The Rock of Cashel & Kilkenny

One thing that an American visitor quickly learns on a trip around Europe is that there are simply some parts of the landscape that cry out to be the site of a castle. At a time when every town was its own kingdom, a time before police forces or standing armies, a time of great scarcity and instability, it was only the presence of a castle that could guarantee the safety of the local ruling family. And the safest place for a castle is usually on the highest available ground—where enemies can be spotted from afar, and where attackers must struggle uphill. The outcropping of limestone that rises dramatically over the fertile, level land known as the “Golden Vale” is just such a place—a natural pedestal. You might even say that it was destined to be the site of a great edifice.

The Rock of Cashel has been important in Irish history for a very long time. Indeed, it is difficult to say precisely how long. There are legends about its formation—about St. Patrick confronting Satan, who then hurled this great rock from a nearby mountain—and there are stories about the early Christian leaders, Patrick and Declán, meeting here all the way back in the 5th century. What we can say with more certainty is that this was the seat of the kings of Munster, who ruled this corner of Ireland from the Iron Age all the way to the Middle Ages. For this rocky outcropping, in other words, geology became history.

By the time we drove up and parked in the shadow of this old pile of rock, it was the middle of a hot, sunny day. We walked up the hill to the entrance and signed up for the next available tour, which luckily was about to start. Our guide was—like so many Irish—eloquent, witty, and engaging, leavening her historic spiel with the right amount of humor. Still, during my visit, I found it difficult to pay attention. The ruins were so vast and so evocative that I felt swallowed up, overwhelmed by their scale and splendor.

But time alone is not solely responsible for the building’s ruined state. Although the Rock of Cashel was a fortified castle for centuries, religion eventually overtook politics as the dominant local force, and a large Catholic cathedral was instead built in its place. Yet such a prominent symbol of Catholic power was an obvious point of resistance during the Irish Rebellion of 1641; and it was an obvious site of English reprisals in the following defeat.

The invading troops massacred the Catholic clergy and looted the church. Among the dead was Theobald Stapleton, one of the fathers of Irish orthography. Henceforth, the cathedral came to be used by the Anglicans. The English clergy were, however, little disposed to invest in the upkeep of the cathedral, which fell into disrepair. Finally, Arthur Price, the local archbishop, overruled plans to repair the roof—considered a jewel of Irish architecture—and had it dismantled, thus leaving the ruin we see today.

But some parts of the original structure remain standing—most notably, Cormac’s Chapel. Completed in 1134, this is a Romanesque chapel, one of the finest in Europe. Unlike the flashy Gothic architecture of the high Middle Ages, this chapel strikes the modern viewer as elegant, meditative, and soulful. Unfortunately, the builders of this chapel used sandstone—which has an attractive hue, but which soaks up water over time. This severely damaged the wonderful ceiling frescoes, as well as weakened the structure. Nowadays, the interior is climate-controlled, and visitors can only enter in small groups, for a limited amount of time.

The other notable structure on the site is the round tower. This is a distinctly Irish design, consisting of a free-standing stone tower with a pointed roof. The one here is nearly 30 meters (100 feet) tall, and was built before the cathedral was even started. The purpose of these towers is somewhat mysterious: they would not make good bell towers (there isn’t room or a sizable window), and they were not used for storing grain. Because they had such a small foundation, it was structurally necessary to put the entry door well over the ground, accessible only by a ladder. Our guide explained that this made the towers ideal places for the monks to hide during attacks, as the ladder could be withdrawn into the tower and the door tightly shut.

Our tour ended on the northern side of the site. In the far distance, the low, lush fields of the Golden Vale spread endlessly outwards. After the cathedral’s destruction, the hill was still used as a cemetery for many years. Many graves thus adorn this side of the hill, giving a somber mood to an already haunting place. As usual in Ireland, many centuries seemed to be compressed beneath our feet.

Learning history is tiring work, so we next headed to a nearby restaurant for some hearty Irish fare. And this gives me an opportunity to talk about Irish cuisine in general. Most people, I would reckon, do not visit Ireland for the food, and it is not especially well-known outside the country. Nevertheless, I found it to be consistently comforting and enjoyable. Both literal and figurative meat and potatoes, it is honest, hardworking food that will keep you fit and fed all day. Yes, it is somewhat bland; and yes, it sits a bit heavy in the stomach. But it does exactly what it promises to do. Besides, if you get tired of it, Ireland is well-supplied with cuisines of other varieties. During our time there, we had good Italian, Indian, and Mexican food.

Our next stop was the nearby town of Kilkenny, just an hour’s drive away. We were behind schedule. It was already afternoon, and we had only allowed for a single day to see the city. After finding a place to park, we rushed to the town’s main attraction, Kilkenny Castle—only to be informed that it would close in an hour. Our visit was thus abbreviated.

If some castles seem to emerge from the landscape, others are imposed on them in order to exert control. This is precisely the origin of this fortification, which was built along the River Nore—a natural choke point for commerce and travel. Kilkenny Castle does not have the same antiquity as the Rock of Cashel. Instead, this building came about during the Norman invasion of the 12th century. The Normans, remember, invaded Britain in 1066, and came bearing a new language (French) and continental ideas of architecture. If the Rock of Cashel is a symbol of Irish identity, then, Kilkenny Castle is a symbol of foreign occupation.

Ironically, however, this castle was also used as a headquarters of the aforementioned Irish Rebellion of 1641. Indeed, it was even used by the provisional Irish parliament. But Oliver Cromwell put an end to that. His troops besieged the town and, in the process, damaged the castle—brutally suppressing the rebellion and instituting laws that would severely reduce the rights of Catholics.

The castle is now a museum, thanks to the 6th Marquess and 24th Earl of Ormonde, who donated it to the Irish government in 1967 for the symbolic sum of 50 pounds—long after his ancient family had run out of the necessary funds for its upkeep. In his words: “We determined that it should not be allowed to fall into ruins. There are already too many ruins in Ireland.” Of course, after decades of neglect, the castle was already quite dilapidated. It took many more years to restore it to its present glory.

What the visitor encounters now is not so much a fortification as an aristocratic home. There is elegant furniture, richly woven tapestries, and lovely floral wallpaper. The showstopper is the picture gallery—an enormous room with wooden vaulted ceilings, every inch elaborately decorated. Even the fireplace is intricately carved. Yet despite the many attractive paintings adorning the walls, I found the ceiling to be the most impressive. Every single board was shaped and painted.

Soon our tour was over, and we were deposited in the sweeping lawn of the castle grounds. It was a delicious evening—warm, cloudless, and still quite bright—and this great lawn, which now serves as a city park, was full of people. We sat on a bench and took it in. A group of high school boys caught my attention. Their backpacks on the ground (it was a school day), they were tossing a ball back and forth with wooden sticks. This is hurling—the quintessential Irish sport, which requires great dexterity to manipulate a small ball with a kind flat wooden club. There, in the shadow of a fortress built by invaders, the Irish culture blithely soldiered on.

It was our misfortune not to have had more time for Kilkenny. One of the most charming and best-preserved cities in Ireland, it is worth a longer visit than we allotted. Still, we enjoyed strolling the streets and walking alongside the placid waters of the River Nore. Indeed, as we searched for a restaurant, we observed a group of school-age girls taking turns jumping into the river. With nobody else around, it felt like a strangely intimate moment in a small town, rather than something I expected to see in a center of medieval Norman power.

As the 6th Marquess and 24th Earl of Ormonde observed, Ireland is indeed quite full of ruins. And yet among them, above them, and between them, it is also a living place.

The Cliffs of Moher & the Burren

“Make sure to apply plenty of sun cream,” the radio advised, “and take it easy on the beer. One or two is fine, but any more and you might get dehydrated.”

This was the voice of an expert on public health, speaking on Ireland’s national radio station, RTE. Ireland, you see, was experiencing a heat wave. The skies were clear and sunny, and the temperature was reaching highs of… around 25°C (75°F). In other words, the weather was absolutely perfect. But on this rainy island, such scorching temperatures were worthy of serious news coverage.

Meanwhile, we rode down country roads, windows down, soaking in the effervescent green of the Irish countryside. We were on our way to one of Ireland’s most famous natural wonders: the Cliffs of Moher.

Now, here I want to add a note about RTE. Despite the official name being in the Irish language (Raidió Teilifís Éireann), RTE primarily broadcasts in English. This makes it an absolutely delightful resource for any American travelers to the Emerald Isle. Just by turning on any car radio, you are given an immersive window into the realities of Irish culture. During our trip, we listened every time we were in the car, hearing programs about budget negotiations, interviews with cookbook authors, and discussions of rising energy prices. This may not sound especially engrossing, but it made our visit feel that much more intimate.

The health expert elaborated on the dangers of sunburn and dehydration as our destination came into view: the visitor centre. You know you have arrived when you see the huge parking lot across the road, which on any given day will be full of tour buses and private cars. The cliffs are free, but the parking is not.

The visitor centre is worth stepping into before you see the cliffs. Opened in 2007, it was built into a hillside to better preserve the natural environment. Aside from serving snacks and having public toilets, the centre also has small exhibits on the geology, history, and wildlife to be found on the cliffs. But the detail that most sticks out in my memory are the women working at the gift shop, who were visibly red and covered with sweat due to the heat wave—despite my feeling entirely comfortable. I suppose it matters what you’re used to.

It is a short walk from the visitor centre to the edge of the cliffs. The first view is breathtaking—as is every view after that. Though it is cliche to say it, the photos simply do not do justice to the cliffs. Their scale is unlike anything I have ever seen. Standing at over 100 meters (or around 330 feet) above the sea, and stretching for miles in both directions, the cliffs are an overwhelming spectacle—one of the few tourist attractions that stand up both to the hype and to the inevitable hordes of tourists.

We like to say that Rome was not built in a day, but geological time operates on a scale that dwarfs even our longest empires. These cliffs are a case in point. What we see today is the process of hundreds of thousands of years of water erosion. The process is simple: the waves crashing into the rock eventually cause a notch in the area touching the sea. As this gets deeper, it eventually cannot support the weight of the rock above it, and the whole side of the shore comes crashing down. This is how we get these sheer rock faces.

Due to this erosion, a huge layer of rock is exposed to the eye. This is what geologists dream of. It is the history of the earth, exposed to public view. The rock here is sedimentary, meaning that it was deposited by ancient rivers, and compacted into layers of hard shale and sandstone over time. As you might expect, the oldest rocks are at the bottom; these date back over 300 million years, before the time of the dinosaurs. The fossils preserved in the rock are the traces left by tiny burrowing creatures who lived in the ancient riverbed.

Yet viewing the cliffs does not put most visitors in the mood for scientific inquiry. Instead, they invite a sense of gaping wonder at the scale and majesty of nature, even amid the famously docile landscape of Ireland. My brother and I wandered up and down the path, taking photos of the cliffs from different angles, none of which was wholly satisfactory. Seabirds glided in the strong currents of air that formed from the ocean wind hitting the rock face—and which sent the sharp scent of salt water up to the viewing platforms.

But enjoying a spectacle is hard work; so, feeling hungry, we wandered off to find a vegetarian hamburger truck that we had heard about (it was very good). Our mom, who wasn’t very hungry, stayed behind at the visitor center. By the time we got back, she was enjoying a performance of a marching band that had set up in the large seating area outside. It was an odd contrast—this austere icon of Ireland, and music that would not have been out of place at an American football game. But, strangely, it only added to the pleasant atmosphere of the unseasonably warm day.

The rest of our day was yet unplanned. We figured that we would be able to find something interesting in the vicinity of the Cliffs of Moher, and we were right. With our trusted Rick Steves guidebook in hand, we opened to one of the many maps, and found that we were near an area called “the Burren.” The name alone sounded strangely promising.

As we drove into the area, the landscape began to change. The hills of grass that characterize the country become relatively flat, and covered in rock. Indeed, from a distance you could see how the landscape abruptly changes, the trees and greenery giving way to swirls of gray stone. Getting closer, we could see that the ground was blanketed with a natural pavement—a series of flat stones forming a solid surface, between which grass and flowers grew. It produced an immediate impression—a landscape of stark and ancient beauty.

This impression was magnified at our first stop: the Poulnabrone Dolmen. This is an ancient megalith, well over 5,000 years old. As it stands now, the structure consists of three upright stones supporting a slab roof. But this is only the “skeleton” of the original construction. In its time, it would have been covered in soil and topped with a “cairn,” or a tower of rocks. Even so, it is an impressive sight. The arrangement of stones looks fragile, as if it can topple over at any moment. The visitor cannot help but wonder how it survived for so long. It is also impossible not to wonder how the stones were moved into this arrangement without the help of modern technology. The roof stone is so large that I don’t think even several dozen people could safely lift it.

The short walk from the parking lot to the dolmen was unusually difficult, owing to the curious topography of the Burren. You have to be aware of where you are putting your foot, or you may step from the high platform of rocks into one of the crevices between them—thus risking a twisted ankle. Yet this extra awareness gives the Poulnabrone Dolmen an added spiritual element, as the visitor is forced to focus on their surroundings. This, added to the peculiar beauty of the landscape—quiet, empty of birdsong, isolated and exposed, as if you were on the top of a high mountain—lends this lonely monument a mystical atmosphere, as if it really were the portal to another world.

Our next stop in the Burren was the eponymous visitor centre. Located in the exceedingly small village of Kilfenora, this institution does not look like much from the outside. But it is well worth a visit. A small fee will get you into the museum, which has all the information you could want to learn about the Burren—flora and fauna, geology, history, and even music. I found the information about the flora to be especially interesting. Puzzlingly, this rocky and barren landscape is home to over 70% of the country’s native plant species, many of them wildflowers. Even more puzzlingly, alpine and mediterranean flowers bloom together here. The deep groves in the limestone apparently provide an ideal micro-environment.

Another highlight of the visitor centre is the Kilfenora Cathedral, which today lies mostly in ruins. This attractive church building is now used to exhibit a collection of High Crosses, which are large stone crucifixes. These monuments, dating mostly from the early middle ages, are often decorated with elaborate images—illustrating Biblical stories at a time when most people were illiterate. The finest of these can rival the great gothic tympanums (the area over a doorway).

*My mom and brother, admiring the ruined church*

Yet during my visit, another parallel came to mind. In Galicia, the northwest of Spain, the landscape is also dotted with tall stone crucifixes, called cruceiros. This parallel struck me as odd, as Galicia is also home to many prehistoric dolmens—some that are remarkably similar to the one I had just seen here. Perhaps this should not be too surprising, however: both Galicia and Ireland were once populated by Celtic peoples. Indeed, there was once a time in human history—over 10,000 years ago, during the last great Ice Age—when it was possible to walk from Spain all the way to Ireland. This may seem like a very long time, but it is just a moment in the history of the earth.

Perhaps I am thinking in these terms because the Cliffs of Moher and the Burren both evoke the deep, geological past of Ireland, and remind us that the land beneath our feet is far more than just a country.

Galway & Inishmore

“Dublin is fine, I guess. But you gotta see Galway. It’s incredible.”

My friend Durso had told me this on my first trip to Ireland, launching into a long glowing description of the coastal city. Now, six years later, it was my chance to finally see this mythical place. How would it measure up?

By the time we arrived—after a long day of driving—it was already evening. We headed into the center of town without a plan or even knowing what to expect. All I knew was that Galway was supposed to be nice.

Galway, a medium-sized city, is situated on the western coast, almost directly across from Dublin. The city was once an important port for commerce and fishing. Nowadays, its economy has two new pillars: tourism and education. The latter is especially important. Of the roughly 85,000 residents of the city, nearly a quarter are students at the University of Galway. For a place with so much history, it has a very young population.

This was immediately apparent to us. As it happened, the day we arrived was Freshers’ Day, when all of the first-year students are welcomed to campus. A parade of young people marched down High Street, all of them looking lost and amazed—overwhelmed by their new-found independence. And, crucially, unlike in my own country, freshmen in Ireland are of drinking age. It was bound to be a wild few nights.

This youthful presence—combined with the plentiful tourists—gave the center of Galway a raucous energy. Every bar was packed, every restaurant was full, and we had to dodge between crowds and street performers. I had imagined a picturesque old fishing village, and this was a nightlife district.

But the city is well-adapted to hungry and thirsty crowds, and we soon managed to satisfy our bodily desires. After dinner, we searched for a bar that wasn’t overwhelmed by students. Eventually, we decided on Tig Cóilí, a tranquil place with classy wooden furnishings. This is one of the many whiskey bars in the city. After asking the barman for some advice, I had a glass of Micil Invernin, a single-malt whiskey with a pronounced smokey and peaty flavor—reminding me very much of Laphroaig Scotch. This was followed by a delicious Irish coffee, whose mixture of alcohol and caffeine produced a strange wakeful drowsiness.

The rest of our stay in Galway consisted mainly of mornings and evenings, as we had several day trips planned. This meant that our impression of the city was inevitably skewed. Nevertheless, it is fair to say that Galway is not a city of many attractions. Though historic, only fragments of the city’s medieval past remain.

Notable among these is the so-called Spanish arch, an extension of the city walls (now mostly gone) down to the docks. There is nothing particularly Spanish about this arch. It got its name because of the many Spaniards, usually merchants, who used to visit Galway, mooring their ships near this arch.

*It is hard to get very excited about the Spanish arches.*

Indeed, Christopher Columbus himself (who DNA studies reveal to have had a Spanish origin) visited Galway as a young man, and spoke of seeing “Cathays” (the antique word for Chinese people) who had arrived on logs. These people were almost certainly not Chinese, but may have been Inuits who were blown across the Atlantic in a canoe. Nevertheless, it reinforced his belief that a voyage to Asia was possible by sailing west.

All of this history was unfathomable, however, as we wove our way through the young crowds. Galway is certainly not a city oriented towards the past. Indeed, for a place with such a romantic setting—the stormy Atlantic brooding in the gray distance—and with the soothing sound of water continuously nearby, Galway is a surprisingly energetic place. Perhaps it is no wonder that my friend, who visited during his drinking years, loved it so much.

I do want to single out Il Vicolo, an Italian restaurant we visited. Now, I am normally opposed to eating Italian food out unless I am traveling in Italy. It seems like a wasted opportunity to eat something available everywhere, rather than trying the local food. But in this case, the decision turned out to be a good one. The restaurant—in a historic building overlooking the river—was attractive, and the food a welcome relief from the heavy Irish fare.

Lost amid the crowds and the nightlife, I did not appreciate the impressiveness of Galway’s natural setting until it was time to leave it. On our first morning there, we boarded a bus that took us from Galway to Rossaveel. We soon left the city and were being swept along a fairly suburban area overlooking Galway Bay. The morning was gray and overcast, and the landscape had none of the usual sweetness that one associates with Ireland. Instead, it was rocky and desolate, almost reminding me of Iceland. The North Atlantic is a harsh and dramatic environment.

We were there to catch a ferry to the Aran Islands. These are a group of three islands that lie at the westernmost point of Ireland. Inishmore is the largest and most popular of these, and this was our destination. The trip lasted about an hour and deposited us in Kilronan, or Cill Rónáin (in the official Irish spelling), the only place on the island approaching a proper village. With a population of less than 300, it is home to over a third of the island’s inhabitants—which gives you some idea of its remoteness.

If Galway struck me as a place with too many people and not enough history, Inishmore was exactly the opposite. Despite the boat loads of tourists (we among them), and despite the island’s relatively small size (about half as big as Manhattan), the island creates a powerful sense of isolation in time and space. The landscape is windswept and bleak—deforested after centuries of human habitation, and littered with ruins, both old and new.

We immediately set about procuring ourselves a tour. Now, there are many options for visitors to the island. You can rent bikes and explore on your own, or even just take off walking. The most popular option, however, is to sign up for a minibus tour. There is no need to book in advance. As soon as you leave the ferry, a host of tour operators confront you, all of them offering pretty much the same tour at the same price. We signed up for one without any research or planning, and it ended up being fantastic.

Our guide soon whisked us into the rocky center of this island. Speaking rapid-fire into a microphone, he gave us a running commentary on everything we were driving past. And he had a lot to say. Aside from being a tour guide with ample experience, he was also a native of the island, and could frequently add a personal touch to his narrative. Now, I admit that I have forgotten the vast majority of what he said—he spoke fast, and in a thick accent—but I do remember the sense of wonder I had, as he effectively pulled us into what it was like to grow up in such a place.

I can attempt to write a description of the island here—its rugged hills of pale green, ringed by rocky shores and covered in gray ruins—but I think it would be better just to instruct any curious readers to watch the film The Banshees of Inisherin. This film—properly tragic-comic, as are so many Irish stories—was filmed here, and does a wonderful job in capturing the combination of desolate beauty and provincial isolation.

One valuable part of the experience was simply overhearing the guides speak Irish. You see, Inishmore is a Gaeltacht, which is a section officially designated as having Irish as the first language. Language has a political element here, as it does in so many other parts of the world; and adoption of Irish (also called Gaelic) as a co-official language with English was seen as an important step in the assertion of Irish identity. Nevertheless, the overwhelming majority of the population still speak English, and learn only minimal Irish in school. Inishmore is one of the few exceptions to this rule.

The high-point of the visit, literally and metaphorically, was Dún Aonghasa. This is an ancient fortress, situated high on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. Even the approach is dramatic. Stumbling over a rough cobblestone walkway, ringed by stone fences, the visitor gets a small taste of how secure this place must have been in its time. The surrounding fields are strewn with spiky stones that would have disrupted any approaching army.

Nearer, the visitor passes through a series of four concentric walls. Even today, after years of neglect and decay, they stand far taller than a person, and are thick enough to withstand serious force. (Admittedly, major sections of the walls have been restored.) Clearly, the people who built this fortress did not want to take any chances. But who were they? Archaeologists are not entirely sure. The fortress seems to have been built sometime around 500 BCE by the Celtic inhabitants. Its name may refer to a god from Irish mythology. That is about as much as we know.

Today, it is impressive more for its setting than for anything it can tell us about prehistoric Ireland. Hanging precipitously from a cliffside, the fortress suggests a people who were surrounded by enemies, who lived with their backs to the wall. The day we visited was fairly mild. Even so, the Atlantic looked brooding and dangerous in the distance, an angry infinity waiting to swallow up this floating bit of rock. It must have been an exceptionally hard life.

The other major historical site on the island are the Seven Churches. This is a somewhat misleading name, as there are only two churches at the site, and they are both in ruins. Our guide told us that they were “early Christian” structures, though he couldn’t offer much in the way of specifics, aside from mentioning that they used to be important destinations for pilgrims. The dilapidated and unused churches are surrounded by a still-active graveyard, which gives the place a rather spooky air.

The last attraction on our tour was a small group of seals. Wildlife abounds in West Ireland—its waters home to whales and dolphins, its skies full of sea birds, and its land covered with red deer—and Inishmore is no exception to this rule. A small seal colony shares the island with its human inhabitants, and provides a whimsical sight for the tourists.

After around three hours, our guide deposited us back at Cill Rónáin, where we had some good Irish food and a few cold beers. Then, it was time for the ferry ride back to the mainland. That night in Galway, surrounded once again by the hordes of freshers, the island of Inishmore had a sort of dreamlike quality to it—a place trapped in time, preserving a piece of old Ireland so that these young people could one day, too, come to enjoy it. Now that my friend Durso is somewhat older, I’m sure that he would love it even more than he loved Galway.

Review: The Conquest of New Spain

The Conquest of New Spain by Bernal Díaz del Castillo

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

In the introduction to this book, its translator J.M. Cohen makes a point to emphasize how badly it is written. This is hardly normal for a book that is widely considered to be a classic—though perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise for a document composed by a poorly-educated soldier of fortune. For this edition, Cohen trimmed much of what he considered to be repetitive, and straightened out some of the knottier prose. Even after this treatment, however, a great deal of this book is a confused and monotonous narration of battles.

And yet, it is an absolutely fascinating document. Díaz wrote his account as an old man, to correct some of the earlier stories about the conquest of “New Spain,” which glorified Cortés at the expense of his followers. This would seem to indicate that Díaz—who was one of these followers—had a proverbial axe to grind. But Díaz’s lack of intellectual subtlety, his clumsiness as a writer, and his obvious frankness combine to make this document strangely absent of perceivable bias. Writing down what he witnessed was such a chore in itself, the reader feels, that Díaz did not have it in him to twist the story to his ends.

The result is an eyewitness account of one of the most monumental events in human history—the collapse of a great empire, and with it the only power in Central America capable of resisting the Spanish colonists. It is a story rich in drama and intrigue, as Cortés navigates the politics of his Spanish backers (who turn on him) as well as the local peoples he encounters, seeming to stay one step ahead of trouble through his cunning and a generous amount of luck.

It is also a gruesome and tragic story. Hardly a page goes by in this book without armed conflict and human butchery. It is impossible to root for the Spaniards as they slash and burn their way through the landscape, provoking unimaginable losses to our cultural heritage in the process. And yet, ironically, Díaz—an agent of this civilization’s destruction—was one of the last people to see it at its full splendor, and is now one of our best sources of information on what he helped to destroy.

The passages about the Aztec cities, and especially meeting Montezuma in Tenochtitlan, are easily my favorite part of the book. Despite their selfish and bloody purpose, Díaz and his fellows were absolutely dazzled at the splendor of the empire. He was amazed at the broad and straight causeway, the network of canals and bridges, the high stone pyramids. The vast markets, teeming with alien plants and animals, he compares favorably to those of Constantinople or Rome; and he goes into raptures at the beauty of their gardens. The sheer number of people is shocking for the modern reader, who may be accustomed to thinking of the New World as only lightly populated at the time of European contact. On the contrary, Tenochtitlan would have dwarfed the London or Seville of the time.

A tone of regret or remorse creeps into the writing at this point, as if he is sorry that such a wonderful place was destroyed. It is an especially striking tonal shift, given that so much of the book is one battle after another, often told quite matter-of-factly. In another passage, Díaz seems to be amazed that all of this really happened, and seems unable to explain how it could occur, deciding that it must have been divine intervention. This is somewhat self-serving, to be sure, but it does give a taste of his complete lack of guile. As an author, he writes what he remembers, and shrugs his shoulders at the explanation.

What continually strikes Díaz—and undoubtedly his readers—is the prevalence of human sacrifice in the Aztec world. He describes finding people in cages being fattened for sacrifice, temples covered in blood, and the horrifying way in which victims would be dragged up the temple steps and have their chests cut open. As far as I know, there is no reason to doubt that this really happened. Yet it also serves rhetorically as a constant justification for the Spaniards’ actions. It is difficult to feel bad for the Aztecs, after all, if they are murdering on such a scale.

But I think it is important for the modern reader to keep in mind that Díaz and his fellows were hardly there on a humanitarian mission. These conquistadors—who would go on to commit violence on a much larger scale—were there for personal enrichment above all else. The lives of the peoples they conquered had little interest or value for them, beyond their possessions or their enslavement. To pick just one example, after expounding on the horrors of human sacrifice, Díaz calmly relates: “we dressed our wounds with the fat from a stout Indian whom we had killed and cut open, for we had no oil.” I do not say this to re-litigate the past, only because I think this book is more profitable and compelling if not read as a story of heroes and villains.

So while I cannot call this document a literary masterpiece, or even well-written, I found it to be a window—and a surprisingly clear window—into one of history’s great moments. And the sad truth is, to learn about this moment, we must turn to books like these, for “today all that I then saw is overthrown and destroyed; nothing is left standing.”

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Near Dublin: Brú na Bóinne & Glendalough

This was the moment of truth. I got into the driver’s seat, put on my seatbelt, and gripped the wheel. I had been nervous about this for months: Could I really drive on the “wrong” side?

My panic didn’t seem unwarranted. After all, I am not the most confident driver in a “normal” car, on the right side of the street. Driving in the mirror image world of Ireland struck me as courting death. All of my instincts would be exactly wrong. And Ireland, with its narrow country roads, is not known as the easiest place to drive.

Nervously, cautiously, I rolled the car from its parking spot and onto the road. It was terrifying at first—especially the traffic circles which travel clockwise rather than counter-clockwise—but by the time I got onto the highway, I felt as though I had the hang of it. And not a moment too soon, for we had a guided tour to catch.

Brú na Bóinne

Virtually everyone knows about Stonehenge, those mysterious rocks in the English countryside. But Ireland has her own neolithic ruins, and they deserve to be just as famous.

We parked the car and walked into the cavernous visitor center. There, we were given time to walk through the informative exhibit, which goes through the basics of what we know about this archaeological site.

Brú na Bóinne is not a single monument but a whole landscape of ruins. Predating the Great Pyramid by several centuries, it consists of a complex of stone and earth structures, ranging from decorated megaliths to elaborate passage tombs. Like Stonehenge, the site incorporates enormous stones, many of which were transported from far away; and, like Stonehenge, several features of these tombs are aligned with astronomical events, such as the winter solstice. The people who built these tombs were obviously quite sophisticated.

After about half an hour, we were summoned for the real start to the tour. To get to the buses, we had to cross a pedestrian bridge that spans the River Boyne. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm for September, and this was our first real glance of the Irish countryside. Although the landscape now must be very different from how it was so many years ago, it was easy to see what attracted the builders of these monuments to this spot. The land was bursting with life.

Small buses ferried us the short distance to our first stop, Knowth. This is an assemblage of artificial mounds—piles of earth ringed with decorated stones. These carved kerbstones represent one of the most important collections of prehistoric art in Europe, and they are remarkable indeed. The art is stylized and mostly abstract, consisting of swirling patterns that have been emulated far and wide.

Walking through the site, the visitor is immersed in a whole artificial landscape. The bulbous green mounds are imposing and mysterious. Each one was a tomb. But who were these people? And what did they believe? Whoever they were, they obviously lived in a society with a great degree of sophistication and coordination, as the main passage tomb is a major construction. Two passages were dug into the mound, meeting almost exactly in the middle. More impressive still, these passages were made waterproof. Unfortunately, later intervention (the site was continually used and modified through the years) undid this waterproofing, and the passage tomb can no longer be visited.

Knowth is a world-class prehistoric site, but Newgrange is the real showstopper. It is another passage tomb, though instead of being ringed by decorated stones, it has a grand, almost ostentatious facade of white quartz. Standing alone on the top of a hill overlooking the river, the tomb looks uncanny, almost otherworldly. I am no believer in ancient aliens, but I can see how these old monuments, which seem to emerge from the landscape, can be unsettling.

Unlike Knowth, the passage of the tomb at Newgrange is still intact, and so visitors can actually go inside. This was mind-boggling to me. No place I had ever visited even remotely compared with the age of this monument. The Colosseum in Rome is nearly 2,000 years old, the Parthenon in Athens is about 500 years older. Newgrange was built over 2,500 years before that. This means that, by the time the Parthenon was constructed, it was about as old to the ancient Greeks as their own monument is to me.

Compared to these other two monuments, however, it may be difficult for the modern visitor to appreciate the sophistication of Newgrange. A mound of grass is simply less stunning than a huge marble column. But it is not at all easy to build a passage like this one. The stones had to be placed in such a way that they could support their own weight, as well as the considerable weight of all the material on top of them—and, all of it had to be properly waterproofed so that it wouldn’t flood during the first rainstorm. This is quite impressive engineering.

Even to a modern unbeliever like me, there is obvious religious symbolism to the tomb. The walk through the long, dark passageway suggests the path from life to death, and from death to life. This mystical impression is doubly strong when one factors in the “roofbox,” which is the additional opening near the entrance that allows sunlight to enter—but only during a brief moment during the winter solstice.

Since the solstice was still over two months away when we visited, the guide did the next best thing, and activated a light that had been installed near the entrance. First, the overhead lamp dimmed to nothingness, leaving us in darkness. Then, a ray of yellow light creeped through the long passageway until it hit the back of the chamber. Over 5,000 years later, the sight is still awe-inspiring—a testament both to the beauty of the natural world and our own understanding of the cosmos. It would take a heart of stone not to be moved at such a sight.

Glendalough

The car kept brushing against the side hedges and throwing up pebbles as we hugged the side of the road. My brother was driving; and even though this was after a week of practice, he was still nervous.

This was a week later, our last day with the rental car. We were on our way back to Dublin to drop it off. But first, we had a last bit of sightseeing to do.

The countryside was, as usual, bucolic. We rolled up and down the green hills, past sheep, tractors, and cottages. At one point, as we rounded a bend, a sign came into view on the hillside above us. It read “Hollywood,” which is exactly where we were: a village in County Wicklow, of about 500 people.

We pressed on. And as we did, the landscape transformed. We were gaining in altitude as we ascended into the Wicklow Mountains. The landscape became rockier, more rugged, and we were treated to an ever-improving sight of the valleys below us.

Soon we pulled into our destination: Glendalough. This is one of the loveliest valleys in the mountain range. Carved out thousands of years ago by a glacier, it later became the site of an important monastery, founded by one St. Kevin. Not much can be said for certain about this saint—there are no contemporary sources about his life, and subsequent generations have thoroughly mythologized him—but it is certain that he at least had a good eye for natural beauty, as he chose a gorgeous spot.

The monastery founded by this saint flourished for several hundreds of years after his death, in 618. However, the English—those dependable villains of Irish history—ransacked the place in 1398, burning much of it down. What remains is just a fraction of the original settlement, a haunting collection of graves, walls, and half-destroyed buildings.

The impression of lost time is somewhat lessened, however, by the hoards of tourists who arrive by the busload. Because of its proximity to Dublin, you see, Glendalough is a very popular destination for day-trippers, and the place now has all the trappings of mass-tourism. Parking attendants frantically direct traffic in and out of the many parking lots, while rows of food stands sell burgers and fries to visitors. It is an ironic fate for a place that St. Kevin must have chosen for its peacefulness.

When we visited, conditions were unfortunately not ideal to fully appreciate Glendalough. For one, we were short on time; and the weather was turning dark and stormy. If I’d had more time, I would have loved to do more hiking in the valley, and perhaps visited the Miner’s Village, where workers in the local lead mine used to live. That will have to wait for my next visit.

As it was, after just a couple of hours in Glendalough, we got back into our car and drove the remaining hour to Dublin. Now it was my turn to drive—one last stretch of stress and terror on the roads of Ireland. But fortune was on our side, and we made the journey without a significant mishap. It was with a great sigh of relief that I shut the door of the car and handed the key to the attendant. The crisis had been averted. We had avoided becoming yet another Irish ruin.

Review: The Greatest Sentence Ever Written

The Greatest Sentence Ever Written by Walter Isaacson

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This year, 2026, will mark the 250th anniversary of these United States. Well, this is more a convention than a fact. After the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the Revolutionary War would drag on for seven more years; and the Constitution would not be adopted until 1789. Still, it is fair to say that the drafting of this fateful document was both a decisive moment on our road to independence, as well as an important statement of the principles we would later see as defining this nation.

This short book is ostensibly a close look at the second sentence of this sacred text. It is the one that many Americans know by heart, which begins: “We hold these truths to be self-evident…” Isaacson declares it the “greatest sentence ever crafted by human hand”—a grandiose claim, but a defensible opinion in light of both the sentence’s import and felicity. This book is an examination of how it was written and revised.

Thomas Jefferson wrote the first draft of this document. In his version, the sentence reads: “We hold these truths to be sacred & undeniable; that all men are created equal & independant, that from that equal creation they derive rights inherent & inalienable, among which are the preservation of life, & liberty, & the pursuit of happiness.”

The changes made to this original are telling. Aside from a bit of pruning—removing “independant” and “inherent”—there are two important shifts. For one, “sacred and undeniable” is changed to “self-evident,” a mathematical term in vogue among Enlightenment philosophers. This was undoubtedly Benjamin Franklin’s idea, who emphasizes the (highly controversial) position that rights are a basic property of anyone living in a society. The other change is the addition “by their Creator,” which actually makes Jefferson’s original sentence more conventional in outlook—a personal creator God, rather than simply an “equal creation.”

In any case, all of these changes certainly help make the sentence more memorable and punchy. Along with a bit of historical and philosophical background—very little, considering the length of this book—that, it would seem, would be that with regards to this finest of sentences.

Yet it becomes clear in the final three chapters that this book is not merely an exercise in lexical appreciation. Isaacson shifts from an appreciation of this sentence to a brief reflection on what he sees as our broader problems. Compositionally, this is awkward, as his suggestions do not stem from the content of this sentence, or indeed of the Declaration as a whole. In light of what feels like an endless national emergency, however, his input does not feel entirely out of place.

Isaacson asserts that what we have lost, and what we need to recover, is a notion of the “commons.” This is an idea alluded to in John Locke’s Second Treatise of Government, that each working society must ensure a common pool of resources over and above the private property owned by every individual. He views our current political crisis as a consequence of self-segretation—gated communities, private schools, VIP entrances, severely biased news sources. The two separate half-time shows for the recent Super Bowl—Bad Bunny for the libs, Kid Rock for the MAGA crowd—would seem to perfectly encapsulate this growing divide.

While I fully agree with Isaacson, this is hardly a novel observation—and, in any case, he doesn’t really suggest anything we can do about it, aside from getting back to our nation’s roots. Indeed, his own book illustrates this problem, when he briefly (and correctly) points out the contradictions in a document that proclaims equality while excluding women and American Indians and condoning slavery—an obvious fact, and yet one which will likely turn off many Republican readers.

Perhaps, rather than trusting our salvation to Jefferson, Franklin, and Adams—who, after all, got us into this mess—we should put our faith in Bad Bunny, the author of the second greatest sentence ever written: “The only thing more powerful than hate is love.”

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Return to Dublin

It was odd to be back. My last trip to Dublin, in 2017, was in December. Along with one of my childhood friends and his little brother, we wandered around the city in the cold and dark. We did a lot of walking and a lot of drinking, but not a great deal of sight-seeing. Now, nearly six years later, I was here in early September for a family vacation. The weather was warm, the days long, and I could finally see all the great monuments of Dublin.

Oriented around the River Liffey, Dublin is far and away the biggest city in the Republic of Ireland. I find it a difficult place to describe. It is dense and populous, yet it has a strange intimacy. One doesn’t feel, as while visiting Paris or New York, lost amid an endless expanse of streets. On the contrary, I felt that I got my bearings rather quickly. And though there are plenty of historical buildings, Dublin also does not feel particularly old. The city is not romantic or particularly beautiful, nor is it cozy and immediately welcoming. Perhaps the best way I can describe it is that it feels like the setting for a tragic-comic play.

Dublin is fairly spread-out for a European city. Its center—if it has one—is the O’Connell Bridge. This bridge is named in honor of the political leader Daniel O’Connell, whose monument is nearby; he was one of the many people who advocated, protested, and fought for Irish autonomy. Within walking distance is the Ha’Penny Bridge and the Temple Bar nightlife district, as well as Trinity College. Standing on this bridge and facing north, you will likely catch sight of the Spire of Dublin, which is exactly what it sounds like. Standing at 120 meters (390 feet) tall, this huge metal spike is not especially beloved by the local population, who have a variety of nicknames for it—such as the “stiffy on the Liffey.”

Wandering southward from the bridge, you will likely come across the statue of Molly Malone. This rather busty woman is carrying her cart of baskets, presumably holding the “cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!” of the folk song. Chances are, a street musician will be set up before this statue of Irish musical womanhood, and it may be worth your while to stop and listen. The live music scene in Dublin is one of its great charms. Further south is St. Stephen’s Green, the loveliest park in a city not particularly rich in greenspace.

I usually prefer using public transportation to get around, though my mom often insisted that we take a taxi. This ended up being a good choice, as the taxi drivers were generally charming and informative. Nevertheless, I did want to pick up a transport card, called a Leap Card. To do this, we went to the General Post Office, on O’Connell Street. This neo-classical structure is something of a national monument, as it was the center of the Easter Rising—a violent revolt against British rule. The building still has bullet holes in its facade to prove it. Nowadays, it is a convenient place to mail letters and get your bus pass.

Yet what I was most excited for was a pair of monuments somewhat outside the city center. After a short bus ride—yes, we had to use those Leap Cards—we found ourselves, somewhat jarringly, standing between a modern office building and an imposing stone structure. (The city is full of juxtaposing old and new.) This fortress-like structure was Kilmainham Gaol, one of the most infamous places in Ireland.

This gaol, or jail, was built in 1796 to replace the medieval dungeon that the city had been using. It was meant to be modern, embodying the “Panopticon” idea of Jeremy Bentham. The idea was to make all of the individual cells visible from a central point, thus subjecting the inmates to constant surveillance. Being under observation, it was hoped, would eventually create self-discipline. Personally, I am doubtful that this really works. In any case, only one part of the prison—the strangely beautiful Main Hall—follows this philosophy. The rest of the prison consists of narrow hallways of cramped cells.

Conditions in the jail were bad. Both men and women were locked up, often on minor charges such as vagrancy or prostitution. Children were even imprisoned here—in one famous case, a child as young as three. Packed like sardines into the cells, the prisoners endured cold, darkness, and hunger. But this is not why the prison became so famous. This was due to its role in the many struggles for independence throughout Ireland’s history. As far back as the 1880s, the great nationalist politician Charles Parnell was imprisoned here (though apparently in quite genteel conditions).

Parnell escaped with his life. Many others were not so lucky. After the aforementioned Easter Rising of 1916 was crushed, its leaders were taken here, court martialed, and executed. Public sympathy for these figures directly contributed to drafting of the 1918 Declaration of Independence by Sinn Féin. During the War of Independence, many anti-British fighters were imprisoned here; and later, during the Irish Civil War, four IRA prisoners were executed in this jail. In short, Kilmainham Gaol has a grim role in Irish history.

Learning about such things is thirsty work. Thankfully, the Guinness Factory is not too far. Now, I’d visited a few breweries, but this was unlike any I had seen before. The most popular attraction in Dublin—in all of Ireland, in fact—the Guinness Factory is a kind of Disneyland for beer drinkers, not a working factory so much as a theme park. Perhaps a better comparison is an airport, as the visitor winds their way through the exhibits and attractions in the vast space on an endless series of walkways, escalators, and elevators.

This is making it sound as if I didn’t enjoy the experience. On the contrary, I found it to be well-designed and genuinely fun. Guinness is an institution in Ireland (indeed, the family is now the subject of a Netflix show), whose history goes back to the 18th century, when founder Arthur Guinness famously signed a 9,000-year lease on the property. It was thus a pleasure to learn how the beer and the brand evolved through time.

A few things are noteworthy about the company’s history. For one, Guinness pioneered a groundbreaking welfare scheme for their employees as far back as 1900, at a time when paid retirement was hardly even a dream among the working classes. This is praiseworthy, but the company has also indulged in its share of bigotry. For such a symbol of Irish pride, Guinness has historically been on the side of the Protestant British. Indeed, until as late as 1939 it would fire any employee married to a Catholic; and it would try to avoid employing Catholics until the 1960s.

Nowadays, however, Guinness is, as I said, an institution in Ireland, one of the country’s most iconic symbols. So it was a pleasure to end the tour in the “Gravity Bar,” which is on the very top of the factory building. With a panoramic view of the city of Dublin, it is a very satisfying place to enjoy its most iconic drink: a pint of Guinness.

*Enjoying a Guinness in another establishment.*

I should include a little note here about the drink itself. It is often said that Guinness simply tastes better in Ireland. Although I can’t say I drink it enough to verify this, it does seem plausible. This isn’t because of the beer itself, I don’t think. After all, beer travels very well when it is properly bottled and stored. Rather, I think it is because Irish bartenders take a lot of care in pouring it properly. The procedure is always the same: fill it up about three quarters of the way, and let the foam settle for a couple of minutes. Then, the beer is finished with a good fizzy head of foam. By contrast, when I’ve had a Guinness in the U.S. it is either entirely too foamy or has no head whatsoever. And the proper ratio does add a lot to the drinking experience.

The evening was concluded with a visit to the Brazen Head, supposedly Ireland’s oldest pub. This was a repeat experience for me, though my mom greatly enjoyed both the ambience and the food. After that, we were ferried back to our Airbnb by one of the many loquacious cab-drivers in the city, who enthused to us about the nearby Croke Park, a stadium for Gaelic games. The Irish are an independent people, you see, and even their sports are unique.

The next day brought two more repeat experiences: the Book of Kells exhibit in Trinity College Dublin, and the National Archaeology Museum. I highly recommend both.

The Book of Kells is one of the treasures of European art—an intricately decorated copy of the Gospels. It is notable not only for its artistry but for its age: at a time when Europe was at its lowest cultural ebb, friars in remote Ireland were keeping the flame of culture alive. Trinity College is also worth visiting in itself for its historic campus, and especially its stunning old library. When I visited, the artwork Gaia, by Luke Jerram, was on display. This is an inflatable globe, lit from the inside, which looks remarkably like photos taken of the earth from space.

The Archaeology Museum is just as impressive. Housed in a stately neo-classical building, it has an amazing collection of objects from Ireland’s long past, from pre-history to the middle ages. This post is no place to delve deeply into the collection (I lack the knowledge for that, anyway), but I do want to mention the lovely gold ornaments from the Bronze Age, the well-preserved dug-out canoe from 2,000 BCE, and of course the famous bog bodies—naturally mummified corpses of men who seem to have been ritually sacrificed. The next time I visit Ireland, I intend to do a lot more preparatory reading about its history.

This was basically it for our initial visit. Luckily, however, we had an extra day back in Dublin before our departure. So I will now fast-forward to the end of our trip.

We dropped off our rental car and checked in to our hotel for the night, which was right above the pub, Darkey Kelly’s. Now, normally I am highly suspicious of hotel restaurants and bars, but this proved to be an excellent choice. This was because of the music. Seated in a circle, about 10 musicians—playing fiddle, accordion, bag-pipe, and guitar—were banging out tune after tune. And they were good. The melodies of these traditional Irish songs are quite fast, intricate, and bouncy, yet these players were perfectly in sync. It was a nostalgic way to end what was an amazing family trip.

The next day, before our hotel check out, we had a bit of time. Thankfully, there was a great museum nearby: the Chester Beatty. This museum is actually housed in a section of Dublin Castle. Despite the name, this is now more of a palace than a castle, though when it was originally built—as far back as 1204—it was a proper fortification. Indeed, Dublin Castle formed the nucleus of what is now Dublin. A body of water in this spot was known as the “dark pool,” whose Celtic translation gave the city its name. The old dubh linn has since disappeared; and the river which fed it, the Poddle, now runs underneath the castle.

The Chester Beatty is named after its founder, Sir Alfred Chester Beatty, who was actually an American. He led an interesting life. Beatty was a sort of Andrew Carnegie type, having made his fortune in the mining business. After a brilliant start to his career, he moved to London, and became ensconced in the upper echelons of that city’s politics and culture. He contributed significantly to the British Museum, and even played a role in the Allied war effort under Churchill. Yet the post-war Labor government seems to have scared off the capitalist American, and he relocated to Ireland in his old age.

Thus, it was Dublin, and not London, which inherited his magnificent collection of rare manuscripts. The collection is notable for both its beauty and historic value. Many of the items on display are lovely examples of illuminated manuscripts, from Chinese Buddhist sutras to illustrated Armenian gospels to delicate Islamic calligraphy. And several of the documents on display are enormously rare, such as the Biblical papyri, which are among the oldest surviving versions of the New Testament. The museum would be worth paying a high price to visit. And luckily, it’s free.

We went back to our hotel, packed our things, and headed to the airport—me to fly back to Spain, and my family back to New York. Our trip, so long anticipated, was finally over. And yet I am getting ahead of myself. For this was also just a beginning.

2026: New Year’s Resolutions

Happy New Year! As I’ve mentioned before, 2025 was a strange year for me. The life I had slowly established over the course of this blog—living in Madrid, traveling around Europe, with plenty of time to read—got upended in a very big way. And my writing certainly suffered in the process, if only for lack of time, as my usual routine fell apart.

So my biggest resolution is to get back on track with my writing. As my new life in New York slowly settles into place, I aim to get into the grove again, and get through some of the large backlog of travel pieces I hope to write up. This list includes:

Return to Dublin
Near Dublin: Brú na Bóinne & Glendalough
Galway & Inishmore
The Cliffs of Moher & The Burren
The Rock of Cashel & Kilkenny
Cobh & Kells Priory
Dresden: Out of the Flames
Leipzig: Bach & Battle
Washed up in Hamburg
Chongqing: the Megalopolis
Chongqing: Day Trips
Marrakech: One Last Hurrah

Now that I’m based in New York, I hope to do more domestic travel, and to finally see my own native land. For example: if you can believe it, I have never even set foot in a national park in my own country! This has got to change.

Still, the future of this blog is somewhat nebulous at this point. Its original raison d’être—to catalogue my exploration of Europe—is no longer relevant. Any suggestions? Perhaps I should start doing movie reviews?

Whatever happens, I just hope 2026 is a calmer year for me than the previous one. Cheers to that!

2025 in Books

2025 on Goodreads by Various

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

2025 was a year of upheaval for me. Virtually everything changed: my job, my relationship, and even my country. Strangely, this has been true for many of the people I know (my theory is that the stability we cobbled together during the pandemic is finally unwinding). In any case, this didn’t leave as much room for reading, which is a pity. Even so, the books I did read provided comfort and guidance in these strange times, for which I’m grateful.

New York City was a major topic of my reading. I kicked off the year with The Works, an excellent book about how the city gets its electricity and water, how it gets rid of its garbage, how it controls traffic and moves its citizens. Even more revelatory was Times Square Red, Times Square Blue, by Samuel R. Delaney, which explores the ways that cities promote or discourage genuine human contact. Ottessa Moshfegh’s superlative novel, My Year of Rest and Relaxation, manages to shed just as much light on what it is like to live in this strange place.

Apart from this, my reading was kind of a mixed bag. Esther Perel’s two major books on long-term relationships were extremely interesting for her wide and somewhat unconventional perspective. Vicky Hayward’s translation of an 18th century Spanish cookbook managed to be one of the most fascinating works of history that I’ve encountered in a long while. David Grann’s books—on the Osage murders and Percy Fawcett’s quest to discover the Lost City of Z—were both thrilling; and I continued my slow exploration of Murakami’s fiction.

But the most significant event of my year in books was the publication of my novella, Don Bigote. Thanks to the editors at Ybernia, Enda and María, I even had my first book event, and got to talk about my writing in public for the first time in my life. To top it off, I contributed two chapters to a book about living in Madrid, Stray Cats—ironically, just in time to decide to move away from that lovely city. In a year in which I often felt low and lost, these accomplishments helped to get me through.

Yet perhaps my favorite moment was being able to meet and interview Warwick Wise, whose writing I greatly admire, and whom I met through Goodreads. Even after all these years, then, this site continues to enrich my life.

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Review: Persians, by Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones

Persians: The Age of the Great Kings by Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This book begins with a great promise: to correct the distorted view that so many of us have of the Persian Empire. This distortion comes from two quite different directions.

In the West, our view of the Persian Empire has largely been filtered through Greek sources, Herodotus above all. This is nearly unavoidable, as the Greeks wrote long and engaging narrative histories of these times, while the Persians—although literate—did not leave anything remotely comparable. Yet the Greeks were sworn enemies of the Persians, and thus their picture of this empire is hugely distorted. Taking them at their word would be like writing a history of the U.S.S.R. purely from depictions in American news media.

The other source of bias is from within Iran itself. Starting with Ferdowsi, who depicts the Persian kings as a kind of mythological origin of the Persian people, the ruins of this great empire have been used to contrast native Persian culture from the language, religion, and traditions imported by the Muslim conquest. In more recent times, Cyrus the Great has become a symbol of the lost monarchy, a kind of secular saint—a tolerant ruler, who even originated the idea of human rights. This purely fictitious view is, at bottom, a kind of protest against the current oppressive theocracy.

But this book does not live up to its promise. To give the author credit, however, I should note that the middle section of the book—on the culture, bureaucracy, and daily life of the empire—is quite strong. Here, one feels that Llewellyn-Jones is relying on archaeological evidence and is escaping from the old stereotypes. The epilogue is also a worthwhile read, detailing the ways that subsequent generations have used (and abused) the history of this ancient power.

Yet the book falters in the chapters of narrative history. Here, Llewellyn-Jones is forced to rely on the Greek sources, and as a result many sections feel like weak retellings of Herodotus, with a bit of added historical context. Even worse, there are several parts in which I think he is not nearly skeptical enough regarding the stories in these Greek authors. At one point, for example, he retells the story of Xerxes’s passionate love affair with the princess Artaynte—a story taken straight out of Herodotus, and which has all of the hallmarks of a legend. That Llewellyn-Jones decides to treat this story as a fact, and does not even gesture towards its source, is I think an odd display of credulity in a professional historian.

The irony is that the final section of the book—full of scandalous tales taken out of Greek authors, depicting the decadence and depravity of the Persian court—only reinforces the very stereotypes that Llewellyn-Jones sets out to destroy. The really odd thing, in my opinion, is that there are no footnotes or even a section on his sources, so the reader must take him at his word—or not. I suspect this omission is to cover up the embarrassing fact that he relied so heavily on Herodotus.

This is a shame, as the Persian Empire does deserve the kind of reevaluation he proposes. It is fascinating on its own terms, and not just as a foil to the noble Greek freedom-fighters. Still, I think this book is a decent starting point for anyone interested in the subject. One must only read it with a skeptical eye.

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Lotz in Translation

Saving the world—one long, pretentious blog post at a time.

Author: Roy Lotz