Moroccan Travelogue, Part 6

I thought I had seen a lot of olive trees while in Albania and Italy, but that was nothing compared to the number of olive trees I saw during my three-hour bus ride from Granada to Cordoba. I wouldn't have thought there were that many olive trees in the world, nor enough martini glasses to hold all those olives. For at least a solid hour, I saw nothing but rows of olive trees on both sides of the road, going up and over hillsides and disappearing into the horizon. They looked like they were well cared for, but I seldom saw any people or farmhouses. I'm truly baffled as to where the people come from who pick all of those olives. It looked like it would take all the people of Spain to harvest that many trees.

In Cordoba, I walked in the wrong direction when I exited the bus station and ended up in a modern residential area far from anything historical or touristy. I wandered around lost for over an hour before I gave up and returned to the bus station. Utterly defeated, I boarded a city bus as instructed by Let's Go.

I attempted to get a bed at the HI youth hostel, but all I got was one of those looks that said I should have made a reservation when I was still in high school. The Alcázar was nearby, so I decided to check it out before searching for any more hostels. I had a city map, but I still managed to miss the entrance on my first attempt and spent fifteen minutes circling the block to make a second attempt.

I found a line of people and got in it. Everyone seemed to be dressed much nicer than I was, but I didn't give it much thought. When I came to a registration table, I started to suspect something was wrong. Instead of tickets, they were giving people name badges. I asked one of the girls at the table, "Alcázar?" She just gave me a confused look. I continued to follow everyone else and came to a doorway being guarded by men in suits with handheld metal-detectors. I looked inside and saw that it was some sort of jewelry trade show.

On my third attempt, I found it. The Alcázar was built in 1328 during the Reconquest. It was a fortress and residence for Alfonso XI. From 1490 to 1821 it served as a headquarters for the Inquisition.

Does this history make it sound like a lovely place for a wedding ceremony? For someone it did, because a wedding was in progress while I was there. Inside, I had to navigate my way around men in tuxedoes. I avoided entering the room where the wedding party had assembled, but I noticed that other tourists didn't share my inhibitions. Someday, family members might question why the wedding album includes photos of people in shorts with backpacks.

Other than the wedding, there wasn't much to see on the inside. The real attraction seemed to be the manicured garden with fountains, terraced ponds, and palm trees. Near the center were three statues marking the spot where Fernando and Isabel bade Columbus farewell on his voyage to the New World.

After leaving the Alcßzar, I checked into Hostel Almanzor, which turned out to be the best hostel I ever stayed at. It looked like it had recently been remodeled with all new furnishings and the place was spotless. I even had cable television in my room, which permitted me to catch up on the war news on CNN.

The main tourist site in Cordoba is the Mezquita. Built in 784 on the site of a Visigoth basilica and then enlarged to cover an area of several city blocks, the Mezquita was once the largest mosque in the Islamic world. Along with the Alhambra, it is one of the pieces of Muslim architecture that always gets mentioned when the Islamic Empire is being hailed for its cultural achievements. You've probably seen pictures of its interior, which is distinguished by hundreds of red-and-white striped two-tiered arches.

What I never knew when I saw those pictures was that despite the distinctive Muslim design, the Mezquita exists today as a cathedral. It was converted in 1236 when the Christians conquered Cordoba. In the 16th century, a Renaissance cathedral was built right in the center of it. However, it is integrated as a single building, which makes for an odd mixture of styles. The same mixture can be seen in the tower, which is a minaret topped with a Christian bell tower.

I saw many more sites in Cordoba, but none of them were places I had heard of before arriving in Cordoba. Here's a quick list: Puente Romano, a Roman bridge built during the reign of Julius Caesar; Torre de la Calahorra, a defense tower at one end of Puente Roman built to hold of the Muslims from Granada; Museo Dio Cesano de Bellas Artes, a 17th-century palace converted into a museum housing religious paintings and tapestries by local artists; La Sinagoga, a Jewish synagogue built in 1315; and an art museum dedicated to the paintings of Romero de Torres, known for his paintings of Spanish women (nothing really dirty, though).

That evening, I finally managed to find a flamenco show I could afford. I forgot to take my camera, but I managed to hang onto the flier. What I saw looked pretty much like the photo on the flier. The three clappers were the same, but with less hair; the guitarist on the left wasn't there (he must be pursuing a solo career); and there was a different dancer. I expected a flamenco show to be mostly dancing, but it turned out to be mostly guitar playing and clapping. The solitary female dancer only did three numbers. She wore a tight black dress with a small rip at the base of her back that was a bit distracting. I kept wondering whether it was going to lead to something more--perhaps a show requiring an I.D. at the door. All things considered, it was a pretty good show for 11 euros, including one drink, but I passed up the opportunity to purchase a CD when the lead clapper visited my table.

Saturday, March 29, 2003

I walked to the train station in the rain. It's an odd station in that there are no train schedules posted anywhere. The man at the ticket counter didn't speak English, so he ended up issuing me a ticket on the high-speed train before I realized what he was doing. I had to pay almost three times as much, as a result, but it ended up saving me two hours that I was able to put to good use. I had originally planned on staying in Madrid for the night before heading to Toledo, but with the extra time, I decided to make a side-trip to El Escorial.

That would require a subway ride from the train station to the bus station in Madrid. The subway stop at the train station is one of the busiest, so I wasn't surprised to have people pressed up against me on all sides as I shuffled onto one of the subway cars. Normally in this situation, I would keep one hand on my wallet for the duration of the ride. This time, however, I was carrying a plastic sack in one hand, and had no choice but to use the other one to grip the rail overhead. Once the subway train started moving and I had steadied myself, I reached into my front pocket to make a wallet check. I felt my passport, but no wallet. There was no mistake about it--I had checked it just before stepping onto the subway train and now it was gone. "My wallet! My wallet!"

My reaction was instant. After a lifetime of patting my wallet with a frequency approaching obsessive-compulsive, I had at last fallen prey to the dreaded peril. My universe had come undone at the seams. Suddenly, it was if the subway train had jumped its tracks and was moving in all directions at once. "My wallet! My wallet!"

Could it have simply fallen out? Impossible. I was wearing loose-fitting khakis with my wallet in the front pocket, which meant that it was riding loosely, but it was a deep pocket. It would have required some pretty awkward movements to force it out inadvertently. It had certainly never happened before. Besides, it is unlikely that my wallet could have fallen out without taking my passport with it. No, I concluded I had definitely been pickpocketed. My panic intensified. "My wallet! My wallet!"

I looked around for a suspect. The only person who had been pressed up against me on my wallet side was an older gentleman wearing a nice plaid sports coat. He certainly didn't look like a pickpocket, but that's just what a pickpocket would want you to think, right? I knew that several other people could possibly have reached around me to snatch my wallet and that I didn't exactly have a bloody glove to waive in his face, but in my state of panic, I determined that I must confront the man in plaid. "My wallet! My wallet!"

I knew he didn't speak English and I was in no condition to recall any phrases from my Spanish book, such as "Give me back my wallet or I'll give you a punch in the belly," so I simply gestured with my hand for him to hand it over and mumbled something like, "Hey, hey, come on . . . " He shrugged his shoulders and acted like he was clueless. It was a blur as it happened and is an even bigger blur now that I'm trying to remember it, but I think I even grabbed a hold of his lapels for a brief moment. This might explain why I lost my balance and stumbled backwards as the subway train lurched. I steadied myself and quickly returned to face the man in plaid. When I did, he pointed down at the floor. There it was. "My wallet! My wallet!"

I snatched it up and returned it to its home. A full minute passed before it occurred to me to check its contents. Everything was there--euros, pounds, dollars, and credit card. I put it back in my pocket and maintained a death grip on it until I came to my stop.

So what had happened? Had it fallen out after all? I doubt it. My guess is that I confronted the right person. Since I was on to him so quickly, he determined that the safe thing to do was to drop my wallet when I stumbled forward and was out of eyesight. Had he not done so, he would have been running the risk that I would hold him until the policia could arrive. I also think he might have had accomplices. As soon as I got my wallet back, two other older gentlemen turned their backs to me and bent their heads forward so that I couldn't see their faces. At the very next stop, they both got off and walked quickly in opposite directions. Maybe the man in plaid had handed off my wallet to one of them and then they decided to drop it; or maybe it was someone I never even noticed. I'll never know.

In hindsight, my frenzied panic was an overreaction. All I had in my wallet was $300 in currency and one credit card. I had removed everything else as a precaution. Most of my cash was in my money belt and I had some emergency cash and some traveler's checks in my backpack. Losing my wallet would have stung, but it wasn't like I had been financially disemboweled.

This rationalization was no guard against the paranoia that descended upon me, however. For the rest of my trip, I was on guard in every crowd and on every subway train. All Spaniards were suspects. The more innocent they looked, the more reason I had to suspect them.

By the time my bus arrived in San Lorenzo del Escorial an hour and a half later, my nerves had settled and I was starting to loosen my grip on my wallet. The only reason to visit the town is to see the monastery/palace complex referred to simply as El Escorial. It was built by Felipe II to commemorate his victory over the French at the battle of San Quintin in 1557. Although its size is impressive and it was well constructed, it's not the type of structure you spend a lot of time looking at. Its rectangular shape and austere granite exterior gives it the appearance of a prison rather than a palace.

The self-guided tour got off to a slow start with several rooms devoted to an exhibition on the construction of El Escorial. The rooms were filled with architectural drawings and models and were almost devoid of tourists except for a man who must have been an architectural student, judging by the way he was talking. He wouldn't stop jabbering as he expressed excitement over this or that architectural innovation. His girlfriend did her best to fake interest. I quickly moved on. The rest of the tour included the throne room, the royal bedchambers, the library, lots of paintings, a basilica, and a crypt containing the remains of 23 Spanish monarchs.

I wanted to spend the night in San Lorenzo del Escorial, but it is an up-scale tourist town, so there were very few cheap accommodations. The youth hostel was full, so I decided to return to Madrid.

This time, I decided to stay in a part of town away from the tourist areas. For only 15 euros, I found a nice quiet pensione just around the corner from a police station. I slept well, but the past two and half weeks of hopping from town to town started to take its toll. I dreamt that I was back in Bartlesville, driving down Adams Blvd. I started reflecting upon my trip and came to realize that I couldn't remember anything about the flight back home. I tried to remember the in-flight movie, but couldn't. The last thing I could remember was checking into a pensione in Madrid. I concluded that I must still be there and was only dreaming that I was home in Bartlesville. That's when I woke up in a dark room, totally disoriented. I knew I wasn't in my bedroom, but I struggled to remember what city or what country I was in.

Sunday, March 30, 2003

As usual, I started off my morning with a walk in the rain. I took a train to the nearby town of Aranjuez. Built on a plain formed by the confluence of the Rivers Tagus and Jarama, the town has a temperate climate that is well suited for horticulture. All of the guidebooks and tourist brochures note that Aranjuez is famous for its strawberries and asparagus. (If I was advising the Aranjuez Chamber of Commerce, I'd suggest emphasizing the strawberry angle more than the asparagus.)

The town was designated a Royal Site by the House of Austria and Felipe II. Later, Felipe V, in gratitude to the people of Aranjuez for their support in the War of Succession, turned the town into a center of court activity, building parks, monuments and botanical gardens. What's neat about this is that the entire town--as opposed to a single palace--appears to have been laid out in accordance with a royal plan. It is a typical grid-pattern, but with a building of some historical or architectural significance on just about every block.

The main attraction, however, is the Palacio Real. Its origins go back to 1561, but most of the structure standing today was built at the direction of Felipe V in 1717. It has served as the summer palace for various Spanish monarchs.

I already had my fill of buildings that are invariably described as "opulent", but I felt like I should go inside at least one building in Aranjuez, so I decided to take the tour. Before going inside, I had what would prove to be an unwise money-saving idea. At almost every museum and palace I had visited, I had been forced to remove my backpack and pay a one-euro storage fee. I was getting sick of it and wasn't going to take it anymore. After looking around outside for a good hiding place, I decided to stash my backpack behind a knee-high latticed barrier that was in front of two of the locked palace doors. Yes, it was the backpack containing all of my clothes, plane ticket, emergency cash, and Berber earrings. Even as I was doing it, I knew it was a dumb thing to do, but I thought that the euphoric feeling of relief that would wash over me upon finding it undisturbed after exiting the palace would make it worth the risk. Besides, the entire palace courtyard was empty, so there was no one to see me hiding it. I thought it was unlikely that anyone would find it.

Inside the palace, I passed through a metal detector and it was only then that I spotted a big pile of bags behind the security counter. Apparently, the security guards were tossing people's bags there and not charging for the service. That meant I had left my backpack unattended for no reason. I couldn't simply turn around and go get it because the exit was through another room. When I tried to head in that direction, a guard pointed me back towards the tour entrance. I could have explained that I left my bag outside, but then I would have looked like an idiot. Which is worse--looking like an idiot, or actually being an idiot and hiding it? I try not to dwell upon such questions.

The compulsory guided tour lasted about 30 minutes. It was all in Spanish, so I didn't get much out of it. I would look in the direction the guide was pointing and would nod my head along with everyone else, but I didn't have a clue what was being said. My thoughts were on my backpack, anyway.

The sites inside the palace were pretty much what you would expect--a bunch of art and ostentatious furniture. There was even a baby's toilet with a velvet seat. The most ridiculous item, however, was the velvet-covered dumbbells in the exercise room.

As soon as our guide released us, I exited the palace quickly for obvious reasons. But I was too late--my backpack was gone. After the pickpocket incident, you might think that I would have had a major panic attack, but surprisingly, I remained relatively calm. I knew that if anyone had found it, it was probably security personnel. Sure enough, one of the guards spotted me looking for it and she immediately pointed me in the direction of the security desk inside. That was a relief, but at the same time, I was dreading the humiliation to come.

The female guard said something in Spanish to the guards at the desk. I'm guessing it was something along the lines of, "He's the idiot." One of the guards retrieved my backpack from another room and then called a man in a suit who appeared to be the head of security. He asked to see my passport and he compared it with the nametag hanging from my backpack. (Fortunately, I had affixed that nametag to my backpack that very morning.) He handed me the backpack and I waited for the lecture that I thought was sure to come about how I almost caused the evacuation of the palace, but he just let me go. He had probably already determined that I didn't fit the profile of a Basque separatist, but it's more likely that the language barrier was what saved me from a tongue-lashing.

Aranjuez is a beautiful little town, so I spent an hour or so just walking the streets and strolling through the gardens and along the river banks before returning to the train station.

My next stop was the city of Toledo. Originally, it hadn't been on my itinerary, but I ended up with two extra days to kill, so I decided to take it in. It turned out to be my favorite Spanish city; I just loved the looks of it. It's a city with a lot of history and the fortified walls and medieval architecture reflect that. The city is built on top of a plateau with a river wrapping half way around its base, thereby creating the feel of being on a peninsula. There was something to look at everywhere I walked. It was a really bad time for both of my cameras to stop working. All I have to remember Toledo by is a post card.

There were certainly a lot of tourists in Toledo, but because the medieval part of the city is isolated from the modern part, there was very little traffic and I never felt a crush of people. This made for a relaxing atmosphere. The streets were winding pathways like in a Moroccan medina, but much cleaner and without any hustlers.

To top it all off, there was marzipan--lots of it. As soon as I read that Toledo is known for its pastries, I knew I had found a city worthy of a two-night stay. Pastries will win out over asparagus every time.

There was a youth hostel in an annex building attached to a really cool looking castle, but it was closed for renovations, so I ended up checking into Pension Castilla. My room was nice and the couple who owned the place were pleasant people.

There was some daylight left, so I went for a walk and ended up at the Cathedral. It was built between 1226 and 1498, but the original church building was built as early as 578. It became a mosque and then the mosque became a cathedral. Beneath the dome is the Capilla Mozarabe, the only place where the ancient Visigoth mass (in Mozarabic) is still held. The Cathedral also contains the tomb of Cardinal Mendoza, founder of the Spanish Inquisition. I'm sure he must love resting directly across the street from an establishment called the Evil Rock Club, which has a grinning devil on its marquee.

For supper, I had a tuna and tomato sandwich at a bar and then bought something like strudel at a marzipan shop before returning to my room for the night.