Underground - the Caves of France and Spain

Horses, Lascaux II, Montignac, France

I've wanted to visit the caves of central France and northern Spain since I was an undergraduate in Physical Anthropology. The human and animal populations of Northern Europe took refuge in the Aquitaine basin of France during the last Ice Ages; the Vézère valley of the Dordogne was a refuge for both Neanderthal man and Cro-Magnon man between 80,000 - 14,000 years ago. In Spain, the populations near the sea in Cantabria also moved to the caves to survive. Though they lived only in the entryways in man-made rock shelters (inside the caves, rock lamps fueled by animal fat with herb wicks provided minimal light), they moved into the interior caverns long enough to made fantastic, anatomically correct drawings of certain animals (chiefly bison and horses, but also deer, woolly rhinoceros, and other species that no longer exist or inhabit the area), and a few symbols: dots and hand prints made by blowing ground ochre pigment through a bone. 

Humans are seldom represented, and when they are, it’s with an animal head or features. Why early humans left these marks on the walls no one knows. I imagine a family finding their way into the still darkness, guided by the animal representations which usually faced into the depths of the cave, marking which passage to follow, and finding a wonderland of animals, a zoo of drawings on the wall lit by a succession of flickering lamps. What a wonder then! And today, too. What a privilege to be able to see the real thing in this lifetime, and to feel the presence of those who passed through these magical spaces so long ago.

Standing on the balcony of Gaudi's Casa Batllo, Barcelona

Not all was ancient art: During this trip, I enjoyed seeing the work of three contemporary artists I greatly admire: the whimsical architecture of Antonio Gaudi in Barcelona, Dali’s sometimes bizarre drawings and constructs in his home town of Figueres, and Richard Serra’s monumental steel structures in the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao.

And I have to get some jamon, and soon!

This trip started on October 12 - to see the whole thing in order, click on "October" to the right.

La Fortunata at the Horn of Sorrow

A tiny casa in the mountains near the entrance to El Hornos de la Pena cave

I headed out to my first cave, El Hornos de la Pena (the horns of sorrow--I have no idea where the name comes from) for a noon appointment I booked online. It was quite far out on narrow country roads, but my GPS had recovered (perhaps it felt threatened by the purchase of the map), and got me there most of the way. On the tree-shrouded, partially paved road, cyclists in stylish gear rode by every few minutes--it's a huge sport here. I was an hour early, and passed some folks coming down the mountain. When I got to the small hut at the top, no one was there, and a sign on the building said tours at 10 and 2 only (oh oh—direct conflict with the website). I was worried. Then I met an American fellow coming up the trail, Mike, who said he was waiting for his wife who was inside the cave on a National Geographic tour--and that the entire day was booked for the NatGeo people. The cave only permitted four visitors at a time. Oh joy. Fortunately (la fortunata!), another NatGeo group was coming along for a tour at 12:30--one of them dropped out, and I was able to join, thanks to their wonderful local guide who negotiated my way into the tour. I wish I had gotten her name so I could thank her in print!

Genuine ancient cave dirt

This was a most interesting cave, very primitive in both structure and content--we often encountered low ceilings, and had to sidle through narrow passages a couple of times--the art consisted of rude carved outlines of animals. El Hornos was one of the most ancient sites I visited; the cave art was from two different periods, 18,000 to 13,000 years ago. Our guide, Danny, was a young man who obviously liked taking all the old farts around; he helped us contort around stalactites and move along half-bent under ancient limestone formations, columns and glittering towers of crystalline material.

El Castillo hand prints, courtesy of National Geographic

After we emerged, I drove down the hill and ate another half a bocadilla (tuna this time, with egg--i never really know what I'm ordering since the language barrier is only semi-permeable) at a cafe, then joined the tour of El Castillo, back in Puente Viesge. At more than 40,800 years old, El Castillo is currently Europe's oldest dated art by at least 4,000 years. If the new dates are correct, El Castillo art would be the oldest known well-dated cave paintings in the world—a title previously held by France's Chauvet cave paintings, which is closed to the public. The El Castillo tour was in Spanish, though I understood a surprising amount, thanks to the guide who would throw in an English word here and there. El Castillo is aptly named—the rock formations, carefully lit, are phantasmagorical—the guide pointed out the resemblance to Gaudi’s cathedral in the intricate limestone formations, and I agree. The cave is sealed, and entirely temperature and humidity controlled; the technology is working, and gives hope to the rumor that Alta Mira, and possibly Lascaux, may be open to the public again.This cave had the largest number of hand prints I’d seen: men, women and children’s hands, outlined in red blown ochre on one ceiling. I held my hand close to one of the ones on the wall; the fingers were short and the palm was much wider, but I felt an immediate connection to a person who lived and died at least 35,000 years before humans began to record history. What a sense of continuity; it left me feeling peaceful, as though the world--and possibly humanity itself--will endure in spite of us.  As I left the building, Danny showed up to deposit my three euros from my visit to El Hornos de la Pena, and I was able to tip him an extra two.

View of Santander and the green mountains of Basque Spain

The GPS guided me (with only a slight out-of-the-way deviation) to the Escuelas las Carolinas hotel in Santander, a school for the hotel professions. The girl at the desk was extra-sweet, printing out my flight confirmation for the next day and a receipt. The building was an old one, but the room was spacious and clean and faced the ocean; it was quite noisy, but that’s what earplugs are for. The girl at the desk also set up the included breakfast the next day—truly a Jane of all trades. This place was a good deal for 52 Euros ($75.40).

Really BIG Art in a Time Warp

Giant spider heads for nest in large bent tin can

I made for the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, an hour and a half west, parking in a lot near the museum: I don’t know what the surface of this underground lot was, but it made the most peculiar squealing sound under tires. I suspect people enjoyed this, because several drivers drove in circles round the lot, squealing madly.

The Guggenheim was impressive—the beautiful building, completed in 1997, revitalized the former industrial port of Bilbao and initiated a modern building revolution that’s a treat for the eyes. This museum holds extra-large artwork, including pieces from one of my favorite series, “The Matter of Time” by Richard Serra. The Serra works are monumental, as big as two-story houses, made of structural steel curving into ovals and other shapes, inviting the viewer to walk through and experience the changing light--i saw other pieces from this series in upstate New York and had the same amazed, spacey-visceral reaction. 

Light patterns inside one of Serra's works

The Guggenheim is all about monumental works, including a Jeff Koons 15-foot-tall “Puppy” covered in seasonal plants out front.

On to the village of Puente Viesge and El Castillo cave--the GPS went weird here, and I turned off Beauty, tired of her political persuasions (“Turn left ahead. Why left? Left is better! Ask the communists!”), and moved on to bland Susan. I was led down a series of dead-end roads--at one point, I had to back up 500 feet on a narrow roadway, only to come to a complete block--a one-ton granite block in fact--at the other end. There was a metal post standing upright on one side of the road, and faced with the prospect of backing up again for a quarter mile, I got out of the car, uprooted the post, laid it by the side of the road and pulled around the granite block. I didn't replace the post—take that, powers of darkness! I figured the block would discourage the less-disgusted just fine.

Flag mannikins pump their arm up and down
along the roads to warn of hazards

 Got back to the main road, and into the village of Vargas, once again resorting to the ask-a-human method.  I stopped at Bar Charles (named for the singer Charles Aznavour) at the crossroads of N634 and N623, and the very pretty bartender took me outside and indicated the direction I was to go in with her perfectly lacquered red nails. It was all so uncomplicated, I cursed the GPS and shut it off. Early for my tour time of the cave, I had a bocadilla at a nearby tavern.  This bocadilla, a baguette sandwich made with various fillings, was the size of a small raft; the filling consisted of a layer of potato pancake a half-inch thick covered with my beloved Serrano ham. I downed some of it, then rushed up the hill to park, and walked the remaining few hundred feet to the ticket office for my tour. It was then I found I was an hour late. I had been relying on the car clock, which was set in the previous time zone where I had picked it up. Modern machines failed me.

I returned to Vargas and tried to buy a map in several places with no luck. I followed the road back to Santander and finally found a gas station with a hideously expensive (priceless to me) Michelin map of Catalan, this part of Spain. Everything became clear, and I backtracked east to the hotel I had booked.

The Hostería El Laurel (Barrio Solegrario, 26, Hoz de Anero) is REALLY in the country, set amidst verdant farms. The area is beautiful and peaceful, and the clouds are fantastic. If you want to get away from it all, finish your novel, or spend some quiet time, this is the place. The "hotel" is really a home-stay, and an unmarked one at that. There is no address--I drove around for half an hour trying to locate "Barrio Solegrario" (this is not a street, but a small group of houses on unmarked roads, two meters west of Hoz de Anero, a crossroads), and another half hour quizzing locals as to the house (no number). Once you find it, it's easy--it's the big white driveway door, second house west past the road marked "vente marin". Finally, I reached the gate and was let in to be greeted by a large black dog, a nervous chihuahua, a pony and her foal, and the lady who  lived there. I was led into the office--the smell of mold was so strong I got dizzy--and hauled my suitcase up a flight of stairs. The room itself was modern and pleasant, with a private balcony that looked over the peaceful fields. There are no restaurants or any other services nearby--this place is only reachable by car. My biggest difficulty was the musty smell that permeated the entire house (this part of Spain is extremely humid—almost Hawaii-like tropical during the day and chilly at night). Though the guest rooms were completely modern and very clean, the rest of the house has spent decades in the damp climate of that part of Spain--not for folks with respiratory challenges. The isolation was also a problem--not ideal for the solo traveler. The owners couldn't have been more gracious, however.

I took my shower n the cold bathroom (during the day, the humidity was so high I sweat through everything--at night it was windy and cool) and went to bed early after finishing the remains of my bocadilla (glad I saved it!). A few hours later I awoke to the most god-awful smell of mold. It was everywhere: in the mattress, in the room; it had seeped up from the office below, and soaked into everything. I opened the door, and felt relieved enough to fall asleep until the door closed and the odor woke me up again. I was finding it hard to breathe. I knew I couldn't spend another night there--the smell was the worst, and I was so far from everything I wanted to see. The sheer beauty of the place-so green it hurt your eyes, shrouded in magnificent clouds--wasn't enough. I explained through my iPhone translator that I would be sick if I stayed the next night as I planned and payed them an extra five euros for their trouble. The husband kindly wanted to make sure I had complete directions into Santander and the hotel I had researched as a possible option that we sat in his office for 15 minutes while he drew me diagrams and printed maps out. It was really quite sweet.

Clouds near Hoz de Anero

A Cadeau and Wooly Rhinoceroses

On the way to Rouffignac

The market was under the church tower and only had a few stalls, which I cruised. Truffles came in various forms, mainly oil or a type of tapanade--pricey! The tapanade went for $30 for about 1/2 cup. I bought some truffle oil from a sweet man who gave me a little bottle of truffle vinegar--a cadeau, he said, a gift. He touched his heart when I thanked him. I popped in the car and started driving--it became evident pretty quickly that I wasn't going to have time to hike the extraordinary group of stairways and caves I had seen just past Les Ezyies (near Grotte de Grand Roc) and make Rouffignac in time for the last tour at 11:15. I hate not being able to clone myself. Rouffignac was worth the sacrifice; this cave was completely different from Font-de-gaume in terrain and artwork.  Font-de-gaume was more like my mental picture of a cave, with limestone formations, narrow walls and very tall “ceilings”--more than 20 meters high in some places. Rouffignac was wide and low--it looked and smelled like an inverted lakebed—cement-like mud with hard lumps of reddish material made of silicone that looked for all the world like half-dug potatoes. The ceiling had several large dome-like structures. Being inside, on the little train that takes people through this deep cave, was both creepy and thrilling—I could imagine the roof caving in far too easily. The drawings were simple lines, drawn with fingers in the mud thousands of years ago, but made with considerable finesse and individuality, particularly the grand ceiling that had a zoo’s worth of bison, woolly rhinoceroses, and horses swirling overhead. A frieze of woolly rhinos marching along wrapped around one wall (their existence, along with mammoths, ended with the ice age).

Artist's rendition of the woolly rhino frieze

But I had to leave for Spain. Since I loved the Dordogne, I opted to take back roads rather than the expensive and monotonous highway. I passed through numerous villages made of yellow stone, and the farmland changed to vineyards farther southwest--this was Bordeaux wine country.

View from a country road near Rouffignac

Time was tight, so i eventually opted for the highway, and made it to Bayonne around sunset. The Ibis hotel I planned to stay in was not an Ibis but a creepy discount hotel right off the road. Nope. So I continued on, guided by the faithful Beauty on my GPS which had proved so reliable up to now. I crossed the border and continued on to San Sebastian in Spain--i don't know what I expected, but this was a big, grand city—the largest in Basque country, and a major destination for holidays.  I was swept along with traffic into the town along one side of the bay. My blurry impression was of an ornate bridge and hundreds of people on the streets, cruising the pincho (tapas) bars in the old town. It was warm and humid--we were definitely back in Spain. 

Country road, France

I couldn't go slow enough to really find a hotel, so I guided myself back to the highway. I was growing more tired with each passing mile, and finally pulled off the road in the hope of finding a hotel in the dark.  What I found was a nameless port town with no facilities at all. I finally wised up, set the GPS to take me off the highway and through the small towns, and to indicate hotels (it does that). Then I did it the old-fashioned way--i pulled into a gas station and asked. I was directed to a hotel a few blocks away. it turned out to be a lucky choice, though the lobby wasn't very promising as it reeked of fried fish, an odor that managed to reach and permeate my fifth floor room. We pause here for a word of gratitude for room fans and the super-strong bottle of lavender oil I brought with me! In short order, the room was pleasant.

Autumn leaves, on the way to Basque Country

This section of Spain is the land of Zs—nearly every town name and string of words has the letter in it. My haven for the night was the Hotel Zarauz, (26 Nafarroa kalea, Zarautz (Gipuzkoa), quite a pleasant place for 47 Euros ($68—cheaper if you book online). Euskara, the Basque language, is as difficult to pronounce from the spelling as Welsh; take this snippet  from the welcome page of the Guggenheim Museum: “Esku artean duzenen aldizkariak 2013-14ko udazken-neguko denboraldian Musepoan egingo den programzio artisikoaren....”

A Speedy Dali-ance (dalliance: noun: a casual romantic relationship)

Dali's wife, Gala, served as model in many of his paintings. Nice swan, too

The next morning, I walked early to the market in the center of town next to the rambla, Figuere's central public park--got lost of course, and did the grand tour of the part of town most tourists don’t see. Figueres has a wonderful open-air public market—I bought fantastic pears, figs and hazelnuts (they all grow locally), and a portion of dark red aged Serrano ham--nearly 30 euros ($43.50) a kilo, but worth every penny. I became addicted very quickly—it’s often served as a breakfast item on a super-fresh baguette, nothing else needed; it is its own butter, and I have to find a source in California. Soon.

Let there be light! My favorite Dali lamp--and so practical, too

Later, I went to the Dali Museum, the main reason for my stop in Figueres, Salvador Dali’s hometown. Though the museum—fashioned from a theater that was bombed out during Spain’s civil war—had few of the exquisitely detailed and finely drafted paintings I had seen in art collections around the world, the building held many of his drawings, sculptures, and early paintings along with a few delicately wrought jewels.

In the early afternoon, 

I began the drive on the thruway to France. Though there are plenty of two-lane roads that trace the routes of the thruways, speed limits are low, and I was anticipating a 6 1/2 – hour drive, so I toughened up and prepared to pay more than $38 in tolls between Figueres and the turn-off for Sarlat-en-Caneda in central France (over the next week, I dropped $100 in tolls). The thruways are incredibly well-maintained, nearly empty, fast (average speed, 120km/hr; about 85mph) and boring, boring, boring. But did I mention they’re fast? I had a hard time keeping up in my Volkswagen Passat. The rest stops, which are frequent and clean, usually offer a variety of questionable fully packaged food in plastic. In fact, plastic packaging was everywhere I went in both Spain and France—it made northern California look like eco-heaven.

As I got further north, The terrain became greener and hilly. I turned off the thruway to Sarlat in the last of the light; a misty rain was falling. Along the road, buildings of yellow stone stood among the fields and trees. I arrived to a very pretty old town, and a nice hotel, the Remparts.

Big Church, Good Eats, Clowns (Yikes)

Partial ceiling, Sagrada Familia

Up early enough (I thought) to avoid the long lines at Sagrada Familia, the cathedral Gaudi considered his master work--I was so wrong. In this case, it pays to buy ahead online. The line to buy tickets took an hour and a half. I didn't have breakfast, so a pear brought from my daughter’s tree in California saved me, along with some almonds. Inside, the wait was worth it ... extraordinary, and very, very special. 

The detail! Plenty of religious references, especially for a lapsed Catholic like me, truly inspired soaring spaces, and plenty of the ornate detail for which Gaudi is known. 

As in medieval times, the cathedral is a work in progress and is not expected to be finished for many years. It was begun in 1882 under another architect, and taken over by Gaudi in 1883. After his death in 1926, his vision has been carried out by others. It’s built entirely from contributions (“made by the people and mirrored in them”, as Gaudi said), and is expected to be finished some time in the first third of the 21st century.

Later, I came back to the area of my hostel—the neighborhood known as Eixample (after one metro misdirection--wrong train) and met my friend Patti and her bro for the best tapas lunch ever,  at Catalana (236 Mallorca Street). The joint was packed, so we had a 15-minute wait, but so worth it. We ordered a bunch of tapas, and the favorite was a fried egg mixed into crispy potatoes and carrots (the veges were deep fried); it was spectacular.  

After a reluctant good-bye, I returned to the Casa Batllo and bought a ring I couldn’t get out of my mind, then took the metro to la Bouquerilla market in Cuitat Vella, the old Gothic quarter—I scored some bread right out of the oven and a little salty Serrano ham. That and some figs came in handy later when I picked up the car at 5:15. Still jet-lagged, I had the urge to eat at the most peculiar times.

I pulled over to hook up the GPS system I had bought for this trip and circled the area to find my hotel, then parked across the street to load my goods. I was not there more that 15 minutes, but I violated some law or other during my brief driving sojourn in Barcelona--I discovered a notice on my windscreen the next morning in Figueres. Whoops. The rental car company, Europcar (highly recommended, easy to deal with) kept my credit card number in case of any misdemeanors (with a...gulp...charge of 60 Euros for a ticket plus the cost of the ticket). I hope it was just a warning, but I couldn’t find someone who could tell me what the notice was about, other than I was required to report to the Bureau of Transportation in Barcelona. Not going to happen.

After an uneventful hour-and-a-half drive on Spain’s superb toll roads, I arrived in Figuères in the evening. The  GPS was accurate, and a real blessing navigating the unfamiliar roads. The voice I chose—a South African radio personality named Beauty—was amusing (“Toll road! Oh, why do things have to cost things!”). It took me a while to find Hotel Plaza Inn (14 Pujada del Castell), as it was in the middle of an old town with streets so narrow they looked more like alleys in the dark.

Clowns are not my favorite thing, and to be greeted by a life-size plaster one in the doorway was a little disconcerting--however, I recognize that the hotel wanted to distinguish itself in some way. The peculiar mismatched artwork everywhere—a Tahitian scene next to a Parisian flower shop painting--was obviously purchased from the Spanish equivalent of garage sales, but it was amusing rather than off-putting. The room was fine and somewhat noisy, facing the street --plenty of traffic, with an active construction site across the way. Parking, though free for the night, was a couple of blocks away. The most disconcerting thing, however, was when I stepped out onto my balcony: on the balcony to my left was a human-sized blow-up rabbit, and to my right, another plaster clown. And there I was, stuck in the middle. I hoped I didn’t fit in.

Antonio + Joanne, True Love

Mosaics on the patio of Gaudi's Casa Batllo

Barcelona airport, El Prat, was easy to navigate, and finding the the train into Passig de Gracia train/metro station in the middle of Barcelona was quick; not a lot of drama finding the hotel.  The nasty surprise when I got there was the ... and I'm being generous...spartan room at Somnio Hostel (251 Diputacio, 2nd floor).

The location was excellent, near public transportation, shopping and restaurants in a good part of Barcelona close to everything. The staff couldn't have been nicer or more helpful. However, I discovered very quickly that there are dozens of hotels in this area that cost just a little more money and offer a lot more.

At $108, this stay was WAY overpriced. This is basically a hostel, and I've stayed in other hostels that offered much more for less money.The room, about 12-foot square, consisted of a double bed and four white, featureless walls.  A couple of hangers on the door sufficed as a closet. The shower was so small an average-sized man couldn't turn around—and I paid for a room with a bathtub. A lot was lost in translation, and Booking.com got flamed for this one.

Casa Batllo at night

Since I arrived at 9AM, I immediately walked around and took in a few Antonio Gaudi properties—one of my main interests in Barcelona, along with my love for the book “The Shadow of the Wind” by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, which is set in the old city just south of my hostel. The wait to enter La Pedrera (known locally as “the quarry” for it’s blocky gray presence), an apartment house famed for it’s rooftop sculpture garden, was more than an hour, so I took a tour of Casa Batllo (BAT yo), once a private home for a weatlthy Barcelona family. The house burst with Gaudi's ornate natural themes of ocean life, dragons, curves. What an inspiration!

Gaudi was not formally trained as an architect, and built everything using plumb lines and models; his works will live forever because of their incredible whimsy mixed with practicality. Everything, down to the shape of the door handles, was carefully thought out and handcrafted. Genius! 

The multimedia presentation on the top floor was mind-blowing. There were no credits given, but what a beautiful tribute to an amazing design--the video is projected on top of a five-foot-tall model of the house. See it at Vimeo.

Roof of Casa Batllo

Gaudi's deep Catholic faith was evident in the crosses he placed here and there on the property, and the small family chapel off the main sitting room. 

That evening, I walked the length of beautifully lit Passig de Gracia, admiring the graceful buildings and ironwork. Barcelona is one beautiful city; even the sidewalks are beautiful.

Sitting room ceiling and light fixture

The servants quarters on the top floor were light and airy

The sidewalks of Barcelona; great to look at, hell on suitcase wheels

Getting There was Half - Fun

Christ parachuting to earth in Gaudi's Sagrada Familia Cathedral.
There were times when I would have opted for this mode of escape myself...

My dear neighbor John actually volunteered to give me a ride to the airporter at 4:45am, and while waiting for the airport bus I struck up a conversation with an attractive man who was off to Greece to visit his entertainer girlfriend and a fascinating, intelligent and charismatic older woman--we all decided to meet at Denny’s on our return for a grand slam breakfast.

The flight from SFO to Newark was an exercise in compression. We flew in United's new 737s, which, if it can be believed, are even tighter than the old crates we flew in before. I got jammed in the middle between a former geologist who was on his way to Stuttgart to research a book he was writing about Porsche motorcars and a young woman who slept the entire way.

A four-hour layover in Newark, but I was lucky this time—I got all my flights, though those first- and business-class seats that were available in the first few months of my travel are a distant dream. United has tightened up considerably, and the flights now are booked to the max; I consider myself fortunate that a few undesirable seats remain for employees and folks like me.

SOUTHERN SPAIN - I BECOME "EL AFORTUNADO"

Ministry of Agriculture, Madrid

Spain is to Mexico as a thoroughbred racehorse is to a donkey—that’s not a mathematical question, but a description. Spain is elegant and refined, its people dignified, reserved, polite and helpful. Though the country is experiencing many of the financial woes that seem to multiply in warm climates in Europe, you don’t see it in the city or the country. No panhandlers at the airport or train station, plenty of modern facilities, and fantastic highways. Of course, you’ll pass more than a few bridges to nowhere and roads that simply end without a destination, thanks to the economic melt-down; compared to Naples—there’s no comparison. The desperation doesn’t seem to be there.

That said, I had a GREAT time, hanging with my friends and meeting the Brit ex-pat community (or at least part of it) in the Alpujarra. “Alpujarra”, I’m told, means “the defiant ones”, as it was the last stand of the moors before they were driven out of Spain, and a hotbed of resistance during the Spanish civil war. I couldn’t help but think of the film Sexy Beast, about ex-cons retiring to southern Spain. None of MY acquaintances, of course.

Museum advertisement, Madrid

Read on, and find out why I’m “el afortunado”—the lucky one.

Check out the video: https://vimeo.com/70760985

LA MEZQUITA DAZZLES, A DAY EARLY

I already knew I was not going to get on the flight out of Madrid on the 18^th, so I changed my flight to the 17^th, and planned to drive back to Madrid with Ron, as his flight was leaving at 6AM on the 17^th. Nick was flying from Malaga, on the coast. We cleaned up the place, took a few last pictures, and were off.

Trust the coin-toss; fate was kind

Madrid was a good 500-600 km from Orgiva, so we were looking at a six-hour drive, at least. Ron and I toyed with the idea of going to Cordoba to see the Mezquita, a mosque built in 785 by Abd-ar-Rahman I (and a World Heritage Site) that had been partially refashioned into a cathedral. We hemmed and hawed about it, finally deciding with a flip of a coin at a gas station—we were going to chance it, even though it would take us more than 200km out of our way. We figured it out scientifically—if we didn’t reach point X by time Y, we’d turn around—long story short, we made it, and it was one of the highlights of my trip.

One difficulty—there were no directional signs to it in Cordoba, so we wandered for a while until we stopped at a gas station. Later, we figured out they were calling it “The Cathedral of Cordoba”, effectively erasing the most interesting thing about it—the Moorish architecture was absolutely stunning, and the church that was plunked down in the middle of the city-block-sized mosque was ho-hum, right down to the gilded receptacle for St. Vincent’s bits (that’s what makes a cathedral a cathedral—a saint’s sweetbreads or some other body part). The gory Christian sculptures added to the charm.

After soaking up the beauty of the place, we hit the road, with me at the wheel. I lead-footed it to Madrid, because I wanted to get there before dark so we could 1. Find the airport, 2. Find the car rental drop-off, 3. Find a hotel with a shuttle. Somehow, we managed to do all three, in spite of being heat-blasted and dozy. 
Ron discovered a Best Western-approved hotel (Hotel Villa de Barajas) in the nearby town. Decent rates (69 euros a night) and a free shuttle to the airport—for me, alas, not for him as he had to leave at 3AM. Across the street: a popular spot for tapas on the corner, and an excellent Chinese restaurant (I had severe vegetable need by that point--the noodle soup was served with a spoon, and the owner cut the noodles in the bowl into bite-sized pieces with two knives!). I got up with Ron to help wrestle his suitcase closed (he had been in Europe for six weeks at that point, and the elephantine size of his luggage reflected it), then hit the sack again after he left. 
The next morning, I went to the airport—it didn’t look good: I was #4 on the list, and there were two seats. Once again, my luck held; the first stand-by was seated, but the next two folks on the list were traveling as a team, and they decided to head for Barcelona to fly out of there together. I took the seat, next to a very nice professor of bioscience from Madrid (scientists seem to travel a lot), and was homeward bound once again.

Check out the video: https://vimeo.com/70760985