Valle de los Caídos

Another jewel amongst the many treasures of Spain.

A jewel created for Franco’s self-glorification

But transformed into a memorial those who gave their lives for Spain.

“Valley of the Fallen”, and there were countless fallen,

Reached by twisting through hills wrapped thickly in their green shawls.

It seemed as though we would never reach the monument

That it was probably going to be a disappointment after such a long journey.

One more turn and it rose proudly

A massive white marble cross

Thrusting skyward from the hilltop.

The cross, in itself, was a marvel

A solemn marvel

A reminder of so many sacrifices made for so many ideals.

If one climbed slowly

Slowly to the other side of the hill

Another surprise appeared.

A gaping tomb of a museum

An isolated sanctuary had been caved from the stone hillside.

The rest of the hill still balanced on the scooped out memorial

Centered on Franco’s final resting place.

As amazing as this human-made splendor was…

The cross, the sanctuary, the massive plaza…

It still paled in comparison with the landscape just over of the edge of the plaza…

Where rolling endlessly was the beautiful best that nature could do.

Spain: Looks Like I’m Falling in Love…follows these photos of Spain in 2001

“LOOKS LIKE I’M FALLING IN LOVE”

     Spain embraced me. Twenty years earlier it had hugged me and flirted with me. Its warmth tugged at all me a little once I returned to The States, but this second time there it was blatant in its desire have my heart. It wanted me to love it so much that I would never be happy without it. The music of the language wrapped softly around my ears and only penetrated my psyche if I made an effort to decode it. Each town and every situation wrapped magic fingers around me.

     The solid old buildings, the geometrically paved streets and plazas, the thick shutters which closed against the hot afternoon sun; they all felt like the Spain one would dream of, knowing that when they woke up it couldn’t possibly be true.

     The people wrapped me in the uncompromising welcome of old friends even when I had known them for just a few minutes. The driver of our tour bus insisted I share his food at a rest stop and would have been hurt had I not tried it. The driver’s friend, behind the counter at a small store, would not let me pay for the pop and candy I was waiting to purchase. When I teased him that I should’ve gotten something more expensive he gave me a huge bottle of water, laughing with the fun of the moment.

     Two women posed with me behind the counter in the Tomelloso book shop where I had come in search of García Pavón. I had just watched them pull every possible item of interest off of those shelves for me. Even though I didn’t buy the big set of books they had shown me they were still pleased to continue talking. I felt as though we would be friends if they lived next-door.

     The woman who took care of us each morning in the hotel in Cáceres smiled warmly when we came down and serve me my “zumo de naranja” and hot chocolate without my having to tell her that’s what I wanted today. The day before we checked out she good-naturedly sat with the other teachers at the table pretending that she was the teacher and I was the waitress.

     I was told by those not as enamored of people as I am, that the service industry in Spain requires this type of politeness and service. Personally, I couldn’t put each interaction down to that. These were good people with good hearts and an interest in enjoying the moment! Otherwise, their eyes just would not have been so clear and their smiles would not have been so sincere.

     The trust and peacefulness of the strangers I  encountered and the interest which they showed in the mundane details which are the fabric of life somehow made me feel as if I was a more important piece of the humanity puzzle.

     Driving across Spain’s landscape intoxicated me nearly as much as did her fruity sangría Textures ran freely across the rolling hills. The muted greens and dry browns of the plants both produced the idea of thirst and quenched the need for water. In other places the smooth turn of a river’s gray-blue waters butted up against rich, thick shades of green running up the mountainsides. Patches of dark gray interrupted the green ascent until, nearly to the top of the hill, the green was brought to an abrupt halt and the hard gray dominated the mountaintop. Only a sprinkling of dry, struggling grasses valiantly struggle for survival up at the waterless, windy summit. Every glimpse from every angle was a dream and I was irrevocably smitten!

     Throughout the course of the three weeks in Spain I felt so healthy, so energized, so at peace. Luckily, I was able to separate from Spain gently. My husband, my youngest daughter, my niece and I would wander through a few more countries before heading home. It was sort of sneaky to cross from Spain to France. As we drove, everything was pretty much the same for quite some time and by the time we checked into our first hotel in France a new love was vying for my affection. The people are much the same, open and helpful. The owner of the hotel spent at least an hour talking to my husband and I. It was quite an adventure to hold a conversation in a combination of his bit of English, my bit of French and the preponderance of shared Spanish vocabulary.

     The castles and croissants of France kept me from missing Spain. The crags, castles, thatched roofs and unbelievable lushness of Ireland thrilled me until I didn’t give Spain a backward glance. Lots of activity with friends in England and the oddness of it almost sounding like the place I lived help me to transition to the idea of getting on the plane and leaving all of this behind me.

     I made it home, excited to see my family and friends, anxious to know how my garden had fared and dreading the routine of cleaning and cooking, laundry and dental appointments. It was still a full month until I would have to return to my teaching job and that gave me time to drink in the images of my far away loves. I had taken hundreds of photos, testimony to the extent of my infatuation. Our separation was a little less painful with the comfort of the memories and images. I still felt the urgency that it was necessary to return and stay longer one day. I really hoped that my husband could find it in his heart to forgive me all of these new loves.

The trip that started the travel addiction

Once there was a young woman who went to Spain. It was the Fall of 1978. She hoped to improve her Spanish fluency and see the sunshine and cobbled streets and castles and cute Spanish boys. She would buy a Spanish guitar and learn how to play it (only the first part happened.) She left her baby sister crying and improved the letter-writing skills of many! She had no idea where she would live second semester when she returned to Concordia College for her final semester. She had just enough money to pay for the trip and buy sufficient chocolate and pop to sustain her during the three months abroad. The poorly planned experience worked out just fine for her. She graduated with a Spanish Education Major which was actually much more helpful in securing a job than Art or Social Studies would have been.

My first airplane journey was exhilarating! Our arrival in Valencia, Spain was overwhelming…lots of noise, lots of color, signs in Spanish! The buildings were many times older than any I had ever seen before. A busload of about 40 of us American students were dumped into a throng of host families. Our Mamá recognized us and came to us with her twin daughters, Maribel and Chelo, in tow. I felt like a terrible mistake had been made. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying! My friend, Barb, looked as stunned as I felt. We smiled and were taken to our home for the next months.

Valencia is a large city. We lived on the third floor of an old building. Every door and railing was heavy and thick. Every floor, and some sidewalks and walls, were covered by gorgeous tiles. The home of our Spanish family was huge even though the big square of the patio was cut out of the center. Walls ran around the patio and you could see the view below. Lines of laundry went from side to side on every level of the building. There was a long dining room which segued into a living area and a small, outdated kitchen. That kitchen was the scene of my grabbing for the light string and connecting instead with a skinned squirrel. Mamá had run it over in the street and brought it home to make some special paella rather than waste it. Ummm…we, sadly, couldn’t join them.

Life was interesting and relaxing in Valencia. I felt that the pace of life was exactly right, slow and satisfying. Each day we woke around nine and had a little bread and a hot beverage and fresh orange juice. We grabbed the sandwiches prepared by mamá and strolled to our classes at University of Valencia. Nobody paid much attention to the Americans mixed into the student population. We went to our classes and, in my case, did the best possible job to understand what the hell was going on. My reading ability saved me and I passed my classes. To be honest, I spent almost no time outside of class on my studies. There were more important things to do:  lunch beside the Mediterranean, exploring the city, going for a drink with new friends, wandering alone and thinking about life, a birthday party for a Spanish friend, a home exposition with ourSpanish family, a trip along the southern coast with our Spanish sisters…so many warm experiences to savor!