Crazy for Cuenca

Tuesday, June 6, 2006

Pulling into the little town of Cuenca, I was a little concerned about Max’s advice. None of the dozen or so Spaniards that I had interrogated on what to see in their country had mentioned it to me and judging from what I saw as we pulled into town it was with good reason. It was basically in the middle of nothing – mid-distance between Madrid and Valencia with about 50,000 residents. I know from Ascoli this is just large enough to lose the small town feel without gaining any real town excitement.

‘WOW’ simply does not adequately describe this place.

When the train pulled out of Pinto at too-damn-early-in-the-morning-o’clock, I wasn’t really sure if I had gotten on a train or the old wooden roller coaster at Six Flags over Texas. I remember the monolith white wooden monster – the challenge wasn’t opening your eyes on the upside down loops or holding your hands up in a free fall like the modern roller coasters today. It was escaping the car without being black and blue from being slammed back and forth like wheat in a thrasher. And I thought Italian trains were bad! I’ve landed in the lap of the old man sitting next to me three times – and he’s across the aisle three seats away! The plan was to write on the three hour train ride. I’m afraid instead I’ll spend one hour thinking about throwing up and the next two actually throwing up. I really should not have had that café con leche and cigarette while I was waiting for the next train. Pulling into the dirty, industrial, modern little town was disconcerting, as was trying to keep down my morning cookie. New towns in Italy are just the same, looking more like squatter towns of days gone by than cities. “Keep the faith, Sherry. “ I scolded myself. “Max wouldn’t send you someplace that sucked.” Twenty minutes of walking in one direction and another thirty walking the opposite direction in one continuous bus fumed dirty town and I was losing faith. After all German’s aren’t know for their entertainment value.

The day had almost begun as Toledo had yesterday. My loved ones never believe me, but I truly do have a late curse. All my best intentions in the world never get me anyplace on time; effort is irrelevant. When I leave ten minutes early, I am five minutes late. When I leave five minutes late, I am 7 minutes late. Some time ago I decided it made more sense to make the most of the fifteen minutes I would otherwise just lose trying to be on time. Case in point - Max told me the train left at 8:30-something, he wasn’t sure. It was only a five minute walk to the train station, but I was out the door at 8:20 just to be on the safe side. I doubled checked my bag, slipped the key in the lock, and turned it – it wouldn’t go. Uh-oh. I tried this way and that, opened the door and tried from the inside, tried everything I knew, and nothing. It was now 8:28. I could hear the bolt inside rattling as if it were loose and couldn’t engage. Shit. At 8:29 I called Max to see if this was something that happened and there was some secret fix. As the phone rang the key turned like a well-oiled door knob, as if nothing had ever gone wrong. I quickly hung up the phone, bolted down the steps, and ran all the way to the train station, backpack in tow. I was sweating profusely by the time I arrived but by the grace of Max, who told me the wrong time, I made the train.

The landscape as we pulled out of Aranjuez – when the nausea subsided enough to look out the window – was surprisingly like Texas; flat as a pancake with miles of yellow brown fields, dotted by the occasional scrubby, almost ugly tree. If I were dropped in the middle of this land blindfolded, only the mountains in the distance and the absence of pickup trucks would clue me that I wasn’t in Texas. Even the water towers and grain houses look the same, though the buildings in the little towns are made out of adobe instead of brick. Eventually the land transformed into an incredibly beautiful patchwork of colors – the palest sun-yellow, deep, rich brown, forest green, and the orange clay of fresh thrown pottery. The ochre colors were a brilliant contrast to each other. The fields rolled like sheets hung out to dry on a cool breezy spring day. The land looked as if it were actually moving beneath the wheat and crop fields, rolling along with the train. The landscape disappeared behind the tacky, laundry laden apartments of Cuenca as the train pulled into the station.

I can tell already one of the things I will learn on this trip is that while it is well and good to be a person who goes with the flow, who follows the wind, who takes the right turns when everyone else goes left, who stumbles luckily into life’s fortunes, it is also a good idea, especially when one aspires to be a travel writer, to gather at least a bare scintilla of evidence about the place you are visiting before arriving - like how to get from the train station to the tourist information booth which is thirty minutes away, uphill, and the closest place where you can get a map. If I had done that before arriving, instead of wandering the “modern” side of town for over an hour, I would have seen the inside of the cathedral that closed eight minutes earlier than the information guide told me. So we live, and travel, and learn.

I learned that there are essentially two Cuenca towns. After walking, uphill, through the “newer” (i.e. uglier) side of town, you round the corner to find a little river, (the Huécar river), with paths running on either side. A ten minute stroll, (that is if you can call carrying a ten pound backpack with computer, camera, books, water, sunscreen, insect repellant, batteries, and various other assorted sundries, uphill, as the sun beats down just past high noon, on a 95 degree day in Puerta la Sol strolling… ) and you arrive at last at the tourist information booth where you will kindly be asked to pay if you want a map.

Truth be known it was neither a stroll nor suffrage, it was more an excited jaunt. Despite my wooden rollercoaster ride and inability to keep my fingers on the keyboard that kept flying off my lap, despite the not so pleasant walk through the industrial side of town, despite the two closed internet places and one open one that wouldn’t let me use my computer, despite the ravines cut into my shoulders by my backpack straps, I am thrilled to be out today. I love what I am doing. I love embracing the experiences, love taking the pictures, love searching out special places to sit down and find the words that bring the experiences to life and the stories to the pictures. To make money doing this would be an amazing thing, but at this moment I am simply thrilled that I have found a way to be doing something I love. That in itself is compensation enough. I am living a dream, my dream; no one else’s but mine on no one else’s ticket but mine. It is a pretty damn good feeling.

Even paying for the map of the town seems humorous to me in this moment. I don’t think I’ve ever had to pay at a tourist information center to find out how to get to the sites of a town and what time they closed. I even had to pay for the history guide! Now to keep things in perspective, it was only 50 cents for the map and 1 Euro for the guide so it wasn’t bad, just funny that they charge. The information booth sits in the middle of a parking lot where the tour buses park. The guide points at the paths that continue along the river and sends me on my way. I round the first corner and discover I only thought I was climbing a hill before. I was wrong. Fortunately I am distracted from the 65 degree hill (as in grade, not temperature) by the Casas Colgadas, or hanging houses above. They really do appear to be just hanging off the side of the cliff – quite impressive really. One is beautifully done in deep, dark woodwork with balconies jutting off in several places. The other is a lighter pink-cream stone. Coming around the hairpin turn, I enter another land. The world opens up in front of me – a valley below, scrubby green covered hills ahead and to the right a huge austere monastery that has been converted to parador practically growing out of the mountain. Wow. Okay, faith in Max has been restored. And I haven’t seen anything yet.

A statue of a shepherd and his sheep looking out into the horizon guards the road UP hill into town. A word to the wise - Do not think you can “hurry up” to get from the train to the Cathedral before it closes. I pride myself on being a pretty good walker and hiker yet even I had to stop a few times to catch my breath. The walk is best savored and enjoyed – plus you pant a little less along the way. At last I rounded another hairpin corner and discovered myself in town. It turns out the beautiful brown wood crafted building I had been admiring is the Museo de Arte Abstracto Español. Now I have to admit, abstract art is really not my thing. White canvas with black dots or yellow lines across a blue page, I’m sorry I just don’t see the art. If it looks like something I can do, it’s not art to me. I’m sure my artist friends are groaning now. I know I’m one of the uninitiated, one who can’t see the lines, feel the strife, sense the artist’s tragic effort to bring reality to the abstract and the abstract to reality; I’m sure I’m missing an entire world. Actually, I’m sure there are many worlds I am missing. And sometimes I’m fine with that.

Abstract-aversion aside, I had to have a look. Again my student card saved me half the admission price (God bless student discounts). The Museum was opened the year I was born and features a collection of works by Spanish artists from the so-called abstract generation of the ‘50s and ‘60s. I have to say – I was pretty damned impressed. There were several pieces I actually liked. Within the first two rooms I was already taken by an artist I had never before heard of but whose work I absolutely loved – Fernando Zobel. I found out later he was actually a patron of the arts and founder of the museum. The museum itself was beautifully designed, blending the views beyond with the views inside. (Do check out the website for some of the pictures) Other artists included Basterrechea, Canogar, Camin, Chillida, Cuixart, Delgado, Chirino, Feito, Farreras, Guerrero, Gabeno, Mompo, Millares, Oteiz, Muñoz, Rivera Oalazuelo, Saura, Rueda, Serrano Sempere, Tixidor, Tapies, Viola, Torner, and Yturralde – none of whom I knew (of course). It seemed Saura was one of the more famous/popular of their collections. For the most part I didn’t particularly like the seemingly gruesome aspect of his work, however I did enjoy his piece entitled the Cocktail Party. Tell me you don’t feel this way sometimes at a bloody cocktail party!

Ah, but my heart was captured when I descended the last set of stairs. The museum was designed so that you went up and down stairs and in and out of variously designed rooms. You were forced to go in a circle rather than double back through rooms which I genuinely appreciate in museum designs (Hell, I’ll go an hour out of my way on a walk to go in a circle rather than turning around and going back the same way I came). By the third room I had developed an eye for Zobel’s work. That’s always a defining quality of the artists I like – if I can recognize their style. It makes me feel like I know something about art when of course I don’t know jack. For some reason, this guy’s style caught me. I spotted every one of his paintings from across the room and had already noticed from the information placards that while he was apparently Spanish he had he died in Rome after living there several years. He had already caught my attention, but he captured my heart as I descended the stairs to find one of his smaller pieces accented by Italian writing.

I yearn for the sound, the feel, the vision of the Italian language. It is even worse here in Spain where the language is so close and yet abrasive in the ways it differs from Italian. My mother tongue is English and I will always cherish it, but my beloved tongue is undoubtedly Italian. Seeing Zobel’s black pen script, reading the Italian words, imagining something of his life as a painter in the Eternal City – I knew he had come into my life the way some people do, with a one way ticket. I purchased a wall hanging for the home I will have again someday and a few postcards before happily setting off for the cathedral.

Unfortunately the goddess of time was not in favor of my seeing the inside of Santa Maria de Gracia – claimed to be the “first Gothic cathedral in Spain” along with three other cathedrals I’ve seen now. I tried to sweetly talk my way in to the man who was escorting out other tourists at eight minutes before 2pm, explaining that the PAID tourist guide told me they closed at two, but to no avail (this is definitely NOT Italy). I was joined by two Spaniards who escalated my plea into a full out attack. We joined forces, sharing in their Spanish and my Italian the fact that the tour guide said two. The man could really care less. My Spanish Friends demanded to know where the main tourist center was so they could complain. We three stomped off in a huff – me speaking fluent Italian (the only time I speak fluently is when I am mad) and them speaking fluent Spanish, and the three of us understanding each other perfectly well. . We carried on an entire conversation and never once questioned what the other said. Ah the camaraderie of complaining! It transcends even language barriers.

After our delightful bilingual tirade, I made my way to one of the little café tables at Plaza Mayor, the main plaza in town. That’s the good thing about siestas in small towns. Everything closes and it forces me to sit down and eat. Well, if you consider partaking of Spanish food as eating - it is more like hurrying your journey to death by hardening of the arteries. Who would have guessed that the four Euro Chorizillos were a plate of sausages drowning in grease with half a loaf of bread on the side. I studied Spanish for years, lived in Mexican influenced cities most of my life, speak fluent English, relatively fluent Italian and a few words in a handful of languages and the only foodstuffs I recognize on this damn menu are Jamon and Queso – ham and cheese. Now I know why they have Tapas in Spain – the tourists would never know what they were eating if they didn’t see it first.

After my little sausage reprieve, I made my way up to the “castle” (actually just a wall is left) and to the end of the “high city” . ‘WOW’ simply does not adequately describe this place. The river Júcar on the one side has carved a beautiful gorge with amazing views, the streets are cobblestoned, there are numerous churches and monasteries ranging from Byzantine to Baroque architecture with many Muslim influences as well, the houses are painted in an array of colors – greys and reds, yellows and blues, with tiled roofs the ochre colors of the landscape. All together it made for one of the most impressive little towns I have ever seen. I walked to the top of the hill beyond the old town, stopped for a coffee in a bar that was playing the afternoon soaps. ( Spanish men in cowboy hats and boots in a bar with a beautiful Spanish woman dancing in her skimpiest Spanish glitter outfit – what the hell?)

I emerged as siesta was ending and stopped at the convent the guide had suggested. It seems I was not finished with my abstract and modern art. The Foundación Antonio Pérez actually had a nice little array of lesser known Picasso “scraps” – pottery he had done, sketches of faces, other more intricate pencil drawings, a nice painting. The sketches were pretty cool even if they look like they were drawn by second graders. Most of the art though was just beyond me – someone please explain the artistic value of rubber t-bone steaks (the kind you could buy for your dog twenty odd years ago) lining white metal shelves. And when did a Michelin man collection become art? And what the hell did the pig have for lunch? Themuseum was, however, well designed and the views from the convent windows simply breathtaking.

It was now four o’clock and obvious I was not going to see this town to my heart’s content before the last train departed at 6:20. I stopped at the little pension I had seen on the way up. Fifteen euros for the night! Sold. I know my Aunt Kay will soon be complaining for the lack of pictures of me – a definite challenge when traveling alone, so I put the table on top of the bed in my little 8 foot square room (filled to the walls with two twin size beds, a desk, nightstand, chair and sink) and set up the camera for a timer shot. Not a bad view for fifteen euros, huh? A twenty minute time warp nap and I was back on the streets for a trigger happy photo walk! It seems I am just a village girl at heart. Half a day in Madrid and I felt like I had pretty much seen all that I really wanted to see. Ten hours in Cuenca and I already know I could spend ten days and not walk every path I want to walk in this lovely little town. It is a hiker, art enthusiast, and photographer’s haven.

Here I have begun to feel something of the beauty of Spain in its own right as opposed to a country that shares a common heritage with Italy. As is the case with Italy, I can’t quite put my finger on what now makes this place feel like Spain to me but something has triggered in my inner sense through history, art, and literature classes of what is Spain. Maybe it is the different iron work on the balconies or the flowers or the color of the buildings. Maybe the foliage or the yellow, brown, and green patchwork fields off in the distance, unlike anything I have seen in Italy or elsewhere. Maybe it is the profound sense of Catholicism, the nuns still walking the streets in habits, or the sound of the language filling the air. Whatever it is, I at last feel as if I have discovered a bit of Spain. I wandered for five more hours until the sun was setting and my feet aching too much to be ignored.

Wandering off the beaten tourist path can lead to disappointments and wasted time most assuredly, yet it can also lead one to the most intriguing little spots. Resisting the urge to eat at the café tables on the Plaza Mayor (again), I wandered the back streets until I came upon a little bar all by itself on a path under construction. The sign was wooden with the name – Taberna Jovi – backlit in gentle red lights that cast a warm glow. Glancing inside everything seemed softly lit though I could see little else as it was set deep inside the building at the end of a long corridor. I passed it three times – once to spot it, again to decide to go in, and finally to get up the nerve to go in. Forty years old and I still can’t shake the apprehension of walking into a strange bar or restaurant. How awkward is that second when everyone looks up to see who just walked in? And then, when you don’t like it, what do you do? Walk out? But there was no reason to walk out of this place. It is perfect. Everything is in deep dark wood – the recessed panel ceilings, the built in liquor shelves, the supporting posts, the bar, the walls. The bar is rimmed with black leather and lighted by hanging tiffany style lamps. Scattered around the central area on the black and grey marble floors are little black leather reclining chairs, close to the ground, with little ottoman-like stools to match them, all trimmed in wood with a letter ‘X’ scroll like design. The stereo is playing a little Stevie Ray Vaughan and the little cross paned windows cast a glimpse of the trees outside in the darkening sky. My friend Douglas would make this bar his home!

…Ask and ye shall receive, even if you don’t ask out loud. I looked at the clock just now and realized it was after 10pm. The little voice went off in my head – “you know if you start writing here you won’t eat tonight.” At precisely that moment one of the bartenders appeared with a little tray of goldfish (coincidentally one of Douglas’ favorite snacks), salted nuts, and Nestle chocolates. Heaven on a little three inch plate! To go with my heaven in a glass – Baileys and Coffee!

As if that wasn’t all good enough –now I smell food! Woo-hoo dinner and a cool bar! Now if only I could get a wireless connection. At least it is dark enough that my battery will last a couple more hours. Twenty minutes later I am typing to my heart’s content, nibbling on bacon-wrapped dates (one of my favorite treats that Richard used to cook for my Christmas parties) and drinking a Mojito (cheers, Cheri) to the sound of Jazz music playing softly in the back ground. I have to again thank my lucky stars for my life – the challenges that gave me fortitude, the blessings that gave me faith, the solitude that taught me to enjoy my own company, and the contrast of joys and sorrows that taught me to appreciate both. With that said it is alas approaching midnight and both my computer and I are down to our last drops of energy. Sweet dreams to all – whenever you actually read this…