I turned twenty-one—the legal drinking age in my benighted country—in 2012, in the midst of a Renaissance in craft beer. I had spent most of college pounding cans of Coors Light, whose urinous flavor was offset by being affordable to college kids, with the added benefit that you could feasibly down ten or even twenty in a single night—a feat which naturally came with boasting rights. (I still have vivid memories of emptying dozens of cans from the huge recycling container in my dorm, and then vainly trying to get out the smell of stale beer by blasting it with hot water in the shower.)
It was something of a pleasant surprise, then, when I started drinking craft brews, and discovered that beer could actually be enjoyable in itself. Soon I grew fascinated by the variety and quality of the beers on offer. Breweries started popping up in every town. Even my local gas station began stocking dozens of different craft brews. Rather than simply tasting like watery piss, this beer could be bitter, chocolatey, aromatic, crisp, sweet, fruity, tart, and much else. For the first time in my life, I developed a palette for something, and began to keenly appreciate what had previously just been party fuel.
Thus it came as something of a shock when I moved to Madrid in 2015, and was once again thrown into the world of mass-produced beer. Whereas every self-respecting bar in the US will have at least five or six beers on tap, in Spain, even now, there is often only one. (You might think this is because Spaniards are mostly wine-drinkers. On the contrary, Spanish people drink beer in quantities surpassed by few countries.) I found it almost appalling that you could simply order “a beer” without specifying the type, only the size. Thus, I half-heartedly resigned myself to drinking lagers again, with the consolation that at least Mahou is better than Coors Light.
But all this soon began to change. Craft beer culture started catching on in a big way, and in just a couple of years Madrid was awash in local breweries. As it happens, one of my former coworkers at a school in Aranjuez, Luis, works nights at a brew-pub after he is done teaching. So one day I asked if he could teach me something about the art and science of craft beer.
Luis, enjoying a beer break outside the bar.
Tenta Brewing is located on a shady lane in the small city of Aranjuez. The day I chose to visit was, fortuitously, the first day they were reopening after summer remodeling. I arrived early to help with the final clean-up before the doors opened, and in the process got a miniscule taste of the daily labor involved in owning a brew-pub. As I incompetently cleaned the floor, attempted to tidy the kitchen, and moved tables and chairs to places they weren’t supposed to go, Miguel—the founder, owner, and brewer of Tenta—lost himself in a tangle of tubes in order to connect the casks to the taps. At one point, I was tasked with sticking labels on some cans of beer. “Is there a machine for this?” I asked. “Yes there is,” Luis responded. “You!”
In any case, the restaurant work—setting up, closing up, cooking, cleaning—is only a fraction of the work involved in owning a brew-pub. The major task is actually brewing the beer. And in Tenta, this falls to Miguel. Considering that brewing beer is not something you normally study at university, the world of craft beer is populated by people of many diverse backgrounds. In Miguel’s case, he was a graphic designer for years before he even thought about hops, yeast, or malt. For Miguel, as for so many, the gateway drug was home-brewing. He started as a hobbyist and soon he was hooked. In 2022, the small beer factory finally opened its doors.
Miguel, taking a break from brewing.
As it happens, I have also participated in the homebrewing experiment, though this merely consisted of following the directions on a beer-making kit. Still, it was instructive. Though the process was relatively simple, I was impressed by the scope for error. Every piece of equipment had to be carefully sanitized beforehand. Any deviation in timing or temperature could have fatally ruined the batch. What impressed me most was watching the beer ferment. For all the human labor that goes into beer-making, it is ultimately the yeast that do the heavy lifting—turning sugar into alcohol, and making carbonation in the process. Brewing beer, in other words, does not have the elegant precision of a chemical reaction. It is organic, and potentially messy.
Miguel spent the first two years of his brewing career as a “nomad.” This is a term for brewers who do not have their own factory, but instead make deals with other breweries to produce their beers for a slice of the profits. This is quite a common arrangement in the Spanish beer scene.
By chance, I stumbled upon a beer nomad at a neighborhood fair while writing this piece. In a tent sparsely furnished with a gas grill and half a dozen taps, Antonio (“Tojo” to his friends) was serving Dichosa beer. At the moment, he is brewing his beer in the factory run by Valle del Kahs (of whom, much more later), but he has worked with breweries all over the place.
When asked why he chose to brew his beer as a nomad rather than set up his own factory, he told me that there were several advantages. First, and most obviously, this allows you to avoid the fixed costs of equipment and upkeep. It also is a low-commitment strategy, which lets him move around to search for better arrangements. But the most curious advantage is that he can experiment with the water quality, which can vary quite a bit from place to place. (The water from Madrid is supposed to be exceptionally good, though.)
Tojo, who brews, pours, and even grills.
Even so, it seems curious that one beer maker would allow a rival to use their equipment. That would be like Chrysler manufacturing cars for Ford, right? Yet if you spend any time talking to beer-makers, you quickly get the impression that they do not consider themselves rivals of one another. Rather, there is a heartening spirit of camaraderie among brewers. Each one seems to know everyone else by name, and collaborations are frequent. The last time I visited Tenta, for example, they had a delicious watermelon ale on sale, made in collaboration with Pits, a brewery all the way up in Vigo.
Another reason for collaborating is simply business. Making beer is one thing, but selling it is quite another. Unlike the big-time brewing companies, which sell their beers in bars, restaurants, and supermarkets all over Spain, craft brewers have to work to find their audience. Though many brewers have their own pubs, at the rate that beer is sold in a brew-pub, the factory would remain under-capacity. This is why factory-owners gladly allow other brewers to use their equipment, in order to pick up the slack.
And this is also the reason why so many beer-makers put in long hours manning stands at local fairs and festivals (such as where I saw Tojo). Aside from these, there are dedicated craft beer events organized throughout the country by the Ruta del Lúpulo (the Hop Route). In these, a dozen or so craft breweries gather together, while the quickly inebriated visitor fills his glass from tent to tent. Even bigger is Beermad, a huge gathering of brewers in the so-called “crystal pavilion” in the Casa de Campo park. Local bands and food trucks are often recruited to round out the events.
Now, for my money, a well-made beer can be just as elegant, complex, and delicious as a fine wine. However, the culture of craft beer has little resemblance to the world of wine. For one, there are the aesthetics. While wineries present themselves as an extension of European elegance, the craft brew movement—at least as it exists in Spain—mostly takes its cues from my own country. English-language rock music blares from speakers, while men sporting beards and wearing band T-shirts and black jeans slide you a beer across the table.
Another, more important difference is that wineries are tied to the land in the way a beer-maker is not, or at least not necessarily. This is simply because wine is made from fresh grapes, which do not keep for long, while beer is made from malt (usually malted wheat, but other grains can be used), which keeps very well indeed. A beer maker could thus open a factory in Spain with malts from England and hops from the USA. Nevertheless, many beer makers try to give their product a local touch. Miguel, for example, acquires the fruits he uses to make his watermelon and strawberry beers from a neighboring village. Even the beef for the burgers is from local cattle.
One major challenge for Spanish craft brewers is that, unlike England, Belgium, or Germany, Spain has no autochthonous tradition of craft beer. Spanish drinkers—used to light, commercial lagers—are often unaccustomed to both the flavors and the price of the finer stuff. Still, the world of craft beer is cracking through the ancient drinking culture of Iberia; and nowhere is this more clear than in the Valle del Kahs brewery.
As its name would suggest, this brewery is located in the Puente de Vallecas neighborhood of Madrid. Traditionally a working-class, left-wing area, Vallecas has a strong sense of identity, and this is on full display at the Valle del Kahs pub. Tucked away into the narrow, maze-like streets of the barrio, the place looks nothing like a bar from the outside. And that’s because it wasn’t. The building was inherited by Dani, who owns the brewery along with his wife, Silvia. Before it was a bar, it was a bleach factory, operated for over 100 years by his mother’s family; and it still preserves much of its industrial atmosphere.
Dani, posing beside the heavy metal doors, preserved from the bar’s days as a bleach factory.
Dani’s family was thus one of the pillars of the neighborhood. As a case in point, his grandfather was one of the founding patrons of the Rayo Vallecano football team (soccer, for Americans), who play in the nearby Vallecas Stadium. Dani and Silvia have continued the tradition by sponsoring the Vallecas Rugby team. Trophies and jerseys adorn a corner of the bar, and portraits of the players—sporting jerseys with the Valle del Kahs logo—hang all over the bar. This logo, a growling black wolf, has a curious history. When Vallecas was far more rural, Dani’s father actually came across an abandoned wolf pup, adopted it, and called it Sultan. Dani barely remembers the wolf (he was too young), but the noble creature lives on as the company’s mascot.
Curro, a bartender at Valle del Kahs, hard at work.
As with Miguel of Tenta, Dani got into the beer business via homebrewing. Beforehand, he was in marketing, but was dissatisfied with the high-pressure corporate environment. For her part, Silvia was a watercolorist before she began selling pints. But she continues making art, as evidenced by the diagrammatic drawings that adorn the walls of the bar, such as a periodic table of beer. Their son, Arturo, is now also a part of the business. He was a successful chef before the pandemic, but during the shutdown decided that he would devote his time to liquid rather than solid delights.
I met Arturo on a quiet Wednesday evening, deep in the Vallecas neighborhood. While the family originally made beer in the old bleach factory, last year they decided to rent out a bigger space for brewing in an industrial warehouse. There, Arturo was working alone, solely responsible for the enormous vats of boiling and fermenting malt. His rapid explanation of the beer-making process was punctuated by hisses from a huge compressor in the back, which was gathering and concentrating nitrogen gas to be used for extra carbonation.
Seeing him there, dwarfed and surrounded by shining metal devices, I was impressed by the scientific rigor required to make something so apparently simple. But there is nothing really logical about being a craft brewer. It means long hours of brewing followed by long hours of manning a bar. It means giving up a secure livelihood for one with an uncertain future. It means a constant, uphill battle. But when you see any of these brewers in their element, you know that they are motivated by something beyond good sense. For them, brewing beer is a labor of love.
The first time that I went to Coney Island, I was in college, fully in the grip of a newfound commitment to intellectualism. I was certain that I was going to be a professor, that I was going to be a prolific and influential author, and that most of the world was consequently not up to my exacting standards of culture, taste, and intelligence.
At that moment in my life, Coney Island struck me as the epitome of everything I hoped to reject. Tacky, cheap, loud, dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh, it was horrifying to me. I did not like the beach, or roller coasters, or even funnel cake. It was too hot, too full of naked skin, too shamelessly mindless. I know that I sound as if I were some sort of dreamy Hamlet, condemned to a layer of Dantean hell, but that is what it felt like. Though it pains me to think of it, I was once invited to a birthday party in Coney Island; and rather than play catch on the beach, I spent the time under the boardwalk, reading James Joyce’s Ulysses (which, to be sure, I completely failed to understand).
And yet, Coney Island is so pure in its embodiment of wanton fun that I was also, against my will, fascinated by it. While I felt superior, the place also made me feel as if I was missing something fundamental about life. It became, for me, a symbol of what I lacked, and that is basically how I described Coney Island in my novel Their Solitary Way.
With age comes wisdom, or at least acceptance. It took me time, a long time, to learn to relax and have fun. Now, a decade and a half after my first visit, I think Coney Island is one of the treasures of New York, something I look forward to every summer.
For about a century now, Coney Island has not been an island. Formerly, the Coney Island Creek separated the island from the landmass of Long Island; but a part of this creek was filled in in the 1920s. However, as “Coney Peninsula” doesn’t have quite the same ring, the original name was retained. Aside from Rockaway, Coney Island is the only beach accessible on the subway (and the ride is significantly shorter), and it is also the only amusement park.
Coney Island has been the playground of New York since the 19th century. This is evidenced by the grandiose Coney Island – Stillwell Avenue station, which is the terminus of lines D, F, N, and Q. With its eight individual tracks, it is more reminiscent of a train station than a lowly subway stop, and is obviously built for high volume.
As you walk around the “island” today, buzzing with beach-goers, dancers, tourists, baseball fans, and teenagers on line for various rides, you might be forgiven for thinking that Coney Island is now in its golden age. But the peak of Coney Island occurred from the 1880s to the Second World War. During that time, with three amusement parks operating—Luna Park, Dreamland, and Steeplechase—it was the largest amusement area in the United States.
An early symbol of Coney Island’s greatness was the Elephantine Colossus, a 122-foot tall wooden building in the shape of (you guessed it) an elephant. It was so big that it could be used as a concert hall, a palace of petty amusements, and even a brothel. Indeed, it was significantly bigger than the earlier Elephant of the Bastille, a plaster model of a planned—but never executed—statue, which became an attraction unto itself. (It is now famous principally for Victor Hugo’s description of it in Les Miserables.) Unfortunately, the wooden structure burned down in 1896; but there is another huge wooden elephant in nearby New Jersey, by the same designer: Lucy the Elephant, in Margate City.
(There is a far darker elephant story connected with Coney Island, that of Topsy the elephant. Topsy was a circus elephant who had a reputation for misbehavior. In 1902 it was decided that the elephant would be executed as a publicity stunt. With the blessing of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, Topsy was poisoned, strangled, and electrocuted. Her electrocution was actually caught on film. This film survives, and it is gruesome to watch. Be it noted that Thomas Edison had nothing to do with this particular animal execution, though it was filmed on an Edison camera.)
But the powers that be were not always kind to the island. One way to demonstrate this is the history of the New York Aquarium. This institution was originally housed in Battery Park, in the historic Castle Clinton, and was free to the public. It was a beloved place, visited by millions per year. Yet it attracted the ire of the infamous park commissioner, Robert Moses—who disliked both the aquarium and Coney Island for being too plebeian—who forcibly transferred the aquarium from Castle Clinton to Coney Island.
This had several unfortunate results. For one, the new aquarium was forced to charge admission. (Currently the price is $30, which is so steep that I have never visited.) The aquarium was also unable to safely transfer their animals, leaving them with no choice but to release their collection into the ocean and begin from scratch. And last, the aquarium was deliberately put in real estate previously occupied by the amusement park, Dreamland, in order to reduce the tawdry attractions.
But an even bigger nemesis to the island was Fred Trump—Donald’s father. A real estate developer, Fred eyed the valuable property occupied by the former Steeplechase Park, and eventually acquired it with the aim of putting up high-rise apartments. He made sure to demolish it quickly, and publicly, before it could be given landmark status; but he was ultimately unsuccessful in his building project. Trump eventually sold the property back to the city, and it was duly turned back into an amusement park.
Nowadays, the only remnant of the old Steeplechase Park is the iconic Parachute Jump. This was a ride that consisted of strapping people into a seat, pulling them up to the top of a 250-foot tall tower, and then letting them fall to earth with a parachute. It sounds extremely dangerous, but the ride apparently had a perfect safety record. The now-defunct ride is strangely beautiful—a kind of blooming steel flower.
This information, I should note, was partly gleaned from the Coney Island History Project. As its name implies, this is a non-profit organization, dedicated to exploring, recording, and divulging the history of Coney Island. In the summer months, they run a small stand near the Wonder Wheel, where the visitor can see remnants of old rides (such as the steeplechase), as well as dozens of excellent old photographs.
The center portrays Coney Island as a haven of cheap fun, which had to survive decades of private greed and public neglect in order to serve its vital function to the city of New York. We have already heard about Robert Moses and Fred Trump; but before them, John McKane, a Tammany Hall politician, tried to sell off much of the publicly owned land for profit. (Unlike the corrupt politicians of later eras, McKane ended up in Sing Sing.)
Fred Trump’s demolition of Steeplechase Park, in the 1960s, inaugurated what was perhaps the darkest period in the island’s history. As its popularity among New Yorkers declined—a result of many factors, such as the rise of the automobile, and the new availability of other recreational sites—much of Coney Island was rezoned and redeveloped for urban housing, with large buildings constructed for lower-income residents. This was followed, predictably, by an increase in crime and a consequent decrease in legitimate business.
It was only in the late 80s that a movement got underway to protect and revitalize the area. The Coney Island Cyclone, the Parachute Drop, and the Wonder Wheel were declared landmarks, and plans were made to construct a minor league baseball stadium on the former site of Steeplechase Park. Of this stadium, more later. First, I want to pay my respects to the classic rides of Coney Island.
The oldest continually operating attraction on the island is the Wonder Wheel. Built in 1920, it has operated every year except 2020, during the pandemic (unfortunately, its centennial). Its design is unlike a standard Ferris wheel, in that some of the compartments can slide around between the rim and the hub. Despite being next to the larger Luna Park—which operates all of the major roller coasters—the Wonder Wheel belongs to its own separate amusement park, Deno’s. Named for Deno Vourderis, who acquired the wheel in 1983, this is a family-run amusement park, still operated by his two sons.
Only slightly younger than the Wonder Wheel is the Coney Island Cyclone. Built in 1927, it was actually the third of the great wooden roller coasters, after the Thunderbolt (1925) and Tornado (1926). The former stopped operating in 1982, but was not demolished until 2001; the latter was destroyed by arson in the 70s. The Cyclone narrowly escaped destruction, too, after it was acquired by the city in order to provide land for an expansion of the Aquarium. The Coney Island Chamber of Commerce fought the aquarium to a standstill, and the plan was eventually scrapped.
The original Thunderbolt rollercoaster, awaiting destruction.
The Cyclone is now the star attraction of Luna Park. Despite its age (or, rather, because of it), the ride holds up. Reaching a maximum speed of 60 miles per hour, it manages to be quite terrifying, as the loud clackety-clack of the car, careening over the spiderweb of ancient wood, gives the sensation of imminent collapse. The sense of riding a rickety antique provides a thrill no modern technology could duplicate.
The current Luna Park is a reincarnation. The original was opened in 1903; and judging from the photos and illustrations, it was a sensational place. With over a million lights—changing color every second—it had every sort of entertainment conceivable. Its name comes from its first and most iconic ride, “A Trip to the Moon.” In this, visitors would travel on a strange spacecraft, as scenes of earth and space were projected on the walls. Then, they would “land” on a papier-mâché moon, where the Man in the Moon would dance for them. It sounds pretty awesome.
A colorized photo of Luna Park in its heyday.
(This brings us back to the unfortunate life of Topsy the elephant. This elephant was acquired by the owners of Luna Park in 1902, and used to advertize the construction of the new park. This included hauling the “spaceship” used in A Trip to the Moon. However, the drunken handler started stabbing Topsy with a pitchfork during the move. The police intervened, and the handler responded by turning the elephant loose, causing predictable havoc. Two months later, this dangerous man rode Topsy directly into the police station—again, causing predictable havoc. Topsy’s execution was thus framed as “penance,” though it was timed as a morbid publicity stunt for the park’s opening. The past wasn’t always such a charming place.)
The Luna Park that exists today only shares its name with that original park, which closed in 1944. The current rendition opened quite recently, in 2010. It has dozens of rides, from spinning teacups to terrifying slingshots (which I would never try). Among these is the new Thunderbolt. Opened in 2014, this is a modern-style rollercoaster, with a completely vertical lift hill (possibly the scariest part of the ride), and four sections when you are momentarily upside-down. Surprisingly, its top speed is a hair under the Cyclone’s; and the comforting impression of modern engineering makes it ever-so-slightly less terrifying.
The new and improved (?) Thunderbolt.
But an amusement park isn’t just rides and roller coasters. An essential element are the carnival games. Coney Island is teeming with such amusements, from Whac-A-Mole, to the ring toss, to miniature basketball free-throws. When I was younger, I steered clear of these games, put off by their vaguely unscrupulous aura. Yet now I think a couple dollars is a fair price for the pleasure of spasmodically attempting to bludgeon some plastic vermin. And I was pleasantly surprised when I actually won a game of water racer (in which you have to fill a container using a water pistol), and was awarded an enormous pillow featuring the likeness of Lebron James. The world may not always be fair, but sometimes you get lucky.
Yet there are pleasures even more acute than these. On a whim, after a long day on the island, we decided to dip into the Eldorado Bumper Cars, on Surf Avenue. It was like walking into a nightclub. Dancehall music blared deafeningly from the speakers as we blinked in the neon darkness. Deliriously, I handed over my ticket, and was directed to one of the waiting cars. The power was switched on and I lurched into motion, careening endlessly around a track, while a teenage boy clipped me from behind with an inscrutable smirk on his face. It was a blast.
As it happens, this bumper car establishment is next to a Coney Island institution: Nathan’s Famous. This is the original location of what is now a hot dog empire. It was founded in 1916 by Nathan Handwerker, though the hot dog recipe was created by his wife, Ida—who, in turn, got the spice blend from her grandmother. Nathan was a Jewish immigrant from Poland, who used his entire life savings—a grand total of $300—to open a hot dog stand with his wife. The hot dogs were all beef, though they were technically not kosher (the animal has to be slaughtered and prepared a specific way) leading Handwerker to dub them “kosher-style.”
Over a century later, Handwerker’s small stand has expanded into a city block, and in the summer months it is consistently packed. Yet with cashiers and counters on three sides of the building, service is surprisingly fast. Now, I am not normally a huge fan of hot dogs—in flavor, color, and texture, they are so processed as to be food-adjacent—but Coney Island, the mecca of mindless fun, is the perfect setting to stop worrying and love the glizzies (as they kids call them nowadays). And insofar as such things can be judged, I actually do think the Nathan’s frank, with mustard and sauerkraut, is a cut above the average wiener.
Nathan’s is also famous for being the site of one of America’s most barbarous rituals: its July 4th Hot Dog Eating Contest. The contest has a mythical origin story, in which four immigrants decided to test their patriotism with an impromptu contest, all the way back in 1916. But the contest really dates from 1972, when it was dreamed up as a promotional event. Though it began rather informally, the contest is now the World Series of the professional eating world. Indeed, for something as silly as an eating contest, there is a surprising amount of drama in the “sport.”
For years, the contest was dominated by Takeru Kobayashi, a Japanese legend who broke record after record, winning from 2001 to 2006. But the food tsunami hasn’t participated since 2009, since he refuses to sign an exclusive contract with Major League Eating. Indeed, the depraved tidal wave was arrested in 2010 when he jumped onto the stage after the contest. Meanwhile, Kobayashi’s arch-rival, Joey Chestnut was barred from the contest in 2024 after he signed an advertising contract with Impossible Foods, which sells plant-based hot dogs. Chestnut still holds the world record for downing a stomach-exploding 76 hot dogs in 10 minutes; but in his absence, Patrick “Deep Dish” Bertoletti took home the 2024 Mustard Belt with a very respectable 58 franks.
Now, I have described the subway stop, the carnival games, the rides, the history, the hot dogs (and the animal cruelty); but Coney Island is, above all, a beach. The experience of visiting Coney Island, for me, inevitably involves walking up and down the boardwalk, taking in the ambience. Indeed, the almost complete lack of shade on the boardwalk never fails to put me in a semi-sunstroked state, giving the scene a kind of mirage-like sheen.
It seems only right and natural that there should be a boardwalk and a beach at Coney Island. Yet like all good things in this world, it had to be fought for.
At the beginning of the 20th century, most of the beachfront property was in private hands, and so access to the ocean was severely restricted. Many poor New Yorkers could only look longingly at the waves through the links in a fence. It was not until 1921 that the city forcibly acquired the land facing the sea, and work began on the boardwalk the following year. It was named in honor of Edward J. Riegelmann, the Brooklyn borough president, who was in charge of the project. He himself opposed the name, preferring the simple “Coney Island Boardwalk,” but his contemporaries were so grateful to him that he was overruled.
Like everything else at Coney Island, the beach is wholly artificial. The beautiful white sand that covers the shore is all imported from beaches in Rockaway or New Jersey. Because the island is shielded from the waves by Breezy Point, in Queens, sand (a product of water erosion) does not naturally form here in large quantities. As recently as the 90s, the US Army Corps of Engineers was called in to add more sand to the beach—in part, to fill in the area underneath the boardwalk, which had become an impromptu shelter for the homeless, as well as a site of frequent crime.
When I was younger, a stroll along the boardwalk was akin to Dante’s voyage through hell. It was a series of activities that actively repelled me. Nowadays, I find a strange comfort in the fact that, on any given summer day, Coney Island will have the same eternal elements.
There are, of course, the thousands sunning themselves on the beach—bronzed and glistening skin, of every imaginable shade, contrasting with the gaudy colors of their swimsuits. At various points along the boardwalk, aspiring DJs have set up speakers, and are pumping out loud dance music for the passersby. Usually there are only a few actual dancers, though they flail with enough enthusiasm to make up for the lack of participants. Further down, there is the snake crew, who carry their limbless, listless reptiles on their shoulders. Presumably they make money by allowing others to pose with the snakes, though I’ve never seen any cash change hands. I have no idea how to care for a serpent; but I can’t help suspecting that so much handling isn’t good for them.
Drinking in public is illegal in the United States. Yet in the bacchanal that is Coney Island, the rules appear to be suspended. Vendors freely sell beer to pedestrians, who drink it without even the formality of a paper bag. On my last visit, a man in an electric wheelchair zoomed around yelling “Corona! Modelo!” to all and sundry. If someone took him up on the offer, he led them to a Latino man with a cooler, who presumably gives his energetic advertizer a cut of the profits.
But to be truly adventurous, one must try a nutcracker. This is a mixed drink with no set recipe, but which usually consists of vodka or tequila mixed with something sweet and fruity, like Kool-Aid. They are sold in plastic bags and drunk through a straw. There is manifestly a lot of leeway for bad actors. Some vendors may save money by watering down their drinks, and a crazy person could easily mix in poison. In my experience, however, the drinks are sugary and strong.
Strolling along the boardwalk, the visitor passes by something all too infrequent in New York City: public bathrooms. The beach is amply provided with “comfort stations,” as they are politely called, some of them quite new and futuristic. Keep going, and you pass by The First Symphony of the Sea, a wall relief by Toshio Sasaki, created to adorn the wall outside the Aquarium. Further down, you leave Coney Island behind completely. The crowds thin out, and there is hardly anyone on the sand. This is Brighton Beach, the tranquil neighbor of Coney Island. It is notable for being the city’s Russian neighborhood. There are several boardwalk restaurants where you can order borscht or pickled herring, and the shop signs are in Cyrillic script.
Turn around now and head back towards Coney Island. The tangled metal profiles of rides loom up in the distance, and the garrulous facades of amusement park eateries—selling fried chicken, hot dogs, oysters, and the like—adorn the boardwalk. Overhead, planes drag huge ads through the sky (even beaches have commercials in America), and the crowds become thick and noisy. Finally, the towering Parachute Jump appears, and next to it the great pier jutting out into the water. Nearby is a large stadium. You have finally arrived at Maimonides Park.
Opened in 2001, this is the most recent addition to the variety of entertainment options available at Coney Island. And it is perfect. Now, the visitor can spend the day sunbathing, eat a hot dog and chase it with a beach beer, ride a roller coaster and win a stuffed animal at the Whac-A-Mole, and then complete the evening with a baseball game. It is America at its finest.
(The historically astute reader may find it curious that a baseball stadium in Brooklyn is named after a medieval Jewish philosopher who lived on the Iberian Peninsula. This is simply due to its being sponsored by the Maimonides Medical Center, a non-sectarian hospital with Jewish roots.)
Maimonides Park is the home of the Brooklyn Cyclones, a minor-league team. You see, each team in Major League Baseball has what are called “farm teams,” where young talent is trained and cultivated. The Cyclones is the farm team of the New York Mets—one of several, actually—whose players earn a small fraction of the money of their major league colleagues, living in the hopes of advancement. As a result, tickets to see the Cyclones are also a small fraction of the price of major league tickets. The last time I went, I paid a bit more than twenty dollars.
The biggest night in Maimonides Park is, by all accounts, Seinfeld Night. It has become an informal holiday. This is the only day of the season when all 7,000 seats of the stadium sell out, as fans line up for a chance to get a Seinfeld bobblehead (usually of George Costanza). The Cyclones go up against their arch-rival, the Hudson Valley Renegades (a farm team for the yankees), and even become, temporarily, another team entirely: the Bubble Boys. Obscure Seinfeld references abound, as show-themes contests are held between innings, and even a few minor actors from the show make guest appearances.
When I last went, the Cyclones—sorry, the Bubbles Boys—lost 0-3 in a rather disappointing game. But the real event began after the game ended: the Dance Like Elaine Contest. For those who haven’t seen the show (and I should shamefacedly admit that this includes me), this is a dance modeled on Elaine’s spasmodic dance moves, famously described by George as “A full-body dry-heave set to music.” Dozens of people dress up in Elaine’s boxy eighties outfits and dance with arhythmic vehemence, as the crowd votes through their cheers. This year, a young woman from Brooklyn, Shannon, took home the gold with a convincingly convulsive performance.
After the contest ended, and we poured out onto the street, I couldn’t help but feel a bit wistful. Coney Island has become an integral part of my summers, something that marks a time of total freedom. More than that, Coney Island is a living embodiment of the carnival spirit, a place where traditional values are suspended or inverted, where any notion of refinement, decorum, or even of a healthy diet do not apply. Indeed, this is partly why Coney Island has had so many enemies throughout the years, from Robert Moses, to Fred Trump, and even to an immature Roy Lotz. It has been attacked as crass, neglected as unimportant, and continually assayed by businessmen trying to privatize sun, sand, and waves.
But one way to judge a thing is by its enemies. By that standard, Coney Island is one of the treasures of New York City—a monument to the prospect that everyone should be able to have a little fun.
It should perhaps come as no surprise that the Hudson Valley is full of the former (and current) homes of the exceptionally wealthy. It is ideally situated to serve as a kind of country retreat for the rich—within a stone’s throw of New York City, but surprisingly green and bucolic.
In the stretch of Route 9 between Irvington and Tarrytown there is a conspicuous concentration of opulent residences. The most famous is arguably Sunnyside, the house of Washington Irving, which now seems like a cottage compared to its neighbors. Nearby is the Belvedere Estate, which once belonged to Samuel Bronfman, owner of Seagram Company, of Canadian whisky fame—though it now serves as the headquarters for the Unificationists, a Korean-Christian version of scientology. And there is also Shadowbrook, a Gilded Age mansion owned by famed jazz saxophonist Stan Getz.
More historical is Villa Lewaro, an Italianate mansion owned by Madam C. J. Walker, the first female self-made millionaire in America—a feat even more impressive considering that she was an African American, living at the turn of the century. She made her wealth by selling beauty products marketed for black women, and then became a noted philanthropist. During her life, Villa Lewaro became an important meeting place for black intellectuals of the Harlem Renaissance.
But the grandest of all of these mansions is Lyndhurst. Rising like a misplaced cathedral over the Hudson, Lyndhurst is a spectacular example of neo-gothic architecture. It was first built for William Paulding, mayor of New York City, and a relative of both John Paulding (the Revolutionary War hero who caught the treasonous Major John André) and, through his sister’s marriage, of Washington Irving. Its extravagant style led locals to deem it “Paulding’s Folly,” though the subsequent owner, George Merrit, expanded the house and made it even more fanciful. Both the original house and the expansion were designed by Alexander Jackson Davis, one of the most sought after architects of his day.
Yet the name most associated with Lyndhurst is that of Jay Gould. It is a name that was widely columniated during his life, and his reputation has hardly improved since his death in 1892. Gould was one of the most famous and despised robber barons, who manipulated markets, bribed politicians, and bent and broke the law in order to maintain his dominance. Unlike Cornelius Vanderbilt, say, Gould’s opulence was not due to his founding a useful business. He was more like Warren Buffet than Bill Gates—an investor, not an entrepreneur. Still, in his defense it must be admitted that, like Vanderbilt or Rockefeller or Carnegie, Gould was a self-made man, born into poverty. (Unlike Rockefeller or Carnegie, however, Gould never became a prominent philanthropist.)
Lyndhurst, as it stands today, is much as Gould left it. The visit begins in the old Carriage House, where there is a gift shop, an informational film, and where you sign up for the tour. (The house can only be visited with a guide.) The interior continues the gothic theme of the facade. The ceilings are vaulted, and the narrow windows curve into a pointed arch (making some rooms of the house rather dark). Imitations of gothic tracery even adorn some of the walls. The furniture, too, is in keeping with the severity of the aesthetic, but several lovely examples of Tiffany stained glass do help to alleviate the stuffy atmosphere.
A curious detail, pointed out by the guide, is the use of paint to imitate other materials. While many surfaces appear at first glance to be marble, they are, in reality, painted wood. Meanwhile, the gothic ceilings, window panes, and tracery are made of wood and plaster rather than real stone. This would seem rather counterintuitive, since Gould certainly could afford any medium he wished. But at the time it was considered both fashionable and luxurious to use faux materials. (There is a fine line, apparently, between extreme luxury and garbage.)
The second floor of the house is dominated by a central gallery, which is brightened by the large windows. This is filled with oil paintings—by lesser-known European masters—most of which can loosely be described as 18th century Romantic realism. Among the collection, however, is a rendering of the Jay Gould Memorial Chapel, a beautiful stone church he helped to reconstruct, as well as a study for the Tiffany stained glass windows to be installed in the chapel. There is also a portrait of Gould himself, who always comes across to me as a misplaced barfly, with his unkempt beard and surly expression.
The two opulent master bedrooms open out into this sun-filled art gallery, making a sharp contrast with the dark, almost church-like ground floor. I would feel rather depressed eating in the pseudo-cathedral of a dining room, but quite happy waking up to such a beautiful, open space.
With its strange mixture of neo-gothic, faux-materials, and ersatz religion, Lyndhurst is one of the most memorable of the great Hudson Valley mansions—surpassed in extravagance, perhaps, only by Frederic Church’s Olana. However, as with so many of these great houses, the gardens are ultimately the pleasanter place.
On its great lawn, jazz concerts are held in the summer, organized by Jazz Forum Arts, which hosts performances all along the Hudson Valley. It is crossed by two prominent trails, the Old Croton Aqueduct and the newer Westchester RiverWalk. There, the walker can enjoy the rose garden, which is reliably swarming with bees and other pollinators, and take in the ruins of the old Greenhouse, which once contained over 40,000 plants, but is now just an empty frame.
If you continue walking south along the Old Croton Aqueduct for about two hours—or, alternately, if you drive twenty minutes down Route 9—you will reach yet another grand Hudson estate. This one, however, is conspicuously lacking the mansion. Much like William Rockefeller’s Rockwood, the resplendent Greystone has long since been demolished (leaving only its name in the nearby Metro-North station). But what survived is arguably better than even the finest old residence. It is perhaps the loveliest garden in the Hudson Valley.
The bygone Greystone mansion
I am referring, of course, to the Untermyer Park and Gardens. Samuel Untermyer was another colorful figure from a bygone age. A lawyer by profession, he somehow made his fortune by fighting against corporate interests. He was an enemy of trusts and monopolies, an advocate of stock market regulation, and instrumental in the establishment of the Federal Reserve. He was also, as it happens, an avid botanist, who wanted to create gardens that would outshine even the landscape at John D. Rockefeller’s Kykuit. Thus, he hired the French-trained architect and designer William W. Bosworth—indeed, the same one the Rockefeller’s hired—to make him the finest gardens that money could buy.
The result is something unlike any other garden I have visited. It is surrounded by high walls, apparently in imitation of old Persian models. After passing under two shady weeping beeches, the central waterway leads the visitor’s eye down the highly symmetrical space. In its focus on flowing water, the garden is indeed reminiscent of its Moorish counterparts in the Alhambra, though the wet climate of the Hudson Valley allows for a proliferation of plant life—rhododendrons, lilies, hollies, hydrangea, amid much else—that is wholly unlike its Islamic models. This central space terminates in a large reflecting pool, over which two sphinxes preside.
After exploring this space (the pseudo-Greek Temple of the Sky was closed when I visited), you can walk down the long, cedar-lined stairway to the Overlook. This may be the best spot on the Hudson to enjoy the palisades, as the view somehow presents the illusion of a wholly undeveloped river, with no human habitation in sight. From there, a path leads to another pseudo-Greek edifice, the Temple of Love—sitting on top of an artificial rocky outcropping, from which a stream trickles down. It would, indeed, be a good place to take someone on a date—scenic, romantic, and free of charge.
It is heartening to see the gardens in such fine shape, as they suffered long periods of neglect after Untermyer’s passing in 1940. He wished to will both the mansion and the gardens to the public, but the cost of upkeep proved so daunting that the property was refused by New York State and Westchester County. The city of Yonkers eventually agreed to accept a small parcel of the original estate, though it quickly fell into disrepair and suffered vandalism. In the 1990s, community leaders began advocating for the purchase of more land, and in 2011 the Untermyer Gardens Conservancy started restoring the park to its former glory.
Even now, however, the beautiful gardens are only a shadow of what they once were. During Untermyer’s life, they had sixty greenhouses, tended by sixty gardeners, and was considered one of the centers of botany in the country. Yet what is left is remarkable enough—and all the more remarkable that it is free and open to the public.
Before the advent of “modern art” in the 20th century, the United States was considered something of a backwater as far as painting was concerned. Any American painter with an ounce of ambition had to travel to Paris and spend time copying masterpieces in the Louvre in order to become respectable.
This is precisely what Samuel Morse did. For two years he worked on what was supposed to be his masterpiece, The Gallery of the Louvre, in which he painstakingly reproduced several European masterworks in miniature. This technical tour de force, proof of his hard-earned artistic prowess, earned him—well, very little, which is why he quit painting thereafter and went into the telegraph business. Thus the eponymous code.
Of the American artists who did achieve success during this time, such as Mary Cassat, John Singer Sargent, and James McNeil Whistler, they all spent formative years in Paris and worked in thoroughly European modes.
But one school of genuinely American painting emerged in the 19th century which owed relatively little to the Old World. This was the Hudson River School. This consisted of grand, sweeping landscapes, capturing the relatively (to Europe) wild and untouched countryside. And though artists in this school would eventually paint all over the United States—and beyond—it is named for the place it began: the Hudson Valley.
It took a foreigner to see the beauty in the American landscape, and the potential to turn it into a new sort of painting. Having grown up in grimy, gritty England—in the throes of the industrial revolution—and moved to the United States as a young man, Thomas Cole (1801 – 1848) was deeply impressed by the endless green hills of the Hudson Valley.
Cole arrived in Catskill, New York, in his early 30s, and rented a room in Cedar Grove, the home of the Thomsons, a prosperous local family. A few years later he married Maria Bartow, a niece of the paterfamilias, and made the house his permanent home. What is now the Thomas Cole National Historic Site is, therefore, the ancestral Thomson residence.
The main house is a beautiful building in the Federal-style, constructed in the early days of the nation, with a lovely porch that wraps around the front. The view from the porch is, indeed, worthy of a picture, with the green-blue profile of the Catskills rolling in the distance. It is not difficult to see why the painter chose to live here. While the Catskills lack the dramatic rocky ridges of the great European mountain chains, the soft, undulating green carpet seems to embody the gentleness of nature.
Due to a navigation error, my mother and I arrived late for the “Deep Dive” tour of the house. Still, we got plenty of information. The house is well-conserved and presented. There are reproductions of many of Cole’s letters and journal entries scattered about, as well as several original paintings. The majority of Cole’s paintings portray rugged landscapes where small figures are dwarfed by nature, though at times he included wild architectural fancies, such as a blue pyramid in The Architect’s Dream.
Upstairs, the museum has the last painting that Cole ever worked on, still unfinished. A cloudy blue sky hovers over a featureless brown landscape, revealing the painter’s process—painting from top to bottom. The only clue as to what he intended to paint below are two figures holding a cross, scratched roughly into the paint. Yet still more eye-catching is his Diagram of Contrasts, a color wheel painted over a black background, which looks startling like a work of contemporary abstract art. Indeed, Cole’s description of the work in his diary is reminiscent of Kandinsky:
It is what may be called the music of colours. I believe that colours are capable of affecting the mind, by combination, degree, and arrangement, like sound.
My favorite part of the visit was a video in Thomas Cole’s original studio (a room which he hated, since its only light source was a window facing north). Using his diaries, the museum recreated a hike that he took in the Catskills, juxtaposing his sketches and paintings with photos of the scene now. Cole’s final product may not compare favorably with, say, The Last Supper; but it would never have occurred to that Italian genius—or, indeed, to any major European painter up to this time—to use hiking as a basis of artistic inspiration. It was a major innovation.
The Thomas Cole National Historic Site includes not only the main house, but several other buildings on the property. There is the visitor center, of course, and also two buildings that Cole designed himself: the Old and the New Studios. The Old Studio—which Cole used for the most productive years of his life—is little more than an adjunct to an old barn, with extra windows for good lighting. The New Studio was wholly designed by Cole, but was demolished in the 70s. It has since been reconstructed according to his design and now serves as an art gallery.
Thomas Cole died young, at the age of 47. But the movement he founded culminated in the work of his star pupil, Frederic Edwin Church (1826 – 1900). As a young artist, Church was a frequent visitor to Cole’s home; and it is easy to picture the young artist admiring the green hillside on the other side of the Hudson. After achieving both fame and wealth far beyond anything Cole could have dreamed of, Church bought himself a huge estate, and erected one of the most startling buildings in the Hudson Valley: Olana.
This property can be spotted from Cedar Grove, as a red dot among the green hills. Indeed, as of 2018, visitors can even walk from Cedar Grove to Olana, thanks to a pedestrian walkway that was affixed to the Rip Van Winkle Bridge. I walked part of the way and recommend the experience, if only for the wonderful views of the river and the Catskills beyond.
Olana amid the hills, seen from across the river, with the Rip Van Winkle Bridge to the left.
Here is the reverse view, from the porch of Olana.
(Curious motorists may notice that the road from the bridge curves somewhat awkwardly on the western side. This was precisely to avoid disturbing Thomas Cole’s historic residence.)
Olana presents a startling vision to the new visitor. You see, Church was a remarkably well-traveled man, especially considering that he lived before the age of air-travel. He designed Olana—in collaboration with famed architect, Calvert Vaux—after returning from the Middle East, basing both the design and the name on Persian models. (In this, he resembles an earlier Hudson Valley resident, Washington Irving, who built his Sunnyside after returning from Spain.)
Historically, painting has been a poorly remunerated profession. Van Gogh famously died penniless, but even the great Rembrandt was considered as little more than skilled craftsman. Of course, most aspiring painters still carry the cross of poverty; but in the 20th century it became at least possible for the most successful artists to become independently wealthy.
So how was Church able to afford such an ostentatious house on one of the most attractive bluffs overlooking the Hudson Valley? This was partly the result of an innovative business practice. In addition to having wealthy patrons who supported him and bought his work—the life-blood of artists for centuries—Church hit upon the idea of touring with his paintings. That is, he sold admission to his works, which would be exhibited in well-lit rooms complete with benches, from which the eager audience could view the painting with opera glasses. At the time, it must have been like a trip to the movies.
This idea worked because of how and what Church painted. Like his mentor, Cole, Church was primarily a landscape painter; but he worked on a grander scale—painting enormous canvasses that could occupy the entire wall—and traveled to far more “exotic” landscapes.
His most famous painting, In the Heart of the Andes, is an excellent example. Inspired by the naturalist Alexander von Humboldt, Church traveled to a land where few Westerners had dared to go, and took painstaking care to accurately capture it all on his canvass—from plant species to climate zones. At a time before color photography, when long-distance travel was inaccessible to the vast majority, the painting must have been a startling window into a distant, alien world. It was a David Attenborough documentary for the 19th century. (You can see this enormous canvass in the Met, where it still may steal your breath.)
The house at Olana unites Church’s dominant interests: landscape, art, and travel. The many arched windows open out onto views of the Hudson Valley and the Catskills that are, indeed, worthy of a painting. And in addition to the house’s odd profile—a kind of Victorian imitation of Persian design, altered to suit a cold climate—it is further distinguished by the many stenciled designs that run along the walls, inside and out. Church designed these stencils himself; and along with striped awnings and colorful roof tiles, they serve to give the house a visual flair quite foreign to most American mansions.
The furnishing of the house reflects Church’s wide travels, as various knicknacks from Mexico and the Middle East are scattered among the elegant furniture. But the main thing the visitor sees are paintings. There are dozens of them—not only by Church, but also Cole and other artist acquaintances. The vast majority of these are landscapes, which again demonstrate both his immaculate technique and his wide travels. Compared to Cole’s more staid style, Church is a cinematic painter, whose landscapes transport you into another world. I would certainly have paid admission to see one.
In addition to Church’s home, the visitor can enjoy his estate, which must be one of the most attractive pieces of property in the entire Hudson Valley. But as it happened, we had to go west on the day we visited; so instead of strolling on the carriage roads, we got in the car and headed to a site on the Hudson River Art Trail: Kaaterskill Falls.
The name of this waterfall—like the name of the Catskills themselves—comes from “cat” (as in bobcat, which presumably were more common in earlier times) and “kill,” an old Dutch term for a stream. Indeed, throughout New York, the curious visitor will find many streams bearing ominous names, like the Sing Sing Kill or Beaverkill.
The falls are magnificent. A stream of water plunges down over 200 feet from a sheer cliff, making them taller than Niagara Falls, if orders of magnitude less powerful. It was largely thanks to Thomas Cole that the falls became a popular tourist attraction in the early United States, who was the first of many to popularize the cascade in paintings. On the day we visited, there were people swimming in the murky pool below, while dozens looked on, awestruck. It is easy to see how Cole was inspired to start a new artistic movement by this landscape.
The guy at the bagel store had noticed my camera. I was in Inwood, far uptown, waiting for my friend Greg.
“Oh, you know. A bit of everything, I guess.”
“Got any kind of social media I can follow?”
Very flattered, I typed in my Instagram on his proffered phone.
“I’m not famous or anything,” I said, and took another bite of my bagel—everything, with lox, cream cheese, and onions. A New York classic.
“I’m sure you got a lotta stories with these photos, boss,” he said, very kindly.
I tried to say “thank you” but, mid chew, only managed “thnnn ynnn.”
Greg arrived five minutes later. After ordering something for himself—“There is only one type of bagel,” he proclaimed: “everything”—we headed out. We were starting our walk to the bottom of Manhattan.
At my insistence, we had started late. I hate getting up early on the weekend, and so I set our rendezvous for 1 p.m.—which, of course, meant that we didn’t get moving until 1:30.
Where I began the walk, at Marble Hill, walking over the East River.
It was a brilliant summer day, hot but not too hot, and blessedly not humid. Our plan, if it deserved the name, was to follow Broadway all the way from the East River to The Battery. However, we also had an agreement—nearly fatal—that we would stop at anything that caught our eye. This happened almost immediately.
To our right, we noticed an old wooden house that looked jarringly out of place. A sign proclaimed it Dyckman Farm, the oldest—and possibly, the only—extant farmhouse on the island of Manhattan. Naturally, we had to visit.
The Dyckman family was of old Dutch stock, having arrived in the 1600s. During the Revolutionary War, however, they fled upstate to avoid the British occupation, returning later to find their original property destroyed. Thus, the current structure dates from around 1785.
Yet the description did not focus exclusively on this family, instead devoting ample space to the many enslaved people who worked and lived on the property, as well as the indigenous people who lived here before. “This is definitely not how it would’ve been described when we were kids,” Greg remarked, quite truly.
The visit cost us $3 and was short and sweet. Two things stick out in my memory. One was a small exhibit about the games that were played by the family, including a playable set of nine men’s morris—a board game even older than chess—with rules printed on the wall. If we had more time, we would’ve had a go. Upstairs, in the bedroom, the walls were decorated with “samplers,” which were embroidered fabrics meant to showcase the skill, class, and devotion of a young woman, in order to secure a favorable match. Tinder profiles seem more efficient, though perhaps less worthy to be deemed family heirlooms.
Yet, for me, the most startling item on display had nothing to do with the farm at all. It was a photograph of the construction of the Dyckman Street subway station, from 1905. What is striking about the image is the almost complete lack of a visible urban presence. It is a stunning reminder of how recent the city’s explosive growth has been. (The photo also intrigues for the apparently nonsensical decision to build public transit into empty land—a paradox resolved by the assurance that the land would be quickly populated once the subway was up and running.)
It is hard to believe that Manhattan ever looked like this.
Our walk continued. Broadway took us alongside Fort Tryon Park, a lovely green space overlooking the Hudson River. We briefly considered visiting the Met Cloisters, which sits atop the large hill, but wisely decided it would take too much time.
Now we were in the Heights. Manhattan above Harlem hardly feels like Manhattan at all. It is another world, an outer borough. With a few exceptions, the buildings are just a few stories tall, and there are virtually no tourists to speak of. This part of town is predominantly Latino. You see just as much Spanish as English in store windows, and hear more of it spoken in the streets. Men in tank tops, sitting on folding chairs, play dominoes on the sidewalk as if it were their front lawn. At one point, we passed by a family having a full-blown cookout, with giant trays of spaghetti and rice and beans. The food looked so good that I was a millimeter away from asking for a plate—when my better judgment forced my legs to keep walking.
On any walk through Manhattan, there are some sights that are unavoidable. A fire hydrant leaking water into the streets, for example, or some pigeons having a feeding frenzy. Rats dart from beneath giant mounds of reeking garbage bags. Orange funnels in the street ooze steam into the air—a byproduct of Con Edison’s massive steam heating system belowground—and identical wooden water towers sit inexplicably above every tall building.
But perhaps the most omnipresent Manhattan sight is scaffolding. There are about 400 miles of it in New York City, on seemingly every other building. Remarking on this, Greg recommended John Wilson’s episode on scaffolding, which is a deep dive into the surprisingly strange world of pedestrian protection. I second the recommendation. But here is the short version.
Scaffolding: a ubiquitous sight in Manhattan
In 1979, Grace Gold, a freshman student at Barnard College, was tragically killed when a piece of debris fell off a building, striking her in the head. This led her older sister, Lori, to a dogged campaign to prevent further tragedies, culminating in the passing of Local Law 11. This mandates the inspection and maintenance of the façades of buildings over six floors tall, every five years. During this work, scaffolds (also called sidewalk sheds) are put up to protect pedestrians below.
The scaffolds present a kind of obstacle course for the pedestrian. Sometimes they provide needed shade, or a place to lean and hang out; and for many New Yorkers, they become a kind of outdoor living room. They can also narrow the sidewalk and cut off pathways, creating annoying detours and bottlenecks. Businesses hate them for decreasing foot traffic, and tourists for ruining photos of iconic buildings.
This time around, it struck me how nearly all of these classic elements of the city—the garbage bags, the water towers, the steam vents, the scaffolds, and even the fire escapes—are absent from the other city I know best: Madrid. Indeed, they are absent from most other American cities, too. Yet when I lived in New York, it never even occurred to me that these features could be unique or identifying.
Now, I have created my own detour, and must return to the walk.
Our first major city landmark was the George Washington Bridge. We passed underneath the busiest bridge in the world and were immediately waylaid by some street vendors. Greg got himself a ring and an outrageous bracelet—successfully bargaining down the price—and we were off again, heading towards Harlem.
Broadway does not take you through any of the most iconic spots in Harlem, which are further east. But it does run by one of the most grandiose and least-known museums in the city: the Hispanic Society of America.
As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, its name is somewhat misleading. Though it is in a “hispanic” neighborhood, the museum is mainly devoted to Spanish cultural heritage; and is not, and has never been, a learned “society.”
The museum is housed in Audubon Terrace, a beautiful beaux-arts complex of buildings. And though it is still not fully open after its years-long renovation, it is free to visit, and was a very pleasant place to cool off for a few minutes. For me, it is a measure of the city’s internationalism that, on top of all of the cultures and countries represented in its boroughs and neighborhoods, I can find a panoramic series of paintings depicting all of the regions of my new homeland—by one of Spain’s greatest painters.
Broadway took us within striking distance of two other Harlem landmarks—Hamilton’s Grange and City College’s magnificent neogothic campus—but we powered on, down to 125th street, where we knew a bar with an excellent happy-hour deal on wine. My brother, Jay (who had previously done this walk, and so didn’t want to subject himself to it again), would meet us there, as Greg and I tried to limit our wine intake so as not to sabotage the journey.
This is, coincidentally, one of the most picturesque stretches of Broadway. The street dips low and then rises up again, which forces the adjacent Subway Line 1 to briefly become elevated above-ground. A century ago, Manhattan actually resembled Chicago in its plethora of elevated metro lines; but most train lines have since been moved underground.
For my part, though I can understand hating the noise and resenting the obstructed views, I think there is something remarkably charming about these elevated lines. The criss-crossing steel beams, looming overhead, evoke a moment in industrial history when technology was both gritty and excitingly new. And the view from the train is certainly better. In any case, the large arch over West 125th Street is worthy of a poem.
As you get into Harlem, one sight becomes omnipresent: public housing. These mainly take the form of square, red-brick buildings, surrounded by small grassy lawns. Admittedly, most of my knowledge of these housing projects comes from reading The Power Broker, wherein Caro describes how Robert Moses destroyed old neighborhoods to make way for soulless housing that was, in many respects, worse than what it replaced. But as the city—and, especially, Manhattan—confronts an ever-worsening housing crisis, it occurs to me that we may have to give the idea of public housing another look.
At one point on the walk, the sidewalk narrowed into a kind of tunnel, due to construction on the building next door. And for whatever reason, the pavement was littered with the lifeless bodies of spotted lanternflies. This is an insect pest, originally from southeast Asia, which has spread far and wide due to human activity (they lay their eggs on pieces of wood, which then get transported). Though the insect is actually quite beautiful—with brilliant red wings and an attractive spotted pattern—and though it poses no direct threat to people, New Yorkers were encouraged to kill them on sight for the threat they pose to agriculture and the environment generally.
By now, they’ve probably multiplied to such an extent that killing them doesn’t do any good; but we still did our part and murdered the three or four remaining living insects on the sidewalk.
“It’s like a level of a video game,” Greg joked, as we exited the lanternfly tunnel.
The best picture I’ve managed to get of a lanternfly, taken from inside a bodega.
Now we were entering the vicinity of Columbia University, whose presence stretches far beyond its main campus. One obvious sign that we were entering its orbit was the proliferation of bookstores and book stands. This was perilous for the both of us. Anyone who knows me is aware of my fondness for the written word. And Greg, well… he’s a history professor. If our odyssey was like a video game, then this level was far more challenging than the lanternflies. We had to resist the pull of knowledge.
Greg looking phenomenal next to a strange statue adorning an empty parking lot.
I did, however, take the opportunity to buy Greg a book I’d been recommending him for some time: Times Square Red, Times Square Blue, by science fiction writer Samuel R. Delany.
Now, to give you some background, Rudy Giuliani’s campaign to clean up Times Square has often been celebrated as an example of successful urban redevelopment. Before Giuliani’s stint as mayor—that is, from the 1960s to the early 90s—Times Square was considered a rather seedy area, full of porn theaters, peep shows, and nightclubs. Far from a tourist attraction, it was an area most people tried to avoid. Its transformation from a symbol of the city’s decline to its star attraction is thus usually heralded as a triumph.
Delany calls into question this basic narrative, and he does so with stories of his own explorations—and sexual adventures—in the old, sordid Times Square. For a sex-positive, anti-gentrification, urban studies academic, and a proud New Yorker to boot (in other words, my friend Greg), this seemed like the perfect read.
The real highlight of this part of town was a visit to Tom’s Restaurant, the diner featured on Seinfeld. For such an iconic spot, it is wonderfully unpretentious, with reasonable prices and a classic diner atmosphere. We took the opportunity to order some milkshakes, and I heartily recommend the same to anyone in the area.
We kept going, moving out of Harlem and into the Upper West Side. This is easily one of the architectural highlights of the city, mainly due to the many ostentatious apartment hotels—the Dakota, the San Remo, the Hotel Belleclaire—that were built in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, by architects such as Emery Roth. Indeed, this part of Manhattan could easily rival the heart of Paris for its elegance and beauty. Even the subway station at 72nd street is a monument. Rather than try to explain any more myself, however, I will recommend this excellent video by Architectural Digest—as well as their YouTube channel generally. It is some of the best content available about the city.
But I will pause to savor the pizza we had at one of my favorite New York spots: Freddie & Pepper’s. All of us ordered the same thing: a slice with tomato, basil, and fresh mozzarella. It was exactly what we needed to continue our walk.
Now, I would like to take a moment to consider the smells of the city. Though some, like pizza, are conspicuously good, for the most part Manhattan is malodorous: hot garbage, urine, car exhaust, bodies covered in sweat… But lately a new smell has taken over: marijuana. It is not exactly the most pleasant odor (at times it can smell remarkably like a skunk), but it is certainly omnipresent since the legalization, in 2021, of recreational cannabis.
One of the ideas behind legalization was to treat cannabis like wine or liquor, selling it at licensed stores. However, since the unlicensed distribution network was already (shall we say) quite robust, unlicensed stores and stands popped up throughout the city before the legal venues could get a foothold, much to the embarrassment of politicians. Indeed, a major government crackdown was taking place during the week of our walk, leading to the shutdown of over 750 illegal stores. Crackdowns notwithstanding, the city has certainly taken to legal weed with gusto.
The last major sight in the Upper West that we passed was Lincoln Center. We sat down to rest in the nearby Richard Tucker Park, while a bored-looking young woman sang operatic arias—quite well, really—in order to “fund her education.” Puccini and Verdi notwithstanding, I had the music of West Side Story in my head. It was here, after all, that the original movie was filmed—in the ruins of the demolished San Juan Hill neighborhood—and where the Steven Spielberg remake was set.
Greg, looking very serious about this walk.
Robert Moses enters this story once again, as it was the notorious commissioner who spearheaded the project—seizing the land from the working-class, multi-ethnic residents of the neighborhood, and then razing the property in order to make way for the city’s new bougie performing arts center. In other words, it was yet another chapter in the long history of Manhattan’s gentrification. At least Lincoln Center looks good.
Finally, as Broadway slowly bent eastward, we hit the next major landmark on our walk: Columbus Circle. This meant that we had finally gotten below Central Park, and were officially entering Midtown Manhattan. The entrance to the park was bustling with activity, as hot dog vendors and the drivers of horse-drawn carriages and pedicabs vied for the tourist’s attention (and money). Yet what struck our collective attention was the large monument on the park’s southwest corner. We stared at it, wondering at its significance, until Jay looked it up on his phone:
“It’s a monument to the USS Maine!”
Now, you may be forgiven for not remembering the significance of this ship. This was an armored cruiser that exploded and sank in Havana’s harbor in 1898, with the loss of 268 sailors. And though the evidence that it had been deliberately attacked by the Spanish was weak at best, the ship’s sinking became a cause célèbre which led to the Spanish American War. Nowadays, neither the Maine nor the war itself (which was basically an American colonial power-grab) are much remembered or remarked upon by Americans. Enormous monuments notwithstanding, the war had a more lasting cultural impact in Spain, as the country’s embarrassing loss to the upstart United States prompted severe self-doubt among its intellectuals, who were dubbed the Generation of ‘98.
Above us, some of the tallest buildings in Manhattan soared off into the sky. This is Billionaire’s Row, a collection of supertall, pencil-thin, ultra-luxury apartment buildings at the bottom of Central Park. For me, though the skyscrapers are impressive as feats of engineering, the buildings make a dubious addition to Manhattan’s skyline—imposingly tall, but not particularly pretty. And, of course, it is rather depressing to have the city’s silhouette dominated by properties to be used as investments for the super rich.
Almost as soon as we left Columbus Circle, we entered Times Square. Far from a discrete part of the city, Times Square seemed to spread impossibly far, its bright and suffocating tentacles strangling block after block. It seems unnecessary to describe the scene—the smothering crowds of gaping tourists, the blinding lights and flashing signs, the street acrobats occupying the sidewalks, the Elmos and Marios and Mickey Mouses (some with their helmets off, smoking a cigarette)—but I do want to mention the religious fanatic, who was standing on a street corner and yelling that Christianity had abandoned Jesus Christ. A man in a wifebeater stopped to shout “Fake news!” nonsensically at the preacher, and his young son did the same.
Greg and Jay took off like rockets—or, should I say, like real New Yorkers—once we hit Times Square, weaving and bobbing through the crowd like professional boxers. I could hardly keep up, though I did my best. It is a truth universally acknowledged by native New Yorkers that Times Square is to be avoided at all costs. And I have to admit that, by the time we got to the end of it—power walking in sullen silence through the crowds—I yearned for a few porn theaters or gogo bars to scare away the tourists. In other words, Samuel R. Delany may have had a point.
Right as we were approaching the southern end of Times Square, and the limit of our tolerance, we passed by a glowing neon American Flag, in front of which a drag queen was yelling into a megaphone, leading a boisterous anti-Trump rally. Just across the street there was a decidedly smaller pro-Trump rally, trying in vain to maintain a similar energy-level. My favorite character was a very calm black man who stood next to the Trumpers, casually holding a Black Lives Matter sign and chatting to his friend.
From here on, the walk entered its most grueling phase. The sun had set and we were all tired—especially me. In perfect frankness, I was suffering from an affliction that often plagues me during my summers in New York: chafing. Suffice to say that, by the time we got past 42nd street, every step I took was a minor agony. Added to this, I had chosen badly and worn my sandals for the walk, which meant my toes were grinding against pebbles and dirt, covering the sides of my feet in blisters.
By the time we got to 30th street, I was waddling like a duck, and in no mood to appreciate architectural treasures. In any case, the city was quite dark by now—and surprisingly dead. From 42nd street to 14th, we did not pass by a single store that attracted our attention. And though it was a Saturday in midtown Manhattan, the streets were surprisingly empty, mostly consisting of people dressed up for expensive outings elsewhere.
A silent rave we passed, in Herald Square
Finally, the Flatiron Building came into view. But something else attracted our attention, a large circular TV monitor. This was the New York-Dublin Portal, an art installation by Benediktas Gylys that opened this year. It is a simple but intriguing concept: a two-way video call so that residents of the two cities can wave at one another. But bad behavior shut down the portal for a week in May. People from both cities couldn’t resist exposing themselves, and a few on the Dublin side had the bright idea to display images of the September 11 attacks.
I was looking forward to waving to some Dubliners (despite the risk of getting flashed). Unfortunately for us, by the time we arrived the portal was closed for the day.
We did at least pause for a drink at an outdoor food stand. It was well past nine o’clock at night and we were all pretty ragged. The prospect of accepting defeat was seriously raised. We did not have much more in the tank. For my part, I badly wanted a shower and to change out of my sticky, stinky clothes. But I wanted to finish the walk even more. And when we saw on our phones that we had just over an hour to go, we decided we had to finish what we started.
Back on our feet—though walking slow—we got to Union Square. In normal times, this is one of my favorite parts of Manhattan (which is generally lacking in green space away from Central Park), but now I just felt a sense of relief that we were recognizably downtown.
I did pause to look up at Metronome, an art installation at the bottom of the park. It consists of a hole that periodically blows smoke rings, next to a series of numbers which don’t make any obvious sense. For years, I would wonder what the numbers might mean, to no avail. It turns out that the digits are a strange kind of clock, displaying (from left to right) the hours, minutes, and seconds from the last midnight, and then the seconds, minutes, and hours to the next one. Not particularly useful, I’d say.
However, since 2020 the display has been repurposed to make a Climate Clock, which counts down years and days to 1.5°C of warming—a number considered to be a threshold for many of the worst effects of climate change. As of this writing, we’re slated to pass over this threshhold on July 21, 2029. Yikes.
Just down the street we passed by one of my favorite spots in the whole city: The Strand Bookstore. It was probably fortunate that, by the time we limped by, it was closed for the day. We couldn’t have survived another delay.
This was the final stretch. The street numbers were falling, 4th, 3rd… until the numbers ceased, and all of the streets had names. We crossed Houston street (pronounced “Howston” in contrast to the city of “Hyooston”) and into SoHo. This was Old Manhattan, Dutch Manhattan, New Amsterdam—the original, chaotic colony, whose criss-crossing streets contrast sharply with the ordered grid of the city’s later expansion northward.
We walked on in relative silence. There was nothing more to say—except complaints. By now I looked as bad as I felt, hobbling down the sidewalk, trying my best to tune out the pain from my lower limbs. I did not have the mental energy to contemplate the African Burial Grounds National Monument, nor to even register City Hall, St. Paul’s Chapel, or Trinity Church…
It was only when we got to the financial district, and passed the iconic Bull Statue, that my spirits lifted. I could smell the water now. We were close.
The final stretch felt like a triumphal march, as we walked through the “Canyon of Heroes.” These are black granite plaques commemorating all of the ticker-tape parades held in New York’s history. You see, it used to be customary to fête important visitors with large parades, in which shredded paper would be thrown everywhere. The tradition started as a spontaneous celebration of the Statue of Liberty’s dedication. Most of the celebrants were visiting dignitaries, heads of state, military heroes, and—most prominently—great aviators. It is a rather charming reminder of the intense excitement of the early days of trans-Atlantic flight.
We finally exited Broadway and entered the Battery. The air was notably cooler, the sounds of the city mixed with crickets. There were surprisingly few people about. We turned a corner and, in the distance, Lady Liberty herself came into view—on the other side of a chain-link fence (a rather depressing image, really). I sat down heavily on a bench, too tired and sore to feel much of anything but relief. But we had made it, from the top to the bottom. It had only taken us 10 hours.
As an epilogue, I wanted to pay my respects to perhaps an unlikely hero of this post: Utagawa Hiroshige. A few weeks previous to this walk, the three of us—Greg, Jay, and I—had seen an exhibit in the Brooklyn Museum of Hiroshige’s celebrated series of woodblock prints, One Hundred Famous Views of Edo.
What impressed me most in those images was Hiroshige’s ability to display so many different aspects of the city that would become Tokyo: its parks, its seasons, its festivals, its streets and buildings, and its people—from priests to prostitutes. It struck me as remarkable that Hiroshige was able to find such beauty in familiar surroundings. But perhaps all he needed for inspiration was a very long walk.
Of the many famous names associated with the Hudson Valley—John D. Rockefeller, Alexander Hamilton, Washington Irving, just to name a few—one name looms over them all: Franklin Delano Roosevelt. He needs no introduction. As president, he guided the nation through two existential threats; and he did much of his work from the home where he was born, overlooking the Hudson River.
The young cousin of the great Teddy Roosevelt—whose own stately home Long Island, Sagamore Hill, has also been turned into a monument—Franklin was from a wealthy family. His father, James, had a degree in law but chose to stop practicing, having received an ample inheritance. It was James who purchased the property in 1866, which he dubbed “Springwood” (a fairly bland name, if you ask me). And it was here, on January 30th, 1882, that his son Franklin was born.
When Franklin himself inherited the house, in 1900, he set about expanding and improving the place. Children notwithstanding, the extra space was mainly to house his collections of books, prints, model ships, stuffed birds, and other paraphernalia. He was apparently something of a packrat. But the result of this remodeling is a beautiful neoclassical structure—grand, without being grandiose.
Having been donated to the government two years before his death, the furnishings of the house are perfectly preserved. Often these are just the sort of things one might expect to see in the house of a patrician: fine furniture, oil paintings, expensive pottery. But a few things stick out in my memory. The most impressive room in the house is Franklin’s library, a beautiful space with dark, polished oak bookshelves filled to the brim. Other rooms are surprising for their simplicity. The bedrooms are anything but luxurious; and the dining room, though elegant, hardly seems big enough for the entourage of the head of state.
Undoubtedly the loveliest aspect of the house is its location. The view of the Hudson Valley from its upper floors could hardly be improved. It is no wonder that the young Franklin came to have a keen appreciation for natural scenery—doing more to expand America’s national parks than even his mustachioed cousin.
The tour of the house is relatively brief. After that, the visitor is free to explore the grounds. Nearby are the stables (Franklin’s father was an avid horse breeder), and I was amused to find a plaque for a horse named “New Deal.”
My mom and my brother, who was in his pandemic mustache phase
But the most moving spot on the entire property is Franklin’s tomb. As per his instructions, he is buried in his garden, where a sundial used to stand, encircled by roses. His tombstone is plain white marble, devoid of any decorations. The president died unexpectedly at the age of 63, of a brain hemorrhage, after being elected a record four times. His body was carried in a grand and somber procession to this place, as the shocked nation mourned his loss.
Interred with him is his wife, Eleanor, who died seventeen years later, in 1962. She was just as much a revolutionary as her husband, and transformed what it meant to be First Lady. If I had properly done my research, I would have gone to see her famous residence, Val-Kill, which is about two miles east of Springwood. Eleanor purchased this property along with two women’s rights activists, Nancy Cook and Marion Dickerman. There, they put into practice their idea of handicrafts (heavily influenced by the art critic John Ruskin), teaching locals to make pewter and furniture.
The site is perhaps more interesting for its LGBT history, as Cook and Marion were romantic partners, and Eleanor herself had a long relationship with the journalist Lorena Hickok. (FDR, for his part, had a prolonged affair with Lucy Mercer Rutherford, Eleanor’s social secretary. You can say that they had a modern marriage.)
Closeby is Top Cottage. Aside from Jefferson’s architectural wonders in Virginia, this is actually the only building designed by a sitting president. It is certainly not a showpiece. Indeed, the cottage was primarily designed to be more wheelchair accessible, after his bout with polio in 1921 left FDR’s legs paralyzed. Curiously, then, Val-Kill and Top Cottage reveal how two normally marginalized groups—the LGBT and the disabled communities—were connected to the center of power during one of the country’s most perilous periods.
To get back to Springwood, however, no visit to the property is complete without the museum, located in the Henry A. Wallace Center. Now, normally I am not a fan of exhibits which consist mainly of long texts with historical photos. It always strikes me that the information would be better displayed in a book or magazine, rather than distributed throughout a building. Even so, I enjoyed the long biographical exposition of FDR’s life, and learned a great deal.
The visit culminates in the basement, with FDR’s iconic Ford Phaeton. It was modified to allow him to drive with his hands, and he keenly enjoyed driving. There is an excellent chapter in Winston Churchill’s memoirs of the Second World War, in which he describes a visit to Springwood, where he was terrified by Franklin’s tendency to race around the country lanes. But Churchill had nothing but praise for the hospitality he received in Hyde Park.
Now, a visit to the Franklin D. Roosevelt Historic Site would be more than enough to fill a day. But the visitor is spoiled by being able to also pay a visit to the Vanderbilt Mansion, which is located just up the Albany Post Road.
The name Vanderbilt is nearly as synonymous with old money as Rockefeller. The dynasty began with Cornelius Vanderbilt (1764 – 1877), who managed to transform his father’s modest ferry business into a railroad empire. Upon his death he bequeathed the vast majority of his riches to his oldest son, William Henry, often called “Billy.” Understandably, the other Vanderbilt descendents were not happy with this arrangement, and this led to a lengthy court battle—which Billy eventually won, thereby becoming the richest man in America.
Billy was a careful guardian of his father’s empire. Though he survived his father by just nine short years, he managed to double the family’s wealth during that time. But he did not decide to imitate his father in leaving all of his wealth to his oldest son. Rather, he split his money between his eight children. While admirably equitable, this fairly well ended the Vanderbilt Empire, as his children proceeded to squander the family fortune, leaving very little for the next generation.
As a case in point, while Cornelius and Billy lived in (comparatively) modest circumstances, the grandchildren built a series of mansions across the United States. All told, they left 40 elaborate dwellings, many of which have become monuments. Among the best-known are Marble House, Rough Point, and The Breakers, all in Newport, Rhode Island. And the most famous of them all: Biltmore Estate, still the largest privately-owned residence in the United States, in Asheville, North Carolina.
The Vanderbilt Mansion in Hyde Park belonged to Frederick William Vanderbilt. Of all of the grandchildren, he was perhaps the most reserved and upright. The ostentatious mansion notwithstanding, he managed to preserve his inheritance and lived free of scandal, quietly devoted to his wife Louise.
But there is nothing quiet about this house. It is palatial, making the Roosevelts’ Springwood look puny by comparison. Every room is decorated to the highest standards of Gilded Age taste—the American nouveau riche imitating European aristocrats. As far as furnishings go, it is a convincing copy: a photo of the interior could easily pass for the house of an English country squire.
My clearest memory of the tour was the guide’s description of their daily routine. It was leisure elevated into a formal art, with rigid rules. Men and women both had different attires for different times of the day—for some light outdoor sport, then for cocktails, then for dinner—and each hour came with its specific sort of alcohol. I imagine mustachioed men in tuxedos, drinking copious quantities of port wine and filling the room with cigar smoke, while their wives sat on the divan in the next room, sipping sherry in elegant ball gowns. It was the transmutation of alcoholism into sophistication.
The tour ended in the servants quarters in the basement—shockingly bare and utilitarian compared with the extravagant luxury in the house above. It was a stark reminder of the huge staff whose (poorly remunerated) work was necessary to make a life like this possible.
When Frederick Vanderbilt died in 1938—having survived his wife by twelve years, and never having had children—he bequeathed his estate to his niece, Margaret. Yet by this time, the huge Gilded Age mansion was a relic from another age; and his niece understandably had little interest either in living on the property or in paying for the upkeep. Her neighbor Franklin thus easily persuaded Margaret to donate the mansion and its property to the United States government (for the token sum of $1) to be turned into a national monument. In fact, FDR occasionally used the property to house his secret service and some visiting guests.
At the end of the tour, we asked the guide (who was excellent) where we could get a local bite to eat. He recommended the nearby Eveready Diner. And as I took a bite of my hamburger, I reflected that I’d just had a wonderful—and a wonderfully American—day in the Hudson Valley.
Throughout most of our relationship, I have been the traveller—visiting as many corners of Europe as time and money allowed. But recently Rebe has started surpassing me, most notably by taking a 10-day trip—by herself!—to the heart of China. This is an interview about her trip, edited for clarity. All photo credits also belong to her: Rebeca López.
ROY: To begin with, why China? Of all the countries in Asia, it’s not the trendiest place to visit. Most people I know want to go to Japan or Thailand.
REBE: Well, I got interested in learning Chinese because my childhood best friend was my chinese neighbor. Also, Chinese is just such an important language. I’ve heard that, if you can speak Chinese, Spanish, and English, you can talk with almost anyone on earth. So I started taking Chinese classes some years ago, though I still have a low level. Also, to be honest, I’ve always liked the food…
ROY: What did you have to do to prepare for your trip? Anything unusual?
REBE: It’s recommended, for some reason, to get vaccinated against Hepatitis, so I did that. Normally I would’ve needed a visa, but China has a special, temporary visa promotion for citizens of some European countries to encourag tourism, so I didn’t have to do anything special. This offer is valid until the end of 2025.
ROY:I’ve heard that using the internet in China is difficult, since they have a lot of restrictions.
REBE: Yeah, so it’s recommended to get a VPN on your phone, which allows you to get around the firewall. Even so, certain applications like Google Maps didn’t really work. Instead, I used an app called Maps.me to get around. Also, most Chinese people use WeChat as their main messaging app, but with the VPN I was able to use Whatsapp as usual. But I did use WeChat to pay for things, since I couldn’t pay directly with my Spanish bank card. Alipay is also really common.
ROY:So, what was the flight like?
REBE: Actually, it wasn’t bad. I was on the plane for 11 hours but somehow it was comfortable. I slept a lot.
ROY: What was your first stop?
REBE: I began in Beijing. I was supposed to be there for 3 days, but my original flight was overbooked and I arrived a day early.
ROY:I know that Beijing is one of the biggest cities in the world. Did it feel massive and overcrowded?
REBE: Not really. Even though there are tons of people, it doesn’t feel overwhelming due to the wide extent of the city. The metro was quite good and it was easy to get around. One thing that was weird, though, was that there were passport checks on every street corner. The police were stationed there checking everyone’s documentation, even Chinese people.
ROY:So what’d you do there?
REBE: The first thing I did was to visit the Forbidden City. It’s really massive. I read online that it has 9,999 rooms. All the buildings are made of wood and it’s really beautiful. There is an exhibition hall called Hall of Clocks and Watches with an impressive collection of luxurious clocks from the Qing Dynasty. Near the Forbidden City there is the Jingshan Park, from which you get astounding views of the palace complex. You can make stops on the way up to admire the many different pavilions that crowd the park.
The next day I visited the Temple of Heaven, built during the Ming dynasty, which is also huge. The largest building of this complex, and the most famous one, is called The Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests. It’s 38 meters tall and it’s entirely made of wood, with no nails. This was probably my favorite monument in the city. Next to the Temple of Heaven I strolled around Tian-Tan park where I saw other pavilions, such as the double-loop Longevity Pavilion. In this park it’s very common to see locals in singing groups, dance lessons or playing a popular chinese game called Jianzi, a sport like badminton that you play with your feet.
Later that day I strolled through Qianmen, a famous 570 year old shopping street. But what I really enjoyed were the Hutongs in the adjacent streets. Hutongs are historical, small grey buildings in narrow streets where people used to live in the past.
The last stop of the day was Beihai Park, with its famous White Pagoda.
ROY: Was that it for Beijing?
REBE: Well, I took a day to go visit the Great Wall. I tried to go to a part of the wall that was less touristy, but it was kind of hard to get to. I was supposed to take a bus, to another bus, and then to a shuttle bus, but I got off at the wrong stop on the first bus and ended up taking a taxi. Taxis in China are pretty cheap.
ROY: What was it like seeing the wall?
REBE: It’s weird, because it’s something you’ve seen in photos so many times, and then you see it for real. It’s a lot of stairs, a lot of going up and down. It was overcast and probably a bit too early in the year to get the best views. The trees were still bare. But of course it was great to see it.
ROY: Did you visit Tiananmen Square?
REBE: Actually I didn’t have time. I was so jet-lagged during the first few days that I fell asleep at like 6 in the afternoon. It was brutal.
ROY: So what did you do after Beijing?
REBE: My next stop was Pingyao. For a Chinese city, it’s actually pretty small, just a few thousand people. But it’s famous for being a well-preserved medieval city. The first bank of China was actually located in Pingyao. It’s surrounded by old walls and the streets look like they did hundreds of years ago. The main thing to do is to visit all the temples. There are Confucian, Taoist, and Buddhist temples. But I didn’t see many because they close by 5 o’clock.
ROY: How long were you there?
REBE: Just a day. That night, I actually slept on a kang, which is a traditional kind of wooden bed.
ROY: Was it comfortable?
REBE: Actually, yes, more than what it sounds like.
Then the next day I went on to Xi’an. This is a much bigger city, though it also has a preserved wall. There I saw the Wild Goose Pagoda, which is huge. And there’s also the Bell Tower and the Drum Tower, which I think were used to tell people the time of day.
ROY: Like a cathedral’s bells?
REBE: Yeah, the Bell Tower marked the dawn and the Drum Tower the sunset. But, anyway, Xi’an is most famous for the Terracotta Army.
ROY: Oh right! Is that inside the city?
REBE: No, but it’s close. I just took a taxi to get there.
ROY: Aren’t they in a mountain or something?
REBE: No, there’s a hill where I think the emperor is buried. But the army is in like an open pit, which has a huge roof built over it. There are three pits, and the second one is the largest. It’s very impressive to see it. There are so many soldiers—thousands. One interesting thing is that they were originally painted. Once they got exposed to the atmosphere, the paint started to fade and peel off in a matter of minutes. When I visited, there were some researchers down in one of the pits, working.
ROY: So that was it for Xi’an?
REBE: Uh, there is a Muslim Quarter in Xi’an where you can visit different mosques and eat amazing food. I also tried biangbiang noodles, which are thick and really good. Fun fact: the Chinese character for these noodles is one of the most difficult and complicated.
ROY: Weird.
REBE: My next stop, and my last destination, was Chengdu. This is the capital of Sichuan. It’s most famous for the giant panda reserve and the plentiful hot pot restaurants.
ROY: You saw pandas?
REBE: I didn’t really have time. There was other stuff I wanted to see.
ROY: So what did you do?
REBE: I went to the house of Du Fu, one of the most famous Chinese poets. It’s kind of outside the city center. The house is small, and I think it’s been reconstructed. But it was nice seeing the old, traditional space. I passed through People’s Park, where I saw professional ear cleaners working. And I also visited the Wuhou Temple, where I saw Buddhist monks singing. It reminded me a lot of Catholic monks, actually.
ROY: Different religions, the same rituals.
REBE: The best thing, by far, was the Leshan Giant Buddha. This was carved into a cliffside over a thousand years ago, and it’s absolutely gigantic. You can’t even really take a good picture when you’re standing under it, because it’s just so tall. Also, the Buddha is in an area full of stone statues of the Buddha, and many of these are really big as well. It’s just very impressive.
ROY: That’s in the city?
REBE: No, you take a train to get to Leshan, which is about an hour. And then you have to take a bus.
ROY: Ok, so then you flew back to Spain—with two stopovers, I remember. But I wanted to ask: What are your final thoughts on the trip?
REBE: Well, I saw lots of amazing things. And I even met a few locals, since some younger people are eager to talk to foreigners and practice their English. But the thing I liked most about the trip was the sensation of being so far away, in a place that is so different. Unlike visiting some touristy places in Europe, it didn’t feel like the places were made for visitors. So navigating the country felt like an adventure.
Madrid has some of the finest museum-going in Europe, holding its own against Vienna, London, and even Paris. And this would be true if the city only had its big three: the Prado, the Thyssen, and the Reina Sofia. In addition to these heavyweight picture galleries, however, the city is also home to a great many excellent small museums. The best of these is, without a doubt, the one dedicated to Joaquín Sorolla.
It is somewhat ironic that Sorolla’s museum should be located in Madrid, as he was a valenciano by birth and disposition. His most famous and distinctive paintings are those featuring beach scenes, bathed in a kind of brilliant lucidity, every surface shimmering under the Mediterranean sun. But he was far more than a provincial painter. During his life, he became the most celebrated artist in the country—and, indeed, one of the most famous in the world. This is why he was able to afford such a fine house in the center of the nation’s capital.
The first thing the visitor will notice upon entering the museum is its lovely garden. This was designed after the Andalusian fashion, featuring colorful tiles, little aqueducts, and gurgling fountains. It is such an attractive space that some locals come here just to hang out, as it is free to enter. Sorolla designed the garden himself, and it is easy to picture him sitting here after a long day in his studio, resting his eyes.
The entrance to the ticket office is distinct from that of the museum itself. As it is a state museum, they charge the standard fee of 3€. It is free on Saturdays, but perhaps it is worth it to go on a different day, as the museum is most pleasant with fewer people. While purchasing your ticket, I recommend pausing to admire the Andalusian patio, as well as the painter’s impressive collection of Spanish ceramics. He seems to have had a keen appreciation for the rural, rustic handcrafts of his countrymen.
The first room of the museum is the picture gallery, featuring several excellent, large-scale paintings of the Spanish master. Here the visitor gets a good impression of his style. In his portraits—such as those of his wife or children—Sorolla’s work resembles other painters of his era, such as John Singer Sargent (whom Sorolla met and admired). He was more than capable of painting in a traditional manner.
His brush comes alive, however, whenever he depicts bright, shining light. No other painter has captured the sensation of Spanish sun so successfully. His human figures seem to dissolve into gleam and reflection. In his beach scenes, you can smell the saltwater and hear the waves. If you have ever stayed on a Mediterranean beach long enough to go blind from the reflections and dizzy from dehydration, you can see that, in his paintings, Sorolla captured an experiential truth.
And though Sorolla was the epitome of a bourgeois artist during his lifetime, he was capable of great artistic daring. On my last visit, I was impressed by his work Madre, which depicts a mother in bed with her baby. Their tan faces are the only points of contrast with the white pillows, sheets, and walls, making it seem as if they were floating in a sea of light. There is nothing conventional about it.
The next room features some of Sorolla’s more familial works. Among the portraits we can find Joaquín Sorolla García, his son, who was the museum’s first director. It is largely thanks to him that we have such a fine museum, as he preserved it after his father’s death and left it to a foundation in his will. Unlike so many other house museums, then, nobody else ever lived here before it was turned into a museum. Another notable offspring we may find is Elena Sorolla. She became a talented painter and sculptor in her own right, though she later abandoned art in favor of her family.
The next room, Sala III, is the showstopper of the museum. It is Sorolla’s former studio. The space is ideal for painting, with large windows, a high ceiling, and skylights. Old, dirty paint brushes stand on a table, and a painting sits on the easel, half-finished, as if Sorolla just stepped out for a cigarette. The walls are covered in his paintings—so many and so high up that it is hard to even appreciate them. In the center of the room hangs a large copy of the Portrait of Pope Innocent X, by Velázquez (one of Sorolla’s heroes). Nearby is an ornate bed in one corner, which looks barely big enough for one person, much less Sorolla and his wife. Was it just for siestas?
The visitor next climbs the stairs into the temporary exhibition space. I have been to the museum many times by now, and have consistently been impressed with the quality of these exhibits. The museum has far more paintings in its collection than it can display at any one time (Sorolla was prolific), as well as objects and artwork from Sorolla’s own substantial collections. So there is a lot to choose from.
The last time I visited, they had an exhibit commemorating the 100-year anniversary of his death: “Sorolla en 100 objetos.” This is an attempt to tell the story of his life using Sorolla’s possessions. One gets the impression of a man whose career could hardly have gone any better—of an artist who achieved success early, and was highly respected until the end of his life. He is, in other words, at the other end of the scale from Van Gogh: not the lone, eccentric genius but a pillar of his community. And yet, judging from his massive output, one cannot rate his commitment to painting as any less than the Dutchman’s.
The rest of the museum consists of rooms furnished as they were during his time, whose richness only serves to exemplify the degree of success Sorolla enjoyed. The visitor is then, once again, deposited in the lovely gardens—to either bask in aesthetic pleasure or to be consumed by envy at such a fortunate life.
At the end of your visit, you will have a good idea of both the artist and his work. And yet, to see Sorolla’s most ambitious and monumental paintings, you will have to visit another museum—one on the other side of the ocean.
The Hispanic Society of America is perhaps one of the strangest and least-known museums in New York City. The name itself is misleading in two ways: first, because it isn’t and never was a learned society; and second, because—despite being located in Washington Heights, a “Hispanic” (meaning Latino) part of the city—it is really dedicated to Spanish culture.
In many ways, the museum is a relic from another time. It is the brainchild of Archer Milton Huntington, an eccentric millionaire who had a keen interest in all things Spain. Using his money (inherited) and his many intellectual connections (he was an amateur scholar), he assembled a collection of museums around Audubon Terrace—a monumental complex of ornate Beaux-Arts buildings—and had his wife, Anna Hyatt Huntington, add the sculptures and friezes.
(It is worth noting that Mrs. Huntington was a remarkable artist, who achieved widespread success at a time when it was very rare indeed for women to be sculptors, and who left many attractive monuments all over the Americas and Spain.)
Yet I am afraid that the decoration adorning the outside of the museum will likely rub some people the wrong way nowadays. Above Anna Hyatt Huntington’s wonderful statue of El Cid Campeador—the legendary hero of the Spanish Middle Ages—there are names inscribed on the outside of the building, as if to commemorate heroes. Yet the names include Pizarro, De Soto, Ponce de León, and Cortés—conquistadores, who are now more often reviled as destroyers than celebrated as civilizers.
The museum has a collection of art and rare books from Spain that is unrivaled outside the country. There are paintings by the big three—Velázquez, El Greco, and Goya—and even a first-edition copy of Don Quixote. For many years, however, this collection hasn’t been available to the public, as the museum had to undergo extensive repairs and renovations. I was fortunate enough to see some of this during my first year in Spain, when the Prado had a temporary exhibition showcasing some of the treasures of the Hispanic Society’s collection. But during my one and only visit to the actual museum, last summer, most of its collection was still unavailable.
But I was able to see Sorolla’s magnum opus: Visions of Spain. This is a truly massive series of oil paintings, all about 4 meters in height (12ish feet) and wrapping 70 meters (over 200 feet) around the room. Amazingly, despite this huge scale, Sorolla completed nearly all of these paintings outside, working en plein air at various locations around Spain. He must have needed a stepladder and a team of helpers.
The murals depict the many regions of Spain, focusing on their most distinctive qualities. We can see a Semana Santa procession in Seville, as well as some joyful flamenco dancing; in Aragon they dance the jota and in Galicia they listen to a bagpipe; in the Basque Country they play their distinctive ball game, while in Valencia and Catalonia they prepare the day’s catch of fish. By far the biggest painting depicts a bread festival in Old Castile, with both the famous cities of Ávila and Toledo visible in the background (impossibly, since the two cities are quite distant).
Now, judged purely as paintings, the murals in this series are perhaps not as pleasing as Sorolla’s finest individual works, such as El baño del caballo. They are too busy with detail to make for clean compositions, and do not always showcase Sorolla’s exceptional gift for portraying light. Judged by their scale and ambition, however, the paintings are absolutely remarkable. For such a large work, Sorolla paid exceptional attention to details of costume and custom, attempting to make his paintings as anthropologically informative as possible. And the execution is immaculate. It is no wonder that, after completing this series, the painter felt exhausted. He would die just four years later.
If a visit to the Museo Sorolla in Madrid proves that he was a wonderful painter, then a visit to the Hispanic Society in New York proves that he was something else: a patriot. Admittedly, this is not always an admirable quality in an artist (think of Wagner); but in Sorolla it drove him, not to bigotry, but to celebration of the scintillating beauty of his homeland—and not just its famous landscapes and monuments, but its people. For any who love both fine painting and that sunbaked land, his paintings provide a peculiar delight.
The city of Madrid is divided into 21 “districts,” which are further divided into 131 neighborhoods. Pacífico belongs to the Retiro district, so named for the iconic park which it encompasses. This neighborhood—along with its sister barrio, Adelfas—composes the southernmost part of this district, where some 50,000 reside. And for the last seven years, I have been one of them.
Pacífico is central without being in the center. Extremely well-connected by public transport—the Méndez Álvaro bus station is to the south, Atocha station to the west, the bus hub of Conde de Casal to the north, and two of the most important metro lines running through it—Pacífico is nevertheless quiet and residential, with no tourism to speak of.
I have had occasion to write about my neighborhood before. The beautiful (but obscure) Pantheon of Illustrious Men is located here, along with the Basílica of Atocha, where traditionally the royal family are baptized. Nearby is the Real Fabrica de Tápices, another fascinating place that most visitors overlook. This was built as a “royal factory” in the 18th century to make luxurious tapestries and carpets for the palaces; and it maintains this function to this day, though it is now privately owned. If you reserve in advance, you can visit the factory and see the workers painstakingly assembling enormous and intricate tapestries by hand, thread by thread.
As it is close to Atocha, the neighborhood is also rich in transport history. At the extreme western edge of Pacífico is the Museo La Neomudéjar, a modern art museum with rotating exhibits in a former train workshop. It is still full of decaying industrial ambience and abandoned equipment. Closer to where I live, you can visit the Nave de Motores, where the massive original power generators of the Madrid Metro are stored.
The administrative heart of the neighborhood, where the government offices are located, has a curious history. The building complex was first constructed as warehouses to store goods imported from abroad, for which it was known as “Los Docks” (yes, in English). This business soon failed, and it was turned into a military barracks, a function it maintained until 1981. After its acquisition by the municipal government, however, several historical buildings were demolished to make room for modern offices—a move widely criticized. The surviving original buildings have since been turned into a huge public sports center, with a gym, football and basketball courts, and a gigantic pool.
This sounds quite sunny and uplifting. Yet this sports center—named Daoíz y Velarde, after the Spaniards who instigated the uprising against Napoleon’s invading troops—has been touched by tragedy. For it was very near here, in 2004, where one of the bombs went off in the infamous March 11th terrorist attack (the train tracks run right by the buildings), and the sports center had to be used as a field hospital for the victims. 250 victims were treated there, of whom 10 lost their lives. A commemorative plaque marks the event.
More recently, the Daoíz y Velarde Center has acquired an important music venue: the Real Teatro de Retiro. This is an offshoot of Spain’s royal opera house, where shows are tailored for a younger audience, with the aim of involving a new generation in classical music.
As interesting as all this history may be, it is not the reason I like to live here. Apart from being (for the moment) reasonably affordable and quite well connected by public transport, Pacífico is attractive for the wide variety of small businesses. Indeed, as an American, I am constantly surprised at the number of small, family-owned shops in Madrid. If you want to buy groceries, shoes, sports equipment, or whatever else in the United States, chances are you will find yourself at a strip mall, shopping at one of a small number of chains. Not so here.
Some locals, dressed as chulapos, celebrating San Isidro
My impression over all these years—though, I admit, it is little more than a vague one—is that the business landscape in Spanish cities resembles how American cities were ten or twenty years ago, before gentrification and consolidation took a toll on small business. However, I certainly do not know enough about the economy to argue the point.
Regardless, I think that these sorts of small, family-run neighborhood shops are a precious resource in any city, something worth preserving in the face of economic pressure. Thus, I set out to learn more about some of my favorite local businesses.
My first stop was my local ferretería (a hardware store and not, what some English speakers might think, a store specializing in ferrets). The Ferretería Pacífico has been around since 1995, and—judging by the constant flow of customers that made it difficult to ask questions—it is still going strong. I am a frequent customer myself, as the store sells everything from frying pans to drying racks to power tools. But my favorite service they offer is to sharpen knives.
The staff at the store are knowledgeable and friendly. And when I asked their secret to staying in business, they offered me an explanation that, though cliché, seems quite true: they offer customers personal attention. I have experience of this. When I was ineptly trying to install a curtain in my apartment, they talked me through the process and sold me everything I needed. When I asked what struggles they have remaining afloat as a business, I was given just one word in reply: “taxes.”
Somewhat further up the hill that leads to Retiro Park is my barber, Almudena. She works in the Pelúqueria Félix, a tiny barber shop on a quiet street. The shop is named after her father, who opened the business in 1966. Almudena learned her craft from him. She gives excellent haircuts, mostly eschewing the buzzer and working with a comb and scissors. When I asked about challenges, she also complained about taxes. The IVA (value-added tax) is 21%, meaning that a fifth of what is paid to her is for the government.
In addition, as somebody who is self-employed, Almudena must pay the “autónomo” tariff. This is a flat-rate fee that people who own their own businesses must pay in order to be legitimate. Strangely, this fee is relatively standard, varying only slightly depending on your income. Certainly I am in no position to judge the Spanish tax code, but as a general rule flat taxes are usually harder on the less fortunate.
The heart of the neighborhood, as far as shopping is concerned, is the traditional market—the Mercado de Pacífico. There are mercados del barrio all over the city, and they all have the same basic design: small stands selling high-quality products, often on a subterranean level. (I believe the reason that markets are often relegated to basements is to minimize the smell; fishmongers and pickled products are often present.)
There, while doing some shopping, I spoke with Francisco. He runs a fruit stand in the market, and has been at it for a long time. That’s an understatement: he is 70 now and started working in the market at the age of 13. I was delighted to notice that his scale was not in euros (adopted in 1999), but pesetas! When I offered to email Francisco this article, he showed me his old flip phone and told me that he didn’t use the internet. What a blissful existence!
Down the street is the oldest shop I was able to find, Zapatos San Román. It was opened in 1959 (as a certificate hung on the wall proudly states) by the father of the current owner, José. He has been working in the shop for 40 years, and still mans the cash register. The store is characterized by its giant “escaparate,” or old-fashioned display window. This is not limited, as in most stores, to a small cabinet out front; rather, the escaparate occupies fully half the store, wrapping around the visitor, creating a miniature landscape of shoes.
Down the street is another store devoted to footwear: Reparación de Calzado Alfaro. To be honest, I didn’t know that there were still professional cobblers in the world. The word itself, in English, calls to mind Victorian novels. But Rafael has been there for his whole professional life, following in his father’s footsteps, who opened the store in 1985. And he is doing very good business. When I visited him, so many customers came in that I had to retreat and return at a less busy time. But he does not only serve the locals, and not only the city of Madrid. Indeed, his business is not even limited to Spain. While there, he showed me an order that he had gotten from Belgium!
When I asked why he was doing so well, he said that his was a disappearing profession; and so anyone who needs a shoe fixed must search far and wide for a good cobbler. That search will, apparently, only get harder. Though Rafael inherited his business from his father, who himself learned from his own father, there will be no fourth generation of his shoe repair business. “It ends with me.” In response to my (perhaps silly) question of why people bother to get their shoes repaired, he told me a Spanish saying:“Te quiero más que a mis zapatos viejos.” That is, I love you more than my old shoes. And a pair of well-worn shoes are, indeed, something to cherish.
A bit up the block from my former apartment, on Calle de Cavanilles, there is a shop that holds a special place in my heart. It is Deportes Periso, a small sporting goods store. And it is special to me because, shortly before the Coronavirus Lockdown, I bought a pair of gray sweatpants there that got me through the isolation. Considering its size, the store has a lot of merchandise on offer—tennis rackets, sports jerseys, and lots of running shoes.
It was opened in 1978 by the current owner, Ana, and her father. As it happened, while I was there interviewing for this article, her father walked in. He’s in his 90s now and very personable. He told me about how the neighborhood had changed. Physically, he said, it has remained quite the same as it was decades ago.* But the demographics have changed. Since the 1980s, the neighborhood has gone from being mostly young to predominantly old. And of course there are more immigrants.
(*This isn’t exactly true. The big and unsightly Pedro Bosch bridge, which connects Pacífico with Méndez Álvaro, over the train tracks, was recently shortened and pedestrianized. And in general the neighborhood has become more bike friendly, with special bike lanes installed on Calle Doctor Esquerdo. However, there is still much progress to be made in that department, as evidenced by the death, just last month, of a bike delivery rider around the corner from my apartment. He was hit by a taxi in the early morning.)
But there are signs of encroaching gentrification. Across the street from Deportes Periso, for example, is an artisanal olive oil store; and considering how much the price of even store-brand olive oil has risen in the past year (well over 100%), one can imagine that people must have expendable income if they’re buying the fancy stuff.
Perhaps the most interesting small business I came across was that of Javier Pascual. He owns a merry-go-round that is parked in a small lot on the Avenida del Mediterráneo. He has been at it a long time, having established himself in the neighborhood in 1981. He comes from a family of carnival ride owners. Indeed, in the past, he owned more rides, but now operates just his “tiovivo” (as the Spanish call it, for some reason).
I have to admit that I was surprised that he could stay in business with a single carousel. Certainly it is hard for me to imagine anyone in my country making a living out of a merry-go-round. But again my expectations were disproven, as so many children came during my visit that I had to call off the interview and return later. (I didn’t have a ride myself, but it looked fun.) Javier works very hard. He’s open seven days a week, even Sundays. In the slow season, when Madrid empties out during the unbearable summer months, he packs up and goes to the fair in Cuenca. Then, he has his contraption repaired in August, ready to get back to work in September.
To round out this piece, I thought it right that I interview some of the more recent arrivals to my neighborhood. So I went to Union Frutas, a fruit stand near my house owned by a Chinese immigrant couple. I am a frequent customer, as the shop has very long hours (especially on Sunday, when so many stores close) and has extremely affordable prices. It has been open for 12 years. The husband, Diego (he goes by a Spanish name), moved to Spain in 2003 as a young man, following in the footsteps of his father, who lived in the Canary Islands. His wife, Li Fang, followed a few years later. When I asked Diego about the differences between work in Spain and his homeland, he replied that he had never had a job in China, so he couldn’t compare the experiences.
All of these stores have survived so long, in the face of competition from chains, by forging connections with the locals—something I witnessed in every shop I visited. It is small shops like these that give a neighborhood its flavor and personality, and which make Pacífico a wonderful place to live. And this is not even to mention the bars!
Death is unsanitary. Yet it was not until the nineteenth century that urban planners in Europe and the United States connected overstuffed cemeteries with public health. For centuries, the same small church burying grounds of the inner cities had been used for the local dead. Bodies were buried upon bodies, until the ground was piled high above street level, and a good rainstorm would leave rotting limbs exposed. One can only imagine the stench.
It was clear that something had to be done. Carlos III of Spain, for example—a relatively “enlightened” monarch—wanted the cemeteries transferred to the outskirts of Madrid. Yet this policy conflicted with the practice of the Catholic church, in which parishioners were tended to by their local priests and buried in the corresponding consecrated ground. It took the violent arrival of José Bonaparte to the throne of Spain to overcome the resistance of the clergy and establish the first cemeteries on the outskirts of the city, just as Napoleon himself was responsible for the construction of Père Lachaise in the outskirts of Paris.
The most beautiful of these far-flung cemeteries is, undoubtedly, that of San Isidro. Well, I ought to give its full, official title: El Cementerio de la Pontificia y Real Archicofradía Sacramental de San Pedro, San Andrés, San Isidro y la Purísima Concepción.
This snappily named cemetery is located on the far side of the Manzanares River, between the Toledo and the Segovia Bridges, in what used to be a remote area. Indeed, there is a famous cartoon (a design for a tapestry) by Goya, La pradera de San Isidro, which shows almost the exact same area where the cemetery stands now. It was painted in 1788, just 23 years before the cemetery was opened, and the area was visibly absent of any human construction. Of course, the ever-growing city of Madrid has since swallowed up the cemetery in its greedy embrace. Even so, the place is not exactly easy to get to, at least on public transportation. It does not help that it is only open until 2 pm.
The cemetery takes its name from the patron saint of Madrid, San Isidro Labrador. (“Labrar” means to till the soil, as he was a poor farmer in life.) Isidro lived in Madrid almost 1,000 years ago, when it was a small town of little importance. Last year, 2022, marked the centenary of this saint’s canonization, and thus it was deemed a year of special celebration. But regardless of the year, every May 15th the adjacent San Isidro park fills up with revelers as a celebration of the saint’s day.
As with many catholic saints, a variety of miracle stories are told about San Isidro, one of which is that of a fountain he created by striking his staff on the ground, in order to slake his master’s thirst. This miraculous spring quickly became known for its curative properties, and it still occupies a place of honor in the cemetery.
Times have changed somewhat. To accommodate the pandemic, a motion-sensor has been added to make the fountain more sanitary. Thus, one can partake of the miraculous healing water without touching any germs. The fountain itself, though not large, is interesting for the long inscription that covers the wall. This text boasts, among much else, of having cured various types of fevers, urinary and kidney problems, erysipelas (a bacterial infection), vomiting, sores, leprosy, wounds, and even of restoring a blind person to sight. An impressive record, indeed—though I think I will stick with my current physician. Yet the fountain’s longevity is palpable, considering that it also bears an inscription of a short poem by Lope de Vega (1562 – 1635) praising the water’s power.
This fountain is right next to the Chapel of San Isidro. This is no coincidence, as the chapel was built on this spot in the 16th century on the orders of the Empress Isabel of Portugal, who believed that the blessed waters had cured her son, the future Felipe II. (This did not prevent poor Felipe from developing severe gout later in life.) Though a chapel has been here on this spot a long while, its current form is from the 18th century, when it was rebuilt. Thus, when Goya painted the chapel in 1788 (in another sketch for a tapestry, on display at the Prado), it looked very much as it does today. Even so, this is something of an illusion, as the chapel was—like much else in Madrid—totally destroyed during the Civil War, and only reconstructed to appear as it did in Goya’s day.
The Hermitage in Goya’s Day
The Hermitage Today
This quiet, peaceful cemetery was in the news last year as the site of a fascist demonstration. About two hundred Falangists (the Spanish fascist party) gathered to protest, hold up signs, and wave the Nazi salute. This was occasioned by the re-interment of the remains of one José Antonio Primo de Rivera (1903 – 1936), the founder of the Falangist party.
Ironically, Primo de Rivera became more important in death than he had ever been during his short political career. The Falangists were never a major electoral force during the Second Republic, and José Antonio did not help plan or execute the military coup which eventually resulted in Franco’s dictatorship. Rather, he became something of a martyr when he was imprisoned and then executed by the Republicans during the first year of the Civil War. After Franco emerged victorious, he found it convenient to treat Primo de Rivera as a kind of John the Baptist to his Messiah, and had Primo de Rivera’s body transported from Alicante to Madrid in a massive funeral parade.
After this, Primo de Rivera was temporarily laid to rest under the altar in El Escorial. But when Franco’s enormous symbol of fascist power—The Valley of the Fallen—was completed in 1959, Franco had the body moved once again, to serve as the symbolic centerpiece to his monument to the Civil War dead. For decades, Primo de Rivera slumbered underneath the mosaic dome of the underground basilica, directly opposite Francisco Franco’s own body.
Yet having such ghastly figures entombed in such a place of honor naturally bothered a lot of people, for the same reason that having statues of Confederate generals disturbs many Americans. The Valley of the Fallen was argued over for years until, in 2019, Franco’s body was dug up and moved to a cemetery in El Pardo. In 2023, the job was finished when Primo de Rivera’s body was also removed (the third time this embattled body has been re-buried, if you’re counting). Indeed, the official name of the site is no longer the Valley of the Fallen, but the Valley of Cuelgamuros.
Such is the hold of fascist propaganda on people’s minds that, decades after the fall of Franco’s dictatorship, and nearly a century after Primo de Rivera’s death, people still showed up to protest for the sake of these old bones.
Enough politics! It is finally time to enter the cemetery itself. As the map by the entrance informs us, the cemetery is divided into several “patios.” The first three are located on a level with the chapel and are rather like church cloisters, without much decoration. The most interesting part of the cemetery is, without doubt, the large, semi-circular fourth patio.
A walkway, lined with cypress trees—the traditional tree of mourning—leads up a hill to the upper level. It is obvious at a glance that this used to be a very fashionable place to decompose. The place is covered in elaborate tombs, mausoleums, and monuments—clearly not a burying ground for the penny-pinched. Look behind you, and you can see part of the reason for its popularity: The views of the city are quite wonderful from here (presumably why it was popular for picnics back in Goya’s day).
There are many eye-catching sculptures on display. But the first I want to discuss is a rather puzzling monument.
In a previous post, I explored the often-overlooked Pantheon of Illustrious Men, located near Atocha. The Cemetery of San Isidro has what can only be described as an aborted first attempt at that same monument. Also called the Pantheon of Illustrious Men, it consists of a tall stone pillar, upon which an angel stands with his trumpet. At the bottom of this column there is an ornate base with carved reliefs of the extremely distinguished bodies which rest beneath it. Three of these four are people the reader is unlikely to have heard of (illustriousness notwithstanding), but the fourth is none other than Francisco Goya, a person who is famous indeed.
The painter’s posthumous presence here is puzzling for two reasons. For one, this monument was not completed until 1886, while Goya died almost sixty years before that, in 1828. Second, I happen to know that Goya is certainly buried in a different chapel, not far off, called San Antonio de la Florida.
This mystery has a clear—if not exactly a logical—explanation. Goya was first buried in Bordeaux, France, where he died in exile. His body rested there, unharassed, for several decades until it was chanced upon by the Spanish diplomat to France, whose wife was coincidentally buried in the same cemetery. Obviously, the glorious Aragonese painter could not be left to decay on foreign soil, so he was relocated to his native land, and taken to this cemetery. However, because of all the bureaucratic hassle of transporting a body, Goya’s bones did not arrive until 1899, by which time the original idea of the Pantheon had lost its luster. Thus, he was instead buried in the aforementioned chapel of San Antonio de la Florida, which he had decorated with his own hand.
(To make the matter even more confusing, this chapel was eventually deconsecrated and turned into a museum, while an identical chapel was built just across the street—to the delight of many potential visitors, I am sure. And, to top it all off, Goya’s skull was lost at some point during this process, never to be found again. To add to the mystery, there is a painting in the Museum of Zaragoza of what is supposed to be Goya’s skull, made in the year 1849, before any of this tomb switching went on. It is possible it was stolen by curious admirers.)
The supposed skull of Goya
We have spent a lot of time on this odd cenotaph, but there is a great deal more to see in the cemetery. Indeed, I have seen enough cemeteries so that I can confidently proclaim that the Cementerio de San Isidro is among the most beautiful in Spain—perhaps in all of Europe. The finest artists and sculptors of the time were hired to turn a place of mourning into a wonderful open-air gallery. Of course, this was not an act of public service. This was done to preserve and glorify the names of the rich and famous—who wanted their final resting places to reflect the splendor of their lives.
It would be impossible to review every notable tomb and name in the cemetery. The following is only a brief sampling of what you may find there.
By the standards of the cemetery, a relatively modest grave belongs to Cristobal Oudrid, an important composer of zarzuelas (the distinctively Spanish version of light opera). His mustachioed face, carved into the stone, keeps watch over his earthly remains. Not far off is the resting place of Consuelo Vello Cano, better known by her stage name Fornarina. She performed a genre of song called cuplé, considered somewhat risquée, which was normally sung by women (or men in drag) for an all-male audience. Her grave is presided over by the torso and wings of an angel. An extremely modest grave belongs to Ventura de la Vega, an Argentinian playwright who lived and worked in 19th century Spain. He is buried in a niche in the encircling walls of the patio.
But what naturally attracts the casual visitor are the big tombs. Perhaps the most eye-catching is the Panteón Guirao, a massive sculptural tour de force by Augustín Querol. Querol is also responsible for a monumental tomb in the Panteón de Hombres Ilustres in Atocha, and this work displays his ability to create dramatic, fluid, and even ghostly textures out of hard stone. This tomb—which occupies the center of the patio—was made at the behest of Luis Federico Guirao Girada, who was a lawyer and a politician during his life, but who is now principally remembered for his photography.
An extraordinary tomb is that which belongs to the Marquis of Amboage, an aristocratic family. This is an enormous neo-gothic chapel, bristling with prongs and complete with a metal spire, much like that of Notre-Dame de Paris. It could be a church if it did not have permanent tenants. But my favorite tomb is that of Francisco Godia Petriz. Petriz had a successful import-export business but was also an avid art collector. His mausoleum is unlike any I have ever seen. A stone sarcophagus hangs suspended by heavy chains from a large rectangular frame. The frames are held by miniature angels, who are ready to literally and figuratively carry the dead businessman up to heaven. Even if it is a bit tacky, I think the design is so original that I am surprised its architect, José Manuel Marañon Richi, is not better known.
Some of the jewels of the cemetery are only available for those taking the official guided tour. These are offered only every so often and are all in Spanish. If you do manage to get one, however (they are reserved by emailing the cemetery), then you may be taken inside some of these impressive tombs. In the tomb of the Dukes of Denia, for example, there are two statues by the Spanish sculptor Mariano Benlliure, who vividly depicts the Duke and Duchess lying in deathly repose. Even more stunning is what awaits the visitor of the tomb of the Marquis of la Gándara. Inside, sitting atop a sarcophagus, is an angel wistfully looking into the beyond. This is a work of the Italian sculptor Giulio Monteverde, and it is quite wonderful. Standing in front of this heavenly being, it is easy to forget that she is made of inanimate rock, so subtly lifelike is the work in every detail.
If I am dwelling on this cemetery for so long, it is because it was a revelation to me that such a beautiful place was to be found in the city, virtually overlooked as a tourist destination. If Pére Lachaise Cemetery deserves to be on every Parisian tourist’s itinerary, then the Cementerio de San Isidro merits the same—both as an important link to Madrid’s history, and a place beautiful in itself.
Lotz in Translation 