Spain: Part 1 of 3

Wes and Marlow

Spain Report 1 of 3

We are en route home. I thought I would find time to send updates from the road. I did not anticipate that Spain, which we know so well, would fascinate us more than ever. We found the cities–large, small and smaller–so interesting that we wandered and poked our noses into places familiar and unfamiliar. The time flew by. I wrote very little. Here are my make-up updates.

In three installments I will attempt to breeze through some highlights.

Previously, I mentioned our apartment in Barcelona's Eixample neighborhood. There, the avenues are promenades shaded by trees and the buildings are spectacular architectural gems.




And I mentioned bicycling, for miles, at the waterfront.


Also at the waterfront, we succumbed to overeating the fascinating, fresh, bold and delicious, whimsical food.


This trip comes during the construction of a garage and guesthouse at home. Our inspiration for it's design is the Farnsworth House by Mies van der Rohe.  We were pleased to see in person, in Barcelona, on a hill, in a park, one of his iconic buildings known as the Barcelona Pavilion. It was Germany's entry for the World Exposition of 1929.  It is free of doors and there is only one central room. We were able to freely walk through it.


After four days in Barcelona, friends, from Santa Fe, New Mexico, arrived and from that point on we were a quartet.

To celebrate their arrival we ate at Siete Puertas. Actually we celebrated their arrival at several places. The first place, Cañete, (recommended by our Barcelona guru) was an oasis of elegance on an inelegant street. There, we sipped Manzanilla sherry from San Lucar de Barrameda, and ate fried eggplant, and shrimp in garlic, and garlic toast smeared with tomato, and dipped spoons into salmorejo, which is akin to gazpacho, but with fewer ingredients: tomatoes, garlic, crustless bread, olive oil and Jerez sherry vinegar, blended into an emulsion. It is thicker than gazpacho, and can be eaten as soup or used to dip things into. Getting back to Siete Puertas. Our travel companion, Sam, first ate there in 1957!  At that time, it was one hundred and twenty years old. Today, the experience is much the same as fifty years ago. It turns back the hands of time to an era of old world elegance and a slower pace. It is for us a necessary destination on our Barcelona pilgrimage. We always take a meal or two or three there on each trip. When your bill arrives you are reminded of who else has eaten there. They note, "at your table, ate" Che Guevara, Miro, Salvador Dali, Picasso, King such and such, President so and so. And of literary significance, in one of the rooms, Garcia Lorca first read his poem, A Poet in New York.

Just before the trip, I saw a photo of Picasso wearing espadrille shoes. They looked comfortable. Comfortable shoes are always welcome. Picasso shopped for espadrilles in Barcelona at La Manual Alpargatera. The shop is still there, old, popular and family run. The handmade shoes consist of soles fashioned from of a length of rope, coiled flat, into the contour of a foot. A canvas top is sewn on. And a thin layer of rubber is affixed to the bottom.  There is nothing chic or glamorous about the shoes or the store or it's clerks, but the place is busy with fashionistas and plain folk like me. We bought a couple pair.

We left Barcelona, headed north and west, by train, for our next destination, Santo Domingo de la Calzada, in the province of La Rioja. The train let us off in Logroño. Wes rented a car and took us into town. Just off the Logroño town square (which is ringed with leafy manicured plane trees) we found a circuit of narrow pedestrian streets lined with eateries. One eatery with a grill in the front was cooking large mushroom caps. They smelled good.  I asked to see a menu.  She said, no menu, all we cook are mushrooms. The street was jammed with similar "one item"
eateries. We had a delicious wine that night. One Euro (US $1.25) a glass. Tasted fresh off the vines, fruity, light, like fresh squeezed grape, but not sweet. We had arrived into the La Rioja region of vineyards and wineries. About the manicured plane trees, they are planted in a row. Select branches from tree one are bent and attached to select branches from tree two. Eventually, they fuse. When the trees are totally leafy they form a continuous uninterrupted canopy of green.

From Logroño, we drove forty minutes to Santo Domingo de la Calzada, a walled stone village with a big history. About one thousand years ago there lived a man named Domingo Garcia. All he desired was to do good works. After being rejected by monasteries he struck out alone to make life easier for the pilgrims on the route to Santiago de Compostela.  

For more than one thousand and one hundred years—since the Christians beat off the Islamic Moors aided by Saint James (Santiago) who appeared, flying on a horse, with a sword—people have walked on pilgrimage to the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela in the north western most part of Spain. Beneath a blindingly gold, larger than life altar, and in a silver casket, are the reputed bones of Saint James.  The pilgrims today walk from all over Spain and also from France and Germany. Without question it is an intense personal journey for those who walk. Getting back to Domingo Garcia, his village had a river impeding the route of the pilgrims.  To smooth their way he built a bridge.  Then to enable them to rest he built a shelter and hospital. That building is now a hotel, the Parador de Santo Domingo de la Calzada where we stayed.


It is a compact building of only two floors tall, but it is built with massive stones.  It is more posh and luxurious than in Domingo's time, but in a way it still serves as a place to rest and recovery on one's journey. Domingo Garcia, after his death—at age ninety—was sainted. His name was transformed to Santo Domingo. And the Order of the Dominican Friars was created in his name and honor. Here is pilgrim Wesley on the Camino.

Just across the cobblestone lane is a cathedral with Santo Domingo's tomb. Also, there are a resident chicken and a rooster.  In the fourteenth-Century a girl fell in love with a boy. He rejected her.  She  plotted revenge. She planted a silver object in his pocket then turned him in. He was convicted of theft and hung. His parents, when they went to view the body, found him alive. Santo Domingo, the dead saint, had witnessed the injustice and rescued him. The shocked parents visited a local magistrate at his dinner table. They said, "our son is alive". To which he replied, "your son is no more alive than this hen and this rooster on my dinner platter". Immediately, the hen and the rooster stood and danced on the platter.  Miracle complete. To honor the miracle, in the cathedral, opposite the tomb of Santo Domingo, high up on an ornate wall, there is a luxury coop with a live hen and a live rooster.

The end of part one.