In the September of 2020, Rebe and I attempted to visit the Pyrenees. I have already written a post about what a disaster it turned out to be, so I will not repeat the story here. But suffice to say, we did not make it to our destination.

It was now December 2021. Over a year had passed, and we decided to make a second attempt. Our plan was to explore the Pyrenees region by car. For our home base, we chose the city of Jaca, which is close to the major sites while still large enough to be a good place to spend the evenings (“large” being a relative term: the population is about 13,000). The car was rented, and we made the four-hour drive up to Jaca on a Friday evening, arriving just before sundown.

We had just enough time to settle into the Airbnb and have dinner. Worn out from working that morning and the trip up, we fell asleep early.

“Oh my god!” I said, looking out the window when I woke up.

“What? What?!” Rebe said, still in bed.

“It’s snowing!”

“Oh.” She rolled over, annoyed at being woken up for something like snow.

She may not have been impressed, but I looked out the window completely amazed—and not a little nervous. The snow was raining down in great globs of white. I had seen the previous day that some snow was forecast, but this was a genuine blizzard. And we were not prepared.

Friends had warned me about this. I was told by every Spaniard I knew that I ought to bring chains for the tires. But being perfectly ignorant about cars, I assumed that this would be easy to procure. Indeed, I expected the car to come with chains, or at least the rental agency to have some available. This was not the case, however.

Well, no problem, I figured that we would buy some on the way up to Jaca. When we stopped at an automotive store near Zaragoza, however, I realized that this was going to be more complicated than anticipated. I had reserved a normal-sized car from the agency, but for whatever reason we had been given a Toyota RAV 4—in other words, an SUV, with big tires. The automotive store informed us that, for a car of that size, the tire chains would cost well over 100 euros. With only light snow predicted, and for a vacation of just three days, this seemed to be a waste of money.

Not anymore. The snow was coming down in sheets and I knew there was no way we would be able to use the car that day. The only thing to do was to explore Jaca.

The city had been transformed. Whereas yesterday there had not been a bit of snow on the ground—the grass was green and the surroundings mountains visible—now everything was covered in white, and the air was so thick was snow that you could hardly see 100 meters.

It had been years since I had seen snow like this (probably not since I was in college, in New York), and I was completely transfixed. Rebe and I bundled up and waddled around the city taking photos of everything. But we could tell that snow was a matter of course for the locals, as the shops and cafés were opening up as usual.

Indeed, we were surprised to find the city’s largest monument open for visits: the Ciudadela. As its name indicates, this is a citadel, which sits right in the center of the city. It was constructed in the 17th century as a defensive outpost against the French. (Nearby, just outside the city, there’s another fortress built for the same purpose: Fuerte Rapitán.) The citadel did not perform its function satisfactorily, however, as when the French invaded in 1809 they captured the citadel (without resistance!) and held onto it for five years. Later, as with many fortresses, castles, and other monuments in the country, this citadel was used to hold prisoners during the Civil War—in this case, by Franco’s forces. Apparently the conditions were awful. 

Compared with many of the ruined castles scattered over Spain, this fortress is visibly a modern construction. Designed by an Italian (Tiburcio Spanocchi), it was built with a series of low, thick walls arranged concentrically in a star pattern. The tall, flat walls of castles are almost useless against cannon-fire, you see. With this design, it is difficult to hit the walls at a right angle. Further, this design allows the separate corners to defend one another, since the guns can be aimed at the fortress itself.

Yet I really can’t say that military history was on my mind as I walked over the defensive ditch and up onto the walls. Rather, the fortress just served as yet another stage for the falling snow to dance across. But we did make it into a few of the building’s exhibitions. The Ciudadela now houses a local military museum. There was information about the history of different military units, special mountain forces, different badges and ranks, and so forth. These exhibits passed briefly through my awareness as I stomped through the halls with my wet boots. It just did not seem like a day to be visiting a museum.

Rebe and I soon finished the visit and were off exploring the town again. I wanted to do a bit of hiking, so we walked the edge of town. Children were building snowmen, families were hurling snowballs, friends were skiing across parks, and plows would occasionally scrape by. Every time a car slowly made its way down the streets, its tires slipping pitifully on the ice, I observed with a pit in my stomach. Unless we could find tires, this was our fate.

But I wanted to enjoy the morning, at least, before we worried about driving. So we made our way through a park and down a path to the Aragón River. With so much snow on the ground, the going was slow and tiring. We decided not to press our luck and turned back at the bridge, returning to town thoroughly worn out from climbing the small hill that leads up from the river. To recover our energy, we went into the nearest café, where I did something I hadn’t done in years: drink a hot chocolate. It was so warm and delicious that I instantly decided I ought to do it more often.

This was the only “eventful” part of the day. We had lunch in some place or other in town and then decided we ought to try to get tired for the car. First, we tried a gas station on the edge of town. Of course, we were out of luck. Half the city was out looking for chains that day and they were completely sold out. We were advised to try a store on the edge of town called Merca Asia. Now, it seems very odd to an American, but there is a type of general goods store in Spain which is usually called some variation of “something-asia,” most commonly “Hiperasia.” The proprietors are normally Chinese immigrants and the enormous stores have virtually anything you can imagine in them.

So Rebe and I walked along the old Jaca Highway, our boots soaked through, wind whipping through our coats, to this store. We were disappointed but not surprised to find it already full of people asking for the exact same thing: tire chains. Without much hope, I asked the man if he had any chains in our size. He said no, but more were soon on the way, and he asked for my number to call me when they arrived. This did not seem very promising but, just in case, I gave him my number anyway. Then we walked back into town, ate dinner, and went to sleep.

The next day we, unfortunately, had plans. Rebe had booked us a ride on a zip-line in a nearby town, and we had to get there by noon. This meant driving. At least the roads were considerably better than they were the previous day, but that is not saying much. There was still ice everywhere. The Spanish do not salt the roads as aggressively as we do in New York, apparently.

We found the car where we had left it after the drive up. It was covered with a thick layer of snow. We needed 10 minutes to clear everything off. Then there was the question of getting out of the parking lot. Unlike the roads, it had not been plowed, and it was not covered with a thick layer of ice. I was really not sure whether the car would be able even to get out of the parking lot.

I should mention at this point that this was my first time driving in snowy or icy conditions, so I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. But I did manage to back up and get on the road. Going slowly, already in a panic, we followed the GPS out of the city. It directed us up a steep hill. But as soon as we began to drive up, I slammed on the breaks. The hill was also covered in a thick layer of ice and I was not sure whether the car would even be able to make it up on road tires. Already half crazed with fear, I slowly backed the car off the hill and got back on the highway, which at least was quite clear.

The problem was that the highway did not lead in the right direction. We had to turn around. The GPS directed us to a place where we could easily make the maneuver. But we had another problem. The little exit ramp where we were instructed to go had been left unplowed, and we ran straight into a snowbank. Now I had to free the car from the snow and merge back onto the highway, with traffic coming from both directions. To make matters worse, cars started appearing behind me, waiting to make the turn. 

When the coast was clear I stepped on the gas. The wheels turned but nothing happened. We were absolutely stuck. I tried again, pumping the pedal, with zero result. At this point my panic and shame was extreme. I was convinced that I would either be killed in an accident, killed by angry fellow-motorists, die of a heart attack, or get arrested for incompetent driving. (Rebe, meanwhile, was extremely calm.) When the man in the car behind me stepped out and started walking towards us, I expected the worst.

But he was politeness itself, and he offered to push us out of the snowbank. With just a slight shove, we were freed, and my heart soared in gratitude for this everyday hero. Soon enough, we were on the highway driving toward Hoz de Jaca. The landscape was beautiful in the snow, which made every hill and rocky outcropping look like a mountain in the distance. We took the exit and began to drive on local roads, which were both more crowded and snowier than the highway. Several signs warned that chains were required by law on the road ahead, warning of fines for non-compliant vehicles. I got so nervous that I pulled over and had Rebe call the zipline place. They assured us that chains were unnecessary and, moreover, that there was plenty of parking.

Their assurance did not make the drive any less stressful. The road narrowed and narrowed until—as often happens in rural Spain—it was only about one and a half lanes wide, though it was for both directions of traffic. In normal circumstances, this is managed by having one car pull off into the shoulder, though when the road was hemmed in with snow banks this proved difficult. I nearly had a heart attack when we had to drive over a narrow dam and then through an equally narrow tunnel (I kept wondering how the locals deal with these roads), but finally we arrived in Hoz de Jaca.

Yet the promise of parking was exaggerated. There was, indeed, a parking lot, but it had not been plowed and was completely useless. Instead I drove up a side street, hoping to find something there. This was a poor decision. This road was also not plowed, and after about 50 meters it was completely impassable. I realized that I had to go back down the hill in reverse. This was not easy, as the road was full of parked cars and it twisted around houses and trees. Luckily, another savior appeared at this moment, in the form of an old man from the town. He stood behind us and yelled instructions, allowing us to navigate the treacherous street (though I still bumped into a tree). I thanked the man from the bottom of my heart as he guided us into a parking spot.

We got out and prepared ourselves for a high-adrenaline experience. Rebe went inside to inform the zipline folks we had arrived. She emerged a few minutes later—angry.

“They say there’s too much wind,” she said. “And they don’t know if they’ll be able to do it today.”

“So what do we do?”

“Let’s just go.”

That seemed wise. The thought of waiting around in the cold for an undefined amount of time was not appealing. And our money would be refunded.

Defeated, we got back in the car and made the harrowing drive through the tunnel and over the dam to the highway. Our next destination was the National Park of Ordesa and Monte Perdido. This is perhaps best described as the Spanish Yosemite: a beautiful valley ringed by epic mountains. It is both a national park and a UNESCO World Heritage site, and is doubtless one of the major attractions of the area.

The drive there was fairly easy until, at a turn-off, there was a sign flashing that chains were required past that point. Right beside the exit was a gas station, so we pulled over to have some time to think. I went inside and asked the attendant whether chains were really necessary. He said yes: the road to the park was pretty rough. Surprisingly, the gas station had chains in the correct size for our SUV. But again they cost well over 100 euros, and could not be returned. Rebe and I thought it over and decided, again, that it wasn’t worth it to buy chains for a car that wasn’t ours, for such a short amount of time.

In retrospect, we probably should have just bought the chains we were offered on the way up, and saved ourselves all this hassle. To be fair, however, I think that the Ordesa National Park is best in Fall and Spring, and that visiting after a heavy snowfall would have been difficult and disappointing. But this could easily be a case of sour grapes.

Defeated once again, we got back in the car and decided to call it a day and return to Jaca. Indeed, we felt so discouraged by the turn of events that we decided to cut short our vacation early. This was actually the official advice. All along the highway, lights were flashing, warning everyone to “return home early,” as another big snowstorm was set to hit on the last day of the long weekend (i.e., the day when everybody would be on the road). We decided, after everything we had been through so far, not to tempt fate further.

This just left one evening in Jaca. I took a walk around the city in the waning light, enjoying the distant vistas of snow on the mountains, and then I decided to visit the Cathedral and the attached Diocesan Museum. Both were surprisingly excellent. Indeed, as I have often mentioned on this blog, local museums in Europe can be of astonishingly high quality, and this is yet another example of this principle. Though small, the collection of Romanesque art is of astonishingly high quality, featuring many beautifully-painted naves. If an American museum had this exhibit, it would be justly famous. Yet I was alone as I appreciated the art.

We had our final dinner in Jaca and prepared to leave early the next morning. I should say that I found Jaca to be quite a congenial place to be stuck in. There are plenty of bars and good restaurants and, though small, the center of the city is very attractive. Indeed, for such a small place, the number of interesting places to eat and shop is impressive. There was even an Iranian-Spanish restaurant (Nadali) and a local brewery (Borda). So it really did not feel very disappointing to have to spend so much time in Jaca.

But it did feel somewhat disappointing to be leaving with our metaphorical tail between our legs, without having really seen the Pyrenees. I suppose Rebe and I will have to make yet another attempt to visit this part of the country.

Epilogue: El Monasterio de Piedra

We began driving early, hoping to squeeze in some last-minute sightseeing. First, we took the road north, towards France, hoping for some good views of the mountains. But we were not rewarded with any dramatic vistas, as the highway passed through a relatively flat area. So we turned around and headed back towards Madrid. The weather was brooding and threatening. As the highway led up over a range of hills it began to pour rain. Many other cars were on the road with us, doubtless heeding the same warning about the incoming storm.

By midday we had gone by Zaragoza and soon we arrived at our main stop: El Monasterio de Piedra. I have already written a long post about this place and its history, so I will only say here that it is a kind of romantic landscape garden that is well worth a visit if you are anywhere in the neighborhood. I think the pictures speak for themselves.

After touring the place and having a quick lunch, we got back in the car to complete the drive. The driving conditions soon got significantly worse than before. As darkness fell, we entered a mass of dense fog, making it impossible to see anything except the lights of the other cars on the road. It was quite a dizzying and even a slightly dreamlike experience to be driving without being able to see the road—just intuiting where it must be by the location of the cars in front of me. About halfway through this ordeal, Rebe informed me that cars in Europe are required to have fog lights. We switched them on and they did help quite a bit.

I felt a great sense of relief when we returned the car. Now I would not have to even think about snow chains for the foreseeable future. And despite the many obstacles, it did not have a scratch on it. The next day—our planned day of return—we slept in.

I was feeling rather good about our decision to come back early, until one of my coworkers told me that he had taken a skiing trip to the French Pyrenees, and had no trouble driving back on the day of the storm. Indeed, there was hardly any snow to speak of. Defeated again!

During my trip to Alicante, I decided to visit a part of Spain which I had never been to before: Murcia.

Now, aside from the two cities still under Spanish control in northern Africa (Ceuta and Melilla), Murcia is probably the least popular province in the country—for domestic and international tourism, both. Indeed, I would say that the place has a rather unfortunate reputation. Students of mine used to joke that “nadie vive en Murcia” (“nobody lives in Murcia”). Every time I expressed an interest in visiting, the Spaniards around me would shoot me a look of puzzlement and concern. Needless to say, this only strengthened my resolve to go.

And as luck would have it, the train from Alicante passed through another town which has long been on my list: Elche. I thus had a full and rewarding day trip with hardly any planning required.

Elche

With a population of around 200,000, Elche is a medium-sized city, only slightly smaller than nearby Alicante. The vast majority of Spanish cities are built around an obvious geographical landmark—a river, a bay, or a mountain—but Elche seems to be in the middle of nowhere. There is a tiny trickle of a creek (the Vinapoló) that passes through the city, and that is all. Perhaps this is because the city is 10 km distant from its original location to the south (nearer the coast). This was an ancient city of considerable importance, founded by the Greeks and occupied by the Carthaginians and Romans. But, for whatever reason, Elche was moved north to its current location during the Moorish period and has since languished in moderate obscurity.

But Elche remains famous for two reasons. (Well, three if you count its sizable shoe industry.) One is the so-called Lady of Elche, a stone bust discovered near the city. This is one of the most spectacular ruins found in the country, though it is not exactly known who made it nor whom it is supposed to represent. The standard interpretation is that it was made by the ancient Iberians (though not a whole lot is known about them), and it may represent a Carthaginian goddess. In any case, I recommend a trip to the National Archaeology Museum, in Madrid, in order to see it. The workmanship is of astoundingly high quality. And it is so stylistically different from Greco-Roman sculpture that one cannot help but wonder about this ancient people.

Of course, I was not in Elche to see this bust. I was there to visit the Palmeral, or Palm Grove. This is exactly what it sounds like: a collection of palm trees. However, in the case of Elche it is both very large and very old. The tradition of cultivating date palms in the area goes back to Roman times, was greatly expanded during Muslim rule, and was preserved into the Christian period. Today, there are about 70,000 palm trees in the city of Elche with many more just outside the city limits. What is more, this tradition of palm cultivation and water management (mustering enough water in such an arid area is quite the challenge) was deemed historically important enough for UNESCO to declare the Palm Grove a World Heritage Site.

I arrived in Elche early, at around 10 in the morning. But it was already hot. I could tell that it was not a day to be outside. Indeed, the temperature was set to ascend above 40 degrees (well over 100 Fahrenheit) by lunch-time.

The Palm Grove is just a few minutes away from the local train station and, in no time, I was immersed in the thicket. I am not sure exactly what I had been expecting—an enormous, dense jungle of palm trees, perhaps—but the Palmeral appeared to be just a municipal park with all of the trees replaced by palms. Legions of pigeons were hanging around, and geese sat silently in a little pond. Apart from me, there were just a dozen or so people present. It was hard to believe that this was a World Heritage Site.

At the time of my visit, I did not really grasp why so many palms had been planted here. I assumed that it was just for the aesthetic effect (which I found questionable). But of course these palm trees were originally cultivated as a crop.

Dates, as you may know, are an important ingredient in North African cuisine. Indeed, the date has a symbolic importance in Islam. The prophet Muhammad was said to have broken his own Ramadan fast by eating a date, and this has become a common tradition. (Wine can also be made from dates, though this is expressly prohibited in the Quran.) Palm trees also have a significance in Christianity, of course; and the leaves from Elche are still used in Palm Sunday celebrations today. I should also mention that other parts of the tree—the seeds, the sap, and the leaves—also have various uses, such as animal feed or material for baskets. The date palm is, in short, quite a versatile crop.

But I knew virtually none of this as I strolled through the grove, sweaty, thirsty, and snapping the occasional picture. If you are going to visit, read up a little bit on the history first. And don’t go during the hottest part of summer.

Murcia

My train arrived in Murcia at around one o’clock in the evening. The weather by now was blazing. Not having done any research into the main sites of the city, I had no idea what to expect. But my immediate impression was disappointment. The train station itself was undergoing repairs. The area looked like an open construction zone, and the stairway leading to the different tracks was a mere scaffold. What is more, the area immediately around the train station was not particularly welcoming. The streets were dirty, the buildings shabby, and there were many drunkards lolling about. If this was Murcia, I could understand why nobody wanted to come here.

Yet I decided to suspend judgment until I got into the center of town. The walk quickly took me into more seemly parts of the city. I soon passed by an attractive park (La Floridablanca) and arrived at the Segura river. The area surrounding the river was quite lovely, though sadly I felt little inclination to stay and soak in the sights, as by now the sun’s rays were like laser beams on the back of my neck. Rather, I had to get inside, drink some water, and eat something.

For this, I went to Bodegón Los Toneles, a well-rated tapas bar. I was surprised to find the menu full of dishes which I had never heard of (I thought I knew Spanish cuisine pretty well). To order, I had to trust the wisdom of the waiter, who directed me to order three separate dishes. The first was called “michirones,” and it is a bean stew made with fava beans. Next I had zarangollo, which is just scrambled eggs with zucchini and onion. Last was a dish called chapinas, which consisted of little bits of lamb cooked in oil and garlic. All three are typical of Murcia, and all three were extremely delicious. Suddenly I began to feel much better about my choice to visit Murcia.

Murcia, I should mention, is among the larger cities in the country, with a population of almost half a million. Its name goes back to its Muslim heritage, originally being called Mursiyah. Indeed, unusual among Spanish cities, the visitor can find a statue of the city’s Moorish founder, Abd ar-Rahman. Though Murcia is extremely hot, it occupies a fertile valley that has made it a major exporter of produce. This is also partly why the food is so good.

My first visit was to the city cathedral (pictured above). Like many cathedrals in Spain—especially in the south—this one was built over what had been the principal mosque before Christian “reconquest.” Also, like many of the great European cathedrals, this one took quite a long time to build: the better part of a century, from 1394 to 1465. And this does not count the impressive bell tower, which took an additional two centuries—1521 to 1791. Naturally, during such a large span of time, many styles were incorporated: the interior is mainly gothic, while the outside is a mixture of Baroque and Neoclassical.

More importantly, however, all of these styles are well done. The cathedral is imposing and impressive from the outside—dominating the entire center of the city—while being quite attractive within. As usual, the church is full of paintings, friezes, sculptures, and other works of art. I was especially impressed with the choir stalls, though these are not gothic originals. The cathedral was gutted by a fire in the 19th century, requiring the organ and the stalls to be replaced. Thankfully, the repair job was done with beautiful taste in a neo-gothic style in keeping with the rest of the cathedral. In short, by the time I concluded my visit, I was convinced that the Murcia Cathedral is among the most beautiful in the country—and that is no small thing.

My next stop was the Casino de Murcia. Now, I normally have no interest in casinos. Indeed, to the best of my knowledge, this was the first time in my life that I stepped foot in such an establishment in my life.

Yet this casino is not simply a sordid place of gambling. It is, in fact, one of the most beautiful buildings in the city. The self-guided audio tour took me from room to elaborate room, each one fitted out with luxurious decorations. And each of these rooms seemed to be a kind of homage to a Spanish architectural style—with one room fitted out like the Alhambra, another like the Royal Palace, and another like the library in the University of Salamanca. I could not help but picture a posse of paunchy, cigar-smoking men dressed in tuxedos, waddling through these rooms while they casually placed bets and discussed their (legally dubious) business dealings. It is, in short, an evocative space.

My next stop was the Museo Salzillo. This is a museum dedicated to the work of the esteemed Murciano, Francisco Salzillo (1707–83), one of the great (though lesser-known) artists of the Baroque period. If you have some sensitivity to language, it may have struck you that his name is not especially Spanish. His father was the Italian artist, Nicolás Salzillo, who moved to Murcia during one of the high points of the city’s history, in the 1700s. The son surpassed the father in both fame and ability. Indeed, Francisco’s work is considered so important that his museum occupies what used to be a large church, as well as some neighboring buildings.

Like his father, Francisco was a sculptor, working in the medium of polychromed wood. The bulk of the museum is given over to his nativity figurines. Now, I normally have little interest in this sort of thing. Spain is absolutely full of nativity figurines around Christmas, and I cannot say I have ever derived much enjoyment from the examination of any of them. But the works of Salzillo are of another order: the level of craftsmanship is so superlative that the tiny scenes become genuine works of art—moving human dramas played out in miniature. The visit culminates in the aforementioned church, where Salzillo’s Holy Week floats are stored. These are just as striking and dramatic as his nativity figures. I emerged onto the street convinced that Salzillo deserves a much larger reputation.

It was around four in the afternoon now, and the temperature was truly unbearable. I had to count every minute I spent outside, wary of dehydration and sunburn. The streets were basically deserted—since the locals are smart enough not to tempt fate with this weather.

My last stop in the city was for an iced coffee. For this, I stepped into a large coffee shop called Cafélab; and although I normally do not go in for fancy coffee, I must admit that it was delicious. But I was originally attracted to the establishment because a (much smaller) café in my hometown has almost the same name: Coffee Labs. It was—nonsensically, perhaps—like a little taste of home. But the baristas seemed very amused when I told them about the coincidence.

Now my visit was over. Sweaty and exhausted, I walked the 20 minutes back to the train through what felt like an actual desert. Even the area around the train station was mostly empty by the time I arrived. There is really no way to exaggerate how punishing a Spanish summer day can be. Stepping onto the train was a sweet relief, and I dozed during the journey back to Alicante. After so many years, I had finally stepped foot in Murcia. And I am sure I will return.