Heaven, hell and the holiday
Oct. 3rd, 2003 10:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootWell now, I won't be forgetting this one in a hurry. But I'm going to write it all down to make sure.
The plan was very straightforward: Incredibly cheap flight followed by 7 days in the province of Alicante with Red Raunchette, Talks Things Through, and of course, Beloved Bear, at the villa belonging to Red Raunchette's father plus use of car also belonging to said dad. Car great, villa beautiful, and my first impression, late at night in the garden was a scent I remembered from the times I spent in Spain as a kid.
There is a dull looking little creamy brown plant called Gallan(t?)e de la Noche, Gallant of the Night. During the day you wouldn't notice it, but at night it has a gorgeous and unmistakeable scent which permeates the evening air and makes everything smell light and sweet. It grows in many places I'm sure, but I have only come across it close to the Med. That smell mixed with jasmine and accompanied by the sound of overenthusiastic crickets, is so purely evocative of the Southern Spain I remember, I felt at home straight away. What a fool I was.
Alicante, city and province. What is it for? Mile after mile of building site in sunny Spingland. The province seems to be a curious hinterland of saltmines and wasteland (OK, let's not be too harsh: there are lemon orchards too)The city has nightclubs and discos. There, that's it.
The star of the villa was undoubtedly the pool, which was glorious. G+T's were plentiful, BB +TTT barbecued prawns and steaks, and, when we were tired of the pool, we went down to the sea and the beach bar where one ordered vast and foolish cocktails, ate even more food, and rolled replete into the water, like barrels floating on the waves. One night, full of cocktails and cava, we went skinny dipping at midnight. It was complete bliss.
However, problems did arise. One night (not the night of the wonderful skinny dipping) I awoke to see a strange man almost at the foot of my bed, next to the door. He was almost completely in shadow, but clearly watching me. I turned to see if BB was still asleep, and he was. The person left the bedroom closing the door. It was all absolutely silent. I got up, wrapped myself in a towel and followed him.
When I got into the main lounge, no-one was there. I looked in the garden, and a man, not the same as the one in the bedroom, was closing the garden gate behind him. Then I went back into the villa and noticed the open drawers and missing stuff, and I finally caught on. Nos anrovados. We've been robbed.
I woke the others up. The losses included my handbag with cards, cheque books, passport, BB's toilet bag and sunglasses, TTT's watch, various perfumes, etc...and RR's dad's car. The night had been yet another one of drunken revelry and there is a strong possibility that we left the front door unlocked and open. The thieves would have seen this, jumped over the wall, come in, taken the car key off the ring, and started helping themselves merrily to everything they could find. How the cd player and tv escaped, there's no telling. This is the closest conjecture we can arrive at, but I guess we'll never know.
The rotten time then experienced by all can be imagined. Poor RR, blaming herself and having to tell her dad, me frantically cancelling my cards and cheques, the hassle of hiring a car, hiring an interpreter for speaking to the police, giving the statement, and finally, dealing with the consulate in order to get me an emergency passport. This meant going to the town of Alicante. We didn't help ourselves by being devoid of street maps, and the consulate saying firmly that we had to be there before 1.30, because they close at 2.30 and passports take an hour to process. The result was that we were haplessly wandering the streets of Alicante at 1.45. In the end, we found the consulate and they proved much more helpful in person than over the phone. Things were sorted.
It might be that Alicante has a charm I missed in my worry about the passport, but I can honestly say that apart from one fountain with stars and women carved all over it, and a very good and unpretentious cafe, that town did nothing for me.
In complete contrast to Alicante, Murcia is as I remember Spain, the land of cathedrals and memories of the moors. We passed the school for dance and drama, where the voice of an opera singer floated out across the square of cathedral and cafes. RR and TTT took me to the casino in Murcia, a one time very elegant club and now, a very elegant coffee room and showpiece for art exhibitions. The ballroom and fencing room were exquisite. As well as being old and beautiful, Murcia city is full of art and happening stuff. There's a direct flight from Manchester to Murcia. I will be going back.
We also visited Orihuela and Elx. Orihuela was odd. We found some churches, lots of old stuff and a small house occupied by a lone turkey, and we came across a phenomenon repeated throughout the province's churches; plastic body parts. Plastic feet, arms, breasts, and occasionally babies were pinned to a notice board next to given shrines. The saint wore a material belt, which had a line attached, connecting the saint to the board. On that line were ribbons of differing colours with people's names and prayers on them.
What seems to happen is that you take a plastic facsimile of the body part that needs healing (or a plastic physrep of the whole body if it's all encompassing) and pin it to the wall, as part of your prayers to the saint. Maybe the ribbons with names on are petitions for specific people to be remembered in prayers.It seemed odd, as did the house owned by a turkey, and the constant repeated effigies of angels sawing the mountains in half. Orihuela's just a weird trip.
Elx gave me stuff to think about. Elx is a world heritage site for two reasons. One is the vast collection of ancient palm groves around which the city has grown. Apparently it's the only bona fide oasis in Europe. The second is its mystery play, which has also been claimed as world heritage by whoever makes these decisions.
The Mystery Play of Elx is the only one still permitted to be performed in a church, due to a 16th? 17th? century papal bull protecting it. It's performed each year in the Basilica of St Maria, and dates from medieval times. The story is that of the Virgin Mary's assumption into Heaven, and it takes place over two days. The play is famous for its aerial engines, notably a giant pomegranate which descends from heaven and opens to reveal a waiting angel.
I am very interested in the pomegranate, because it's the symbol, not only of Granada but of Persephone/Kore. I've long believed that bullfighting is a relic of ancient mithraic sacrifice, and I just sense there is a great deal to be discovered about the pre-christian past of Spain.
Elx was populated 3-400 BC, though I had better check those dates! It seems to have been a roman settlement. There's a famous local antiquity dating from those times. This is the Lady of Elx, a bust of a woman wearing either a most remarkable hat or inappropriately large earrings, or a pair of UFO's on her head. I wanted to take a copy of the bust home, but new passport and translator had eaten up my spare funds. Another day for that, perhaps when I return to see the play.
It's not just that I feel there is a strong pagan strand lost beneath all this history; without any of it, there is great passion and colour to the faith itself. The Basilica, like every catholic cathedral I have seen, is a collection of shrines in a courtyard under a single roof. Among the many was a chapel dedicated to the Sacred Heart. I have always found the idea of the sacred heart a bit disturbing; Jesus loves you so much, look, see his heart pounding away in his chest, burning for you.
And yet, there was this larger than man-size effigy of Christ, looking so pleased to see me. On one side stood a statue of Teresa of Avila, a dove flying at her side, as she wrote her experiences of divine love. I actually have one of her quotes to hand, which is such a rare instance of Smokingboot efficiency that I may as well record it:
'...I saw a great golden spear and at the iron tip there appeared to be a point of fire. This he [the Golden Angel]plunged into my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails. When he pulled it out, I felt that he took them with it, and left me utterly consumed by the great love of God. The pain was so severe that it made me utter several moans. The sweetness caused by this intense pain is so extreme that one cannot possibly wish it to cease, nor is one's soul then content with anything but God.'
Passion then, and desire and love radiating throughout soul and body. I couldn't leave the chapel straight away, and it wasn't even Teresa of Avila that interested me. It was the figure of Christ, looking so happy, so interested. I stayed there for a while.
Holy depictions don't always work. In Murcia cathedral I saw a painting of the last supper. It was interesting in so much as in the foreground, the shifty figure of Judas was looking at us, beckoning us to survey the scene. The scene was awash with wierdy-beardies, but lolling on the arm of Christ was a blonde wonder, with strange rolled up eyes reminiscent of a rabid spaniel. This, I assumed, was meant to be John, 'The disciple whom Christ loved.' Clearly the painter had major difficulties in avoiding the depiction of this as a physical love. In his attempt to point it up as a purely spiritual obsession, he diligently swerved around homo-eroticism and pushed straight on breaking the barriers of campdom. Judas seems to be telling us that his friends were a sad bunch of hippies and battyboys. No wonder it proved too much.
The holiday was worth it, yes, definitely, despite the hassle. Apart from having great friends and the fun of pool and beach, it's given my head and heart a lot of new stuff, which I won't forget now that I've poured it out. Alicante goodbye for ever. Murcia and Elx, I'll be back.
The plan was very straightforward: Incredibly cheap flight followed by 7 days in the province of Alicante with Red Raunchette, Talks Things Through, and of course, Beloved Bear, at the villa belonging to Red Raunchette's father plus use of car also belonging to said dad. Car great, villa beautiful, and my first impression, late at night in the garden was a scent I remembered from the times I spent in Spain as a kid.
There is a dull looking little creamy brown plant called Gallan(t?)e de la Noche, Gallant of the Night. During the day you wouldn't notice it, but at night it has a gorgeous and unmistakeable scent which permeates the evening air and makes everything smell light and sweet. It grows in many places I'm sure, but I have only come across it close to the Med. That smell mixed with jasmine and accompanied by the sound of overenthusiastic crickets, is so purely evocative of the Southern Spain I remember, I felt at home straight away. What a fool I was.
Alicante, city and province. What is it for? Mile after mile of building site in sunny Spingland. The province seems to be a curious hinterland of saltmines and wasteland (OK, let's not be too harsh: there are lemon orchards too)The city has nightclubs and discos. There, that's it.
The star of the villa was undoubtedly the pool, which was glorious. G+T's were plentiful, BB +TTT barbecued prawns and steaks, and, when we were tired of the pool, we went down to the sea and the beach bar where one ordered vast and foolish cocktails, ate even more food, and rolled replete into the water, like barrels floating on the waves. One night, full of cocktails and cava, we went skinny dipping at midnight. It was complete bliss.
However, problems did arise. One night (not the night of the wonderful skinny dipping) I awoke to see a strange man almost at the foot of my bed, next to the door. He was almost completely in shadow, but clearly watching me. I turned to see if BB was still asleep, and he was. The person left the bedroom closing the door. It was all absolutely silent. I got up, wrapped myself in a towel and followed him.
When I got into the main lounge, no-one was there. I looked in the garden, and a man, not the same as the one in the bedroom, was closing the garden gate behind him. Then I went back into the villa and noticed the open drawers and missing stuff, and I finally caught on. Nos anrovados. We've been robbed.
I woke the others up. The losses included my handbag with cards, cheque books, passport, BB's toilet bag and sunglasses, TTT's watch, various perfumes, etc...and RR's dad's car. The night had been yet another one of drunken revelry and there is a strong possibility that we left the front door unlocked and open. The thieves would have seen this, jumped over the wall, come in, taken the car key off the ring, and started helping themselves merrily to everything they could find. How the cd player and tv escaped, there's no telling. This is the closest conjecture we can arrive at, but I guess we'll never know.
The rotten time then experienced by all can be imagined. Poor RR, blaming herself and having to tell her dad, me frantically cancelling my cards and cheques, the hassle of hiring a car, hiring an interpreter for speaking to the police, giving the statement, and finally, dealing with the consulate in order to get me an emergency passport. This meant going to the town of Alicante. We didn't help ourselves by being devoid of street maps, and the consulate saying firmly that we had to be there before 1.30, because they close at 2.30 and passports take an hour to process. The result was that we were haplessly wandering the streets of Alicante at 1.45. In the end, we found the consulate and they proved much more helpful in person than over the phone. Things were sorted.
It might be that Alicante has a charm I missed in my worry about the passport, but I can honestly say that apart from one fountain with stars and women carved all over it, and a very good and unpretentious cafe, that town did nothing for me.
In complete contrast to Alicante, Murcia is as I remember Spain, the land of cathedrals and memories of the moors. We passed the school for dance and drama, where the voice of an opera singer floated out across the square of cathedral and cafes. RR and TTT took me to the casino in Murcia, a one time very elegant club and now, a very elegant coffee room and showpiece for art exhibitions. The ballroom and fencing room were exquisite. As well as being old and beautiful, Murcia city is full of art and happening stuff. There's a direct flight from Manchester to Murcia. I will be going back.
We also visited Orihuela and Elx. Orihuela was odd. We found some churches, lots of old stuff and a small house occupied by a lone turkey, and we came across a phenomenon repeated throughout the province's churches; plastic body parts. Plastic feet, arms, breasts, and occasionally babies were pinned to a notice board next to given shrines. The saint wore a material belt, which had a line attached, connecting the saint to the board. On that line were ribbons of differing colours with people's names and prayers on them.
What seems to happen is that you take a plastic facsimile of the body part that needs healing (or a plastic physrep of the whole body if it's all encompassing) and pin it to the wall, as part of your prayers to the saint. Maybe the ribbons with names on are petitions for specific people to be remembered in prayers.It seemed odd, as did the house owned by a turkey, and the constant repeated effigies of angels sawing the mountains in half. Orihuela's just a weird trip.
Elx gave me stuff to think about. Elx is a world heritage site for two reasons. One is the vast collection of ancient palm groves around which the city has grown. Apparently it's the only bona fide oasis in Europe. The second is its mystery play, which has also been claimed as world heritage by whoever makes these decisions.
The Mystery Play of Elx is the only one still permitted to be performed in a church, due to a 16th? 17th? century papal bull protecting it. It's performed each year in the Basilica of St Maria, and dates from medieval times. The story is that of the Virgin Mary's assumption into Heaven, and it takes place over two days. The play is famous for its aerial engines, notably a giant pomegranate which descends from heaven and opens to reveal a waiting angel.
I am very interested in the pomegranate, because it's the symbol, not only of Granada but of Persephone/Kore. I've long believed that bullfighting is a relic of ancient mithraic sacrifice, and I just sense there is a great deal to be discovered about the pre-christian past of Spain.
Elx was populated 3-400 BC, though I had better check those dates! It seems to have been a roman settlement. There's a famous local antiquity dating from those times. This is the Lady of Elx, a bust of a woman wearing either a most remarkable hat or inappropriately large earrings, or a pair of UFO's on her head. I wanted to take a copy of the bust home, but new passport and translator had eaten up my spare funds. Another day for that, perhaps when I return to see the play.
It's not just that I feel there is a strong pagan strand lost beneath all this history; without any of it, there is great passion and colour to the faith itself. The Basilica, like every catholic cathedral I have seen, is a collection of shrines in a courtyard under a single roof. Among the many was a chapel dedicated to the Sacred Heart. I have always found the idea of the sacred heart a bit disturbing; Jesus loves you so much, look, see his heart pounding away in his chest, burning for you.
And yet, there was this larger than man-size effigy of Christ, looking so pleased to see me. On one side stood a statue of Teresa of Avila, a dove flying at her side, as she wrote her experiences of divine love. I actually have one of her quotes to hand, which is such a rare instance of Smokingboot efficiency that I may as well record it:
'...I saw a great golden spear and at the iron tip there appeared to be a point of fire. This he [the Golden Angel]plunged into my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails. When he pulled it out, I felt that he took them with it, and left me utterly consumed by the great love of God. The pain was so severe that it made me utter several moans. The sweetness caused by this intense pain is so extreme that one cannot possibly wish it to cease, nor is one's soul then content with anything but God.'
Passion then, and desire and love radiating throughout soul and body. I couldn't leave the chapel straight away, and it wasn't even Teresa of Avila that interested me. It was the figure of Christ, looking so happy, so interested. I stayed there for a while.
Holy depictions don't always work. In Murcia cathedral I saw a painting of the last supper. It was interesting in so much as in the foreground, the shifty figure of Judas was looking at us, beckoning us to survey the scene. The scene was awash with wierdy-beardies, but lolling on the arm of Christ was a blonde wonder, with strange rolled up eyes reminiscent of a rabid spaniel. This, I assumed, was meant to be John, 'The disciple whom Christ loved.' Clearly the painter had major difficulties in avoiding the depiction of this as a physical love. In his attempt to point it up as a purely spiritual obsession, he diligently swerved around homo-eroticism and pushed straight on breaking the barriers of campdom. Judas seems to be telling us that his friends were a sad bunch of hippies and battyboys. No wonder it proved too much.
The holiday was worth it, yes, definitely, despite the hassle. Apart from having great friends and the fun of pool and beach, it's given my head and heart a lot of new stuff, which I won't forget now that I've poured it out. Alicante goodbye for ever. Murcia and Elx, I'll be back.
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