Day of books and roses

Today (April 23) is the Festival of Sant Jordi, and although this is my first, it is already my favorite. Sant Jordi (St. George, of the dragon) is Catalunya's patron saint. Since medieval times it has been traditional to give gifts of roses on this day. In the early 20th century the custom of exchanging books was added.

Although this most Catalan of holidays occurs on a workday, the Ramblas and plazas are jammed with people buying books from the many vendors who have set up tables, and roses of every color, although red is traditional. Each rose is combined with a stalk of wheat.

I asked Barbara, my Catalan landlady, to explain the meaning of this festival, and here is what she so beautifully wrote:

For Catalunya, the day of Sant Jordi is the day of: a) the rose, which symbolizes love and the commitment to family, one’s partner, and loved ones; and b) the book, which symbolizes the culture and reading, and which permits the meeting between the authors of books and their readers. But also it is the day of catalanidad. For a Catalan, the day of Sant Jordi is a workday that is lived with the collective enthusiasm of a holiday, a day of which all the citizens feel proud. The wheat [stalk that is included with the rose] can have two meanings: first work (one of the identifying characteristics of the Catalan population); and second, the yellow color, which along with the red of the rose, constitutes the Catalan flag: Yellow with four bars of red, which [symbolize those] a king painted with his fingers with the blood from a mortal war wound.

In the tradition of Sant Jordi, I share with you here a poem by the Catalan poet
Maria-Antonia Salva (1869-1958):

Like a monstrous reptile with spotted skin,
with slimy entrails, it lay
in its corner drinking in the sunlight.
All at once, its malice awakened,
reviving, it cracked the flowerpot.
Beyond the orchard, to be lost track of,
it was hurled over an arid wall,
and after a time, upon the rugged stones,
poking among the crevices and seams,
I found the old dragon still raging and clinging.

City of pomegranates

[NOTE: first of a series of posts describing my recent journey to Andalucia in the south of Spain with my friend Barry from California.]


Granada: the name evokes the mystery and grandeur of the authentic Spain, the Spain of flamenco, bullfights, Moorish palaces, olives, and oranges. Indeed, we were on the trail of Moorish Spain in the era before the Catholic Kings, Ferdinand and Isabela, banished the Muslim conquerors on the Iberian Peninsula, ending centuries of Islamic rule and sweeping the long-established Jewish population from its territories.

'Granada' means pomegranate, and Granada is named for the three pomegranates on the mighty gate that stands guard over the entrance to the Alhambra, the legendary fortified complex dating from the 11th century.

Present-day Granada is a serene, lyrically beautiful city of small squares, gitanos (gypsies), guitar makers, university students, Arabic baths, and dignified elders, dominated by the Alhambra and spanning both banks of the quiet Darro river. A walk through the narrow, steep maze of the Sacromonte - the old gitano quarter - is punctuated by the ruffle of guitar chords from the open doors of artesanal guitar makers or floating down from a second-story window where a guitarrista is practicing; by a spontaneous outburst of hoarse, complex flamenco song from a dark young girl crouched in a doorway with her little brother.

We are to be two days in Granada, one of them to be spent navigating the sprawling complex of the Alhambra. We have secured lodging in a clean, modest hostal in the former Jewish quarter. All of the cities we will visit in Andalucia will have a former Jewish quarter, their ancient sinagogas and baths faint echoes of once-thriving communities where three cultures coexisted more or less in peace. Our room overlooks a bustling square ringed with bars and second-hand clothing stores that is criss-crossed by students hurrying to their university classes.

Soon after arriving, a happy discovery: Every drink ordered in a bar comes with a free tapa, or little snack! We immediately feel welcomed. According to tradition, tapas originated in just this way, a savory mouthful on a small plate placed on top of the drink. ('Tapa' means 'cover.')

We have arrived on the heels of an uncharacteristic cold spell, and we bundle up and head out to sample the local cuisine. In a tiny restaurant we are introduced to a version of gazpacho (originating in Cordoba) called almorejo, a thick and creamy salmon-colored cold puree of bread, tomatoes and garlic garnished with hard-boiled egg and slivers of ham.

We have pre-purchased our entrance tickets to the Alhambra, probably Spain's most-visited monument. Its red-tinged walls and towers loom over the city, framed by the snow-covered peaks of the Sierra Nevada. To read about its history, click on this link: http://www.andalucia.com/cities/granada/alhamhistory.htm. We set out early in the morning and expend much shoe-tread and camera battery life wandering nearly all day amongst the battlements, towers, gardens, palaces, fountains and stone paths that form this amazing complex. We marvel at the extensive system of sluices, canals and gates that regulate the flow of water for cultivation and undoubtedly in ancient days, human consumption and bathing as well as filling the many fountains and pools. We are amazed by the different architectural styles ranging from pure Islamic through mudejar (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mudejar) to Renaissance. We wander alone in the crowds with our audio guides and the words of Washington Irving, whose residency within the Alhambra walls inspired "Tales of the Alhambra."

Thoroughly footsore from traipsing over large, uneven cobblestones, we book a soak at the Baños Arabes, a faithful reproduction of a Moorish bath house. The long, shallow hot mineral pool reflects the flickers of dozens of candles as does the exquisitely tiled, vaulted ceiling. Silence reigns, broken only by discreet splashes and the sharp intake of breath accompanying a dip into the cold plunge. We sip hot, sugary mint tea and are blissed out.

By the next morning we have settled the question of where to spend our one unscheduled night between Granada and Cordoba. Havingprovisioned ourselves with excellent local salami, cheese and bread, we board a comfortable coach bus for Ubeda, a small city in the heart of olive country - Jaen province - renowned for its gorgeous Renaissance square.

Click here to see more photos from Granada:

Barcelona kids

The much-needed thundershower having paused for breath and the sun begun to shine brilliantly, I ventured up the street to buy a baguette, noting somewhat unhappily that the rain had reconstituted the dried dog turds on the sidewalk. My excursion coincided exactly with the moment in which the schools let out (the school day here ends at 5 p.m.), and the panaderia (bakery) swarmed with parents and their children clamoring for their merienda (afternoon snack): chocolate-swathed donuts, candies, croissants. Some were accompanied by a grandmother or grandfather, attesting to what I am told is a failing of the Spanish social system, the lack of affordable child care, so that families with children do not move far from their parents, who look after the grandchildren while the parents work.

As before, I was struck by the warmth of the interactions between children and their guardians. Catalan kids are coddled, hugged, kissed, petted, indulged, and affectionately scolded or regaled to a very great degree. Fathers are very involved, and indeed, Spanish fathers (while largely denied custody rights by the socially conservative courts) are entitled to paternity leave nearly equal to that afforded to mothers. Despite all this coddling (or perhaps because of it), Catalan children grow up to be hard-working, responsible, and well-behaved (if you overlook their refusal to relinquish territory on the sidewalks, perhaps a result of their sense of entitlement). The family is prioritized here, which may be one reason why it can be difficult for a foreigner to break into the social structure of the reserved and businesslike Catalans: between work and family gatherings, there is little time for socializing. How different from our own American culture, in which families are scattered to all corners of the continent and sadly, often do not even know their grandparents. The flip side here, though, is that families can be over-controlling and intrusive. So, which system is better?