The World-Wide Web
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Cordoba, Spain today. We flew out of Mexico City last week, landed in Granada, and went into full tourist mode.
The World-Wide Web
We’re here to see the remnants of medieval Moorish culture in Spain, which are everywhere, both subtle and overt. Granada was the last Islamic holdout in Spain; after more than 700 years of rule in the Iberian Peninsula, the last Muslim Caliph of al-Andalus (whose name was Boabdil, which I just find memorable, for some reason) handed over the keys to the city—or at least the Alhambra—to Ferdinand and Isabella.
The year was 1492.
Lee and I have been here two full days, and we’ve been to the Alhambra twice, to see it in the normal light of day, but also to see the theatrical atmosphere of an ancient space exquisitely lighted—like a stage set—meant to invoke the feeling of a long-extinct world. That first dim, hushed visit was special and beautiful and romantic; all of my (fresh-off-the-plane) senses were attuned to the murmur of fountains, the slope of marble tiles worn down by a thousand years of footfall. I tried to imagine the touch of a breeze on a silk veil in the heat of a Spanish summer, or the smell of orange blossoms sweetening a spring evening.
The next morning, trying to get our bearings, we found ourselves standing in the middle of a traffic circle, at the foot of a particularly ornate-but-realistic statue. Ignoring Lee, who was urging me to keep moving while there was a break in traffic, I worked my way around the base of the statue, translating the words carved into the stone. It was Isabella (known as the Catholic Queen), blessing Christopher Columbus before he set out on his voyage to discover new worlds.
Later that afternoon, we went to see the Cathedral of Granada, which was built on the site where the city’s Grand Mosque had stood for hundreds of years. It’s a particularly appealing iteration of the category: historical European cathedral. Most of the interior is pure white arches and columns and sweeping buttresses, reaching almost to heaven. You can’t help but feel like you’re being bathed in the very essence of purity and light—there’s none of that brooding Gothic mystery and fear in this space.
And then you reach the high altar, which is the most ornate and—literally—celestial I’ve ever seen. The grand dome is encircled by rows of gold balconies, topped by a pale blue, star-spangled sky. In the center is a hammered silver tabernacle. My first glimpse was through a forest of white columns, and I stood there, awestruck. It’s all … bling.
I couldn’t figure out how to capture what I was seeing and feeling in a photograph, so I just stood there, contemplating the extravagance and artistry and just sheer, jaw-dropping ostentatiousness of the whole thing.
And—perhaps because only a week ago we were in Mexico City—the name San Luis Potosi popped into my head. That’s where silver was discovered during the era of Spanish rule in Mexico, leading to a huge mining boom. It was named for another extremely wealthy mining region, in Bolivia. So much silver.
Lee says I walk through the world superimposing images of the humans who walked before. He’s right: I wander through an ancient ruin or historical village trying to visualize what it looked like once-upon-a-time. But sometimes what I see, in addition to the people who might have been, are threads, running in every direction. Backwards and forwards in time, sideways and slantways from place to place, around the world, connecting us all. Some are as heavy and abrasive as rope, some as luxurious as silk. Yet others are as fragile and vanishing as a wisp of smoke.
Because, whether we like it or not, whether we look for it or not, we are all connected, one way or another.
Take care,
Lisa
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