church

Sunday, April 13, Day 12

April 15, 2014 by Virginia Parker 1 Comment

Woke up to the sound of the church bells. Even in these modern times, in a secular city that worships at the altar of cuisine and couture, the bells toll as they have for centuries.
Today is a good day for an audio guided walk. But first, Instead of my usual grab and go noisette, I sit down in Miss Manon’s patisserie, order fresh orange juice, a noisette and an apple pastry, take out a postcard and a pencil stub, and start a little drawing. I knock back the noisette, and time disappears until I’m done. I stretch and look out at the passing street scene. The shoes alone are worth watching. People are carrying boxwood clippings under their arms. Ah, it’s Palm Sunday. I order another noisette, and set my little cup carefully on the postcard, twice. An authentic two-ring, Paris café stamp.

The audio tour begins with the incomparable view of Notre Dame from the bridge next to the Quai de Montebello. The third stop on the audio tour is Shakespeare and Company, the legendary English bookstore and holy ground for a writer. I go in with the fizzy feeling I had pushing open the door to Sennelier. Everything about it is appealing, from the quotes on the walls, a glass dome with a slot over a lighted basin in the floor filled with coins, and a ‘Feed the Starving Writers’ sign.

So many interesting books of varying vintage crowd the shelves. It’s like joining a party in progress with charming rakes, notorious wits,wily politicians, deadbeats, drunks, and philosophers all talking amongst themselves. I wander through the warren of rooms below, then climb the twisting narrow stairs to find more little rooms with floor to ceiling shelves of second-hand book available to all to read. I sit in a room with a typewriter in front of the window and a fat white cat napping on a worn velvet cushion.

I write – on my iPhone – an email to my daughter and a few notes to myself, then I pull out my Nook and read. I soon discover that waves of tourists wash up in that front room, some hushed, some raucous. Everyone takes a selfie with the cat, whose poise is unshakable. A young man sits next to me and opens a book. After fifteen minutes or so, he asks me if I’m reading something interesting. He’s reading love poems, because, like all young men in Paris since the dawn of time, he is hoping to get some cherchez la femme leverage. Youth is truly wasted on the young, y’all. I advise that love poems aren’t a reliable field guide to women, but might help him hold onto one. It is a truth universally acknowledged that chicks dig romance. Surely he has no problem meeting women. Just strike up a conversation with any one of the pretty girls here. Too transitory, he says glumly. Plus he can only muster the courage to approach women like, erm, me, implying that as an old lady, I am safely beyond such foolishness. I whip out my iPhone and show him photos of my girls and Robert. Ah, the King, he says. Astute lad. He’s forgiven.

So we talk. He’s one of the writers that sleeps on the floor in exchange for a couple of hours working the register each day, while he writes a book. I urge him to e-publish. I suggest writers’ blogs to read who have broken new ground in the field. I recommend Facebook pages and links. It’s what I’d be doing if I was trying to be published and make money doing it. We exchange emails. He keeps one of my painting showcards and says it will be his bookmark. A signal honor, coming from a writer. I do miss the scraps of notes and postcard bookmarks in these electronic reader times. Before I leave on my audio tour, I walk back through the rooms and see typewriters on window sills, end table, and alcoves., reminding me of my recent typewriter paintings.

I continue on my walking tour, learning all sort of curious facts about the Julian le Pauvre church, and the lives of the Parisians in this little corner of Paris. At the end of the walk, I decide to walk back along the Seine. Before I head down the stone steps, I stop at one of the green wooden book and poster stalls along the road, and buy risqué 1930s vintage French postcards (2E for five). The antique aspect somewhat blunts the edge, keeping them just this side of filthy. I walk underneath a bridge bristling with padlocks snapped to railings by hopeful lovers.

I buy a carrot salad to go with the brie and figs I have in the apartment, and a chocolate and nougat pastry called Little Saint Antoine. When I spent a month in Italy I swore that espresso replaced my red blood cells. In Paris, I’d bleed butter.

Saturday, April 19, Day 18

April 22, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Packing went easily and well, which meant one less thing to distract me. Picked up a baguette with Brie to go from Miss Manon, and tucked it in my bag. Road the Metro to St. Michel with a line change, which showed me how confident I’d become with something I was nervous about when I arrived. I followed the cultivated, intelligent ladies who recorded the audio guide through the Rue de la Huchette walk, which gave me insight into medieval times. It was quite the disconnect, looking at stones carved ages ago while bobbing like a cork on the tide of tourists. What the guide had to say was insightful, but it was my first exposure to being caught up in a super touristy area lined with cheap trinket stores, cafés and the barbarian hordes. I bought a piping hot butter and sugar crêpe from a walk-by window, delicious camouflage that gave me a legit excuse to stand in the street when I paused to look and listen. Eventually, the audio guide led me to Rue Jacob. I sat under a tree in a courtyard garden of the oldest church in Paris, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and devoured my baguette with Brie.

Among the gifts of the day, was watching fitful sunlight bloom and fade translucent colors through the stained glass onto the flagstone floors of the Church.

The audio guide explained exactly how the whims of royalty and the depredations of war had influenced the church’s interior. I sat on one of the small wooden chairs that have been in every church I’ve visited in Paris (as opposed to pews) and felt the centuries stretching behind me. Thought about the enduring power of faith, no matter how human being have twisted or denied it. One thing the audio guide pointed out was how the St of Rue St Severin had been gouged out of the stone street sign by the revolutionaries, who wanted to erase the influence of church. It’s the day before the resurrection is celebrated in the Christian world, as it has been for 2014 years. The older I become and the shorter my string gets, the more I am astonished at the ability of us short-attention-span monkeys to conceive of and create such a thing as art.

A little bit further along, I found myself on Rue Buci, which rang a distant bell. ‘Number three on the fifth floor’ floated up out of wherever I store information that hasn’t been accessed in 43 years, like the fortune in a Magic 8 ball. I thought I’d just walk over and see if there was, in fact, a number 3, and if it had a fifth floor. And yeah, there it was. The garret I lived in when I first came to Paris, before I tripped and fell into modeling and my life spun off in an unanticipated direction.

I took a couple of photos to show Robert and noticed a motorcycle’s mirror was in one of the shots. Appropriate, as this was a pure stare in the rear view mirror of my life moment.

On I went. I happened by Ladurée at 4, just when my blood sugar fell into the cellar. I decided to sit down and have tea and a salted caramel macaroon or two. Upstairs I went. Blue velvet, gleaming silver, Earl Grey tea, sugar. I wrote postcards to my loved ones and contemplated the many pleasures of Paris. Time well spent.

My time is done here, though so much is left undone. It will have to suffice. I don’t know how or if this will manifest in my work. For all the riches of this city, I love my life, my real life. I will be glad to get home and be with my darlin’ Robert, my spoiled rotten dogs, and my studio. And, when they get back from their travels, my beloved children. Out of the rear view and into the present moment. But not just yet. Ten more days to go.

I’ve heard the King of Holland is going to throw a party, his first birthday as the national holiday. Good thing I’ve got that tangerine scarf. Heading for the CDG airport at 7am and the next chapter in this travelogue; Amsterdam, and the Rijksmuseum.

Friday & Saturday, April 25-26, day 6 &

April 28, 2014 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday. Walked to Nine Streets, looking in the windows at things I things I can’t afford, but enjoy admiring. Stopped for apple pie and coffee (it’s a Dutch thing) and drew a couple of postcards. Cranked up a Rick Steves’ audio guide of the Red Light district. It’s a hoot, like having your pastor show you around. The guide discussed the church while prostitutes tapped on the glass to attract customers; a different kind of window shopping.

Inside the church, I visited Saskia’s grave (the first Mrs. Rembrandt). An art installation was in progress in a side room, involving embroidery on church chair cushions. In another alcove, a black & white animated movie explored the effect of religion on the artist’s ancestors. Just outside the Lady Chapel, another film ran; a heavily pregnant, naked, brunette woman leaned forward and collapsed in slo-mo, falling out of the frame, the film maker’s response to the Virgin of the chapel.

Following that, I had lunch in the church’s café, out in the garden. A note on my plate informed me that my soup was made by (formerly) sex-trafficked women. Amsterdam seems to relish contradiction and thrive on containing multitudes.

More walking, and I nearly stumbled over the bronze breasts and hand underfoot. Such is Amsterdam that I can’t tell what the artist’s intention might be. Shame? Pride? Weighing fair measure for money paid?

Crowds increased, testosterone rose. Walked into the New Church to use the bathroom, stayed for an exhibition of the top photographs of 2014. http://www.worldpressphoto.org/ The impact was the emotional equivalent of a punch in the stomach. I felt gutted by the fifth image, but kept going until it was done. Soldiers under fire, a man making IED bombs, domestic violence, collapsed building victims, cancer-riddled athlete, Boston marathon bombing, tsunami aftermath. There’s a lighter side; nudists, a subsistence farmer stirring plum jam, hermits in rakish leaf hats, bonobos. My favorite; a man bringing a sheep home for a festival dinner. The ewe sits calmly in his car’s passenger seat. The image captures the moment the man behind the wheel lights his cigarette and you think, eh, that’s a really awkward blind date.

“Occupied Pleasures” photo by Tanya Habjuqua

Walk back to the B&B past men unloading and setting up scaffolding, barricades, and port-a-potties, gearing up for the first King’s Day in 129 years.

King’s Day, Saturday. In orange socks and my orange polka dot scarf, I walked toward the museum through the Vondelpark, which Amsterdam sets aside on this holiday for children and their families. It’s a cross between a PTA bake sale, a yard sale of outworn clothes and toys, and kids playing violins or guitars, with a hat for tips. Not bad at 9am, but inside of an hour even this park on the fringes geared up from busy to crowded to crushed. I skedaddled to the Rijks. Lucky for me, it meant the museum was not slammed and I had a great morning there.

Since I was here the other day, oversized yellow post-its have popped up. They are a commentary on a common response to the art, and what it might mean looked at from another angle. I start following these because so many of them echo what I’m thinking, then give it a spin. It feels subversive, and I like the way it jostles my thinking. Here’s an example.

When I walked back to the B&B around 2pm, there was blasting music from boats packed to capacity riding low in the canal, drunks everywhere, a sea of orange people. Population on the sidewalks was at capacity. Enterprising people are selling access to their toilet for 1 Euro a pee.

Welcome to the orange jungle.

Depending on your point of view the atmosphere was either enthusiastically festive or borderline mob. I got pushed into the street a few times by the oblivious throng. And this isn’t where the party is – that’s in the center.

I called it a day, lazed around in my room, read a book and wished King Willem-Alexander many happy returns of the day.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 4: Reflected Glory

April 6, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Big day, Number Three. Where do I start?

Went to sleep around 2am – blame it on those nightlife loving Madrileños and tourists on perpetual spring break. Instead of being woken up, I just wait until it starts to slow down.

Left the Prado to the amateurs on the weekend, I headed West, towards the Royal Chapel of St. Anthony of La Florida with ceiling frescoes painted by Goya and where he is buried, planning to stop along the way to see the Museo Cerralbo. It’s the collection of Don Enrique de Aguilera y Gamboa, XVII Marquis of Cerralbo, left to a dazzled nation with the proviso that it be kept intact, each painting and object exactly where he placed it. http://translate.google.es/translate?hl=en&sl=es&u=http://museocerralbo.mcu.es/&prev=search

Along the way I saw an Easter window – it’s not about fluffy bunnies and peeps over here.

And the Church of All Grips (actually the entrance to a Medical Association.)

Then I walked into the Cerralbo.

Words fail me. So. Much. Stuff.

The good stuff. Some inherited, some acquired. What centuries of influence, conquest and wealth can accumulate, and edited down to what he could shoehorn into a mansion in town. What the Hearst Castle yearned to be but emphatically isn’t. More than the Frick. More even than Isabella Stewart Gardener, before the heist. Every square inch of it the best money and power could buy. After the initial string of wow wow oh wow moments, it was like eating buttered foie gras in Béarnaise sauce smothered in whipped cream. Rich.

Where to start. Okay, how about he never met a mirror he didn’t like. Five seemed to be the minimum for every room. We’re talking large, in ornate gold leaf or Murano glass frames.

Also chandeliers in bronze and horns and crystal; at least one per room and five in the halls.

My favorite was an enormous Murano glass chandelier in pastel party colors, shaped like a gondola.

And sometimes you see both, like this chandelier mirror combo.

Then there was the art. Every wall was crammed with paintings, not an inch to spare. In the dining hall – too grand to be called a room – mostly still lifes of flowers and fruit, with the puzzling exception of a large painting of porcupines fighting vipers. Not something I’ve seen before.

Just when you think you couldn’t possibly have anything in common with the Marquis, you notice the ceiling frescoes above the table, celebrating the Goddess of Chocolate and the Goddess of Coffee. Kindred spirit!

The adjoining billiard room doubled as a portrait gallery. It also had raised settees, so the ladies could watch the balls in play. Thoughtful.

There was one hall dedicated to his collections of drawings – closed off by a velvet rope. Sad for me.

Three floors of rooms meant there were withdrawing rooms for ladies, smoking rooms for men, morning rooms for flirting, bedrooms, dressing rooms, even bathrooms (with servants for plumbing), a library and his private office where he kept track of his realm. No doubt paid the bills and filled out his 1099s.

Not a cube.
There was a summer wing and winter wing – they lived in the wing where the light and air were best for that season. They could travel to their summer home without leaving the front door.

The public reception room and hallway were lined with armor, plus the weaponry to go with. Ceremonial swords as a centerpiece? Check. Suits of armor complete with leather gloves and fringed skirts? Check.

Scimitars, sabers, pikes, spears, knives, claymores, pistols and daggers? You bet. Samurai armor? But of course. The message –

I may be rich, but I am still a bad ass sonofabitch, from a long line of stone-cold killers. I can afford to lose more on one game of billiards than you will earn in your lifetime. Deal with it.

The marquis collected clocks – there is one in every room, all working and they strike the hours merrily as you wander, dazed, though this dragon’s dream of a hoard.

He backed the right horse – King Carlos – and won big. Having done that, he retired to enjoy his chosen passion, archeology, collecting art and objets d’art. Lots and lots of art.

It’s sumptuous and luxe on a grand and unrelenting scale. After a while, you yearn to rest your eye on nothing much. A blank wall. Some white space. Apparently, the Marquis felt the same way.
There is only one room on the tour that isn’t jammed with loot, and that is the bedroom of Marquis. It is austere, with plain painted blue-gray walls, a white spread on a black wooden spool bed of medieval design, a small bedside table that held a chamber pot, a shaving stand, and a wardrobe.

A cross hung by the bed and only two paintings on the wall – one a classic Virgin and child, the other, interestingly, Christ and Mary Magdalene.

I left after four hours because they close at 3pm. I was reeling. I wanted to go sit in an empty room for an hour. I’d still love a month in the place, with access to really look at everything. I just sent them an email to beg for an English tour, which their website says starts in April.

Off I staggered, hungry by now, and after passing several deserted places nearby went into a pretty little bakery. Alas, it looked better than it tasted. Everything was dry as day-old bread and the coffee tasted like instant, even though I saw her make it.

Walked on to the chapel, passed the Temple of Debod, through a park and then on to a path that wound downhill, faithfully following the iMap on my phone. The next thing I knew I was crossing a ramshackle bridge, rusty and trashy, over multiple train tracks, with every surface sprayed with graffiti as far as the eye could see. It was dirty and deserted and I was very glad I had didn’t try to walk to this chapel at night.

When I walked up to the chapel, I found it was closed until 7pm. I was tired and sweaty and disappointed. Before I quit, I looked around and discovered its had a twin across the street and sure enough, that was where the Goya chapel was. I went inside the very small church and looked at the glorious frescoes and ceilings and his tomb, simple and roped off. Strategic mirrors allowed the visitors to gaze at length without neck strain. There were also plain walls and plain stone floors. What a relief. I ended up sitting on a bench and drawing his tomb and a lamp held aloft by three cherubs for about an hour. It was perfect. http://www.lonelyplanet.com/spain/madrid/sights/museums-galleries/ermita-de-san-antonio-de-la-florida

Here’s a glimpse of the reflected glory.

When you think about it, that’s what the accumulated treasure of the Marquis was meant to achieve; to reflect his glory. And what Enrique really wanted was to potter around in the dust and rubble of archeological digs.
Started back keeping an eye out for a taxi but saw none for about four blocks. I was still a 45-minute walk from my apartment and was very happy to finally see a vacant cab and grab it. Of the miles I walk, at least a third are backtracking because I turned the wrong way. I do not lie.

Decided to swing by the famous Mercado de San Miguel, a sort of upscale food/tapas court, in a cast iron framed pavilion. It was lively and crowded and touristy, but in a good way. I bought some acorn fed jambon, a wedge of Brie cheese, and a cup of ceviche I ate on the spot.

Not far to get to my apartment after that but I manage to find some Limon gelato to eat on the way. Yum.

Cup of tea later I’ve been writing this for a couple of hours. Time for some peppermint tea. Tomorrow the famous gigantic outdoor flea market, El Rastro.

Madrid Unfiltered, Sunday April 5

April 7, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Easter Sunday
Apparently I like to make plans so I can change them. In a contrarian move, the rowdy people of Madrid all went to bed early on Saturday night. It was positively calm by 11.
I, on the other hand, didn’t get to sleep until 1am. Let’s blame that on jet lag. Woke up at 7am when the raucous folks who went to early mass strolled home talking and laughing.

Went back to sleep because I could. Up by 9, had a cup of tea and reviewed the original plan – to go to the big ass flea market with the hoards and look at tat. It was the last thing I wanted to do, so I decided to wing it. I’d walk over to the Bon Bon for café con leche and a pastry, then amble over to the Prado even though my policy is to stay far away from the big museums on the weekend when the crowds come. I can be a contrarian myself.

I was armed with a short list of words in Spanish. I am tired of fumbling with the phone app and have zero memory of any words I repeated on Duolingo.

I strode confidently out the door, secure that I knew the way. I paused at one intersection but told myself not to be a wussy. Didn’t realize I was going the wrong way until I saw the roof of the palace – which is the exact opposite direction. I turned around and a few streets later realized I was passing by the Dominical Basilica Pontificia de S. Miguel.

My plan changed again.

I slipped inside to say a prayer and maybe light a candle or two. Discovered Mass was underway, so I lingered in the back. I found I knew where they were in the mass by the rhythm of call and response, standing and kneeling, even though it was in Spanish.

Just as the Priest raised the wafer to consecrate the host… BOOM! Boom, Boom. Booomm. Rattatat. BOOOMMM. Forget fireworks – It sounded liked the detonation of artillery, so loud the priest’s amplified voice was drowned out. He sighed and rolled his eyes – or maybe looked to heaven for help. It didn’t stop the drummers in the street outside the church.

A convoy of white-caped celebrants with massive bicep strength gathered a crowd and banging away with all their might led the way to a packed out Plaza Mayor for the ceremonial drumming in of Easter. Yeah, when I think of death and resurrection rites I imagine a mood of solemnity and sorrow, but that’s not how they roll in tourist central Madrid.

I peeled away from the growing crowd, having heard enough drumming in the last four days to last me a decade. Back on my mission to get coffee from le Bon Bon when I looked in a doorway and saw a brightly lit bakery with an espresso machine and my feet walked me in.

I mastered my first Spanish phrase ‘para e avar?’ (can I get this to go?) ‘Si’ the clerk said. Success! Two shots of espresso with hot milk later my lips were numb and my brain lit up like a pinball machine What do they put in the stuff? It’s dangerously effective. I also got a pastry I’d seen in all the bakeries and dismissed until I read it was specific to Easter. It looks like cold French toast, but turned out to be much more custardy on the inside with a crusty sweet cinnamon glaze outside. Delicious.

Along the way, I spotted a yarn store and an art supply store – another benefit to getting lost. – and noted down the location for another day.

I ate my pastry sitting on a bench on that street I love, the one with the poetry. Which, by the way, Google maps fails to ‘see’ as a walking route to the Prado. Maybe that’s why there are so few people on it.

I walked to the back of the Prado to the ticket line for those with passes. I was the only person. The other line was out the door and wound around the side and along the long block in front of the museum. The line I am not in winds around the front of the building.

With this second visit, plus the Cerralbo and the Archeological museum visit I’m already ahead on the purchase price of the pass. I admit to a feeling of smugness.

I ask a passing tourist to take a photo of me hanging out with Goya and La Maja Desnuda.

Once inside, I decided to continue my Louvre Strategy; start on the top floor, at the back, and work my way forward. As I go along, I mark the rooms with colored marked on the floor plan they hand out, so I know where I’ve been. I add notes on paintings I want to revisit. Their ‘no photo’ policy makes that essential.

Honesty compels me to admit I forgot that rule twice and was busted both times.

I drew a postcard and sketched a sleeping woman and her dog.

My vision is tricky under the low light in some of the rooms. That’s frustrating. Mostly it was grand, taking my time, listening to the audio guide, which is quite informative.

I made it through rooms 14-39 – not quite half of the second floor. Spent quality time with Goya, Rubens, Murillo, Gainsborough, Reynolds, Tiepolo, and Titian, to name a few. A standout were royal portraits by Meng, who is entirely new to me. The way he made the gems glitter and the flesh soft and dewy. The faces of this upper class rogues gallery had expressions of cheerfully complacent superiority and they are dressed to shock and awe. Goya’s titled people are so different – much more ambivalent.

Left the museum at 5:30 pm pretty whipped, but not as tired as I have been. Walked to Corte Ingles and armed with my Spanish word list was more successful. I left with fresh cherries and pears, Prince of Wales tea, sea salt, a baguette, and butter – dinner!

Walking by a doorway I looked and half a dozen bulls looked back. Realized it must be one of the famous Madrid Bull Bars. I was fascinated. Tables of men inside made it feel like a boys club. I sidled in, and took a couple of photos as discretely as I dared. Ole!

Began to catch up on the blog while I ate my customary dinner of Brie, bread, jambon and fruit. Tomorrow it’s back to the Prado since nothing else is open on Mondays, and whatever other adventures befall me along the way.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 6

April 8, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Monday, April 6

My first day in Madrid that isn’t a national holiday. Up at 7am for the first time, and hoping to get back on a schedule that includes sleeping 8 hours a night. Showered and prepped my backpack for the day; a small half bottle of water, a sketch book and old cassette tape box of pencils and erasers, mini IPad, (the Prado has WiFi), postcards to draw on, a much folded and ceased map with routes marked in highlighter, lip balm, and a compact nylon shopping bag. My iPhone slips in my right pocket, tin with cash, ID & credit card in my left pocket, with the keys to the apartment. I’m good to go.

I ignored my pride and followed my iPhone’s Google maps to the poetry street, Calle de las Huertas . So easy and straightforward. I blush to confess I won’t be leaving the apartment door without running that map app. I have whatever the opposite of a sense of direction is. A sense of dislocation? It’s like the magnet for true north in my head spins randomly. It’s a roulette wheel, not a compass.

I was at the Prado close to 10:30. Took a stealthy photo of the police. No one misbehaves in these ticket lines.

Zipped through security with my museum pass and raced up the stairs to start where I left off yesterday. In the grand hallway, my eye was caught by a dog in one of Tintoretto’s grand paintings. A lovingly rendered hound, something like an English setter. I notice that the same dog is in a nearby painting by the same artist– same markings exactly. I’d bet cash money it’s the painter’s dog. I got out my pencil and a postcard and personal bliss commenced.

Also drew a trussed lamb, Agnus Dei, by the Spanish painter Francisco de Zurbarán.

No audio guide today, just my iPod – Bizet’s Carmen at first, then switched to an audio book while I drew the lamb. And that’s how time flies when I enter a museum.

Two experiences I didn’t predict. First, the wonderful pleasure of discovering magnificent painters I have never seen or heard of. Second, the twinge of embarrassment when an acknowledged master painter leaves me cold. I’m talking about you, El Greco. I won’t lie. Same goes, Picasso. Though I won’t be admitting it out loud in Spain. It would be like dissing Real Madrid. Probably a deportation offense.

Left at 1:30 to stroll around the park and visit St. Georges Church. Tried a place friends had recommended for lunch, Fonty http://fontymadrid.com/home. As a former wordsmith, the name amused me. The asparagus soup was intensely green and asparagussy. It tasted like spring. The steak on a bed of arugula had a decent flavor but was too tough and labor-intensive to chew. It was more like gnawing.

Luckily, the over-all experience was redeemed by the desert, a luscious, fresh raspberry pannacotta.

I’d been unsuccessfully seeking postcard stamps at Tabacs, the only shops permitted to sell them. For a city with smokers on every street corner, tobacconists are few and far between. A nice woman directed me to the Palace Cibeles for stamps. Double score! It was on my list to see, and is a post office. Guards at the first entrance I approached turned me away when I asked in my feeble Spanglish where I could buy stamps. On impulse, I turned back and I showed them the Google translation on my phone ‘do you know where I can find a post office?’ and apparently the penny dropped. Oh, they told me, that’s around the corner and up the stairs. That makes four times so far the Google translate app has changed a no to yes for me. I’m no shill, it’s just the fact.White marble for miles and beautiful ornate brass mail slots. Went in and was promptly scolded, shooed away from the counter and instructed to take a ticket. I took the ticket, they immediately called my number, and impatiently waved me back over. Ah, the international brotherhood of bureaucracy. I used the Google voice translate feature again, and it worked fine for I would like to buy ten postcard stamps, please.

Thought of doing some light shopping, but I was tired and had walked10 miles on concrete and marble, it’s uphill all the way back to the apartment, plus there was a Madrid taxis right outside the PO. I jumped in the cab. and ten minutes and 6 Euros later popped out at my apartment door. Made my standard dinner – fruit, cheese, ham, and bread.

Hope I sleep through the night.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 10

April 12, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Friday, April 10

Hiked over to the Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales (Convent of the Barefoot Noblewomen), Plaza de las Descalzas, 3, just six minutes away. Tours are limited to 20 people and only two tours in English daily. I arrived at 10:45, and was issued a ticket for noon. Perfect! I wandered through the streets in search of my daily caffeine fix. I avoid the large plazas – side streets have better service and lower prices. Meandering paid off. Five minutes later I had a table and a café con leche and a croissant. The croissant was fresh and tender. The best I’ve eaten, with the exception of Bob Bon’s which cannot be surpassed.

Fortified, I was waiting by the forbidding, grim entrance doors by 11:45. The guards were turning people away, sold out for the day. A better option is to book online, but only Spanish language tours are offered.

We waited in an anteroom lined with paintings of angels. The mood was quiet and respectful, something I like to see in my fellow tourists. Photographs were forbidden, and I didn’t cheat because, you know, nuns. I pulled these off Google Image. I watched a clueless older man who considered himself an exception get his knuckles rapped.

A dignified man of quiet authority with a particularly beautiful Spanish accent led the tour. If words were music, he spoke in glissandos. The Grand Staircase brought to mind the Benozzo Gozzoli chapel in the Palazzo Medici in central Florence.

https://medicipatronsaints.wordpress.com/works-in-the-exhibition/benozzi-gozzoli-journey-of-the-magi/

Every inch painted with dazzling frescoes covering walls, arches, ceiling, and balustrades. Added in the 17^th century, the colors were still brilliant.

I was struck by a trompe-l’oeil balcony scene beside the staircase with King Felipe IV, Queen Mariana, and their little floss-haired infanta Margarita Teresa, looking much as she does in Velázquez’s Las Meninas. Here’s a brightly lit photo – look on the wall to the left.

Joanna of Austria founded this convent in 1559, and for 100 years the convent attracted young widowed or spinster noblewomen who brought their lavish dowries with them. Clearly, these ladies were more noble than barefoot. Not that I doubt their devotion, but I can’t help wondering if they chose Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales over being bossed around by men at court. The convent was ruled by women, their own world of wealth and privilege, art and music. Spain’s finest Renaissance composer, Tomas Luis de Victoria, worked at the convent for 25 years. How dreary could it have been?

We followed our guide, and were followed by his assistant, a young, doe-eyed, dark-haired woman, who looked like half of the portraits of Virgin we passed. Her task was to move the stragglers along the wide hallways of the upper cloister. Mullioned windows overlooked a sunny, grassy courtyard, planted with orange trees. Fruit hung in the green boughs. To quote another visitor, one fully expected to see a unicorn canter by.The guide explained about the founding of the order, and what made various paintings or sculptures noteworthy. Except for the occasional bench, the rooms of the cloister we saw were empty, but so embellished that they felt replete.

Some pieces I keep thinking about:

The Virgin of Guadalupe shrine enclosed by a pair of riotously rococo gilded and carved doors. The altar was made of stacked mirrored panels, and the 68 panels feature matriarchs of the Old Testament painted by Sebastián Herrera Barnuevo. Girl power!

A pair of golden crowns – open in the center for a king and closed like a helmet for an emperor – resting on purple velvet pillows. I have no clue why there were there.

Tapestries designed by Rubens and made in Brussels in the 17th century. Displayed in the former nuns’ dormitories, they curved up into the high ceiling and swept the floor.

The Flemish room of paintings, including one of a ship sailing for heaven while sinners sank in the seas, pulled down by demons, and a Deësis of the Virgin Mary, Christ Blessing, and Saint John the Baptist. Very like one I just saw in the Prado.

The many, many portraits of Juana.

Little robes for altar figures made by the nuns – like divine doll clothes.

A carved and painted wooden statue of the grieving Magdalene wearing a garment that looks like woven basketry – such intricate carving.

A shrine, set low in the wall, with miniature figures made of silver. It was for the edification of the children of women who came to the convent after marriage.

And, of course, at every turn there were virgins virgins virgins, Mary depicted in all her different aspects. It’s worth mentioning one of Fra Angelico’s Annunciations was taken from the cloister to the Prado. According to our guide, it took a royal edict to override the nuns’ protest. Note the unusual depiction of Adam and Eve leaving Eden fully clothed.

I wondered if the richness and the beauty, the might and power these acquisitions represent distracted the nuns or was a conduit to the divine? Or maybe it faded into background noise after a few decades of prayer and service. I was only there an hour and a half. I could’ve stayed a week.

Afterward, it took me a minute to return to the 21^st century. Decided to go in search of that tee shirt place I’d found and lost. Success! Picked up a portable lunch from a bakery. Walked through Retiro Park towards the Prado. I planned to sit on a bench and eat little sausage-stuffed croissants and squares of tiramisu. Note: there is no cholesterol in Spain. This fact is well known.

The park is large, the trees leafed out in pale spring green, and the paths broad, well laid out, and a pleasure to walk. The problem was there were very few people. Two runners in 20 minutes, no children playing, no families, no one eating lunch. I expected it would be well populated on this beautiful day. I saw a few men sleeping on benches, and three burly men on either side of a path that gave me hard stares. So, no. I kept going, and ate as I walked.

I returned to the Prado. That’s another great thing about the museum pass, it’s reasonable to drop by for a couple of hours. I went to the earliest section, which made me wish I had a Bible to consult. I know the basics, of course. A Presbyterian childhood is all about the bible stories. I can spot a Magdalene or Noah or Christ confounding the doctors from across the room, but I mostly know my expurgated, childhood version of the stories.

I sat for an hour and drew details of demons being slain by the Archangel Michael (and his footwear) on postcards for my family. The Prado: where the wild things are. So satisfying. I am starting to miss the act of painting.

Ducked into a room on the way out that had a vibrant Sorolla painting of boys lying in surf that makes me determined to visit his museum. The next door room held four enormous narrative paintings on a grand scale; a blighted lovers tale, a betrayal and mass execution, a despairing prince in exile, and a knight’s conversion to Christianity when confronted by a rotting corpse. Thought of contemporary realism painters that have no place now. What a loss.

Did a bit of shopping in the Prado gift store. You didn’t expect me to pass by a tee shirt with Velázquez’s signature on it, did you? Walked back via Calle Cervantes and picked up my dinner en route.

Tomorrow, Belle Arte and lunch at the avant-garde restaurant, Al Trapo.

Madrid Unfiltered, April 18 & 19

April 21, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Saturday, Sunday April 18 & 19

Part of the day before I travel is spent preparing to leave so the day of departure isn’t fraught. I did laundry and packed my suitcase except for two changes of clothes I’d need. The trickiest bit turned out to be trying to print a boarding pass. Apparently, Iberia likes Windows but they don’t like Macs. There were worried messages exchanged on WhatsApp with my landlady, and emails and calls to Iberia, until finally I stood in a photocopy shop emailing my boarding pass to them to print on an ancient copier and even that was a tightrope walk. Go figure.

Having survived that, I figured it would a good day to see the churches. I walked to San Francisco El Grande Basilica, Plaza de San Francisco, thinking I’d skip the tour and just look reverently at frescoed dome and chapel by Goya. I listened to the incomparable Joanna Bourne’s The Spymasters Lady http://www.joannabourne.com/ while I walked. Ideal for the adventure of confidently slipping through the streets of a foreign city.

Alas, the Basilica is only open for tours 10:30-12:30, 4-6. No entry for freelance viewing or praying allowed. It was 2pm, so I changed my plans.

I walked over to Santa María la Real de La Almudena Cathedral. They started construction in1883, and it was completed and consecrated in 1993, so there’s are hope for Buckhead yet!

I had hesitated to go, since it is billed as modern and I imagined an unholy cross between a high school cafeteria and an airport lounge. I was wrong. It had far more grace than I predicted and the ‘modern’ decoration, especially the brilliant colors, were pleasing.

There was plenty of what I love about Catholic churches.

They played chanting monks over the sound system, and occasionally a voice admonished everyone to be quiet. It was surprisingly effective.

I’ve been looking at paintings of Venus and Cupid, aka Eros, for weeks. Does innocent cherub at the feet of the Virgin have a mischievous glint in his eye?Before I set out that morning, I learned someone I knew had died. We had exchanged posts online for years. I lit a candle for her in the cathedral and had more than one melancholy thought.

I miss the oddest things. Making lists. My gym routine. Talking to my friends over coffee in the morning.

That night I set my alarm for the first time. Didn’t need because I barely slept. The street noise hit new levels. It was like trying to sleep in the middle of a frat house during pledge week, or in during carnival in Rio, with a few three alarms fires and a riot thrown in. Exhausted and cranky, I left the apartment at 8am, trundled down the street to the taxi rank on the corner, bags in tow, and left for the airport.

Bela Lisboa, Day Three

April 24, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

Bela Lisboa, April 21 – In two parts.

Part One

Enjoyed a varied and tasty breakfast in the walled garden of my B&B Casa Amora. www.casaamora.com/ TripAdvisor has never steered me wrong. There is a reason these guys are the number one guesthouse in Lisbon and I’m delighted to add my voice to the laudatory chorus. They manage their transient guests with good humor and skill, arranging a tour here, dealing with airlines there, offering dining and shopping suggestions tailored to individual tastes, with no pressure. They encourage the timid and marvel at the adventures of the bold. Total pros.

Headed out, overjoyed to be going downhill. If I had to pick one word for the topography of this town it would be steep. I saw a plain gray stone church, and, on a whim, pushed open the door. The interior was painted Tiffany blue and white. Intricate versions of The Stations of the Cross marched around the periphery, made of classic blue and white painted Portuguese tile.

The ceiling was elaborately painted, with the Holy Spirit as a dove in the center in a nimbus of yellow light.

Three people came in at different times while I was poking around. They dropped a coin in the poor box, prayed in front of one of the altars, and left for work. I was respectful and discreet, and they paid no attention to me. It was lovely to see the ritual part of spiritual in daily life. I lit a candle for a departed friend and pushed on.

I stopped in a park with an overlook and took a moment to stop and gaze at the city spread out before me. As I turned to go, a man playing guitar for passersby picked out the opening to Stairway to Heaven. I put two euros in his cap.

My next stop was the Museum of Sacred Art, adjacent to the Sao Roque Church. There was blindingly intricate lace for priest’s cuffs, gold embroidered vestments,

ornate silver gilt candle sticks, painted wood statues, – my favorite was the Pious Pelican,

and variations on saints, martyrs, virgins and one particularly dissipated looking cherub.

And the man himself, St Roch. I don’t know why I love that hat on the skull, but I do.

I was absorbed and fell into my observation zone. It’s very meditative and I lose track of time.

Afterward, I thought I’d take a quick look at the church. Holy cow. You know when a flash bulb goes off in your face? Probably not, unless you are over forty, but I digress. The point is you are temporarily blinded by the light. Well, that’s what this was like. Plain as a paper bag on the outside, beyond gaudy by everything baroque could throw at you on the inside.

There’s a poem by John Keats, On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer, that sprang to mind. No, really. It starts out,

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

and ends this way –

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortés when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific -and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise –
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Perhaps it was ‘realms of gold’ since I was swimming in the stuff. Or the conquistador reference, that’s where a chunk of the loot to finance this came from. Or the fabulous phrase, ‘wild surmise.’ I think the whites of my eyes were showing. I stared, stupefied by the sheer level of in-your-face.

This Jesuit church is awash in gold.They went all in, and then they threw in some more.

There were glazed tiles, gilt woodwork, marble, carving, silver gilt, multicolored painted figures, and oil paintings galore. One chapel featured what looked like a couple of thousand cherubs. The interior was a visual assault, a body slam of gleam and dazzle. It made excessive seem like it’s just not trying hard enough.

It’s one of the earliest Jesuit churches, built in the 16th century.

Fun fact – The most notorious of the several baroque is the 18th-century Chapel of St. John the Baptist (Capela de São João Baptista). That built this bad boy in Rome, then disassembled, shipped, and reconstructed it in São Roque. At the time it was the most expensive chapel in Europe. Apparently, God loved it, because this church was unharmed by the infamous earthquake/flood/fire disaster of 1755.

I lit a candle for my family and then my time was up – I had a lunch reservation at 12:30.

I reluctantly pried myself away, and stumbled the few blocks to Belcanto, hoping the service would be as welcoming as the food was inventive.

Madrid Unfiltered, the Finale

June 5, 2015 by Virginia Parker Leave a Comment

The last day has that mix of longing and farewell, a foot on either side of the threshold.

Here’s what I did the last full day in Madrid. I washed my comfy Athleta yoga pants in the sink, so they’d a have full day and overnight to dry. I’ll be wearing them tomorrow on the flight home. They look respectable and feel like jammies. Pretty much my ideal.

I popped in my ear buds and fired up my happy Madrid music mix – the one that can propel me uphill, no matter how tired I am, and flip my emotional switch to the gratitude setting. So instead of ‘woe is me, it’s the last day,’ I’m bopping down the streets thinking, ‘lucky me, I spent April in the Prado.’

I started at Crusts for a croissant with jam to go with my delicious latte.

My walking route took me past a tiny outpost of the famed Florence perfumerie, Santa Maria Novella. Bought a flask of Angels of Florence cologne for my daughter and assorted scented soaps. Clipped the bag handles to the mini-carabiner that’s hooked on the loop on the top of my Longchamps bag.

ZIpping into the no waiting side of the otherwise long Prado ticket lines never lost its appeal. Still a thrill. Inside, I followed the map I’d superimposed on the room by room guides they hand out at Information desk using colored markers and notes in the corners. Checked my marginalia and took my time revisiting particular paintings, saying goodbye and thank you. My mood was 51% more appreciative than elegiac, but still – Unless these works tour, I will not see them again. Apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson, but better to have discovered and loved a work of art and have to part from it, than never to have seen it at all.

Among the unexpected pleasures of the day was finding this man at work.

I wandered off into a side room, and drew Mars from the Velásquez painting on a postcard to send to my much missed my husband.

It’s in the same room with Ruben’s copy of Titian’s the Rape of Europa. Look to the left and you see a part of it in the background of The Spinners by Velasquez, one of his last works. That’s one of the wonderful things about seeing great works of art hung on the walls of major museums. Sometimes you witness a private conversation between artists, along with ebb and rise of the tide of visitors. Thank you, curators.

Eventually, I put away my pencil and headed to lunch at La Trainera. Old world gentleman maitre d’ pulled out my chair and handed me the menu with a flourish. I dined well, on what amounted to more hake in a tomato sauce, served in a clay dish with shrimps and mollusks scattered over the top. I also ordered asparagus picturing skinny green wands. I got this instead.

I loved the bespoke china plates with their ‘yo ho heave ho’ logo.

Afterwards, I headed back to the Prado. This time, my attention was caught by a small portrait of a man by Velásquez.

The wall card speculated that it is a self-portrait, done when he first arrived at court. I can see it. I stood and drew him, for an hour at least. I am no portraitist, but I gave it my all, and was not disappointed. Mostly I loved looking into his eyes.

I took my leave of the Prado, grateful that it exists. On the way home I visited the church on the hill behind the Prado.

It was peaceful and housed a multitude of Marys, like this holy lady of Spain.

Wended my way back to hotel Orfila to pack, pay the bill, and prepare for the day of travel home. Asked the nice desk clerk to take a photo of my lounging in the comfortable and charming lobby.

Yeah, I loved it.

I’ll end this trip with five things I observed in Madrid.

People sit on low walls outside the Prado and on the rims of fountains in the plazas. Under 40, they are all looking at their phones. Over 60 they are all smoking.

Walking five plus miles every day improves digestion and hurts feet.

No one speaks more than half a dozen English words. When you don’t speak Spanish, they nod or smile, and talk louder and faster. Google Translate is the answer for the linguistically inept.

Graffiti has thrown its net of tags on every surface of every building.

The heron curve of head bent, spine curved, elbow crooked is ubiquitous and universal. Everyone is texting.

Adios, beautiful Spanish city. You are justly proud.