MADRID
Because we wanted to get to Madrid before Shabbat, we left Toledo early ... at least a day, a week, or a month too early. I would go back to that city in an instant, if for no other reason than to see if I could walk from one end of it to the other without getting hopelessly lost. There was so much that time did not permit us to see and do. I especially wanted to visit the Alcazar, and to follow up on a tip that there is a deli close to one of the old synagogues run by a Greek Jew who has a Bet Knesset complete with Torah and Aron Kodesh right in the basement. I am told that he conducts a daily and Shabbat minyan! Ah, the spiritual descendants of the Marranos return to Toledo.
It was about 2:00 in the afternoon when we set out for Madrid, a mere 50 miles away. The road was excellent and the traffic manageable, just as we had found it to be throughout the trip. We were to meet Jennifer Kay at the Prado Museum at 5:00, and so when we arrived at the outskirts of the city about 3:15 we had plenty of time to find our bearings, find a hotel, and find the synagogue for services. As it turned out, we had too little time for any of it.
Madrid is a large city ... not by Los Angeles, New York, or Chicago standards ... but by Spanish standards – it is the largest city that Spain has to offer. Its population is approximately 3.3 million. The problem with getting around in the city is that there are many cars and only a few major avenues on which two-way traffic is permitted. The Paseo del Prado is a tree lined boulevard that runs north-south through the center of the city; the Gran Via, also exceptionally wide and two-way, cuts across town on a southwest to northeast diagonal but on the eastern side of the city. The several other streets that allow for two-way traffic were of little use to us because they went where we never needed to go.
I am convinced that Madrid is one city in which you literally cannot get from here to there ... because, all other streets are one way; all other streets are narrow; all other streets run for at most three blocks before they branch off into two other one way streets, neither of which continues in the direction you need to go; and, all streets change names often ... even block by block, so as to make it even more confusing for the non-native. Even the thoroughfare Paseo del Prado becomes the Paseo de Recoletos and then the Paseo de Castellana. I guess the Madrillanos had more people to honor than they had streets!
After driving around for over an hour, we still had not reached any of the streets on which were located the hotels that we wanted to check up on. It was now getting late and we needed to be at the Prado. Maybe Jennifer, who had visited Madrid several years ago, would have some ideas about hotels and about how to negotiate the streets. It took us about a half hour to get out of the little streets and onto the Gran Via. From there it was a straight shot to the museum ... and there was Jennifer waiting for us.
The five of us, now most eager to get settled, set out for the heart of the city again, determined to do better. But Madrid frustrated our efforts. Every turn led to aggravation. We did discover hotels only to realize that there was no place to park in order to go inside to check them out. So, we invented new places to put a car temporarily ... only to discover that the hotels were either over-rated or over-booked. Better lucky than smart, however, we finally stumbled onto perhaps the nicest hotel in Madrid, The Tryp Plaza ... a true four stars and best of all, they were having a once in a lifetime weekend rate special. We got suites on the 15th floor for the price of broom closets in other parts of town.
The synagogue was supposed to be on a small street named Balmes, #3. Unfortunately, we could not find Calle Balmes. It wasn't on the map, and no one had heard of it. Even the taxi driver outside the hotel hadn’t a clue. Therefore, we couldn't make contact to find out when synagogue services would be that night or the next morning ... or even where the place was located. We never did get to see the synagogue, and that was one of my biggest disappointments. We had to settle for candles and Kiddush in our hotel room ... and white bread "challah" in its restaurant later on.
As long as I'm on the subject of streets – there are two stories that I doubt I shall ever forget. It was getting late on Friday afternoon. We had already tried to negotiate the proper place to turn so as to get onto the Gran Via. I knew that this was where we had to turn left, and that to pass the turn meant 15 minutes of back streets and more aggravation than any of us had energy for. So, ignoring the no turn sign, I turned left ... and very nicely, I thought ... merging brilliantly with traffic and not one horn beeped at us. But, there in front of me was a police uniform ... beckoning me to pull over.
She was, without any fear of contradiction, the most beautiful officer any of us had ever seen, and all of maybe 23 years old. With the hat, the gun, and the uniform, she looked adorable. But ... she is one angry officer; red-faced, she is screaming at me for making such a bone-headed turn. The car windows were all rolled up and I couldn't hear her, so I cupped hand to ear in the classic "can't hear you" mime. She motioned to roll the window down. And now this gorgeous young lady proceeded to lambast me. Unfortunately, her words came out in a rapid fire stream and in a prominent Castilian accent – an incredible lisp. And she was fuming.
We were stunned by the lisp.
“Do you speak English?” I interrupted her diatribe.
“No, Theñor. Ethpañol tholamente ...”
By this time, the three ladies in the back seat were doubled over trying to mute their laughter. Gene, in the passenger seat was closest to the officer, but he had turned away from the window and was looking straight at me for fear that if he turned to face the officer he would lose it. I just kept speaking softly to her in English and shrugging my shoulders. When she pointed to the sign that said “No Left Turn” ... in Spanish, she suddenly realized that all the screaming in the world would not make this stupido turista understand the error of his ways. So she broke into this amazing smile that lit up the entire avenida, and with the gentlest of motions, she waved us on.
At that moment all of us agreed that she should be the poster cop for Spain. Tourists would flock here in the hopes of getting arrested by her! We also realized that we could now turn wherever and whenever we wished, since it was likely that no policeman in the city could communicate with us. It was an empowering realization. But for now we were on the right street, and had had our “firtht encounter with the Thpanith of Madrid” – the Castilian accent ... a result of the Hapsburg jaw.
Story two about the streets of Madrid: The Kays had to return to the States many days before Rikki and me. So the two of us had the challenge of returning the rental car in Madrid. Since we had picked it up in Seville, we had never been to the rental agency's office in Madrid. We had an address and found the street on the map, so we were reasonably sure it would be no problem. The car was due back on Thursday morning by 8:30, but we had reservations on the 10:00am train to Barcelona. And even though the rental agency was on the way to the train station, we thought that waiting until Thursday morning would be cutting it too close for comfort. So we decided to return the car on Wednesday evening and taxi back to the hotel. We called the agency to let them know that we were on the way. They were open until eight that evening.
We set out at 5:00pm. The map was clear. Go down the Gran Via to Paseo del Prado and turn left. Go to Plaza de Lima and turn left, go two blocks and that was our street. Piece of cake. We even found a gas station along the way. “Found” is just the word for gas stations in Madrid (and in most large cities), because they are not readily visible from the street. One looks for a sign sticking out of a driveway and turns into the driveway. Of course, the sign comes on sudden-like, and therefore the right turn has to be sudden-like. Once in the driveway, a new world opens before the eyes – a dozen pumps and a convenience store materialize, all of this being situated behind a row of stores that front onto the main street.
Well, we filled up. We negotiated the correct turns. We did everything right, except that when we got to the Plaza that we needed, we discovered that one really couldn't turn left there ... even illegally. Suddenly, we found ourselves in the left lane with no place to go but straight ... and that led us right onto the thoroughfare ... which led us right out of town ... way out ...10 miles or so out. By the time we found a place to turn off, we were in another part of the city that wasn't even on our map. We twisted and turned and used every homing instinct that either of us ever had. We pulled up to cab drivers and asked directions ... and again ... and again.
Finally, we were back on the Paseo del Prado. Hurrah – but by now it's 6:15. This time we'll turn at the Plaza before the one we really need. Oh, please let there be a left turn there. Good, it's one way in the right direction. A miracle. Now go two blocks. Oy, left only. We need #83 Orense and this is #79 and the numbers are reducing. After a series of rights and lefts it was now 7:45. The bad news, we couldn't get to the number on the street that we needed. The good news, we managed to get back to #79. Quite frankly, I was afraid that one more try at reaching the street behind us, and we'd run out of the gas we had just bought.
I triple parked, effectively cutting off the flow of traffic. And while other drivers were trying out their favorite Castilian expressions on us, Rikki jumped out and ran the block or so to the agency. Five minutes later, she was leading a young man back down the street toward our car. With a huge smile, he took the keys and drove us the half block to his office. A half block? It was a tortuous journey of some 15 streets. If I had tried until Tisha B'Av, I'd have never found that path. It had taken us three hours to get the car from the hotel to the agency – a trip of less than three miles as the crow flies. Obviously, the streets of Madrid have nothing to crow about.
After checking the car in, he casually remarked. “I'm glad you called before coming, Señor. You see, right after we hung up, our telephones were removed. They are being connected in our new office tomorrow afternoon. We are moving to the new place at 10:00 this evening. We will not be here at this location tomorrow.”
Gasp. Had we waited until tomorrow morning, first, we could never have left the hotel early enough to get the car here and still make it to the train, and second, I'd have had to find the agency’s new address on the door of their by then vacated office ... well, I'm afraid that there could still be a rental car triple parked on a narrow street in Madrid awaiting someone from a rental agency to work out the details for retrieving it!
There are several special things to see in Madrid ... aside from the parks, shops, bullfights, the university, and the Rastro – flea market. I will share just four of them lest this take on the feel of a travelogue. The must on everyone's list is, of course, the national museum of Spain – The Prado. Naturally, we paid our obeisance to this collection of Spanish, Flemish, French, German, and Italian masterpieces.
I can do about 45 minutes in an art museum. After that, everything seems to sort of run together. After an hour, I may still be looking at the art, but I'm no longer seeing it ... if you know what I mean. And I can take no more than five minutes tops of looking at crucifixions and “Mother-child” scenes, if you know what I mean. But I lasted about an hour and a half in Museo del Prado. To see everything, plan to spend the day. To really see everything, plan to visit several times.
I find very little joy in much of the Spanish masterpieces – from El Greco's dark, yellow hues and Ribera's dying saints to Murillo's family scenes with seemingly discombobulated cherub-children figures floating haphazardly about the central figure. But Goya painted a few joyful scenes of picnics and hunts and the waterfront, and he filled these with many people all seeming to be having a good time. But the man could not do noses; even his animals look as if they’ve had a bad bob job! Therefore, his faces though smiling, appear misshapen. Of course, his most famous painting is “The Naked Maja” (mistress) and then he also painted her with clothes. The Spanish 10 peseta stamp displays the au naturale version.
My favorite Spanish painter is Velazquez; his use of color and his sense of proportion are exceptional. “Maids of Honor,” “Infanta Margarita,” and “Vulcan's Forge” were among my favorites. Still, no one appeared to be having a good time in these either.
The Flemish masters tend toward a style that can best be called ungapotchkied. It would take about a week to see every detail in a work by Hieronymous Bosch or Pieter Bruegel; and while van Dyck and van Eyck are less dense, their subject matter held little interest. Of course, there is always Reubens ... a sexist if there ever was one. His men are all well muscled and fully robed; his women are unabashedly naked and greatly in need of exercise. My favorite Flemish painting was by Paul de Vos. It was so large, it took up an entire wall. Entitled, “Stag Held at Bay by a Pack of Dogs,” I couldn't tear myself away from it.
As for the Italians, they are caught up in Madonna and crucifixion art, heavily gilded and massively framed, I walked away almost immediately. But Raphael would not let me by easily. There's a man who could do faces and noses! His “Portrait of a Cardinal” all dressed in red is most impressive. We did not get to the German or French collection, therefore ... they did not get to us.
By and large, the only art at the time in the Prado was from the 16th and 17th century masters. It is interesting that the only art on exhibit was from the period of Spanish colonization. Just a triptych or two was from an earlier time and nothing, as far are we could tell, was from the modern period. I thought that very indicative of what we experienced in Spain – only 200 years out of the past 1300 really had any importance, really existed at all – the immediately post Ferdinand and Isabella period.
Just below our hotel window was the second Madrid “must see” sight, the Plaza de España with its white marble obelisk and bronze statues of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. This Monument to Cervantes is set in a beautiful tree and shrub lined park that is about two or three blocks wide and easily four blocks long. It is replete with ponds and elegant lighting and water displays. At night, the view from our window and from street level is nothing short of sensational. During the day, one needs to enter the park and stand at the foot of the statues. They seem to be in motion.
The third major attraction is the Palacio Real – the administrative center, museum, and the official castle of the king of Spain. However, King Juan Carlos and Queen Sophia actually live on the outskirts of the city in the Palacio de la Zarzuela. The map of Madrid is somewhat misleading. What seems to be far away often turns out to be rather close, and vice versa. We very much wanted to see the Palacio Real. It was raining lightly. We decided to start walking and if the rain picked up, we'd take a cab. This turned out to be a rather short walk.
Madrid in March has perfect touring weather – not too cool and not too warm – we were just fine with a windbreaker and an umbrella. The rain was just a drizzle, barely enough to warrant opening the umbrellas.
We had found our way to the old section of town and were making some progress toward our destination when we happened upon a woman in her late 80s, I'd guess, who was also walking in the same direction. As we overtook her, I asked if this was the way to the Palacio Real. She stopped, said yes, then proceeded to tell us about this very street. “See that house? It was the home of a mayor in this city. He was no good. He died several years ago. My parents used to live in this house,” she said pointing to a three story connected to other such three stories, all dating to the 17th century, I'd estimate. On and on she went about who lived where and what they were all about. We understood eight out of every twelve words, and her historical recollection was quite profound, but when she started repeating herself, we begged pardon and continued on.
The Palacio Real is really unreal. Built in the mid-1700s by Charles III, it is neo-classical in style. It is entered through an immense courtyard paved with gray granite block that should last another 1000 years at least. The Palacio itself wraps around the courtyard on three sides. To the right is the first of several museum displays – especially one on pharmacy ... jars, herbs, dioramas of chemists of yore in action, etc. That leads to the book and gift store, which, in turn, leads to the central section of the Palacio. A grand staircase accented with paintings by Leal, Zurbaran, and Murillo lead into a royal hall with exquisitely carved and frescoed ceilings.
A dozen even more lavish and larger halls proceed off this main entry way, including the elegant cum glitz throne room where the king receives foreign ambassadors and other dignitaries. But of all the 1800 rooms in the Palacio, we were most impressed with the dining room ... which is large and yet feels intimate. It has a table that seats 165 people. Of course, the room is large enough to seat twice that many with room to spare, but the many exquisite chandeliers would then be off-center.
We could not go into the living quarters upstairs, but we were allowed in the hallways, which were draped with literally hundreds of 15 foot long tapestries depicting the history of the country. If you don't mind over done, the Palacio was smashing. Compared to it, our White House is a log cabin.
Back in the courtyard, there was still one more wing of the Palacio to explore – it turned out to contain the most interesting exhibit of all – a medieval armory. One enters a huge hall and is immediately confronted by the life-sized resemblances of some 50 knights on horseback. One's first thought is of being under attack. It's a heart stopper. Around the room are display cases featuring every type and style of sword, crossbow, lance, and suit of armor. There was even a display of the suits of armor used by children from age two on up through their teens; there were even suits of mail ... for dogs. Flash photography was forbidden – it fades the costumes(?). But there was no prohibition against opening the lens wide and holding the camera still. (Remember the pre-digital days?) We loved the display.
Before going to Spain, we had faxed a letter to the parents of a young Jewish student from Madrid who attends the University of Northern Colorado – UNC. Alex Ponte comes to services at Temple Sinai quite often, and when he heard that we would be in Madrid, he asked if we'd visit his family. I called Isaac and Ghita Ponte just as soon as we arrived in Madrid, but because of our schedules, it would be several days before we could get together. They would be working until 7:30 on Thursday, so could we meet them at their office in the city and then go out to supper from there. Their office was on a street by now familiar to us, and very close to the fourth important sight in Madrid, the Plaza Major.
So, we decided to leave early and visit the Plaza before meeting the Pontes. Every large and not so large city in Spain has a main plaza – enclosed stores bordered by a walkway and surrounding an open, rock paved space – an esplanade. Built in 1619 by Philipe III, an Austrian Hapsburg, this hub of the oldest section of Madrid has some history to it. Right here on this very site, three kings were inaugurated, five saints were canonized, bulls charged at toreadors on horseback, and many an enemy of the church was put to the torch in a public auto da fe. There was some slight solace taken in knowing that the plaza was built long after the last Jews had departed Spain. But there was no solace in realizing that the human burnt offerings that came after the expulsion were probably second, third, and fourth generation Marranos (converts to Christianity who remained Jews in secret) and Moriscos (the name given to secret Muslims).
Nine arched gateways connect the Plaza Major to the many streets that intersect it at all sorts of crazy angles, and a dramatic painting graces its main or northern interior façade over the front of the Casa de Panaderia, the bakery. The main Juderia of Madrid was to the east of the Plaza, but nothing of it remains today, not even a place name.
We window shopped, skipped the tapas bars, gave in to just one little pastry ... after all we were about to have supper. One could spend a lot of time walking about this Plaza Major, this heart of what was Renaissance Spain, and we did.
It was now 7:00 but still light out. We made our way down a few small blocks to our appointment. I must say that on entering their offices on the third floor of this quite old building I was somewhat taken aback. The walls were covered with posters of gorgeous women in various stages of undress. Ghita and Isaac were charming and gracious and explained that they were importers of ladies undergarments ... so, the idea here is to focus on the underwear ... and not on the models.
In between bits and snatches of conversation, the office phone kept ringing. It was 9:30 before their last expected FAX arrived and close to 10:00 before we could leave the office. So this is why stores close and people go home in the afternoon from 1:00 to 5:00. Business is still going on after 9:00 at night. The apologies for the three hour delay were profuse, but the time had passed quickly and the conversation was informative and most pleasant.
Instead of having dinner in the city, Ghita and Isaac decided to drive us to their home in the suburbs for dinner. When we got to their condo complex, we met their younger son Alberto and sat down immediately to a light meal that was quite good. I am told that it is not the custom for Spaniards to invite guests to their home; that almost all entertainment is done at restaurants because Spanish homes are usually too small to hold many visitors comfortably. The Ponte apartment was not too small at all. It was elegantly furnished in modern Spanish design pieces, which are heavier and more ornate than I care for, but in such good taste and quite attractive. Isaac was most interested in my tasting the special sardines that his family enjoys. They were indeed outstanding. Then we proceeded to a taste test of hot peppers. Hot spices in Spain are as tepid as New York salsa – tasty, but bland. Spain, after all, is not Mexico.
Over dinner, we learned a lot about youth issues – that a student 18 years of age or older need not serve in the army so long as he studies abroad and does not spend more than 180 days a year visiting back in Spain. On the 181st day, however, he is conscripted and there is no recourse or appeal. Once past one's 27th birthday, one need not serve at all. Therefore, Alex can or must stay in Colorado, preferably in school, until he turns 27, and his trips home are confined to a few months at most.
We learned that it is common practice for parents to provide completely for their sons and daughters even until they are in their mid to late 30s! Offspring are given significant allowance money by parents and are not expected to work. It is therefore most common for unmarried 35 year-olds to still live at home. That explained why we saw so many people in their 20s and 30s on the streets day and night and in tapas bars and good restaurants – they didn't have to work and they had money to spend. That also explains the amazement of his Spanish friends when Alex told them that he had a part time job in Greeley, and that most kids his age in the States have a job or two.
We also spoke briefly about the Jewish community in Madrid. There are some 4000 Jews mostly from North Africa and France and just one synagogue – Orthodox. Yes, the Pontes attend as often as possible and certainly on holidays. The Beth Ya’akov Synagogue has stained glass windows, a large assembly hall, library, kosher catering facilities, youth lounge, and a small sanctuary, plus offices for the Rabbi and the staff of the Jewish Community Center. There is also a new day school that was dedicated in 1977. The Colegio Estrella Toledano, a Jewish Day School, is in the nicest suburb of Madrid. Students are bused from all parts of the city to attend this well equipped facility at which they are taught all of the required secular courses plus a healthy helping of Judaica.
The first record of Jews in this area dates only to the 11th century. At one time there may have been two Juderios with several thousand inhabitants, but after the riots of 1391, the synagogues were destroyed, the community was demoralized, and from then on constantly on guard. Many Jews converted, but even these Conversos were attacked for Judaizing. Jews were prohibited from dealing in foodstuffs, medicine, and from practicing surgery. Many Conversos from Madrid were taken to Toledo to be tried by the Inquisition.
However, after 1651, when Madrid became the capital of Spain, the office of the Inquisition moved here ... and the proclamations of the Inquisition were carried out in the then 31 year old Plaza Major.
Between 1580 and 1640, a number of Portuguese Jews settled in Madrid. Several of them were tried by the Inquisition, too. After 1869 Jews were allowed to settle freely in the city, but it took until the 1920s for any organized community to be formed. It was during both world wars that Jewish refugees made their way to Madrid. In 1941, the government-sponsored Arias Montano Institute for Jewish Studies was founded for the study of Hebrew, Sephardic culture, and Near Eastern history. It has published a semi-annual journal called Sepharad ever since its inception.
Madrid also houses the Sephardic Federation of Spain whose task is to coordinate the activities of all the Jewish communities in the country. I have no idea how active or how effective it is today.
Finally, Sephardic literature and Judaic studies are available at the University of Madrid. Queen Sophia, a reigning monarch of Spain today, studied Judaism there and because of her studies even attended services at the Beth Ya’acov Synagogue in 1976. I heard no word of her having attending more than that once. Perhaps if there had been a liberal option ...!?
Madrid is also the launching pad for a visit to two sites about 20-30 miles outside of the city. Both were impressive, but for different reasons. Valle de los Caidos means Valley of the Fallen. As soon as I heard the word caidos, a whole host of memories flooded over me. I was suddenly transported back to my infancy. I was sitting on my grandmother's knees facing her, and as she sang this special infant-song she slowly lowered me backwards until I was upside down with my back on her shins. And I would giggle with glee. I think this continued with less and less frequency until I was almost three and able to sing along with her.
The song went, “Caichi baladar, pescathikos de la mar ... dup, dup, dup, de la mar.” I can imagine that the words are a mixture of Ladino, Greek, and Turkish. I can also imagine that time has warped my pronunciation. It probably means something profound like, “Going down to the wharf, to get fish from the sea.” It was the word “caidos” that started the memory trail – Caidos - Caichi – going down - Valley of the Fallen ... dup, dup, dup, de la mar (down, down, down to the sea).
After a 15 minute ride from the entrance through a beautiful Colorado-like pine forest, one is greeted by a monumental black cross that soars some 410 feet into the blue sky and is 150 feet wide. Drawing closer, one notes the white marble monument into which the cross is rooted. The whole is a memorial to those who fell during Spain's civil war; 40,000 bones are said to have been gathered to this place. Here too are funerary stones for the Phalangist leader Jose Antonio Primo de Rivera, as well as for his Nationalist Party opponent Generalissimo Francisco Franco. The rest of the memorial consists of a basilica featuring sculptures galore. It seems to be saying that in death there is peace. More likely, after many decades, the passions have died down enough to make the war a lesser issue. I somehow doubt that Jose Antonio, if given an option, would have consented to be buried next to Franco – even symbolically.
The other visitation site is a must-see. It is named after the little village into which it is set, San Lorenzo de El Escorial. Tucked away in a lush forest area just a few miles outside of Madrid, El Escorial has an interesting story, but since it has nothing whatsoever to do with the Jewish people – there being none left in Spain by this time – I won't go into detail. But I am a sucker for irony and, therefore, let me indulge myself with this.
Arguably the greatest of the Catholic rulers of Spain was Carlos I. Oh, sure, there are those who would point to Isabella and there are no doubt a few votes out there for Ferdinand, but if by great one means a ruler whose power was absolute and whose authority was never challenged, Carlos I would carry the election. The irony is that he is a living paradox! Take his name for starters – in Spanish history he is referred to most often as Carlos V, but in fact he was really Carlos I of Spain. It was as Holy Roman Emperor that he was the fifth Charles – and I say Charles because a Holy Roman Emperor would never be known to history by a Spanish name such as Carlos. So, ironically, while he could never be known as Charles I (that was Charlemagne) or as Carlos V ... that's exactly how he's called in Spanish history books.
Irony two: He is heralded as a master builder. We heard about his accomplishments when learning about The Alhambra in Granada and Le Mesquite in Cordoba. He built Cathedrals right into the heart of both of those rare Moslem gems. But, what great builder destroys what was rare and beautiful in order to build what is simply massive and prosaic?
Irony three: As ruler of Spain, he was really only part Spanish because his father was Austrian, he had never set foot in Spain before assuming the throne, and he spoke nary a word of Spanish when he took power. Instead, he was reared in Austria as a scion of the many tentacled, too much intermarried Hapsburg clan.
Irony four: Carlos was king for less than a year. While his mother lived – you remember his mother, Juana la Loca, daughter of Isabella – she was really the legitimate heir to the throne; she was really Queen of Spain. Her son Charles was merely her Executor. Yet, it was he who kept her locked up in a castle for decades under the pretense of protecting the country from her insanity. She died just nine months before Carlos surrendered the throne to his son Philipe II. So, Carlos ruled for three decades, but he reigned for only nine months.
And a final irony: Carlos gave up his throne at the age of 58. Michener relates that he was unseated by ... anchovies! He couldn't resist the little critters. He had a barrel of the future pizza toppers sent ahead to await him wherever he was to dine. He had a voracious appetite. So, he ate them by the cubic foot ... and then slaked his thirst with kegs of beer. But, Carlos had gout for which the cure is neither anchovies nor a hearty appetite. The more he ate, the worse the gout ... until his feet and legs got so bad he could not sit a horse or even walk. He was eventually confined to bed ... to less and less circulation ... to gangrene ... and to his death.
Ironic dessert? Because of his obsession with supporting the Inquisition, the man who could have been even greater than Charlemagne, concentrated on expanding his religious commitment while allowing his kingdom and his influence in Europe to gradually wither and fall away.
“Caichi baladar, pescathikos de la mar ... dup, dup, dup ... de la mar!” So my grandparents' song did make sense after all. The king of Spain, the Holy Roman Emperor of all of Catholic Europe ... because of fishes of the sea ... all fall down!
Shortly after Carlos turned the monarchy over to his son, Philipe II moved the capital from Toledo to the geographic middle of the country – Madrid. In celebration of a victory, he undertook to build a monastery, a royal palace, a grand cathedral, and a mausoleum for his father and himself at El Escorial. Simply put, he and his architect, Juan de Herrera, did one heck of a job. The building is massive with thousands of doors and windows and hundreds of rooms. The marble work and the sculpture well bespeak the craftsmanship. It took 1500 workers 21 years to build the place. By then Carlos had been dead for over a decade, but his bones were brought here to lie in repose in what has to be the most unusual of mausoleums.
After descending a long, gently sloping, marble and precious wood paneled walkway, one enters into the octagonal burial chamber in which massive gilded caskets are tiered four high. On each casket’s façade is the name of the king or queen therein interred. (Of course, children who could not succeed to the throne, pretenders, unsuccessful wives, and bastard offspring are tucked into humbler digs in other rooms.) Aside from Isabella, Ferdinand, Juana la Loca, and her Phillipe I who were buried in Granada, all the rest are here. I read the names from top to bottom: Carlos V, Phillipe II, III, IV, next row ... and on and on. There are 32 sepulchers, most are already filled. The current king, Juan Carlos has his space reserved. How comforting!
As I looked around this rather intimate space, I noted that there were about a dozen tourists ... all standing in the center of the room reading the names on the caskets. Strange as it may seem, I also noted that most were wearing a mezuzah, Star of David, or a Hebrew University of Jerusalem sweat shirt. As I finished intoning the names of these kings of Spain, I simply could not keep myself from patting the casket of Charlos I and whispering aloud ... “Hey, Bubbie, we're back!”
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