I am Western, I am Christian, I am complicit

Jaime is the leader of a small group of Jews in an old Jewish house in la Judería, the Jewish area of Córdoba. He is a young man, with dark black, curly hair, and it is a wonderful house, over five hundred years old, with a beautiful foyer with the Star of David inlaid in black and white stones in the Moorish style, before the Reconquista. We have seen other pebble mosaics in Spain but, as the small crowd of Jews gather around, somehow this one seems more powerful than the others. We liked the place because Jaime stocked it with CDs of singers from Israel whom Merav is familiar with, and one she knows; we love the place because they invite us in to celebrate Hanukkah.

Cheapskates, we visit all the sites that we don't have to pay for. The synagogue is nice, we see the statue of the Rambam (Rabbi Moshe Ben Maimónides), the influencial rabbi from the 13th Century who lived, taught, and doctored in Córdoba, and we wander the old streets within the city walls. We don't visit the old Jewish house except to view the gift shop, because then we would have to pay, and that pay could buy us churros or beer, of which a glass is nice when you don't have a home and wander around all day.

So Jaime stands at the large, iron Hanukiah, so tall that one of his fellows, an older man, pulls up a chair for him to stand to reach the candles. It is a small crowd, less than the ten men required to create a synagogue, and Jaime lets us know the ceremony will be in a mix of Spanish and Hebrew, not English, but to please ask questions later. He speaks (I find out later) about the meaning of Hanukkah, and how he is trying to create a Jewish community in Córdoba that is not Reformed, not Orthodox, not anything but simply Jewish. Religious tolerance, he says, is what we need, and my heart is with him. The older man gestures for Merav to light a candle, and does so with all of the other Jews, then he looks at me and holds out the candle for me to take. He must know that Ryan and I are not Jewish because of our awkwardness throughout the whole thing, not knowing when and what to say, like a Catholic church when I don't know when to kneel, but nonetheless I climb the chair, get level with the Hanukiah, and light the eighth candle of Hanukkah.

Feasting on the Hanukkah goodies in the museum part of the house––sugar donuts, challah bread and salt, anise liquor that reminds Merav of home, cookies, and thick, Spanish sweet wine made from raisins––I realize why there are not enough Jews in Córdoba to create a synagogue, and why there are only three old synagogues left in Spain: the Jews are either exiled or dead. I am further enraged as we stroll the incredible expanses of the Mezquita Catedral ("Mosque Cathedral"), among the nearly a thousand arches, wide open foyer of orange trees, a soaring minaret/bell tower, the many Christian side chapels and the magnificent cathedral among Moorish architecture: how two different religions expressed the glory of God. I am enraged because, in this converted church, there are glorious pictures of Christ opposite Spanish monarchs; a chapel of St. Paul holding a broadsword, the image of the Cross of Christ, which is odd for a man who had given up the sword; swooping battle scenes with angels butchering their naked opponents with the Cross/broadswords held high.

And as I see these things I think how unlike Jesus they are. How a church effective is very rarely a church that is richly adorned. This is not to tear down the cathedral, in fact, I think it is beautiful and one of the best spots in Spain––it is the Moor's capital and prize mosque––but when I think of Spain's history, I understand some and am baffled by other bits. I understand the 1492 Reconquista and the removal of the Moors: I understand why Ferdinand and Isabella would remove with violence what had been taken from Spain through violence. What I don't get, though, is how one could justify the Inquisition (which had its seat in Córdoba in a castle we did not go in) and the expulsion of all the Jews from Spain and, by a marriage promise, from Portugal. The culture lost! The lives destroyed! Granted, the displaced are long resettled, but I fear those attitudes still persist in the darker sides of our human nature, and if we do not educate about it then we will stumble into the horror again, just with a different religion, or a different race of people. I don't want to wade through the aftermath to find out we repeated what proud people just as human as us did five hundred years ago.

La reína estudiante

The hundred-some soldiers in camouflage and berets are stock-straight and getting lambasted by their commanding officer. Watching the placing of a wreath for historically fallen comrades, the corps stands tall as if their upraised chins were also in salute, or they were, say, shackled at attention and made to climb over a wall.

We are at the Air Force Building, and this is but one of the festivities surrounding the long weekend for El Día del Constitución. The wreath-laying done, they break ranks, but wait! This ain't no civilian ceremony! You don't leave when y'er done! This is the military, and you leave only when you're good and told to! At least that's what I perceive is going on, through my broken Spanish and Inma's narration, given the discliplining spectacle in full view of the public.

Of course, we aren't cool enough to be here for the long weekend. We're not cool enough because, in fact, we didn't even know it was a long weekend, much less a holiday. We are here to see Sarah Richardson, la reína estudiante de España before she heads back to Stetson in a few days.

We walk to see her because public transit, though great, censors the true view of a city, and in my dreams I'm riding a bicycle. After the lambasting, we--Sarah la reína estudiante, Inma who is her awesome Spanish friends who casts warmth and culture with every expression, and some other neat friends and Ryan and myself--we all eat tapas and speak much Spanish to kind ears.

It's good to see Sarah. The last time I got to see her was when I wandered into her room at the Wesley House and bugged her for a few minutes (which is how it goes as residents at our beloved campus ministry), and she is now as she was then: friendly, fun, and inspiring, albeit this meeting in two different languages. At night, with even more friends, we wander two hours in search of gelato, which we never find. We do, however, see that an Irish bar is broadcasting the Gator game at 10 PM, and listed as "10 PM" instead of 22:00, for us Tebow fans who keep time differently from the rest of the world.

Of Madrid there is much to say, but here are two key points: Ryan and I were fifteen meters away from the thrones in El Palacio Real and hence fifteen meters away from ruling the Spanish kingdom including all of its wealth and colonies. Secondly, I felt tempted, even justified, to gloat to Pam that we visited El Museo de la Reína Sofía (for free!) and stood beside Picasso's "Guernica" as well as all of the studies that he drew and painted in preparation. But we don't need often ill-begotten and infinite colonial wealth, nor the changing room with wall dècor so intriguing that I can't begin to desribe or fabulous green and red ceilings of carved wood. We don't need a "Porcelain Room" where, running up the walls on all sides appears one solid piece of porcelain, of cherubs connected to grape vines connected to doorknob-type faces one might find on a castle gate, all of this ascending with no cracks. And if we don't need all of that, we definitely don't need to gloat to Pam, because she loves Picasso and that would be mean. Besides, it's nice not having a permanent job and to be suddenly and decisively placed as monarch for life, well past retirement age when I could sit back, drink coffee, and write memoirs--well, that would be royally lame.

Even our close brush with royalty, however, does not alleviate us from being stranded without a hostel for a night due to such a gigantic holiday weekend. Usually, rooms are plentiful and dirt cheap in the off-season, but when all of Spain is out of work for four days and the restaurants of Madrid are standing room only, several backpackers must move elsewhere, such as a midnight bus ride to Granada and napping from 0430 in the metal chairs of a cold bus station, along with several other travelers. Nonetheless, this makes for just one more awesome story, even if it is not a night, especially comfort and temperature-wise, that I would like to repeat.


Now, the monarch job bit is only partially in jest. While it is nice having time to travel in between responsibilities, killing this week while waiting for our next opportunity to open (thanks to the holiday) has been arduous on my wallet as well as my soul. Ryan seems to be doing okay, and was enthralled at the access granted to us in the Palace and the incredible modern, contemporary, and especially videographical collection of La Reína Sofía. I liked these as well but, for me, I have to feel like I'm contributing to society, and, living as uninfluential a life as I do at this moment, I have trouble.

Perhaps it would be different if we were more fiscally viable, supporting not just historical venues and hostels, but the many and varied street performers who help make a place so wackily memorable (that is discounting, however, most of the living statue community, whose presence mostly makes a place more creepy, though there were some delightful ones, including a guy with chicklets for buckteeth, dressed as a waiter with serving plates and drinking glasses, who was permanently sprawled in midair, as if he'd stepped on a banana peel). I'm speaking of the saxophone player, for example, whose soulful music reverberates throughout the clear, spacious Palacio Cristal, in which only a handful are allowed at a time, bouncing off of the art installations and the walls with the leaves of Parque de el Retiro--a sort of Central Park or Boston Common--autumn-colored and waving outside.

Moreover, oh! The local cuisine! And not the cheap stuff, but that which is characteristic and insipiring about a place! Give me a healthy budget for food in Spain and Italy and I will eat all the potatoes and sausage in Ireland!

For now, my prayer for myself is that this heart is moved to poetry and storytelling. This is how I can influence the world and how I can let you know that I love you all. That the people I meet and serve will only be a fan to this flame, and help to channel it rightly. I can, also, follow the advice of dear friends, such as Sarah Campbell, whose heart, at least the part that remains in Madrid, spends time drinking sangria and eating fish at a brightly decorated restaurant with grog barrels in view that describes itself as kind of like "a psychadelic pirate ship". Too slathered in butter, the headless fish tried to escape, but I got it, Sarah, I got it, and 'twas delicious.