Distant and lonely

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Cordoba.
Distant and lonely.

Black pony, full moon,
and olives in my saddlebag.
Well as I know the roads,
I shall never reach Cordoba.

Over the plain, through the wind,
Black pony, red moon.
Death keeps a watch on me
from the towers of Cordoba.

Oh, such a long way to go!
And, oh, my spirited pony!
Ah, but death awaits me,
before I ever reach Cordoba.

Cordoba.
Distant and lonely.

                                                   - Federico Garcia Lorca, 1921

I got to Cordoba late. Just after 12:00 midnight my train pulls in to the grand, newly built train station. I haven't made any reservations for a hostel or the like, so I grab some change and go over to the phone. Flick through the guidebook and dial the first number. No answer. Second, fax machine. Third, wrong number. Fourth, wrong number. I look at my guidebook. It's from 2004. Fifth, full. Sixth, full, but I am welcome mañana, they say. Mañana, mañana, what good is mañana? I flip through the pages frantically, but I've run out of numbers. So, que sera, que sera, I resign myself to fate and my deficiency in preparation skills. I roll up some shirts and make a pillow, buy some junk food from the vending machines, pull out a book, and settle down for a night in the Hotel Estacion de Tren. I look around and see a couple in the seats further down. I go over and make conversation. They are husband and wife, I think in their late 40's. They are from Romania, here in Spain to find work. On illegal visas, of course. They have four children back home, they tell me, ages 2, 5, 9, and 13. They have been picking olives in Jaen, east of here, for the past 2 months but the work there stopped. So tomorrow they take a bus to one of the olive groves around to try and find more work. They ask a bit about me. I feel guilty telling them I am here to travel and enjoy and eat and play around. They say I must be lucky to live in Australia. Yes, I am, I say. We are communicating in very basic Spanish and after a while there is nothing left to say. So I go over back to my makeshift bed. I no longer feel the need to complain. I have money and food and a book. Tomorrow I have a place to go. I am lucky, yes. 

The next day I leave early in the morning, get to the hostel, dump my bags and sleep for hours. When I get up I breakfast and off to the Mezquita I skip.

The Mezquita is one of the most gorgeous and awe-inspiring buildings I've seen yet. I walk in through an open courtyard full of orange trees and fountains to the builiding itself. Walking in what catches the eye are the columns and arches, rows and rows of them, supposedly over 1,000 columns made of jasper, onyx, marble and granite. There are two arches connecting each column, one on top of the other. These have an eye-catching candy stripe colour, created by alternating brick and stone. What ruins the harmony of the structure is the Renaissance cathedral nave constructed in the middle by Catholic ruler Carlos V. It's very impressive but does not belong in the original building.

What everybody comes to see is the mihrab, the prayer niche, of the old mosque. It is a masterpiece of architectural art, geometric designs of plants and Koranic verse, the entire thing glowing bright yellow.  After lingering for some hours I'm ushered out by the guards at closing time.

The next day, up bright and early I take a bus out of town to see the Medina Alzahara, old palace built by Moorish gold in typical splendour, today just ruins. The bus lets me off at an intersection and I have to walk the remaining five or so kilometres. I try hitching but no luck. Eventually when I get to complex the gate is shut and deadlocked; the site is closed. It is Monday, most musuems and sites are closed Mondays in Spain. The sign above the gate mocks me. Lunes cerrado you moron, it says. I look both ways, no-one else is around, only the storks that concentrically fly around their nests. In a few minutes I manage to hop over the fence. I giggle in glee, the entire ruins of a Moorish palace all to myself. But before I make a move a large pair of hands are on my shoulders and twirling me around. It is the groundskeeper in his muddy overalls, yelling at me in a Spanish so fast it sounds like garbled pig-latin. But he's not really angry, he starts to smile when he realises I can't understand a word. Then he leads me out and points to the sign, grinning. "Mira chico. Lunes...cerrado." "Si, si, vale, vale" I nod. The Spanish say vale a lot, it means okay. I trudge down the path for the walk back. But I get lucky and thumb a lift with a fellow going back to the city. His name is Jose. He works for a fair trade company and tells me all about it. I really dig him. The terribly nice guy gives me a company calendar and other things and sees me off.

The day after this is my last day in Cordoba. I head to the Casa Andalucie, an old Jewish house rebuilt in Moorish style, fountain, ceramics and all. The owner speaks some Persian, he studies Middle Eastern music. We talk for a while and then I head off. In the street a gypsy women grabs me and forces an olive wreath into my hand. My other hand she takes and proceeds to read it, predicting me great wealth and fortunes of course. I only have fifty Euro cents to pay her and she stumbles off, mumbling and grumbling to herself.

I head to the Mezquita again and take dozens of photos, none of which I am really happy with. I meet a French couple travelling around Europe on bike, we talk a while about my time in Paris. I stroll some more in the evening and walk past the town hall which has a great big poster up advertising a Willy Ronis exhibition, "the best of the French photographer's work", it proclaims. I saunter in and thoroughly fall in love with a picture of a boy running along the footpath with baguette in hand; marvel at its simple, everyday beauty.

As I walk out of the exhibition, before I've even put my jacket on, the heavens let loose and a great torrential downpour has me utterly, utterly soaked in seconds. This is not welcome news, my schedule is tight: I need to cash a traveller's cheque, get back to my hostel, pick up my bag, pay the place, get to the bus station and make the 9:00 bus to Sevilla. I take the cheque out of my pocket. It is utterly, utterly soaked also. I go into a cafe bathroom and dry it with the handryers. Luckily the lady at the counter is nice enough to accept it. Then under a tiny awning which provides little to no shelter I wait for twenty minutes for a taxi, finally hail one and get in. The driver takes one look at me and I can see he wishes he hadn't picked me up. I look at his tag, his name is Esteban. I tell him the plan. "Si, vale, vale, pero...necesito ir antes nueve menos cuarto, para ver el partido". He needs to go before 8:45 to watch the game. The game, he says, has Barcelona playing in a European league group match against a German team, Werder Bremen and he's from Barcelona himself. We set off at 8:13 and of course run into horrible traffic. By the time we are heading to the station the game has started. He sighs. But within five minutes a goal has arrived for Barcelona courtesy of Ronaldinho and he's screaming and going mad and shaking my hand. He talks in rapidfire Spanish, most of which I miss. We end up arriving at 9:30, my bus long gone. I also don't have enough to pay Esteban. But dig this guy, he takes the money I have and gets out to help me with my bag in the pouring rain. Then he comes with me to the counter to act as translator, me speaking to him in a mixture of French and English, him translating into Spanish. I manage to get a ticket for the 10:00 bus. He also gives me his details so if I need any help in Barcelona I can call him.

So it's alright baby, you'll be happy to hear everything worked out fine in the end. This story has a happy ending. Unlike the character in Lorca's fable I did arrive in Cordoba. I saw what I had to see, and moved on. So here I find myself on the late bus out, staring into the darkness and the driving rain, dreaming of black ponies and red moons.

 

......................

 

Córdoba.
Lejana y sola.

Jaca negra, luna grande,
y aceitunas en mi alforja.
Aunque sepa los caminos
yo nunca llegaré a Córdoba.

Por el llano, por el viento,
jaca negra, luna roja.
La muerte me está mirando
desde las torres de Córdoba.

¡Ay qué camino tan largo!
¡Ay mi jaca valerosa!
¡Ay, que la muerte me espera,
antes de llegar a Córdoba!

Córdoba.
Lejana y sola.

                                - Federico Garcia Lorca, 1921