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 landscape was bursting with life.

Small buses ferried us the short distance to our first stop, Knowth. This is a remarkable 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 ancient 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 real sophistication.

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, green and 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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The Madrid Río and the Matadero

One of the immediate charms of Madrid is how relatively compact its historic center is. A visitor can easily walk from the Retiro Park, to the Prado, to Gran Vía, and to the Templo de Debod in the course of a day. Explored this way, Madrid is experienced as a series of unfolding streets, plazas, and monuments, winding and criss-crossing their way across a relatively flat landscape. And yet, to get an idea of the contours of the land, of the natural environment that the city inhabits, one must venture further—to the Madrid Río.

This is a park that runs along the Manzanares River. “River” is a generous term for this trickle of water. Originating in the high sierra, the Manzanares runs southward, eventually emptying into the mightier Jarama River. As a natural resource, it is almost negligible—far too shallow for boat travel, and far too scanty to be a significant source of drinking water. But it is this slight river, working over the course of centuries, which carved out the high bluff upon which the Royal Palace is now situated, and which formed the core of the original settlement of Madrid. In other words, it is because of the small valley created by the Manzanares that anyone thought of settling here in the first place.

And the Manzanares has never lost its importance. It makes an appearance in many of Goya’s paintings, as a kind of pleasure ground, where aristocrats dressed as majos and majas took their leisure. During the Spanish Civil War, this humble river formed an important line of defense for the city. And during this century, the Madrid Río was the site of a major project of urban renewal.

*Goya’s “Dance on the Banks of the Manzanares.”*

For years, you see, this trickle of water had been sandwiched between the two directions of the M-30, the circular highway that was built in the 1960s to alleviate congestion in the city center. With three lanes of traffic on either side, the Manzanares could no longer be enjoyed by the madrileños.

Yet this changed in the early 2000s, when control of the highway was passed to the local city government, who soon decided to move this section of the highway underground. As you might imagine, this was a massive project, costing several billion euros; and it resulted in the longest network of traffic tunnels in Europe.

But it was worth it—for the burial of the highway solved many urban problems at once. Most obviously, it helped to alleviate some of the noise and pollution of the passing traffic. What’s more, the project re-connected neighborhoods that had been cut in two by the highway, weaving the city together again.

But the most precious result of this project was, I think, the restored access to the Manzanares River. This is no small matter. In a city lacking in any conspicuous natural features, the humble Manzanares is one of the only things that ties the city center to the landscape. And the good citizens not only got their river back, but a wonderful park to boot. Stretching for miles on either side of the river, the Madrid Río Park was created on the surface of the highway tunnels—and it is now one of the treasures of the city.

*A model of the Madrid Río in the visitor’s center. It shows the (now demolished) Vicente Calderón stadium, which is now part of the park.*

For the most part, this park consists of walking, jogging, and biking paths that run parallel to the course of the river. Shade is, admittedly, something of a problem in the hotter months, as the recently-planted trees haven’t had time to grow to their full splendor yet. Still, for such a narrow park, surrounded on both sides by apartment buildings, it can feel remarkably peaceful and quiet. Traffic passes over and under, largely out of view.

The park is notable for the many attractive pedestrian bridges that connect its two sides. There are the two “shell bridges,” near the Matadero, with lovely paintings on the inside. The aptly-named Puente monumental de Arganzuela is an enormous spiral that swirls across the river. A favorite of mine is the Puente del Principado de Andorra, which is a kind of faux-railway bridge, made with crisscrossing iron beams, but which splits apart to form a triangle.

The most beautiful, by far, is the Puente de Toledo—a stone bridge built in an ornate Barroque style. It emulates the far older, and more historically significant, Puente de Segovia. Built in the 16th century, this was the first major bridge to span the Manzanares river. It was mentioned frequently by Spain’s Golden-Age poets—though, admittedly, often in a humorous vein, for being so enormous in comparison with the stream it spans. It is a bridge in search of a river, mucho puente para tan poco río.

*The Puente de Segovia: Mucho puente para tan poco río.*

I want to mention here something puzzling to many visitors. At several points along the river there are what appear to be Greek columns. They look old and weather-beaten, and at first I wondered if they were genuine remains of an old temple. But their placement—much too far apart to belong to a single building—seemed to eliminate that possibility. The truth is that these are not columns at all, but ventilation shafts. You can prove this for yourself if you observe them from above: they are hollow inside.

You see, one of the reasons it was originally decided to canalize the river was that it was becoming a hazard for hygiene. As sewage continually drained into the Manzanares, it became an open cesspool. Thus, underground channels were made to divert contaminated groundwater. These channels had to be ventilated, to prevent pressure from building up, and the air shafts were disguised as Greek columns. If you look closely, you will notice that some of them still bear the scars from bullets and shrapnel from the Spanish Civil War.

Apart from its bridges, the river is also crossed by several dams—seven, to be exact. In the past, these were used to build up the waters of the Manzanares to a respectable level, allowing the citizens to swim and even the local rowing teams to practice. Yet this was not good for the wildlife—trapping fish, and flooding the many habitats adjacent to the river.

A major decision in the creation of the Madrid Río park was the opening of the dams, allowing the river to return to its natural state. This rewilding has created a surprisingly vibrant ecosystem in the sandy banks of the river, where plants and animals thrive. Especially happy are the birds, which have flocked to the area. Now, a visitor can see an astounding variety of species, from nile geese to herons to cormorants. (The rowing team, on the other hand, have been left up the river without a paddle.)

The Madrid Río is also home to some cultural sights. The Ermita de la Vírgen del Puerto (Hermitage of the Virgin of the Harbor) is a rather severe brick building from the early 18th century, where madrileños like to practice salsa dancing. Nearby is the Ermita de San Antonio de la Florida, a church decorated by Francisco de Goya, which also serves as the painter’s tomb. (Across the street is Casa Mingo, a classic restaurant serving roast chicken.) Further down is the Puente de los Franceses, a railroad bridge built by French engineers, which served as an important point in the defense of Madrid by the International Brigades during the Civil War.

Yet the most significant cultural landmark along the river may be the Matadero. The word matadero is simply Spanish for “slaughterhouse,” and that is exactly what this building complex used to be. In the past, you see, there were commercial livestock pens and slaughterhouses in the city center. But as the city grew, it was decided that this was both inadequate and unhygienic. Thus it was decided to build a large municipal slaughterhouse in what was then the outskirts of the city. After a lengthy planning period, and over a decade of construction, the Madrid Matadero opened in 1925.

The Matadero is a complex of nearly identical buildings connected by walkways and courtyards. Each building was originally for a different purpose. Some were pens to hold living animals, others were for the act of killing. Some were for cattle, others for pigs, and others for chickens. And of course there were processing facilities, too, where the meat was broken down, divided, salted, preserved, boiled, and so on. One can only imagine the stench.

Much time and care was spent in making this facility both attractive and efficient. Yet the city quickly overtook the scope of the original design. As the Matadero got swallowed up in the expanding urban center, it was no longer isolated from the populace. What is more, a part of it had to be demolished to make way for the aforementioned M-30 highway, further limiting its use. Most of all, however, the facility was simply not big enough, nor modern enough, for the new Madrid. By the 1970s, the Matadero ceased its original function, and nobody was quite sure what to do with it.

Luckily, it was ultimately decided not to demolish these buildings, but to convert them into what they are today: a cultural center. It was an inspired choice, as the architecture of the Matadero is astoundingly lovely. Built in a neo-Mudéjar style—with bricks, stonework, and tiles—the buildings seem almost festive with their pointed roofs. One wonders why such a place was made to look so pretty, as it must have been nauseatingly grim while it served its original function. Now, however, it is positively inviting.

It is difficult to enumerate all of the things that the visitor can see and do at the Matadero. They have theater performances, both contemporary and classical, both inside and outdoors. There are photography and art exhibits; and the cultural center is the permanent headquarters of the National Dance Company. There is even a small movie theater showing artsy films. Added to this, the Matadero hosts various events throughout the year, from concerts to seasonal markets, from comic book conventions to ice skating rinks and theme park rides. With its bar and café, it is a remarkable resource for the madrileño looking for a bit of culture.

*The Matadero café, with its enormous furnace for processing animal remains.*

Next to the Matadero is an attractive group of yellow apartment buildings that surround a central courtyard. This is the Colonia del Pico del Pañuelo, built to provide affordable housing for the workers of the Matadero. Its name (“the point of a handkerchief”) comes from its form: from above, it looks like a folded piece of fabric. Made of reinforced concrete, the workers’ colony is nevertheless quite picturesque, and has been featured in several films. Nowadays, however, it is not quite so affordable.

I also want to mention another nearby attraction, the Crystal Palace of Arganzuela. This is a large greenhouse next to the Matadero. Free to visit, the greenhouse has four separate areas corresponding to different climatic zones. It adds a bit of natural wonder to the cultural attractions next door.

After discussing all of this history, and all of these landmarks, I fear that I am still not doing justice to the real charm of these places. The Madrid Río is, above all, a park—and a good one. Flat and scenic, it is ideal for a lazy bike ride or a long run—or just for sitting on a bench and watching the locals stroll by. There is a football field and a skate park, and several cafés and kiosks where the visitor can have a cold beer under the blue sky. The Matadero is special for being a cultural space that is primarily for the madrileños. One doesn’t have to wait in line with hordes of tourists here—and I hope it stays that way.

And the Madrid Río keeps going. If you follow the river south, you go through the Parque Lineal de Manzanares, an oddly futuristic park, where you can admire Manolo Valdés’ monumental statue of a woman’s head. Go further along the river, and the city is left behind completely. You find yourself in the arid countryside of central Castille, where storks nest in giant colonies and caves perforate the cliffs overhead. This is where I would go on my long runs, savoring the sliver of green that is the river, as it cuts through the yellow landscape. After an hour of running, the city would seem like a distant memory, somehow swallowed up in the shallow waters of the Manzanares.

The Blog Turns 10!

Today marks the 10-year anniversary of the first ever post on my blog. A lot has changed since then. At the time, I had just moved to Spain for what was supposed to be a single year. I was 24 years old, and immature even for that age. My Spanish was terrible, bordering on non-existent. And Europe was shockingly new.

The idea of starting a blog came from my habit of writing book reviews. That practice began just from a desire to really keep track of what I learned from all of the books I was reading. There is a famous quote, often attributed to St. Augustine: “The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.” Not well-traveled himself, the good saint almost certainly never said this. Still, in that spirit, I decided that I ought to write up my trips, if only to really suck the marrow out of each experience. After all, I was only supposed to be there a year.

My first post was about Toledo. This was appropriate, as Toledo was the first place I visited in Spain that really astounded me. There is simply nothing in the United States that even remotely resembles the city’s perfectly preserved medieval core—its twisting, narrow streets, its stone bridges and walls, and above all its gothic cathedral.

The grand church was a revelation. Inside and out, the building was simply covered in artwork—statues, friezes, frescoes, and paintings—every inch of it made by hand, over centuries. It wasn’t just that the cathedral was beautiful. It gave me a new concept of time. Even the most negligible adornment would have taken hours, days, weeks of painstaking work.

The structure of the building itself, its stone roof seeming to float above me, seemed almost miraculous. That it could be designed without computers and assembled without machines was a testament to human perseverance, if nothing else. It did to me precisely what it was made to do: make me feel like an insignificant, ephemeral nothing in comparison with the world around me.

It was this experience, above all, that prompted me to write up the visit and to begin this blog. Since then, I’ve published over 700 posts here, including another one about Toledo. Over this time, the purpose and nature of the blog has fluctuated. At first it was meant to be a sort of diary, recording my own experience. Later, I tried to make it more like a travel guide, providing useful information and context to would-be travelers.

Yet I must admit that I haven’t had the discipline to stick to any one concept of this blog. So it is very much a mixed bag—of reviews, essays, short stories, travel pieces, and anything else that I deemed worthy of writing. This lack of an overarching concept has irked me, and I have often chastised myself for being such a self-indulgent writer. But at this point, I can at least say that this blog is an accurate reflection of myself—both my strengths and my shortcomings.

Much has changed during this time. I stayed in Spain far longer than I ever dreamed, spending over a decade in that enchanting country. My Spanish improved to the point where I consider myself nearly bilingual. And Europe went from shocking to comforting, as I saw cathedral after cathedral, city after city, and grew accustomed to the sights, languages, customs, and the different pace of life in that continent.

Change in life can happen so gradually that it is difficult to even notice. But I was given a chance to reflect on my new perspective on a recent visit to Toledo, back in October, nearly ten years after my initial trip. The city was still beautiful, the cathedral still magnificent. Yet I was not transported in the same way as I was. Not that I think any less of Toledo, just that it was no longer an alien world to me. It was home.

Rereading my original post about Toledo is another chance to reflect on this change. Now, I normally avoid reading my old writing, as I find it acutely embarrassing. But I actually came away from this reread with some affection for the Roy of that time. True, he had a lot to learn, and a lot of growing up to do. He was pretentious, often condescending, and took himself far too seriously. But he was curious, he was passionate, and he wanted to improve himself intellectually and even spiritually. He was on the search for wisdom.

I don’t know if the Roy of that time would be pleased with the Roy of today. I’m not always pleased with myself. Certainly I didn’t achieve his dream of becoming a famous writer, though I have gotten a couple books published. In any case, I should thank him; I owe my former self a lot. At a crucial moment in his life, he decided to go on a journey rather than embark on a conventional career. I just hope that I can make proper use of the experience he gave me.

My life changed, once again, on the 20th of October, when I moved back to New York. It was a tough, complicated decision, and of course there is much I miss about Spain. So far, however, it seems to have been the right one. In any case, it does put the future of this blog in doubt. Admittedly, I have a backlog of travel pieces that I want to write up in the coming months. And, hopefully, there are new trips to be taken, and much of the world still to see.

Realistically, though, I imagine that I’ll be doing significantly less traveling in the foreseeable future—especially as I get my career on track here. But, knowing myself, I will find something to write about. I always seem to.

I can’t end this post without thanking everyone who has taken even a passing interest in this blog. Hopefully, we’ll see each other here in another ten years. Until then, cheers!

Review: New Art of Cookery

New Art of Cookery: A Spanish Friar’s Kitchen Notebook by Juan Altamiras by Vicky Hayward

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I did not expect to be going to a book event during my last weekend in Madrid. But when I learned that an author was going to be talking about a historic Spanish cookbook at my favorite bookstore in the city, I decided that I had to make time for it.

I was transfixed from the start. The history of food is, I think, often overlooked—even by history buffs; and yet it provides a fascinating lens through which to learn about the past. In daily life, we are often apt to think of traditional dishes as things that have existed since time immemorial. But this often isn’t the case. In this cookbook, originally published in 1745, you will not find potato omelette, or paella, or croquetas, or cocido, or gazpacho…

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me describe what this book is, first. Nuevo arte de la cocina is a cookbook published under the name Juan de Altamiras (a pseudonym) in 1745. It proved to be immensely popular, remaining a bestseller well into the next century. The book’s author—whose real name was Raimundo Gómez—was a Franciscan friar, who grew up and spent much of his life in rural Aragón. This book is a contextualized translation by the English author Vicky Hayward. Throughout the book, she adds a great deal of fascinating historical context, as well as modernized versions of each of the over 200 recipes here.

As you might expect, the book is organized along religious lines, with food for meatless and meat days. Back then, something like a third of the year consisted of meatless days; and during Lent, the pious were supposed to be basically vegan. This makes the book a surprisingly good resource for vegetarian cooking. Yet what made it so innovative in its time was that, unlike so many previous cookbooks, Altamiras wrote for ordinary Spaniards—not courtly chefs. The recipes here are simple home cooking at its finest, requiring basic ingredients and straightforward technique. This was revolutionary at the time.

And to return to my previous point, much of the cooking can seem surprisingly exotic. Altamiras uses sauces made from hazlenuts, almond milk, and pomegranate juice. He mixes citrus, saffron, and tomato, and loves to add cloves and cinnamon to his savory dishes. Hayward was good enough to cook samples for the audience at the book event—several of which made me think of Iranian food. According to Hayward, this is because the Morisco influence (Muslims who had converted to Christianity in the 15th century) was still alive and well in Altamiras’s childhood.

I was also surprised at the wealth of ingredients available to Altamiras. He calls on a wide range of fruits and vegetables, as well as fresh fish—despite not living near the coast. He had eggs aplenty and endless ham and lamb, not to mention nuts, legumes, and spices. Saffron grew locally in his day, and salt cod was a staple (though including such a humble ingredient as salt cod was innovative). Most surprising of all, he made iced lemon slushies by using the snow in the nearby mountains. This was a rich and varied diet.

Hayward has fascinating things to say about all of this—the cooking techniques, the sources for ingredients, the role of religion, the Muslims influence, and so much more. More than so many other history books, this one made me feel transported back in time. And a delicious time it was.

Now, one would think that there could be nothing more innocuous than a translation of an 18th century Spanish cookbook. And yet, the event I went to last month was the first event held in honor of the book—eight years after its initial publication! According to Hayward, this is because her book attracted the ire of the Aragonese government, who were offended that a foreigner had beaten them to the punch in bringing their native son to a wider audience. She reports being attacked left and right by Spanish academics. If this is true, it is very silly.

I left the event in a buoyant mood, glad that I could still be so surprised by Spanish history after so many years. And I celebrated, appropriately, by the orgy of food that is Tapapiés—Madrid’s annual tapa festival, held in the Lavapiés neighborhood. It was a wonderful way to spend my last Friday in the city.

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Difficult Day Trips: Patones de Arriba & Las Cárcavas

For years I had been beguiled by images of Las Cárcavas—a crazy undulation of land, tucked away in the sierra of Madrid. Photos made the place seem otherworldly; and I was dying to see it for myself. Unfortunately, however, there did not seem to be any good way to get there on public transport. Studying the bus routes and the map, I found that the closest that I could get was a tiny village that I’d visited once before: Patones de Arriba.

So early one Saturday morning, I took the metro to Plaza de Castilla, and caught the 197 bus to a small village called Torrelaguna. From there, I caught the 913 bus—a mini-bus, which followed the winding path up a hill to the old and picturesque village of Patones de Arriba. I was the only passenger on board that day. And by the time I arrived, it was still so early that the streets were virtually empty.

Patones de Arriba (unlike its modern cousin, Patones de Abajo down the hill) is a time capsule of a place. It seems to have survived virtually unchanged since antiquity. Stone huts cover an otherwise barren hillside—the town hidden among the foothills of the sierra, in a place that would be naturally defensible should any dare to attack it.

The architecture is a prime example of what the Spanish call arquitectura negra: all of the buildings made out of the distinctive black slate of the area, which naturally breaks off into thin plates. This gives the town a striking uniformity—both between its buildings, and with the landscape. The tallest building is the old church, though nowadays it is used for the tourism office. Indeed, I am not sure that anyone actually lives in Patones de Arriba these days—it is a kind of living museum attached to the modern settlement below.

The town is full of relics of its agricultural past. There are stone threshing floors (for separating the wheat from the chaff), pig pens, and cattle sheds. We can also see signs of village life, in the form of ovens, wine cellars, and laundry basins, all made from the local slate. But the real pleasure of visiting the village is simply enjoying the ambience of the past—and, perhaps, a good lunch. On my first visit, years prior, we went into one of the restaurants and had a hearty meal of good Spanish mountain fare—bean stews and red meat.

But by the time I arrived, there was nothing open and, apparently, nobody there. So I walked through the town and then out into the surrounding hills, on my way to Las Cárcavas.

The countryside here is, like much of the interior of Spain, windswept and bare. In the best of times, the soil and rain could not support luxuriant vegetation; and, in any case, centuries of human habitation have destroyed a large portion of the old forests. The result is that much of Spain, though dramatic in its vistas—the view extending until the horizon—unwinds itself in a patchy surface of rocky ground covered with low shrubs.

The walk was long, winding, and somewhat monotonous—going up and down hill after hill. The only thing to attract the eye were the many pieces of water infrastructure. Large tubes shot out of the hillside, down into valleys and back up again. Further on, stone aqueducts crossed from elevation to elevation. Finally, the explanation for all this came into view: the Pontón de Oliva.

This mammoth construction was the first dam built under the auspices of the Canal de Isabel II, the organization responsible for Madrid’s water supply. And this brings me to a small detour in our hike. Like New York City, you see, Madrid has long struggled to supply its citizenry with clean, safe drinking water. And this is due to the location of both cities: New York is surrounded by brackish, dirty, ocean water, while Madrid has virtually no natural water sources to speak of.

When Madrid was still a relatively small city, local wells and streams were enough to solve this problem. But by 1850, with the city’s population nearing a quarter of a million, the lack of water was becoming a serious issue. The engineers in both NYC and Madrid hit upon the identical solution: dam the rivers in the mountains to the north, and transport the fresh mountain waters to the thirsty city. The Pontón de Oliva was the first step taken in this effort.

It was constructed during the reign of Isabel II, who became the first (and, so far, the only) ruling queen of modern Spain after a succession dispute, which involved a rebellion by her uncle, don Carlos. These wars, called the “Carlist wars,” ended in her victory. This left the new queen with quite a few prisoners of war, whom she put to use building this dam under extremely gruelling conditions. (I tried to look up the number of prisoners who died during the construction, but I couldn’t find it.) To make matters worse, the engineers who designed the dam had chosen a bad location of the river Lozoya, making it all but useless. Today, it stands as a kind of monument of wasted effort—something for hikers and history buffs to appreciate, but dry as a bone.

Just beyond this dam, I finally arrived at my goal: Las Cárcavas. Now, “cárcava” is just the Spanish word for “gully” (though it certainly sounds more attractive); and this one is just a particularly big example of a common phenomenon—namely, water erosion. Though the details are complex, the principle is quite simple: intermittent water flow down steep terrain causes rivulets to form, creating a distinctive undulating pattern as they wear their way through the landscape.

I stood on the lip of this gully and sat down, absolutely exhausted. I had been walking for several hours by then, up and down hills, with no shade from the punishing June sun. Now it was past noon, and the temperature was climbing. I ate my packed lunch (a tuna empanada and a small bottle of gazpacho) as I observed a column of ants make their way through the dusty earth, and amused myself by tossing them little bits of fish. Then, after getting my fill of this alien world, I drained my water bottle and got wearily to my feet.

Water, I have discovered, is a powerful thing. It can move landscapes and determine the destiny of cities. And I found now that I hadn’t brought enough of it. I had well over an hour before I could make my way to civilization, all of it under the merciless Spanish sun. And I was already thirsty. The only choice was to press on. Attempting to distract myself with an audiobook, I walked down the hill, past the dam, and onto a local road.

At just the point when I was risking heat stroke, I arrived in Patones de Abajo and stumbled into the nearest bar. There, I ordered the biggest “clara” they had (beer mixed with lemon soda), and then ordered another one. Then, after another long bus ride back to Madrid, I enjoyed glass after glass of the city’s fine tap water—water that had itself been on a journey from the sierra—which, I found, tasted especially good that day.

Lotz in Translation

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

Author: Roy Lotz