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

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

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

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

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

“It’s snowing!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what do we do?”

“Let’s just go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Epilogue: El Monasterio de Piedra

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Elche

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Murcia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We arrived in Málaga in the late afternoon, reversing the hour and a half drive to Granada we had just done the day before. Compared with that interior city, the climate of Málaga felt cool and humid—no doubt, thanks to the Mediterranean.

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The City of Málaga

Málaga is among the largest and most important cities in Spain. Populated since Phoenician times, it is also among the oldest. Even so, for me the city has a curiously un-Spanish atmosphere. This is due, I think, to the huge numbers of immigrants—from England and Germany, mainly—who live in and near the urban center, as well as the many tourists who stop through on cruises.

Yet this is not to say that the city is not a nice place to visit. Case in point: As soon as we arrived, we walked into the city center and ascended Gibralfaro Hill. This is a somewhat arduous trek, going up ramp after ramp, but you are rewarded with some truly terrific views.

The best vistas are to be found from the walls of Gibralfaro Castle, a fortification that dates back to the city’s Moorish past. Indeed, the history of the castle actually extends much farther back; a natural point of defense, a fortress of some sort has been here for over two thousand years. This castle is connected to a fortress lower-down the hill, the Alcazaba, which was another holdout against Christian conquest. The Catholic Monarchs starved out the defenders in a prolonged siege, which ended in 1487. One can easily see why it took the Christians so long: fortified with double walls, and in a perfectly defensible position, it is a formidable redoubt.

Another worthy historical site is Málaga’s cathedral. Though the building was not finished until 1782 (and arguably not even then, as one tower remains conspicuously incomplete) the church is made in a Renaissance style. Like any worthy cathedral, the place is filled with works of art, some of them quite wonderful. The wooden choir stalls are beautifully carved, there is a lovely neoclassical altarpiece, and hanging on one wall is a monumental painting by Enrique Simonet depicting the beheading of St. Paul. 

But I suspect that most visitors to Málaga don’t come for the historical sites. Rather, they come for the seemingly endless beaches and its endlessly sunny weather. Dotting the shore are a certain type of restaurant called chiringuitos, which are distinguished by the large wooden fire outside, often made atop an old boat that has been filled with sand for the purpose. These are not just decoration: fish are skewered and fire-roasted for the guests.

And this sort of place is very popular among the locals, as my brother and I discovered when we tried to have lunch in Litoral Pacífico without a reservation. There was not a single spare table. Defeated, we drove to Chiringuito Mari Guitiérrez, another well-rated place a little outside of the city center, and did manage to get a table. There, we ordered the most famous regional dish, espetos de sardinas. These are little sardines which have been cooked over the fire.

Being novices in the world of fish and seafood, we were unsure of the correct procedure for this particular fish. Impatient, I decided to eat one whole—tasty, but also a bit crunchy and slimy. My brother, Jay, more observant, saw that the locals ate the fish like corn on the cob, picking the meat off and leaving the spine. I tried another fish that way, and found it considerably better. To round out the order, we have boquerones fritos, which are basically sardines which have been breaded and fried. (You do eat those whole.) It was a very fishy meal.

But the best part of eating at a chiringuito is, undoubtedly, the fact that you can lounge on the beach and go swimming right after you finish. And that is just what we did.

At this point, I would like to make a general observation about Spanish food. Virtually every region—sometimes every city—has its own culinary specialty that the locals are very proud of. Nevertheless, once you try a few of these famous local dishes, you realize that these are mostly just variations on a basic theme. For example, in Málaga we were advised to have “pitufos,” which we discovered was just a sort of toast with crushed tomato—a dish consumed all over the country—but with a slightly different type of bread. We were also advised to get gambas pil pil. But when the dish was served, we found that it was identical to the commonly served gambas al ajillo (shrimp with garlic in olive oil), except for the addition of a few red pepper flakes.

If I sound like I am complaining, I can assure you I’m not, since all of these dishes and variations are delicious.

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There is a lot to see and do in the city of Málaga. But as we spent much of our time visiting nearby towns, we unfortunately did not see many of the city’s attractions.

We did manage to make it to the Automobile and Fashion museum. It is a rather long walk from the city center, but accessible with the urban buses. When we arrived, we were greeted by about a dozen young people wearing strange clothes, who were arranged in the walkway in front of the building—apparently, models in training.

As a person who has virtually no knowledge of, or interest in, fashion, I really cannot say anything about the fashion side of this museum. But as somebody who knows nothing about, but can at least appreciate a cool-looking car, I can give the automobiles my blessings. The collection of odd and historic cars is quite impressive. There are examples of some of the first commercially available automobiles; enormous luxury cars with plush interiors; sleek sports cars; and some novelty vehicles, such as a car with a propeller or one designed to run on solar power. Though there were little informational plaques about the vehicles, it was more pleasant just to wander from specimen to specimen, to witness how something as familiar as a car can take so many different forms.

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Mariposario and Mijas

On one of our days in Málaga we got into the rental car and made our way to the Mariposario de Benalmadéna, a butterfly sanctuary a short drive from the city.

When we parked the car, however, we could not help but notice the very large and odd structure nearby. This is the Stupa of Enlightenment, a 33 meter (108 ft) tall Buddhist shrine that has a commanding view over the landscape. According to the website, this stupa is the largest “in the Western world.” As far as I can tell, this is actually true—the only competition coming from the Great Stupa of Dharmakaya, in Colorado, which is about the same height—though it is not, for my money, among the most beautiful examples of the genre. To enlighten you a little further, I will add that this stupa was completed in 2003 and consecrated by a high-ranking Tibetan lama.

Visible from the base of the Stupa is another odd monument, the Castillo de Colomares. This is the brainchild of one Esteban Martín, a doctor by profession, who decided to design and build a huge monument to Christopher Colombus. And while that explorer is no longer in such high repute, one must admit that this eccentric homemade castle is rather impressive. For some reason, this castle is the site of the smallest church in the world, with a total area just shy of 2 square meters (just over 21 square feet). 

These silly buildings are interesting enough. But I think the real star of this area is the butterfly sanctuary. After paying the entry fee, you walk through heavy plastic flaps, and enter a tropical world—hot, humid, and full of exotic plants. Signs warn you to be careful where you step, so as not to accidentally crush any of the inhabitants. The air is teeming with life. Bright wings are continuously flapping all around you. The butterflies range in size from a postage stamp to a paperback book, and come in every color and pattern imaginable, some with long, slender wings, others with wings like flower petals.

To be honest, I had never taken much time to appreciate butterflies before this visit. But spending time with these harmless, dainty creatures was almost therapeutic. And butterflies weren’t the only animals on display: the sanctuary also had tortoises, exotic birds, and a wallaby.

After that, we went to the town of Mijas, which is right next door. This is a typical whitewashed Andalusian village, with excellent views of the Costa del Sol. We did our best to explore the village and to enjoy the vistas, but the tremendous afternoon heat was not conducive to calm enjoyment. So, after a short walk, we found a restaurant with air conditioning and chugged down a few glasses of water with our meal. Then, it was back to Málaga.

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Nerja

Arguably the best day trip from Málaga is the small town of Nerja. We had our rental car, but I know from a previous visit that it is fairly easy to get to by bus.

On the day we visited, we headed immediately to the caves. These are located in the outskirts of the city—admittedly a fairly long walk if you arrived on the bus, but still doable. They are certainly worth the trouble of visiting. They are magnificent. After making your way through a few smaller chambers, you emerge into a series of caverns, each one bigger than the last. Elevated walkways make the visit quite easy to navigate, despite the slippery surfaces and dim light. The rock formations are wonderful—undulating, folding, melting, seeming almost alive.

It seems that earlier—much earlier—humans also found the place captivating, as the cave was used over thousands of years. There are cave paintings (in an area inaccessible to the visitor) made by prehistoric hunter-gatherers, as well as the remains of domestic animals, textiles, and pottery from later agricultural humans. Apparently, the cave was still used by locals up until the Middle Ages, but at some point knowledge of the cave was lost. It was rediscovered by a group of 5 locals in 1959 who, for whatever reason, decided to go catch some bats. For any visitors curious to learn more, I recommend the Cave Museum, located in the center of Nerja.

The cave thoroughly explored, we made our way into town, passing on our way the Acueducto del Águila, an enormous aqueduct made in the ancient Roman style, but constructed in the 19th century. We parked the car and had lunch in a restaurant called Dolares El Chispa. I imagine that it is a pretty crowded spot in normal times. Traveling in the wake of a global emergency, however, we almost had the place to ourselves, and enjoyed a feast of fish and seafood. Spanish cuisine at its finest.

Any visitor to Nerja will soon end up in the Balcony of Europe, an imposing viewpoint over the surrounding coastline. The name of this jutting cliff was given by the much-beloved king, Alfonso XII, who died of tuberculosis at the age of 27, but who still presides over his balcony in the form of a metal statue. Nearby are the town’s gorgeous beaches. Unfortunately, we had neglected to bring our swimsuits.

On the way back to Málaga we stopped, briefly, at another beautiful village: Frigiliana. This is another very popular day trip from the city, and it is easy to see why. Frigiliana is a classic whitewashed Andalusian village, nestled on a mountain ridge. We arrived at the hottest part of the day, however, and only withstood about 10 minutes of walking around under the afternoon sun before we returned to the car. So I will leave this part to be filled in by you, dear reader.

It was the summer of 2020.

Spain’s response to the pandemic was much like other European nations. However, there was one notable difference: for almost three months, the vast majority of the population were only allowed outside to go to the supermarket. Businesses were closed all over the world, of course; and people were urged and even compelled to stay indoors. However, most countries to my knowledge made an exception for outdoor exercise. Not Spain. We could not take a walk, ride a bike, or go on a jog.

As a result, by the time we were allowed out for a breath of fresh air, I was intensely nature-deprived. Indeed, during the lockdown I began obsessively buying plants from the supermarket. I even bought a zoom lens for my camera to take close-up pictures of the neighborhood trees. Now, I normally like the outdoors, but it is surprising to me how debilitating it felt to be totally cut off from trees, grass, and sun. Admittedly, it is impossible to determine how much of my anxiety during this period was due to nature-deprivation, and how much due to every other disruption (social, professional, personal) that took place. Suffice to say that I felt withered.

Under normal circumstances I get my fill of forest from the Rockefeller State Park Preserve, behind my house in New York. However, the restrictions on travel that year made it impossible for me to go home. So I decided to travel to the lushest part of the country: Galicia. This region is famous, among other things, for being the end-point of the Camino de Santiago—the network of walking and biking trails that start from all over Europe and converge in Santiago de Compostela. I had walked parts of this trail on two separate occasions, but much of it remained unexplored. After a bit of preparation, I had my pilgrim’s passport and a plan. But it was not exactly simple.

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Day 1: Arrival in Las Médulas

Las Médulas is the name of a former Roman gold mine. It is a tremendously important archaeological site and has been declared UNESCO World Heritage. It is also, as it happens, on one of the branches of the Camino—though not on a much-traveled one.

Determined to visit, I decided that I would start my Camino there. But there was a problem: getting to Las Médulas from Madrid on public transportation is not easy. After a week of investigating, I figured out a viable route. First, I had to catch a fast train from Madrid to the city of León, which left at 5:30 in the morning. (The seating system put the few passengers on the train all close together, in flagrant contradiction of social distancing.) Once in León, I had to walk quickly to the city’s bus station to catch the morning bus to Ponferrada, a nearby city. Then, in Ponferrada, I had to immediately get on a local bus (more of a van) to a small village called Carucedo. Finally, I walked about an hour from the bus stop to Las Médulas. I note all this for anyone tempted to follow in my footsteps.

I arrived at my hotel in time for Spanish lunch, having had almost nothing to eat all day. Luckily, there was a table available at the hotel restaurant. I ordered the local specialty: botillo del bierzo. This is a very heavy dish, consisting of pig intestines stuffed with spiced pork, with a side of potatoes and cabbage. The Mediterranean diet, indeed. After so little sleep, and such a hearty meal, a nap was irresistible. I lost consciousness as soon as my body touched the bed. It was only thanks to multiple alarms that I awoke in time for my evening tour of the Roman mines.

Unless you were told, you would probably never suspect that the landscape of Las Médulas was man-made. A collection of orange cliffs jut out from the forested valley, with no obvious sign of human manipulation. However, these jagged ridges were not worn away through natural processes, but with a Roman mining technique known as ruina montium (destroying the mountain). The first step was to dig a network of tunnels into the mountain (by hand of course). Then, enormous quantities of water were transported via aqueduct up to the top, and poured into these tunnels, eventually causing a kind of avalanche. This way, the Romans accessed the large stores of gold in the mountain’s interior. According to our guide, the workers responsible for this were not exactly enslaved, but were indentured servants. In any case, it was brutal and dangerous work, and our guide informed us that many miners ended their own lives.

This story of Las Médulas—a story of environmental destruction and worker exploitation—is, thus, not exactly the most charming story of antiquity. It is a strange irony, then, that this rapacious extraction produced such a picturesque landscape. The faces of the cliffs are so orange that they seem still to be imbued with gold. The surrounding forest is full of chestnuts, heather, holly, and rock rose. After spending the whole morning in a rush of anxiety and impatience, the valley was almost supernaturally calm.

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Day 2: Las Médulas to Ponferrada

I awoke early and set out before the sun. I was nervous. Las Médulas is on a leg of the Camino that is seldom traveled under the best of circumstances. During a pandemic it was deserted. The EU’s borders were (mostly) closed to travelers, and in any case most Spaniards still thought it unwise to sleep in bunk beds with strangers. Thus, the albergues (pilgrim’s hostels) along this route were closed, so I had to spend one day going the opposite direction on this route, in order to link up with the more famous French Way where things would be open.

Normally, when you walk the camino, a series of yellow arrows and concrete markers guide you along the way. But now, I would have to find the arrows and try to intuit where the pilgrim was supposed to be coming from. This seemed rather difficult. I soon found, however, that the route was nearly as easy to follow backwards as forwards, and I relaxed into the rhythm of the road. I was not yet in Galicia, but in a part of Castilla y León called El Bierzo. The landscape was hilly, with a light covering of trees, and the ground dry and rocky. In the morning hours it was cool enough for a jacket. The route took me through several small villages, each full of houses that featured a distinctive kind of wooden balcony that I found quite beautiful.

As I went along, I listened to an audiobook by Jonathan Haidt about how to be happy. I suppose I was in an introspective mood. Yet all of Haidt’s advice seemed trite compared with the simple experience of walking and observing. If you can take an interest in your surroundings, then there is little else you will need to be content. And I was fully absorbed. So much time staring at the ceiling of my apartment had made virtually anything wild and green fascinating. The countryside here had a sort of rugged beauty, which culminated in the Castillo de Cornatel. This is a fortress that sits on a hilltop, believed to have been originally built in Roman times to defend their goldmines. In any case, the castle is now little more than an eloquent ruin. I peeked inside and carried on my way.

Descending the hill, I found myself in wine country. Virtually every region of Spain has its own variety of the drink. The grape from here is called mencía. As I walked, I was passed on a road by an elderly man driving a tractor; his wife sat in the trailer, alongside several buckets of grapes. What a life. Now I was getting near Ponferrada. In the distance I could see the strange geometric form of the Torre de la Rosaleda, the tallest building in the city. My legs and back were aching now. Six hours of walking had gone by and I still had an hour to go. The path took me alongside the Sil River, across it, and then finally to the municipal albergue.

Once there, I was amused by the reception. The institution had developed a kind of sanitation ritual for all incoming guests. My whole body was sprayed with a disinfectant; my backpack had to be kept in a trash bag; and even the soles of my shoes were chemically cleaned. Meanwhile, guests were not required to wear masks indoors, though of course the virus is primarily transmitted through the air. Even at the time, it seemed rather silly.

I ate two hearty meals and passed the time by reading Monkey—a delightful abridgement of the Chinese classic, A Journey to the West. (The story concerns a Buddhist pilgrim, so it seemed rather appropriate.) Unfortunately, I was much too footsore to do any sightseeing, and so passed up the chance to visit the city’s impressive Templar Castle or the Fábrica de la luz, a museum of industry in a former power plant. I suppose I will just have to go back.

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Day 3: Ponferrada to Villafranca del Bierzo

I awoke early, before my alarm, at half past five. Outside it was calm and black. The route took me along the river Sil to the outskirts of the city. On the way, I passed the Fábrica de la luz and once again regretted not having been able to visit. It was not long before the western clouds were tinged with gold, and the gray dusk began to dissipate. Behind me, in the morning mist, a rainbow hovered over Ponferrada.

The first half of the walk was not especially interesting. I slowly made my way through suburb after suburb. The residents were just beginning to stir—walking their dogs, making their way to the local café, doing yard-work. Finally, the suburbs gave way to a beautiful stretch of wine country. The sun was shining strongly now, and the vines were an ocean of bright green. I did my best to walk slowly, to take in the scenery. Agricultural country has a particular charm—at once natural and cultivated. I felt a pang of envy for whoever was living in the fine white house among this little paradise.

At about two in the afternoon I arrived in Villafranca del Bierzo. It is a surprisingly beautiful place. Though scarcely three thousand people call it home, it is full of impressive structures: a romanesque church, a large monastery, and even a castle. Being a Camino town has its advantages, I suppose. Better still, the town was full of excellent bars and restaurants. After seeing so many grapes, I could not resist a sampling of the local wine, which I found to be excellent (though I am hardly a connoisseur). By nine I was in my bunk bed. The only other residents of the albergue were two quiet Spanish men. We all said goodnight and turned off the lights. 

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Day 4: Villafranca del Bierzo to O Cebreiro

I awoke full of excitement. According to gronze.com (a great resource for anyone considering the trail), the next stretch of the camino was both among the most beautiful and the most arduous. The trail would take me up into the mountain range that separates northern Castilla y León from Galicia. For those completing the entire Camino, the entry into Galicia is a special occasion, since that means they are in the final stretch. For me it was special, too, since I just generally love Galicia.

The beginning of the trail was disappointing. Far from beautiful, the trail ran along a highway and there was little in the way of scenery. I had (happily) finished the book on happiness and began an audiobook by David Attenborough about life on earth. His resonant voice soothed me as I made my way under overpasses and through small villages. In one village, there was a woman with a clipboard waiting for pilgrims passing through. She told me that in the villages I had to wear a mask (I already was, though it was a cloth mask that looked rather like a diaper) and that I had to register in a government website before entering the province of Galicia (I already had). She also told me that the village of Ponfría—which was on the route—was under lockdown because of a local outbreak.

Armed with this information, I kept on going. The sun climbed in the sky and it got hot enough for me to stop and change into shorts. Finally the landscape began to bloom as I left the highway and made my way into the woods. Cows abounded, often sunning themselves on the grass. And every village had its colony of stray cats. About three-quarters of the way there, I was accosted (in English) by a shirtless man asking me for some change. I didn’t have any and told him so. But I was taken aback at the request, as we were really not near any village.

The next thing I knew, I had hit the mountain. The trail led up and up, through a dense forest of oak and birch. It was hard going and after a few minutes I paused to catch my breath. When I did, I looked back to see the shirtless man not far behind, and I got the strange notion that he was after me. This caused me to pick up my pace, and I started rushing up the mountain almost at a run. Besides being irrational, this was a shame since, in retrospect, this was one of the most beautiful stretches of the walk. I climbed and climbed until, near the top, I was surprised by a man on horseback, who was making his way down the steep, rocky path with a great deal of care.

Then the trees cleared and I found myself on the top of a series of rolling hills. Nearby was an elaborate sign that announced my official entry into Galicia. The trail led up and down over the gentle ridges until I reached one of the infinite small Galician settlements which dot the region. This one had an attractive restaurant and I immediately decided I would stay for lunch. I ordered caldo gallego—the regional soup—and chicken. Several tables were already occupied by other pilgrims. As I ate, the shirtless vagabond arrived, and seated himself at a table with a woman, who seemed to know him. They commenced to talk in German. She bought him a beer and let him finish her meal. A group of cows walked by on the street and, of course, some cats were sunbathing.

Walking on a full stomach (and several glasses of wine) was not pleasant. Thankfully, my destination was very close. O Cebreiro an attractive little town (population: 121) situated on a hillside. There are wonderful views from every corner of the town and a few well-equipped shops for pilgrims, who constitute the economic basis of the village. Though tiny, there is some sightseeing in O Cebreiro. There are four examples of pre-roman buildings which can be visited, presumably reconstructions of the sorts of buildings in the ancient “castros” (Celtic settlements). There is also the church of Santa María, an ancient building with a legend attached to it.

As it happens, the legend was told to me by a Polish woman staying in my albergue. It goes: There was once a very devout man who never missed mass. One day the weather was terrible, a storm was blowing, but he still came to worship. The priest was surprised and amused by his devotion and joked that mass wasn’t worth all this trouble. Then God, to humiliate the priest, turned the holy wafer into real, bleeding flesh. Catholic legends are always a bit macabre. Anyway, this Polish woman was among the minority of truly faithful pilgrims. She said that she had sold everything in her country to walk the camino and devote herself to God. I declined her offer to accompany her to mass.

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Day 5: O Cebreiro to Triacastela

I awoke late the next day, at 6:30. But that was alright, since I only had 22 km to trek that day, a relatively light day on the Camino. The path took me further up the mountain, until a sign informed me that I was 1300 meters above sea level. There, a statue of a windswept pilgrim presides over the road, providing a kind of solidarity to the passing traveler.

Then I began to descend into the heartland of Galicia. The landscape became ever greener as I went along. The countryside was at its most bucolic, with winding dirt roads cutting across fields ringed with forest. Cows were ever-present, as were there droppings. David Attenborough continued to amaze me with his stories of the natural world. I also listened to some broadcasts of Alistair Cooke’s Letters From America—the British journalist’s reflections on American life. In my diary, I remarked of Cooke: “He is like a village priest, weaving together history, folk wisdom, penny philosophy, and current events.” For the record, I have never met a village priest.

Finally, I arrived in Triacastela. On the way in I passed the famous Castaño de Ramil, a famous chestnut tree that is a major landmark on the Camino. Apparently it is about 850 years old; it certainly looks like it, at least. The town of Triacastela is small and lovely. It is situated in a valley, surrounded by the woods on all sides. I checked into an albergue owned by a very pleasant man from Ibiza, and immediately went to the restaurant he recommended for a hearty meal. My hunger slaked, I spent the rest of the day just lazing about. But I was extremely happy. In my diary I wrote:

“I feel as though today I found what I was looking for. Galicia always does it. The landscape could easily be upstate New York. The weather is almost perfect—sunny, but not hot. I love the vibrant lushness and the bucolic charm. As I write, I can see cows grazing and hear their bells tinkling. A mother and daughter are nearby, playing on some swings.”

What I was searching for was, apparently, nature and peace. And, truth be told, I can remember few times when I was so absolutely content. This did not make me, however, any more willing to socialize with my fellow pilgrims. Many people love the chance to make friends on the Camino. Not me. When I walk, I want to be alone, and I make sure not to invite any unwanted conversation. I suppose this makes me antisocial and unpleasant. But there are not that many opportunities in life to be really alone.

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Day 6: Triacastela to Sarria

This day I had a decision to make. The Camino here forks into two roads: one leads to Sarria via Samos, and the other gets there via San Xil. The path through Samos is attractive because it passes by the Abadía de Samos, an impressive historic monastery. This seemed like obviously the better option until I found out that the monastery did not open until noon; and if I wanted to get to Sarria at a reasonable time (in time for lunch, and before the heat of the day) I would pass through Samos in the early morning. Perhaps I should have done what many other pilgrims did, and go straight past Triacastela to see the monastery in the evening. Having missed my chance, I decided to take the San Xil route, since it is supposed to be the more picturesque.

It certainly was. The morning mist rolled up through the valley, obscuring the landscape in a white fog until the sun was finally warm enough to break it up, revealing the ever-green Galicia underneath. Vines clung to trees and moss to rocks. Birds called in the canopy overhead. I shared the road with cows and watchful dogs. Sometimes the path took me up on a hill, offering me a view of the sweet, almost innocent landscape all around me. It is the sort of place that makes city-dwellers want to move to a farm and start milking cows. 

I arrived at Sarria feeling a little sad. This was my last day on the journey. Though I was enjoying it immensely, the news was increasingly alarming: levels of COVID were spiking once again. It was possible that the different regions would once again go into lockdown (and they would, though about a month later)—which was not good for me, as my identity card was expired and awaiting renewal. Getting back to Madrid felt urgent. So I tried to savor my last day in Galicia.

Compared to the little towns I had been staying in, Sarria, with a population of 13,000, felt like an actual city. It is not a place devoted exclusively to pilgrim tourism. There are high schools and pet shops and locals eating in the restaurants. After lunch, I tried to do a little sightseeing by walking around the Fortaleza, a ruined fortress, but my sore feet made me give it up. So I went to bed early, with a full belly and an empty mind.

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Day 7: Sarria to Madrid

Accustomed to my Camino schedule, I woke up in the early morning, even though my train back to Madrid left at noon. With nothing to do, I decided I would hike part of the next section of the trail. So, with my backpack on my aching shoulders, I headed off into the early-morning fog.

I crossed a stone bridge and then found myself in the countryside once more. Further on, the trail crossed a local railroad without any gates or lights to warn of an oncoming train. A little dangerous. It was remarkably misty that morning. The landscape was entirely invisible. The sun was just a vague yellow blotch in the sky, as in a painting by Turner. I could hardly even see ten feet in front of me (that’s about three meters). Out of the sea of fog a flying magpie appeared and disappeared. Somewhere nearby a dog started barking at me. Spiderwebs were covered in water droplets. And then, seemingly all at once, the fog cleared away and I was once again in the beautiful green of Galicia.

After passing through some small villages the trail took me alongside another highway. A truck passed by, carrying live pigs—spreading a stench so bad that I was only too glad to wear my cloth-diaper mask. Finally I decided that I could not afford to go any further and so turned back toward Sarria. All the savoring in the world could not make time stand still. I said a long and sad goodbye to the Galician countryside. I arrived back in Sarria in time to eat lunch before my train ride.

And then it was time to go. This was the seventh or eighth time I had been on this train back to Madrid from the north, and each time it has been a mournful experience. In the five hours of the journey, the landscape dries out; the trees disappear; and the green of Galicia is transformed into the straw color of the interior. But this time was different. More than any vacation I have ever taken, I had achieved a state of blissful peace during my walk. It was a very good Camino.

As I have written time and again, Galicia is my favorite place in Spain, a region I return to again and again. Part of it is homesickness. Galicia is the only region in the country which bears a passing resemblance to the Hudson Valley—green, hilly, forested. But part of it is due to Galicia’s unique delights: its simple and hearty food, its distinct local architecture and customs, its calm and quiet. And, best of all, a trip to Galicia is very easy on the wallet.

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A Coruña

It was the summer of that fateful year, 2020. My brother had just left to return to America. Soon, the school year would begin, and I would go back to in-person teaching—though I could hardly imagine what it would be like after the trauma of the (still ongoing) pandemic. Wanting a last gasp of peace before what I assumed would be chaos, I took a train to my favorite city in Spain, A Coruña.

I had no ambition to do anything but relax. I walked for miles—through the dense streets of the old city, under the distinctive galerías (glass balconies), along the promenade (paseo maritímo) and past the aquarium. One evening, I sat amid the jagged rocks below the Tower of Hercules, a Roman lighthouse, and read a book as the waves crashed below me. Another evening I made my way to Monte de San Pedro and watched the sunset from the old naval guns overlooking the sea. For dinner, I had takeout Chinese food. It was absolutely splendid.

And I packed my running shoes. After the isolation and confinement of the lockdown, I craved the outdoors, and spent as much of my time under the sky as possible. I ran in the late afternoon, with the sun beginning to set. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean, seeming to propel me faster than I had ever gone before. The combination of wind and waves flowing all around me gave me the odd sensation of flying. This, of course, was followed by duck curry and spring rolls.

The only thing vaguely touristy that I did was to visit the Museum of Science and Technology. Considering the museum’s low entry fee and relative obscurity, it is an impressive institution. The halls were filled with beautiful examples of extinct apparatuses—calculating machines, steam locomotives, telegraphs, type-writers… By far the biggest installation is a cockpit of a Boeing 747, which you can walk inside. It must have been no easy task to transport. My only criticism of the museum is that they put the informational texts in three languages (English, Castillian, and Galego)—yet the texts are not repeated in those languages, but continue through them. That means to read the information completely you must be trilingual. 

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A Walk in the Woods

The coast of Galicia—like that around A Coruña—is gorgeous. But I had just finished a camino through the wooded interior of the countryside, and I was still craving the forest. So, one day, I decided to take a day trip to a more rural area.

Yet I had little idea where to go or how to get there. In search of a solution, I looked up the stops on the train that runs from A Coruña to Santiago de Compostela, and then I examined these stops on Google Maps to see if they looked like decent hiking spots. I eventually settled on a little stop called Cerceda-Meirama, which is remote from any major population center. The fast train had me there in no time.

I emerged onto an empty platform and immediately found myself in the countryside. Having absolutely no idea in what direction to go, I decided to try to walk a lap around a nearby lake. As often happens in Galicia, I passed by a few scattered houses and then was in the woods—or, at least, a grove of trees. (Unfortunately, the countryside of Galicia has been heavily logged and many areas are covered with young saplings, often eucalyptuses, deliberately planted to be farmed later.)

The narrow path took me alongside the Meirama Lake. This is not a natural lake, but was created to cover an industrial eyesore. For decades, not a lake but a lignite mine occupied this area, which only closed as recently as 2017. (Lignite is a type of coal.) Indeed, though at the time I assumed the surrounding trees were planted by loggers, they were actually put into place by the mining company as part of an environmental rehabilitation project that had previously denuded the area. An ominous concrete cylinder still sits, overlooking the lake, next to a featureless gray building.

I cannot honestly say that the path was particularly beautiful. Even so, in my nature-deprived state, I was enraptured by the intermittent calls of birds and even stopped to examine insects crawling along the dirt road. I walked along quite contently, making a circuit around the lake and trying to be mindful of my return time. (The fast train does not pass through this station so often, so I had until about four in the evening or I would be stranded for the night.) Eventually I decided that I had time to spare, and took a detour.

Things went bad very quickly. The path I took trailed off into the forest, and soon I was scrambling through brush. Twice I almost walked straight into a spiderweb with a large awaiting inhabitant. Somehow, to right myself, I had to walk up to an overpass and then along a small highway, before finding a path leading me in the correct direction. Even then, I was not (pardon the pun) out of the woods. The hour of my departure was nearing, and I was still quite lost, just hoping that the path I was on would lead me back to the train station.

Once again, however, the path led to a dead end in the forest. Luckily, by now I was at least close to civilization. Through the brush I could see what was obviously a field of crops. Desperate by now, I went for it—pushing through the thick vegetation and praying that there would be no shotgun-wielding farmer or attack dog waiting for me. Thankfully, not a soul was in sight, and I was able to make my way through the rows of wheat to the nearby road. I only had twenty minutes now before my train arrived. No choice but to run.

Tired and sore, wearing hiking boots, I jogged the remaining distance to the station (scaring off what I believe were two partridges in the process). I made it, sweaty and panting, with just a minute to spare. Sometimes relaxing is hard work.

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Pontevedra

The next day I decided to visit Pontevedra. I had been there once before, but it was under unfortunate circumstances. That time, I had parked the rental car in an underground parking lot (the center of the town is a pedestrian zone), and had scratched it badly against a concrete pillar. This put me in such a fretful state that I could not even focus on the city.

But this time was different. I arrived on the early train from A Coruña, ready to do some sightseeing.

The name Pontevedra comes from Latin, and means “old bridge.” And there is, indeed, a rather old bridge in the city, the Burgo Bridge, built in the 12th century. It spans the River Lérez—the dominant water feature of Pontevedra, which sits nestled in a bend of this river, near the coast. Pontevedra is not an especially large city, but it is an especially well-planned one. It was a pioneer in instituting a car-free zone in the center, and is known for the high quality of life enjoyed by its denizens.

As in any good old Spanish city, there are lots of ornate churches to see. Chief among these is probably the Church of the Pilgrim Virgin. By European standards, it is not an especially old construction, dating back to about the signing of the American Constitution. It was made in order to venerate a rather odd statue of the Virgin Mary dressed as a pilgrim. This image was declared the patron saint of the Portuguese Way, a branch of the Camino de Santiago that passes up through Portugal and then Pontevedra on its way to Santiago de Compostela. Even if you are not a pilgrim, however, you must admit that it is a rather nice church.

The car-free center of Pontevedra is well-preserved and charming. There are tiny side-streets and grand plazas, historic convents and ornate façades, and of course lots of restaurants and cafés. As I strolled around, I came across a life-sized statue of Ramón del Valle-Inclan, an iconic Spanish writer who was born just outside the city. He is outfitted in his usual way: neat suit, thick-rimmed glasses, and a long flowing beard. A literary innovator and iconoclast, he now holds an honored place among the Spanish literary patheon, and is one of the many writers often assigned to suffering high school students.

One of the most interesting sites in the city are the ruins of the church of San Domingos. This is (or was) a lovely gothic structure that now stands without a roof or half of its walls. I have seen ruined churches before, but those have been ruined by some disaster, like an earthquake or a fire. In this case, the culprits are time and neglect. In 1836, during a liberal spasm in Spanish history, a huge amount of land was confiscated from the Catholic church through a law called, in Spanish, the desamortización. This Dominican convent was one of them. The monks had to find a new home and the building was used, in turn, as a women’s prison, hospice, and an infant school. But it fell into decay very quickly under civil ownership and now stands like a ghost in the old city.

I have said before, and will again, that it is often worthwhile to visit relatively obscure museums in Europe, as they can have collections that rival the most prestigious institutions in the United States. This is certainly true of Pontevedra’s Provincial Museum. Even the structure itself is impressive, comprising a complex of buildings which includes modern glass constructions and former mansions. Its collection is vast and varied, including archaeological remains, ornate silverware, religious sculptures, traditional costumes and oil paintings (including those by Goya and Sorolla). Best of all, it is free to visit.

After spending a few hours in the museum, I made my way to the nearest Pulpería I could find. As its name would suggest, this is a kind of restaurant that specializes in octopus. I gorged myself on tentacles and pimientos de padrón (small green peppers), and chased it down with a pitcher of the local wine—typically young and fruity. For some reason, it is customary to drink the wine out of a little ceramic bowl, which reminds me very much of the vessels used to drink saki (called sakazuki).

The meal ended, I contemplated trying to do more visiting. But, somehow, I had lost the motivation. Instead, my legs took me on a meandering walk out of the city and, following the river, towards the ocean. I walked until the city receded into the less dense outskirts, and kept going until I came across a small beach at the mouth of the river. A small boat—more of a dingy—had been hauled up on the sand, looking somehow pathetic next to the water. Smokestacks split the sky on the opposite bank. A helicopter came into view, flying low over the river. Though I was surrounded on all sides by evidence of human life, I was the only person in view, and I had the illogical feeling that I had reached the edge of the world.

This romantic feeling was dispelled when I checked the time and realized that, once again, I had to hurry in order to make my train back to A Coruña. I arrived that night, and celebrated with a final dinner at the takeout Chinese restaurant. It had been an excellent stay in Galicia.

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Santiago de Compostela

One year later. It was the All Saints’ Day holiday, in late October, 2021. I had no plan whatsoever, except to relax and to look for some foliage. (Madrid is quite bereft of colorful leaves in autumn, as a result of, well, not having many trees.) I bought a cheap train ticket to Santiago de Compostela, the regional capital, and booked the cheapest Airbnb I could find. My hosts were not thrilled when I arrived at nearly midnight. But at least I was back in Galicia.

My first day was uneventful. It was the day before Halloween, overcast and foggy. I decided that I wanted to take a hike. Santiago de Compostela has some attractive city parks—the two principal ones being the Parque de San Domingos de Bonaval and the Parque da Alameda—but these are rather small. Seeking wider fields to wander, I walked to the edge of town, to the Parque Forestal de Monte Pedroso. This is a large park—well, more of a young forest than a park. The land had obviously been clear cut not too long ago. Virtually all of the trees were young saplings, planted in neat rows on the hilly landscape, doubtless to be themselves harvested at some future date. (Galicia, though beautiful, has mutilated many of its own landscapes.)

Paths led in and out of clearings in the forest, climbing and falling through the misty trees. The fog was so thick that I would have been completely disoriented if not for the AllTrails app on my phone. It was perfect for Halloween, but not ideal for pretty foliage or beautiful views. At the very least, the hike allowed me to work up an appetite for my visit to El Mesón Do Pulpo, one of Galicia’s many fine pulperías, or octopus restaurants.

I must have been in a very suggestible mood, for I allowed the waiter to talk me into buying a plate of octopus followed by a whole steak, washed down with a pitcher of the fruity local wine. It was an excessive amount of food—and absolutely delicious. You can imagine that the rest of that day was not particularly productive. The only thing I managed to do was to have another excessive meal, this time dinner at a Korean restaurant called NuMaru. I am glad I did, since it was perhaps the best Korean food I ever tasted, better than any restaurant I have visited in Madrid (which one would think is more cosmopolitan and diverse than the provincial Santiago). Clearly, then, my first full day in Galicia was a success.

As an afterthought, I wanted to mention the strange architectural installment (sculpture?) I found on the edge of town, on my way to the forest. The thing consists of a kind of arched hallway, constructed of massive pieces of granite. This monstrous monument was built in honor of the Sociedade Xeral de Autores e Editores, which translates to the General Society of Authors and Editors, a private organization that aims to protect intellectual property of those who write and publish music, books, and plays. This sounds noble enough, but it sometimes boils down to publishing companies trying to wring money out of musicians and acting companies—most of which never gets to the artists or writers themselves. Once, the organization charged €96 to a high school theater company who wanted to do a play by Federico García Lorca, who died in 1936. This happened in 2010.

In any case, my next day in Galicia was far, far more eventful. 

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A Whirlwind Tour

I awoke early, having set an alarm. The previous day, my Airbnb host invited me on an outing to see his native village. “It is one of the most beautiful villages in Galicia,” he said. The other guest at the Airbnb was going, too. Not having any real plans, I accepted.

The next day, after breakfast, I was ready to go.

“Alright, I’m ready,” the host said.

“And the other guest?”

“Something came up.”

Unphased, I followed my good host and got into the passenger seat of his car. It soon emerged that my host was not simply a man fond of his pueblo. He was a professional researcher and extremely knowledgeable about his native region. As he drove, he rattled off a constant string of information about the area, and I soon realized that, rather than a simple trip to a town, he had an entire itinerary planned out.

Our first stop was the church of Santa Maria de Adina. The church itself is large and attractive but otherwise not remarkable. But buried in the surrounding graveyard is Camilo José Cela, a writer who was born in this town and who went on to win the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1989. I have not read any of his work (it does not seem to be especially popular now), but I was glad to pay my respects to a writer.

Nearby was the town of Padrón, our next stop. This town will be familiar to lovers of Spanish food, for being the home of the famous pimientos de Padrón—delicious small green peppers that are fried in olive oil and served with rock salt. But my host wanted to show me the Parroquial Church. Again, like many local Spanish churches, it was large and attractive but not memorably so. What sets the church apart is the “pedrón.” This is a sort of large stone that is given pride of place in the church. According to legend, the ship that divinely transported Saint James’ body from Jerusalem to Spain was finally moored to this stone.

The truth is actually more interesting than the legend, as the letters clearly visible on the stone were actually inscribed by the Romans to honor the god Neptune. It reads: “To Neptune: the Orieses (?) put up this stone at their expense.” It seems odd that a pagan monument would hold pride of place in a church. But many pagan rites and rituals were taken over by the Christians. (Christmas is December 25, not because we know when Jesus was born, but because it allowed the holiday to replace the pagan celebration of the winter solstice.) According to this website, the stone was used even before the Romans as a place to tie up their ships.

The tour continued. My host then took me to a very small village called Bustelo, in order to show me a fine example of a Galician cruceiro. This is a distinctly Galician artifact, consisting of a large stone cross standing atop a pillar, often with a small carving of Jesus or the Virgin as adornment. According to my guide, since only the properly baptized were allowed to be buried in the church graveyard, babies who died at or near birth were often prohibited from this sacred ground. Despondent mothers thus would bury their babies at the base of this cruceiro, being another kind of religious burying ground. (If you’re curious, this website contains an image and the location of every cruceiro in Galicia. They are quite beautiful, in my opinion.)

Our next stop was another distinctive monument of Galicia: the hórreo (yes, it sounds like the American cookie). This is small building that was used to store food, primarily grain, before refrigerators became common. They are elevated to keep out vermin, and normally have slits in the walls to keep the food dry. Nowadays they sit unused, a charming and constant reminder that one is in Galicia. My guide had an encyclopedic knowledge of hórreos as well as cruceiros, and he took me to see one of the largest ever built, called the hórreo do traba. It is huge: five or six times the length of a normal hórreo. I have no idea why it was built so large.

Next we visited the lovely seaside town of Noia where, mercifully, we had some coffee. But our break was brief: I was whisked off to the church of Santa María a Nova, which now houses a museum of antique gravestones. These are notable for their decoration (though they are often faded by time and weather), which normally feature the deceased person’s profession. I must admit, however, that I did not understand much of what I saw.

No matter, we had pressing business, and within moments I was back in the car on my way to the next destination. This was probably my favorite thing I saw that day, but I admit I was on guard when my host pulled over by the side of a road and told me to start walking into the forest. My misgiving aside, it was a thoroughly lovely example of a lush Galician forest, with moss-covered trees all around, and the Traba river gurgling nearby. Soon we had arrived at our destination, the abandoned village of Xei. Though the ruins appear absolutely ancient, this village was not abandoned so long ago (less than a century, I think). According to this website, the town was depopulated because its economy relied on the water-powered mills, which became obsolete with the adoption of electricity. In any case, I think ruins often have a strange and otherworldly beauty, and these skeletal structures, green with encroaching forest, were wonderfully evocative.

Our next stop was brief, to the nearby Dolmen of Argalo. A dolmen is a kind of megalithic tomb, consisting of a single chamber in a stone structure. In this case, very large slabs of granite were stuck into the ground to form the walls, and dirt was piled up all around it to make a kind of mound. Human remains do not preserve well in the acidic soil, so no bones were found inside. However, archaeologists did uncover stone tools and fragments of ceramics. As my guide remarked, we will never know what the people who built these believed.

Are you tired already? I was, but that did not stop us from visiting yet another stop. I shouldn’t complain, since this was also a wonderfully beautiful spot. We parked the car near a large old monastery building, the Mosteiro de San Xusto de Toxosoutos, which seemed unused. But this attractive old building was not our objective. Nearby, a path led into the forest, along the San Xusto river, and soon we were surrounded yet again by beautiful Galician forest. Better yet, at this juncture the river formed a series of ever-more attractive waterfalls (fervenza in Galician). Also of interest were the large mill-stones which now sit, unused, alongside the river, a reminder of the ancient importance of water-power.

In addition to its many charms, Galicia is rich in prehistoric sites. Not far from the waterfalls, for example, was yet another dolmen, the Dolmen de Axeitos. This one is larger and more impressive than the Dolmen of Argalo, with a massive granite slab somehow elevated in place as a roof over the wall stones. Whoever made this benefited from not a little teamwork, coordination, and technological sophistication, since moving stones of that size is no easy feat.

It was getting late now, and darkness was setting in. But my guide still wanted to show me one more thing. Aside from dolmens, Galicia has many sites known as “castros,” which are the remains of ancient (presumably Celtic) settlements. One of these sites is the Castro de Neixón, which occupies a peninsula on the coast. (Peninsulas were advantageous locations, both ideal for fishing and sea transport, and easy to defend from the land.) To be honest, this site was disappointing compared to the spectacular Castro de Baroña, which I had previously seen. But the interpretation center nearby also houses a fine museum—which, unfortunately, I was too tired to really take in.

We arrived back in Santiago de Compostela at around eight at night. I immediately went to the nearest restaurant I could find, which happened to be a Chinese place. I was ravenous—we had eaten just a little sandwich for lunch—and the order actually discouraged me from ordering the amount of food I wanted to. He was amazed when I ate every last bite. I really am grateful to the host for having shown me such a wealth of interesting things. But it was a long, long day.

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A Pilgrims’ Mass

I had just one more morning in Santiago de Compostela, and I knew how I was going to spend it. The previous night, I learned that the other Airbnb guest (the one who had abandoned the odyssey of Galician sightseeing) was a veteran of the Camino de Santiago. He informed me that was planning on attending the so-called Pilgrims’ Mass the following day.

Now, I had already attended this mass several times (once while suffering a severe stomach cramp), and had always been disappointed that the famed Botafumeiro was not used. This is the enormous incensor that, on special days, is swung from wildly through the cathedral on a pulley. Constantly missing this event was perhaps my greatest disappointment in Spanish travel. But according to my fellow guest, today there was a good chance that I would finally witness the spectacle.

The cathedral was packed. There were lines to get in at every entrance. I arrived nearly an hour early and still had to stand, as the pews were completely occupied. It was obvious at a glance that most of the audience was not there to save their souls. Foreign languages abounded, and cameras were held at the ready. I was certainly no different; but even within this great crowd I tried to temper my expectations. I had been in a similar crowd when the Botafumeiro failed to materialize.

But today was different. A hush came over the crowd as the robed priests appeared. Then, somewhere behind me, voices began to echo in the stone chamber. It was a choir, and a very good one. The singers were moving through the space, from the front to the back, but with so many people I could hardly catch a glimpse of them. It hardly matters, as their voices were rendered omnipresent by the reverberations, washing over me like a wave. It was genuinely spiritual music, soothing and even spine-tingling in its ethereal beauty.

The choir ceased, and the priest approached the pulpit. Everyone turned around to face the main altar. Sunlight was pouring in through the high windows, a single bright beam illuminating the white robe of the priest. For the second time in my life, I briefly considered converting to Catholicism. (The first time was in Mont Saint-Michel, and also involved sunlight and choirs.) I was so transported by the atmosphere that I could hardly register anything he was saying. In any case, his prayers were brief. Soon an organ had begun to play, now filling the cathedral with piercing reedy notes, while several robed men got into position around a multi-corded rope.

My body filled with electricity as I realized that, yes, this time I was finally going to see it. The rope was pulled taught and the men began to tug, gently at first, and then more firmly. With every tug, the enormous incensor began to swing higher and higher, from right to left, until it completed an arc that almost touched the ceiling. Smoke poured out of the flying metal casket, and soon the entire cathedral smelled of frankincense and myrrh.

This performance lasted for about five minutes. Then, the Botafumeiro gradually slowed down enough for the brave priests to catch it. This was our cue to leave, and the audience filed out in a respectful silence. I must admit, as absolutely cool as the Botafumeiro was, it did leave me feeling a little sorry for the priests. It is not a sight calculated to inspire religious devotion, merely to please tourists like myself. There is nothing theologically significant about a flying ball of smoke. Even so, I was very happy to have seen it. Though it had been more than a year since my last walk on the Camino, it felt like the end of a long pilgrimage.