by Ellen Johnston
“Dry land, still land of immense nights,” wrote Federico García Lorca in his Poem of the Soleá. “(Wind in the olive grove, wind in the sierra.),” the poem continues, “Old land of oil lamps and sorrow. Land of deep cisterns. Land of death without eyes and of arrows. (Wind along the roadways. Breeze in the poplars.)”
García Lorca’s words are evocative of the place he came from: Andalucía, Spain’s arid southern-most region. Perched on the Mediterranean and looking towards North Africa, Andalucía has never forgotten its Moorish past, nor its legacy of multiculturalism – part Jewish, part Gypsy, part Arab, part Berber and, of course, part Spanish. The Soleá to which García Lorca refers represents this inheritance exactly, as it is one of the most basic forms of Flamenco music, a genre that arose in Andalucía out of Sephardic religious songs, Arab tonalities and Gypsy traditions. It is the music of great emotion and suffering, like the landscape itself, traditionally one of the poorest in Spain, yet also the most culturally rich. It’s no surprise then that García Lorca was inspired by this place, and even more specifically by Granada, home of Flamenco, the last holdout of Moorish Spain, and the city in which he lived a large part of his life.
Of course, to say that Granada is the home of Flamenco is a very controversial thing. Seville also claims this title, and competition between the two cities is fierce. But whatever your opinion on the matter, it is undeniable that Flamenco inhabits every nook and cranny of this place, from the street corners where buskers play for spare change, to the smoke-filled caves of Sacromonte (the traditional Gypsy quarter), to the grand stages that draw large tourist crowds.
To visit Federico García Lorca’s Granada, a stop to hear Flamenco is essential. He was obsessed with the genre, and with the Cante Jondo (the singing upon which it is based, translated into English as “the deep song”) in particular. He once said that “it is wondrous and strange how an anonymous popular poet can condense all the highest emotional moments in human life into a three- or four-line stanza”. García Lorca saw Flamenco as the invocation of the human soul, and was preoccupied with the notion of “duende”, which roughly translates as being possessed of that soul. “Everything that has black sounds in it,” he once wrote, “has duende”. “All arts are capable of duende, but where it finds greatest range, naturally, is in music, dance and spoken poetry, for these arts require a living body to interpret them, being forms that are born, die, and open their contours against an exact present.”
When García Lorca wrote about his Granada, he was keenly aware of living in a forgotten, lost world, not only inhabited by Gypsies, but also by those who came before. When the Moors ruled Spain, a policy of tolerance called La Convivencia (the Coexistence) led to the creation and preservation of a very multicultural society. While Spanish tradition sees this era as a dark period before the glorious Catholic Reconquest, Lorca felt quite the opposite. For him it was a Golden Age of reason and beauty, lost. However, traces of this world still remain in Granada to this day – in the terraced gardens of the Jewish quarter, in the winding narrow streets of the Albayzín (the Muslim quarter), and in the many churches that were once mosques (and mosques that were once churches) sprinkled throughout the city.
The most direct example of this co-oexistence can be found in the church and mirador (plaza and viewpoint) of San Nicolás, located in the Albayzín, a short walk up the hill from the traditionally Christian city centre. Together, they encapsulate Lorca’s Granada perfectly: the church’s mujedar architecture hints at past architects and worshippers, buskers play Flamenco in the plaza, and the view from its stone wall provides a glorious window into the city’s grandiose, dramatic past. There, across the way, lies the hilltop Moorish fortress of the Alhambra, with the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains towering above.
It’s not worth dwelling too much on the Alhambra, as every guide book on Granada mentions it, and it’s an absolute must-see whether you’re following in the footsteps of García Lorca or not. However, it is important to understand that it is one of the greatest examples of medieval Islamic architecture in the world, and that the soul of the city is inherent within its walls: in all that was lost, in all that was built over, and in the mysterious, magical energy that remains, nonetheless. In fact, García Lorca was so moved by the energy of this place that he chose it to be the staging ground for the Concurso de Cante Jondo, a contest of the Deep Song that he helped to organize in 1922. If you visit Granada in June, you can catch a glimpse of this contest’s modern descendant: the International Festival of Music and Dance, which features music concerts, dances and traditional Flamenco events, all on the grounds of the ancient red fortress.
While the Alhambra is the most significant and audacious example of the ancient cultural mix that García Lorca so revered, there are many much smaller, simpler pleasures that tell the same story. Among the lovelier of the city’s customs is the tradition of convent sweets, baked good that are made and sold by cloistered nuns. The recipes are as old as the city itself, influenced by ingredients brought by foreign invaders: almonds, spices and citrus peels, among others. Because the nuns are cloistered, an unusual retail system prevails in order to actually buy these sweets. Upon arrival at a convent (of which there are many sprinkled throughout the city), you are greeted by a buzzer, a price list and a lazy Susan. When you’ve made your order, the lazy Susan spins, revealing tasty treats. An honor system prevails, and you pay the same way, via another spin.
Of course, there are also several more official sites in the city and surrounding areas to which a Lorca pilgrim can visit: the Huerta de San Vicenta (the Lorca family summer home, now a museum), and a statue of the poet in the city center, for example. But if you’re looking for an intoxicating scent of the city and the region and the history that so bewitched Lorca, rather than just the edifices that commemorate him, it is words, more than anything, that will do the job.
Here are some to ponder:
Demasiado tiempo, nos hemos quedado solos sin saber nada,
y hemos olvidado el olor a jazmín de tus jardines.
Y poco a poco, hemos olvidado tu idioma….
Aquel de nuestra madre.”For too long we have been waiting alone without knowing anything,
and we have forgotten the smell of jasmine in your gardens.
And little by little, we have forgotten your language…
That of our mother.”
These words are not Lorca’s. They are older. Canto Jondo, perhaps even words he knew and carried with him when he left his to city to live in the snows of New York, and the austere streets of Madrid. Are they the words of a gypsy forever on the move? Of a Moorish poet, exiled from the Andalucía he loved? Of a Jewish converso, a foreigner in his own land? Of an immigrant far from home? Did they ring through Lorca’s head when he was murdered by the Fascists, who were trying, like Queen Isabella in 1492, to yet again to suppress ‘otherness’ in Spain? The words come from a song of loss, and yet also from a song of fighting against forgetting. The duende. The smell of the jasmine, and all it encompasses. That is Lorca’s Granada.
Author’s notes:
♦ The words I refer to at the end come from the Flamenco song called “La Molinera”.
♦ The words “Gypsy” and “Moor” are outdated, and politically incorrect in many cases. However, I have retained their usage in this piece for literary and historically appropriate reasons. “Moor” encompasses more than “Arab” or “Berber”, and to refer to them as the “Muslim and occasionally North African residents/invaders of Spain” is a bit clunky. I used “Gypsy” because it is the word used in Lorca’s texts, and is still the dominant usage in Spain, including in the Gitano community (the Spanish word for “Gypsy”). However, they are part of the European Romani community, which is the more politically correct and modern term.
Alhambra Private Tour from Seville
If You Go:
♦ Sacromonte, the previously mentioned Gypsy quarter, is the most traditional spot to see Flamenco in Granada. In many cases, simply walking into the hills and asking around is the best way to find performances, though there are also several venues that advertise and sell tickets in advance. Avoid the tourist traps which charge 20 euros and up. Auditorio La Chumbera runs shows almost every night at 9pm, with tickets costing only €8.
♦ Several places to get convent sweets include: the Real Monasterio de la Madre de Dios de las Comendadoras de Santiago, the Monasterio de San Jerónimo, and the Convento Santo Tomas de Villanueva Agustinas Recoletas.
♦ Buses are cheap, frequent, clean and provide an easy way to get around Andalucía. Both Cordoba and Seville are only two hours away.
♦ Granada is one of the few places in Spain where tapas are served as originally intended: free, provided you buy a drink. It’s a student town, so the options are plenty! Beer and wine tend to cost only about one euro, so you can try many tapas without breaking the bank.
Alhambra, Nasrid Palaces, Generalife and Alcazaba Private Tour in Granada
About the author:
Ellen Johnston is a cultural nomad — a traveller, writer and musician who bounces all over the world. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she has West Coast roots, a Mediterranean soul and a Chilanga heart, thanks to a recent stint in the Mexican capital. She currently resides in the San Francisco Bay Area, trying to soak up a little of all three. You can find links to her other writing and photography at www.chamacaloca.wordpress.com
All photos by Ellen Johnston.
In order to understand Prague’s revolution, one must understand what led to it, and there’s nothing better than the Communism museum for this. The museum is full of exhibits of life under the regime, though one gets the feeling that it’s rather tongue in cheek, given the postcards devoted to life under Communism – “You couldn’t get laundry detergent, but you could get your brainwashed”; “It was a time of happy, shiny people. The shiniest were in the uranium mines.” That was my first clue that music had something to do with all of this dark history.
The Prague Spring came about in 1968, when reformist Alexander Dubcek was elected as the First Secretary of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia. Reforms by Dubcek were intended to grant more rights to citizens, including loosening strict restrictions on media – for the first time, young Czechs could listen to the Beatles on the radio. That was one thing that surprised me as I wandered the Communist museum – how willing locals were to seek out their favorite rock groups from America, buying records on vinyl from Western Europe and listening to them in secret.
Inspired by the Velvet Underground, a group of Prague natives formed a band called the Plastic People of the Universe, just a month after the Prague Spring was suppressed by Warsaw Pact troops and just after Jan Palach, a philosophy student, set himself on fire on Wenceslas Square, issuing a warning before his death not to follow in his footsteps, a warning displayed on the walls of the Communism museum. The Plastic People played psychedelic garage rock typical of American FM stations of the time – led by front man Milan Hlavsa, a butcher by training, the group sang controversial songs of freedom, first in English, then in Czech. Their first studio album was called “Egon Bondy’s Happy Hearts Club Banned,” an ironic spin on poems by outlawed Czech poet Egon Bondy and the everpresent Liverpudlian Fab Four.
In 1970, the Communist government revoked the license for the Plastics to perform in public, forcing them to take the second part of the band title that had so inspired them literally – the Plastics were going underground. For years, they remained relatively off the radar, until 1976, when they played a music festival in the town of Bojanvovice, leading to arrests of all of the band members on charges of “subversive activities against the state.”
Marta Kubisova is just one of the many Czechs who was inspired by the “Hey Jude” single. The actress and singer first graced the public eye when “Prayer for Marta” became a symbol of national resistance in 1968, during the Prague Spring. And in the same year, when “Hey Jude” was released, Marta adapted it, releasing her own translated version in 1969 – the cover made her a local star.
Today, the John Lennon wall still attracts hundreds of tourists, who come to look at the ever-changing paintings. The Knights of Malta have long since ceased trying to stop the graffiti. But while John Lennon is a meaningful symbol for many, it’s hard to understand just how much his music meant to young Czechs in the 80s.
The wall first popped up in 1980, just after Lennon’s death, just a few years before Prague students took to the streets. The wall was created in memory of the man who, for them, embodied the freedom and liberation they so craved. “Lennonism,” then, a celebration of freedom and independence, became the counterpoint to Communism, and the evidence remains in Prague today, years after the fall of the Iron Curtain.
When, just over a week ago, I arrived in Valencia, Spain’s third largest city located on the Mediterranean and full of history, I did so, literally, with a bang. It’s the time of year when a spectacular festival, known as Las Falles, is celebrated, culminating on the 19th of March with a parade of gigantic ninots, papier-mâché effigies which are, at the end, burnt in a massive bonfire to chase winter out and welcome spring. Fireworks, crackers, you name it, anything which makes noise and has color will assault the senses.
The story of the Holy Grail or chalice, which is the cup Jesus supposedly used during the Last Supper, has fired the imagination over centuries. Did it survive, where was it, is the story really true?
Given the many legends, it is not surprising that there are more than one chalice which lay claim to being the ‘real thing’. It will appear though that the chalice kept in the cathedral of Valencia has the most valid claim to authenticity. At least, it has been the official papal chalice for centuries, last used as such by Pope Benedict XVI in June 2006. It was given to the cathedral of Valencia by King Alfonso V of Aragon in 1436.
It’s very easy to get around Valencia’s historic center on foot, leading past several other landmarks like the Central Market and La Lonja de la Seda, the silk exchange. The cathedral was consecrated in 1238 and is basically a Gothic structure. Built over a former Visgothic cathedral which was turned into a mosque during the occupation by the Arabs, the cathedral also shows Romanesque, Renaissance, Baroque and Neo Classical elements. What first catches the eye is Miguelete, the octagonal bell tower which looms up near the main portal and can be climbed, offering a fabulous view over the city, port and river.
A richly decorated interior, particularly the blue and gold ceilings and many important paintings leaves art lovers mute in admiration. And then, on your right, in a chapel of its own, there it is: the Holy Grail. I was a bit disappointed, because you can’t really get close to see the cup. Not only is it kept in an illuminated glass show case, but it’s also roped off quite a distance away. Even so, remembering all the stories about the quest of finding the grail and then standing there, close to what many believe and archaeologists have confirmed to be the chalice used at the Last Supper, gave me a frisson. Experiencing history up close and personal always is a thrill.
Created for mules and packhorses, the narrow streets are steep and best experienced on foot. We park the car and explore this village of Moorish roots dating back to 1448. A map painted on a whitewashed wall provides a guide around the historic section. We wander the almost perpendicular avenues, passing quaint tiled courtyards decorated with flowers and greenery in terracotta pots. The pristine white houses accented with charming old wooden doors are postcard worthy. We soon reach Juana de Escalante Passage, the remainder of the centre of the old Muslim town, tucked in a side street.
This was the site of a Moorish rebellion in 1568. The niece of the cleric, Juana de Escalante, stopped the rebels by throwing stones at them from the tower until aid came from Marbella. All that remains is the site the tower once stood on, the round archway and the courtyard through which horses passed through on the way to the stables. Standing there I sense the walls could tell many stories over the centuries. I look down and observe the detailed tile work on the ground. It is a work of art.
Throughout the village is a series of water fountains providing fresh water for the inhabitants over the centuries. The fountains are as attractive as functional; decorated with blue and white tiles, some painted with scenes of the area. The mountain water is prized for its purity.
The ruin of Montségur perches on a hilltop in the foothills of the Pyrenees. My arduous climb to this lonely crag is rewarded with panoramic views of lush hillsides dotted with purple blooming wild sage and silent sheep. All that remains of the castle are crumbling walls and part of a keep. A sighing wind whispers over the walls.
In contrast to the desolate loneliness of Montségur castle, Mirepoix is a bustling market town. Pastel coloured, half-timbered houses above wood frame arcades line the main square. Gargoyles on the church supervise the crowds around the curlicue adorned market. At the other end of the square sits the 14th century town hall. Each decorative wooden beam has a different carved head, demon, or animal.
On the opposite end of the spectrum from Montségur’s crumbling castle are the immaculately restored walls, bastions, and towers of Carcassonne’s Cité. Viewed across vineyards, the fortress stands as if from a fairy tale. Fortified since Roman times, Carcassonne was a Cathar stronghold in the Middle Ages. In the 1800s, Viollet-le-Duc imaginatively restored the double walls and the chateau they shelter. At a time when so many of France’s monuments were being neglected, he rallied for restoration. The project took fifty years and sadly, he did not live to see its glorious completion.
Inside the fortress, crowded narrow streets are lined with souvenir stands, restaurants, and half-timbered houses. I wander past patrons dining at tables under a leafy canopy, artists painting water colours and children in crusader outfits brandishing plastic swords. Two falconers, with their beady-eyed charges gripping their leather-gloved arms, add to the medieval atmosphere. On the grass lices between the long inner and outer sheer rock walls, I stroll in relative solitude past black slate roofed towers and square cut bastions. Carcassonne is a World Heritage Site and the fortress, while impressive by day, is stunningly lit at night. As the evening sky fades to a dusky blue and the spotlights come on, the fairy tale towers and walls glow golden. I readily imagine a centurion slowly patrolling the walls.
If You Go:
