaced with a zest for the fest! Seville’s quiet streets have pockets of nightlife with a casual, laid back atmosphere – tiny watering holes with ham legs hanging from the ceilings, overflowing tapas bars, incandescent restaurants with sidewalk seating, and inconspicuous live music venues. We chose a flamenco joint in the Barrio de Santa Cruz. There was no sign, just an address. We almost passed by it because of the silence around the entrance, so uncharacteristic of a bar, but we went in anyway to discover a big, empty room with a bar and a small stage. The barman affirmed the night’s flamenco performance and pointed us to a quiet garden courtyard where a dozen or so people sipped cocktails in chatty groups. We ordered a couple of Cruzcampos – the local cerveza – and grabbed a table. After our second round, we walked inside to a packed house with the flamenco performers already commanding the stage.

One guitarist, one singer, and one buxom dancer sat facing the beer-fueled crowd. The guitarist strummed the intro. The singer – a middle-aged man who was also the barkeep – intoned a passionate, soulful declaration while he and the buxom dancer clapped out a flamenco beat. A few more bars and then, suddenly, she was up! Clapping, stomping, and waving her arms, staring seductively through the crowd with her coal-black eyes. She was aged, heavyset, clad in a too-tight ruffled number with bulging cleavage, many would say unattractive, but she was all attitude. Her eyes were bold, her hips confident. She owned her audience who roared with generous applause. We were immediately drawn in by Spain’s spicy flamenco scene; however, despite our siesta, our thirty-year-old bodies were resisting the transition to night mode. We left just as the room was steaming up from the adrenalized performance and hit a tapas bar on the way “home”.

Andalucía is everything that is quintessentially Spanish. From the well-preserved remnants of the region’s riveting war-torn history to the relaxed tapas culture to the dazzling arts of flamenco and bullfighting, we are ready to drink it all in. Spain is vibrant, endearingly gaudy, and wonderfully uninhibited. It’s good to be back!

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The French Riviera, the Cote d’Azur, the south of France…vacation destination for jet set Europeans, playground for the rich and famous, where celebrities are photographed frolicking on the beautiful beaches only to have their bodily imperfections magnified in gossip magazines. We had set our sights on Nice, the second most-visited French city (after Paris), planning to steal a glimpse of St. Tropez, Cannes, and other famous cities along the coastal road. The sapphire waters of the Mediterranean invigorated and enchanted us as we endured the traffic and inadequate signage through the pretty seaside towns.

We were delighted to discover that our hotel in Nice was only two blocks from the beach, though parking proved to be a challenge. It had been a long day of driving so, despite our eagerness to explore, we settled in and relaxed for the evening.

The next morning, we set out early to spend the day in Monaco. Measuring a mere 1.95 square kilometers, Monaco is the world’s second smallest country – only the Vatican is smaller. The entire country curves around the glistening, yacht-filled Port de Monaco. We parked just north of the port in the capital city of Monte Carlo and began our walk. The famous Casino Monte Carlo was thronged with photo-snapping tourists who rudely left handprints (and probably saliva) all over the Ferraris and Lamborghinis parked in front. The decadence of the cars, clothes, and jewels on display in Monaco were unparalleled by anything we have seen. The architecture dripped with sculptures, murals, and beautiful wrought iron detail. The yachts in the port were a vision of eye-popping flash seen only in rap videos.

We made our way toward the port and sat down at a waterside café for lunch to drool over the boats for an hour before continuing to the Prince’s Palace. The ascent to the palace was laborious but afforded the best views of Monaco. The palace exterior was less remarkable than I’d expected, considering the artistry in Monaco’s other grand facades. We browsed the souvenir shops and had just turned down a shaded alley of shops when the sound of church bells echoed through the stone corridor. We followed the sound of the bells through a maze of stone and stumbled upon the Cathedral de Monaco, a beautiful church overlooking the sea. A crowd of tourists were gathered across the circle and we scurried over to see what was going on. A wedding! On the church steps were gathered Monaco’s elite, dressed to impress for the gorgeous affair. The bride and groom soon appeared through a shower of flower petals, followed by pretty blond bridesmaids in canary yellow gowns. We watched the merriment for a few minutes and then headed back down towards the port. The wedding was an unexpected and marvelous surprise.

Monaco was a spectacle of wealth and glamour. The ladies of Sex and the City would definitely have approved.

Back in Nice, we divided our remaining time equally between Vieux Nice (the old town) and the beach. The old town was full of life, especially at night when the restaurants were abuzz and musicians filled the lanes with sounds from around the world. Gelato stands were ubiquitous. Outdoor cafés filled the lanes with Heavenly aromas and wine-induced chatter.

The beaches in Nice were polished gray pebbles, which were less comfortable than sand, but the cool blue ocean was intensely refreshing. A day rental of a beach chair and parasol in Nice runs about 20 euro per person so we joined the hordes of locals in setting up camp on the pebbles. The tanned, toned bodies on the beach added to the beauty of the already spectacular seascape. Above the beach, the promenade des Anglais (English promenade) was a wide, palm-lined boardwalk with plenty of beachfront seating, snack vendors and rollerblading locals. It was a wonderful place for a stroll both day and night.

The Cote d’Azur was the perfect conclusion to our adventures in France. There is nothing like a sparkling beach to make you feel like you’re on vacation. Nice seemed like a relaxed and livable city, perhaps more so outside of tourist season. The cafés were surprisingly unpretentious; the food and wine were wonderful; and the streets were picturesque and full of life. It has been our pleasure to share our adventures in France with Aaron’s mother and we hope that her memories of the experience are as fond as ours.

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We left Bordeaux for Provence with visions of lavender fields dancing in our heads. On the way, though quite well out of the way, we stopped off in the tiny, stinky cheese-producing town of Roquefort-sur-Soulzon. Aaron wanted to tour the Roquefort caves where the world’s finest blue cheese is aged. We arrived at Le Papillon, makers of our favorite Roquefort, just in time for the tour. Forty-five long but educational minutes later, we purchased a trio of cheeses and a baguette and made a picnic overlooking a craggy mountain valley. Valerie had bought Aaron a beautiful cheese knife and it slid marvelously through the soft white cheeses.

We arrived in Arles at dinnertime and settled into the lovely Hotel le Cloitre in the center of town. The air was noticeably warmer in Provence than Bordeaux but the narrow streets sandwiched between beautiful stone buildings offered some reprieve from the heat. Already intrigued by the bright-colored fabrics of French Provencal décor, the narrow labyrinthine streets, and sidewalk cafés, we ventured out for a taste of the town, landing at a lovely café with a mister system, free Wi-Fi, and very large beers.

The next day we set off on a self-guided walking tour of several subjects of Van Gogh paintings. Van Gogh spent several years in Arles, immortalizing flowers, buildings, and landscapes on canvas, and was briefly committed to an insane asylum after lopping off his ear during an argument in Arles with fellow artist, Paul Gauguin. At each site, an easel displayed a reproduction of the painting so that we could compare the work to the modern day subject. It was amazing to stand on the bank of the Rhone at the near-precise spot where Starry Night Over the Rhone was created; to see the vividness of color and light in seemingly ordinary objects through the eyes of an artistic genius. The tour took us all around Arles and we stopped to peruse shops and markets as they crossed our path. A lazy café lunch and an hour’s rest recharged our batteries for our evening event: the bull races!

Built in the 1st and 2nd centuries, Arles’ Roman amphitheatre still serves as the venue for bullfighting and bull races. What is a bull race? Snarling, snorting trained bulls are pinned with special ribbons around their horns. A bull is released into the arena. Young, nimble men, dressed all in white, attempt to snatch the bull’s ribbons with tiny dull hooks. There are upwards of fifteen men playing simultaneously against a single bull and still the bull usually wins, inciting roars of applause from the fedora-clad spectators. The most exciting moments of the event are when the bull leaps over the arena wall and goes running around the perimeter until it is lured back inside. The crowd loves this. Each bull lasts about twenty minutes, daring the challengers to get close to its ferocious horns, and then the next bull enters in a rage of fury. Each bull has a unique fiery personality. Best of all, the bull is not killed at the end as it is in a bullfight. The bull lives to snarl another day!

All around Arles, I had been admiring postcards, calendars and paintings of vibrant fields of lavender. On our last day in Provence, we decided to take a drive into the countryside in search of the vivid purple hues. Heading northwest towards Avignon, we found no lavender but Avignon itself was worth a visit. The town was enclosed by a tall stone wall and the buildings within the periphery were elevated such that they rose up beyond the height of the wall. The majestic Palace of the Popes is Avignon’s most architecturally impressive and historically significant sight. It is the largest Gothic palace in the world. We wandered the streets and lingered in the courtyard of the palace for some time but our quest for lavender precluded us from going inside.

The most fruitful element of our Avignon stop was a visit to the tourist office where a woman explained in wonderful English where we could find the lavender. With renewed enthusiasm, we hopped back into the car and headed northeast toward Sault. It wasn’t long before we squealed with delight at our first glimpse of lavender fields near the golden city of Gordes, which was itself a hidden gem. Built entirely of stone and spilling down a steep mountainside, the picturesque cityscape was a stunning sight, bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. Around Gordes, we discovered sweeping mountain valleys with plots of lavender and grapevines interwoven like a patchwork quilt. The car provided us unlimited freedom to span the countryside and, between Gordes and Sault, we found more and more lavender. We drove all day, arriving back in Arles weary and satisfied with the day’s adventures. Provence, with its charming towns, artistic history, and fields of lavender, exceeded our highest expectations.

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