Near Dublin: Brú na Bóinne & Glendalough

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

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

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

Brú na Bóinne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glendalough

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Return to Dublin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Enjoying a Guinness in another establishment.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2026: New Year’s Resolutions

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Blog Turns 10!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Difficult Day Trips: Patones de Arriba & Las Cárcavas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Madrid to the Skies: the Planetarium and the Royal Observatory

“¡De Madrid al cielo!” is something people here like to say—meaning, I suppose, that Madrid is so marvelous that it can only be surpassed by a visit to heaven itself. And Madrid certainly is marvelous, not least for its big open skies, so often completely cloudless. Indeed, there are two institutions in the city dedicated to exploring the air and space above: the Planetarium and the Royal Observatory.

The Planetario de Madrid is a futuristic-looking building located in the south of the city, in the Tierno Galván park. Climbers scale the large concrete wall nearby, and electronic music festivals are often held in the park’s center. Constructed in 1986, the Planetarium gives the impression that it is how the designers imagined houses might look on Mars, in the distant year 2025.

Underneath the bulbous dome of the planetarium is a semi-circular screen, where educational programs are projected—cartoons for kids, documentaries for adults, and educational sessions for school groups. Through an oversight, I once sat through a film about velociraptors who constructed a space ship and traveled throughout the universe, only to return to earth and find the bones of their ancestors in museums.

*The rotating projector used in the semi-spherical dome*

Apart from these films, the Planetarium has a small exhibition space, where the visitor can see short educational films on the solar system, gravity, and the history of the universe. There are replicas of Mars rovers and space suits, as well as displays on the Milky Way and the moons of Jupiter. Most beautiful, I think, are the photos of distant galaxies and nebulae, taken by the Hubble Telescope and gently illuminated. The universe is a frighteningly beautiful place. All this being said, I think the exhibit space is rather light, and in general the Planetarium is geared towards younger audiences. Still, it is always worthwhile to contemplate the stars.

The Real Observatorio is certainly not a visit for kids. This royal institution was founded in 1790 by Carlos III, and it bears all the hallmarks of its Enlightenment origins. The Observatory is a kind of temple of science—housed, as it is, in a cathedral-like building designed by the great architect Juan de Villanueva. To visit, you need to reserve a spot on a guided tour, which are only available on weekends (and I believe are only available in Spanish). But if you have any interest in the history of science, the visit is certainly worth the trouble.

The tour begins in the great edifice of Villanueva, which preserves so much confident optimism of the Age of Reason. In the great hall, a Foucault pendulum hangs from the ceiling, making its slow gyrations. This device—the original of which hangs in the Panthéon of Paris—is a demonstration of the rotation of the earth, as the planet’s movement under the pendulum makes it appear to spontaneously change direction.

Distributed around the space were any number of beautiful antique telescopes and other scientific devices—crafted by hand out of polished brass and carved wood. Antique clocks hung on the walls in abundance, as if the scientists of that era had to double- and triple-check the time for their observations. In the main chamber, a large telescope occupied the center of the space. There, mounted like a canon, a metal rod is pointed at the slotted ceiling. Below it, a plush chair with a folding back allowed the scientist to look through it from either side.

But the star attraction of the Observatory is held in a different building, a short walk from the Villanueva edifice. This is the great telescope of William Herschel, the English-German astronomer. This huge contraption was built in an English shipyard in 1802 for the new Royal Observatory. It was to be the center of the whole scientific enterprise. Unfortunately, fate soon intervened in the form of Napoleon, whose troops occupied the Royal Observatory (it has a strategic vantage point on a hill) just a few years later. These soldiers melted down the metal parts of the telescope for munitions and used the wood to keep warm. Thus, the current telescope is a careful reproduction, completed in 2004.

The tour ends in the Hall of Earth and Space sciences, a kind of miniature museum that is run by Spain’s Instituto Geográfico Nacional. The exhibit is divided into four sections: astronomy, geodesy, cartography, and geophysics. Each display is full of yet more scientific instruments, both old and new. There are armillary spheres (for determining the position of the planets in the sky), theodolites (for surveying land), and samples of volcanic eruptions from the Canary Islands. My favorite was a lithographic plate used in the printing of the National Topographic Map—the official, hyper-detailed, super-accurate map of the country.

The Royal Observatory is still an active scientific enterprise, monitoring both the skies above and the earth below—though the amount of light pollution in the city makes even Herschel’s great telescope largely useless. Instead, they receive data from far away telescopes, such as the Gran Telescopio Canarias, located high up in the mountains of La Palma, above the clouds and far from major city centers.

Yet even if Madrid’s skies no longer serve the purposes of science, they still inspire locals and visitors alike. As I write this, I am peering up at the blazing ethereal blue of a mid-September day, with the laser-like sun casting sharp shadows on the street below. It is, indeed, just one step short of heaven.

Review: Stray Cats

Stray Cats: Life in Madrid Through 17 Voices by John Dapolito

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I met John Dapolito at the Antón Martín metro stop on a cold autumn night. He was smoking a cigarette and scanning the crowd, and when he recognized me he told me to follow him to a nearby bar. I was nervous, as this was a kind of interview. He was looking for writers to contribute to a new volume, a collection of mini-memoirs of people who have moved to Madrid from elsewhere. He wanted them to answer three questions: How has Madrid changed since you moved here? How have you changed? And how has Madrid changed you?

“Nine years?” he said, mulling over my time in Madrid. “Nine years…” his voice trailing off. To many Americans in Madrid, this is quite a long time. But compared to John’s twenty-five, it seemed rather paltry. So we talked about how I could write my essay, what angle I could take, what I could emphasize about my experience to differentiate from everyone else’s. The next day, I started writing a draft of my essay long-hand, in a notebook—something I seldom do—and now it is a pleasure to see it in print in this collection.

Ironically, in the months since I sent off the final draft to John, I’ve grown to love Madrid more than ever. While I used to feel the need to escape into the sierra every couple of weeks, craving a bit of nature, lately I’ve been content to just stroll around the city, exploring its nooks and crannies, and getting ever-more integrated into its peculiar form of life. In short, now that my nine years are nearing ten, I am finally beginning to feel like a proper madrileño, fully at home in this great Spanish metropolis. And now that I have my story of Madrid in print, I feel now more than ever that I’ve really made a home here.

The stories in this volume have many common themes: learning the language, enjoying the nightlife, resenting the gentrification, and so on—themes that would have appeared had this book been written about Budapest or Bangkok. But beneath these superficial commonalities are what make the essays worth reading—insights into Madrid and, more often, into the person writing about it. And these essays are illustrated by black-and-white photos by the editor, John. I remember him opening a binder of them at the bar, during our first meeting, and admiring their atmosphere, how they really captured an aspect of the beauty of this city. And I thought to myself: “I want to be a part of this project.”

View all my reviews

Modern Art in Old Castille

When I first came to Europe I was, like any good American, in search of the very old. We have skyscrapers and Jackson Pollocks in my country, but we don’t have cathedrals, castles, or El Greco. Yet to see Europe as merely a repository of its history is to forget that its residents are just as keen as anyone to advance into the future. And so I recommend any visiting Americans to make time to experience a bit of the more modern side of Spain.

Segovia, for example, is justly famous for its Roman aqueduct and its elegant cathedral. But tucked away in its winding streets is the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo Esteban Vicente. This small museum would be worth your time even if it weren’t free to visit. It is named after an important but lesser-known artist from the 20th century, a member of the famous Generation of 1927 (which also included Lorca and Dalí), who spent time in Paris alongside Picasso, and finally moved to New York City in the wake of the Spanish Civil War. There, he became one of the main representatives of abstract expressionism.

The museum is housed in what used to be a hospital; and the large rooms and austere architecture contrast starkly with the art. Though he began as a figurative painter, Vicente quickly moved into the kind of abstract art that many people turn up their noses at—atmospheric blobs and swirls of color on canvas. I must admit that it isn’t usually my cup of tea, either. Nevertheless, in the context of Segovia, a city of narrow streets, hard angles, and gray stone, his art was wonderfully refreshing—light and playful, almost ethereal in its vagueness.

When I visited, there was a temporary exhibit by the contemporary artist Hugo Fontela—another Spaniard working in the abstract vein, living in New York. He worked in a very restrained color pallet, just green on a white canvas. Yet with the rhythm and intensity of his brush strokes, he managed to evoke clouds, waves, wind, and whole landscapes. It was an impressive performance.

Even deeper into Old Castile is the city of Valladolid. Though often overlooked by tourists, it is a city well worth visiting, especially as it is easily accessible by fast train from Madrid. Among the curiosities of the city is its huge and rather ugly cathedral—a massive pile of stone that looks oddly unfinished. This is because, when it was conceived, Valladolid was serving as the capital of Spain, and so its church was meant to be the biggest in the world. When the capital was moved to Madrid, however, the construction stopped, and now the building trails off into nothingness.

The most famous museum in the city is the Museo Nacional de Escultura, a collection of sculptures from the middle ages onward (mostly religious), housed in an old monastery. However, during my brief time in Valladolid, I found my visit to another museum far more enjoyable: the Museo Patio Herreriano.

The museum is located in the remains of the former monastery of San Benito el Real. Though its name pays homage to the great Spanish architect Juan de Herrera, it was really designed by one of his followers, Juan de Ribero Rada. However, the building was in such disrepair by the time it was decided to create a museum that substantial renovations were necessary. The building now is thus a strange Frankenstein mixture of old and new sections.

The museum’s collection is huge and extensive, containing works by Joan Miró, Salvador Dalí, and even our friend Esteban Vicente, as well as contemporary artists such as Azucena Vieites. I wandered around rather aimlessly, having neglected even to pick up a map, doing my best despite being sleep-deprived and dehydrated to appreciate the art. I would be insincere if I pretended that I liked everything. Indeed, contemporary art often leaves me scratching my head and even vaguely bored.

But any kind of art is largely hit and miss; and contemporary art even more so. Going to a modern art museum, therefore, requires a certain suspension of judgment, a certain amount of patience, until you discover something that pulls you in.

For me, this was an exhibit on Delhy Tejero, a Spanish artist I had never heard of before. What immediately struck me about her work was how varied it was, in both style and content. She could do realistic, figurative drawings or highly abstract paintings; her work can be cartoonish, dreamy, or serious; she can focus on folklore or lose herself in the purity of geometric shapes. Perhaps none of the works on display was a surpassing masterpiece, but taken as a whole her work exemplified such a degree of curiosity, open-mindedness, and fine sensibility that it left me deeply impressed.

These are just two examples of the fine, lesser-known modern art museums to be found all over Spain. And I think that, especially for the weary traveller, traversing the scorched soil of the central Castilian plains, besieged by castles, cathedrals, and ruins of bygone civilizations, a bit of absurdity, playfulness, and abstraction can do much to clear the palette.

Monet: Giverny, L’Orangerie, Mormottan

The name of Claude Monet stands over the artworld like a colossus—the man who defined one of the most iconic movements in art: impressionism. For a great many, I suspect, these blurs of color and light are what immediately spring to mind when they imagine the French countryside. The image of the paint-stained artist, brush in hand, standing in a field of grass, flouting both artistic conventions and social norms, is virtually a cliché now. But all of this we owe to Claude Monet.

Stereotype or no, I admit that this vision of the artist has a certain romantic appeal to me. And so I decided, on my last trip to Paris, to pay a visit to the home of this artist to partake of this dreamy, wistful aesthetic.

Normally, getting there from Paris is no challenge. A high-speed train bridges the distance in less than an hour—departing from Gare Saint-Lazare, a station Monet depicted in a series of paintings, and then arriving in the town of Vernon. This town lies just across the river Seine from Giverny. A taxi, a bus, or even a sprightly walk will get you to Monet’s house in no time.

But I was unlucky. During my trip, in May of 2024, there was maintenance scheduled on this particular train line, so this option was out. So I opted for something I habitually avoid: a guided bus tour.

The bus was set to depart early in the morning, from the Avenue de la Bourdonnais, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. However, there was a hitch. As the group of tourists—speaking a babble of tongues—gathered on the pavement to board the bus, a police officer approached the tour guides and explained something with authoritative insistence. Apparently, the bus could not park in its usual spot, because of the new rules put in place in preparation of the summer olympics.

The preparation was already apparent. The Champs de Mars was buried in a mass of scaffolds, and a large stage was nearly finished in the Trocadero on the other side of the river. What this meant for us, however, was that we had to walk to a street a few blocks away. As we walked, a young Italian woman, who spoke astoundingly good English, chit chatted with an elderly American couple; but I was too focused on Monet for smalltalk.

The bus swept us out of the city and into rolling fields of green. We were headed north, towards Normandy. On the bright May morning, it was easy to imagine why this gentle, domesticated landscape inspired artists to capture its delicacy.

We arrived in no time, and I followed the crowd into the property. This was a moment I had imagined to myself many times. Monet’s gardens are a kind of mythical place in the world of art, a place I had seen through Monet’s eyes innumerable times, imbued by his vision with mystery and translucent beauty. It was almost a surreal moment, then, when I realized that I was standing in the gardens, and that they were real, physical, concrete.

The gardens are divided into two sections. Directly in front of the simple house, with its pink plaster walls and vine-covered trellises, there are rows of flowers in square plots. They are arranged like globs of paint, splashes of color that look organized from afar but haphazard from up close. It is impressionism made manifest.

The more famous section of the garden is on the other side of the highway that runs through town. Monet purchased this property later, which is why it is not contiguous with the original gardens. Visitors nowadays can pass from one to the other through a small underpass under the road, but Monet himself would have had to cross it.

If the first section embodies the lightness and prettiness that is often associated with impressionism, this one is its highest embodiment. Here, Monet expressed his love for Japan, with the thicket of bamboo, the famous pond of water lilies, and the green wooden bridge. The pond is shallow and murky, and ringed all sorts of trees, bushes, and flowers. As a result, the surface texture is a mixture of reflections—of the blue sky, grey clouds, and the surrounding gardens—and the waterlilies lurking below. Though I was there briefly, it took little imagination to picture how the surface could change with the time of day, the weather, and the seasons. It is a kind of laboratory to study color and light.

I would have loved to have basked in the garden for hours, but my time was limited by the tour bus schedule. So I pulled myself away to queue up for the house. It is much as one might expect of Monet—open, light, airy, and unpretentious. Unfortunately, however, it is difficult to put oneself in the artist’s shoes and imagine oneself at home, if only for the constant crowds pushing the visitor from room to room. But I still had a few moments to appreciate Monet’s fine collection of Japanese prints.

The visit ends, as so many do, in the gift shop. Yet unlike so many gift shops, this one is actually one of the main attractions. Though it looks like a large green-house, this was actually Monet’s studio—and it is easy to see why, as the large windows in the ceiling flood the space with light. Perhaps it is sacrilegious to fill such a space with knick-knacks for tourists; yet, as far as knick-knacks go, the items on display are surprisingly enticing, if only because they are adorned with the master’s paintings.

If I had more time in Giverny, I would have walked the short distance to the Église Sainte-Radegonde, where Monet is buried in a family plot. I would also have liked to visit the small Museum of Impressionism, which has a collection of paintings by Monet and others. But, alas, my tour bus was departing for Paris, and I didn’t have any more time to spend in Giverny.

When I got back into the city, I decided to round out my Monet experience by visiting the Musée Marmottan. This is located near the Bois de Boulogne, a huge park to the west of the city. The museum has one of the finest Monet collections in the world, mostly thanks to a huge donation by Michel Monet, the artist’s only heir. It is housed in what used to be a Duke’s old hunting lodge; and like the Frick Collection in New York, it preserves some of the ambience of obscene wealth.

The museum has a series of rotating special exhibits (when I visited, it was about art and sport) and a collection of impressionists that goes far beyond Monet. But his work is the main attraction. The paintings are held in an underground space, modeled after another museum in Paris, the Musée de l’Orangerie—with large, open, well-lit rooms which situate the viewer in a kind of simulated garden.

And, indeed, standing there after paying a visit to the real garden gives you a wonderful insight into the way an artist’s eye can both capture and transform its subject. Monet’s paintings are both highly “unrealistic”—impossible to mistake for a photograph, say—and yet startlingly accurate. They convey subtleties of light and color that a more “correct” technique would overlook. Or rather, they convey a kind of flavor—a subjective sensation, overlaid with aesthetic appreciation.

The only disappointment of my visit was that the museum’s most famous work, Impression, Sunrise, was away on loan. This work, which Monet completed in 1872, was monumentally influential; it would eventually give the entire artistic movement its name. The painting was both daringly original and a continuation of trends that came before. Its originality is apparent when compared to the oil paintings of the established French artists of Monet’s day, with their impeccable technique and focus on mythological or allegorical subjects. Monet’s work is nothing like that. But a side-by-side comparison with, say, a Victor Turner painting shows how Monet took pre-existing techniques for portraying light and atmosphere, and then expanded on them.

The last museum I want to discuss is one I visited many years before this trip, before even the 2020 pandemic: the Musée de l’Orangerie. This museum is in what used to be an “orangery,” a building to protect orange trees from the harsh Paris winter. In the past, you see, oranges were something of a royal prerogative—so delicate that only the huge resources of the monarchy could keep them alive in European climes. This particular orangery is located in the Tuileries Garden, and is the home of Monet’s most impressive works.

The visitor enters and almost immediately finds herself in an oval room, flooded with white light. Running along either wall are huge canvases, the Water Lilies—so big that you can easily imagine that you are visiting Monet’s home in Giverny. They are mesmerizing: exuding an almost mystical intensity. In their own way, these paintings are as ambitious and monumental in scope as any in art history; and yet, they are concerned with something completely ordinary. What makes them so powerful is the intensity of vision that Monet brings to the scene, as if he is somehow penetrating the surface layer of reality and looking at its essence.

I remember sitting on the central benches a long time, and willing myself to extract as much from the paintings as I could. I tried to imagine what it would be like for me to have such a vision, to see light and color as pure attributes of nature, rather than mere signs of material things. What I’m trying to say is that these paintings struck me as being wonderfully profound, in a way that very few paintings do. But then again, perhaps I just like pretty pictures.

Well, that rounds out my Parisian Monet experience. While I’m sure his work is not to everybody’s taste—with its focus on pure aesthetic qualities instead of content—I think that Monet has earned his place in the pantheon of artistic greatness. His career was intensely innovative, and he nurtured his creativity into his old age. Unlike so many artists, it is Monet’s final works which have arguably become his most celebrated. Further, I think his art is especially relevant now, as the contemporary art world—with its emphasis on message over form—has moved so radically away from the principles he embodied. This is not to say that either camp is correct, only that Monet’s vision of art is one that is worth getting to know.

The Spice Trade: Hot Sauce in the Spanish Market

In 1492, Christopher Columbus set out from Spain to find a shorter route to Asia. Europeans knew very little about the Far East at that time; but they did know, albeit vaguely, that Asia was where spices grew. Though it is difficult to imagine nowadays, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves were more valuable than gold. Anyone who could find a way to get them directly from the source, avoiding all the intermediary merchants, would stand to make a fortune. This is what motivated Columbus’s journey.

Of course, he did not arrive in Asia and did not find cinnamon, nutmeg, or cloves. The only spice his party did stumble upon was allspice, in Jamaica, which tasted vaguely like a blend of all three (thus the name). But the Spaniards who arrived in the so-called New World were introduced to a product that, in the present day, seems infinitely more important: hot chili peppers.

So the rest of the world was introduced to real, proper spice. To a remarkable extent, however, Spanish cuisine remains free of the influence of its former colonies. Hundreds of years of conquest, colonization, and commerce were not enough to convince the Spanish to find a use for chilis, and their food remains almost entirely picante-free.

Judging from my own experience, there is still a deep-rooted hostility to spice in Spain. I have been solemnly assured by many Spaniards that my hot sauce habit will inevitably result in stomach ulcers, if not full-blown cancer. They look on in alarm as I douse the food at the school cafeteria in my personal bottle of Tabasco, day after day. “On everything?” they ask me, dismayed. “Every day?”

Considering this, it appears to be a minor miracle that Adam Mayo has a stand in the Mercado de San Fernando dedicated to nothing but artisanal hot sauces—and properly spicy ones, too.

The Mercado de San Fernando, in the busy barrio of Lavapiés, is an excellent example of a municipal market. In its cavernous interior, green grocers, fishmongers, and butchers sell fresh foodstuffs, and an array of bars and restaurants cater to the greedy public. Like so many Spanish markets, it is a hub of the neighborhood. Regulars play dominoes and chat with bartenders, while children play tag in the labyrinthine space. On my last visit, a group of amateur musicians had set up and were playing through their set list—not for the public, but just for fun.

One of my favorite spots in this market is Mi Casita. This is a food stand run by Julián, who makes food from his native Colombia. The bulk of his business is selling empanadas—Colombian style, with beef and potato on the inside of a soft corn masa. They are cheap, filling, and delicious. Julian has been living in Spain for 24 years. Originally from Bogotá, he studied business administration, specializing in hospitality and tourism; but like many immigrants, he ended up overqualified for the job he ended up doing in his new home.

While I was chatting with Julián, a security guard, Fernanda, said hello as she made her rounds. Also a fan of Julián’s empanadas, Fernanda hails from Ecuador, and has worked in the market for the past nine years. When I asked her about the relationships between the different workers, she replied that “it’s like a community of neighbors.”

For his part, Adam, the chili sauce vendor, was drafted to dress up as Santa for the market’s holiday celebrations. “It wasn’t very good for business,” he said, “but it was fun.”

The path from a London boyhood to hot sauce vendor in the Spanish capital wasn’t exactly straightforward. Adam’s interest in chili was actually sparked on a holiday in Belize, where he tried the legendary sauce made by Marie Sharp’s. All these years later, the astoundingly smoky sauce made by this women-owned Belizean company is still Adam’s best-selling product.

*Adam showing off a spicy beer he made in colaboration with a Spanish craft beer company, La Bailandera. It was properly hot.*

Yet much of Adam’s personal and professional life has been focused, not in Latin America or Spain, but further east: in China. He has several degrees in Chinese history and spent many years studying the language at the Escuela Oficial de Idiomas (Spain’s public language academy). Even more impressive, he traveled extensively in the country—not only to its most famous attractions, but all over, visiting rural regions seldom seen by outsiders. All of this is documented in his wonderful blog, holachina.com, which is worth perusing for the photos alone.

One would think that a man who, unlike Columbus, actually reached the far east would be possessed of a singular determination. But Adam is the picture of calm and he sits on a stool beside his table of red bottles, seemingly unconcerned whether anyone buys his wares or not. He is a master of the soft sell, letting the sauces speak for themselves. “The most important part of selling hot sauce is letting customers taste it,” he says. “And of course you’ve got to start mild and then get hotter.”

Now, to the uninitiated, the idea of artisanal hot sauces might seem absurd. Aren’t they all the same? A few minutes at Adam’s Chilli Academy dispels one of that notion. Just as beers are measured with IBU (international bitterness units), hot sauces are measured in Scovilles, which indicates the level of capsaicin in the product. And capsaicin is what makes spicy food spicy. While a jalapeño might get to a few thousand on the Scoville scale, superhot varieties like Ghost peppers, Naga Vipers, or Carolina Reapers can top one million. It is the difference between a tickle on your tongue and a trip to the emergency room.

*During the pandemic, Adam started growing his own chilis on his balcony.*

Yet heat is just one aspect of a good sauce. Some sauces are fermented, and have that characteristic pickled flavor. Vinegar is commonly added, such as in Tabasco, giving the sauces an additional pungency. But anything can be put into a sauce: from common additions like carrots and onions, to more exotic ingredients like mangos and bananas, to offbeat flavors like maple syrup or horseradish. The varieties are really endless, which is why people can become obsessed with it. Adam has clearly fallen down this rabbit hole, as he rummages through his collection of bottles like an alchemist, displaying his encyclopedic knowledge.

It is one thing to have a store, however, and another thing to make a sale. Are people actually buying? “Oh yes,” he says. “Business is swift.” And according to Adam, 80% of his clients are Spaniards. This would seem to indicate a change in attitude. “A lot of young people are interested in hot sauce,” he explains. “They see it on Hot Ones.” If you don’t know, this is a YouTube talk show, wherein celebrities answer questions while trying increasingly spicy hot wings. The show has proven to be such a hit that there are various spinoffs, such as the Spanish version A las Bravas, which uses potatoes rather than chicken wings.

Adam isn’t the only one who believes in the future of hot sauce in Spain. This article was kicked off by a message I received on this blog from a man named Mark, another Londoner in the chili business. He invited me to come see him in the Mercado de Motores, and I agreed.

In addition to the municipal markets which dot Spanish neighborhoods, there are many temporary markets that are set up on weekends all around the city. The Mercado de Motores is one of the biggest and the best. It takes place every other weekend in the Museo Ferrocarril, or Railway Museum—a collection of antique trains in the old Delicias station that is worth visiting in any case. During the market, vendors selling everything from scarves to earrings to handmade jewelry set up inside the old station, while food trucks dish out burgers and tacos outside.

On my way to see Mark, I was stopped in my tracks by a familiar face. The previous spring, I had gone on a trip to Galicia with my mom; and in a little town overlooking the Cañon de Sil we stumbled across a stand where a man was selling artisanal honey. This was the man I encountered now, several hundred kilometers to the south, with the same spread of honeys before him. His name is Óscar, and he is one of the owners of Sovoral. I stopped to have a chat.

Óscar informed me that he got into the honey business through his wife, who comes from a family of beekeepers. Before that, he was a truck driver. Óscar does much of the beekeeping himself now, despite having an allergy to bee stings. “Doesn’t it scare you?” I asked. “No,” he said, shrugging stoically. “Like anything, you get used to it.” Though I love honey, I was more interested in another of his products, a hot sauce made from pimientos de padrón (a Galician variety of pepper), sherry vinegar, and (of course) honey. It is sold in a beautiful, long-necked bottle and has a surprising flavor. It is not just foreigners, then, who are in the hot sauce business.

*Notice the tabasco on the bottom left.*

Mark’s stand was just further down. Though I arrived at a less-busy time of day, between the midday and afternoon rushes, Mark was still mobbed with customers. Like Adam, he realizes the importance of letting customers try his products. On the left were crackers with cream cheese, ready to be anointed with one of his four styles of chutney. On the right, corn chips were similarly prepared, ready to be covered in one of his four hot sauces.

Mark’s life before becoming the Sauce Man (his brand name) was just as meandering as Adam’s. He worked in a PR company, and as a DJ, and for a long time in the British consulate, helping befuddled countrymen sort out legal problems.

Mark is energetic. Whether in Spanish or English, his speech is rapid fire. As he works, he is in constant motion. If Adam prefers to let the sauces do the talking, Mark fills up the air around him, seeming to grab every passerby and pull them in. And his approach was working, as I could hardly get a word in amid the constant flow of customers.

Catering to the Spanish market, Mark decided not to go in for intense heat. Many of his chutneys are not spicy at all (though they’re quite good), and even his hottest sauce won’t burn your tongue off. Even so, he is quite convinced that hot sauces have a bright future in Spain. “You and me, we have an advantage,” he explained. “Where do food trends come from? Your country. Then they get to the UK, and finally filter into Europe. It’s like craft beer.”

Judging from his success, he seems to be right. Somehow, while three hundred years of colonizing Mexico were not enough to develop a taste for chili peppers in Spain, just a few decades of exposure to American culture have done the trick. When I ran into Mark the following weekend, at the Mercado Planetario near my apartment, he was similarly deluged with customers—and all of them locals.

Mark very kindly invited me to his kitchen in Vallecas, where he personally makes all of his sauces by hand, with only occasional help. I arrived one afternoon, while Mark was putting the finishing touches on one of his chutneys. “When I’m in production, I work 12-hour days,” he said, pouring sugar into the boiling pot. “Don’t you get tired?” I asked. “Not really. When you’re your own boss, it doesn’t really feel like work.”

But it did look like work, as he peeled and diced onions, blitzed garlic and ginger into a paste, and chopped up pineapples. The striking thing about his process was how uncomplicated it seemed. And I suppose a hot sauce is a simple foodstuff, at least in concept: get some chilis together with a few other ingredients, and blend it all up. The key is finding the right balance of flavor and, crucially, the right consistency—neither gloopy nor runny. How does Mark do it? “I don’t use xanthan gum,” he said, “which is what’s normally used to give it viscosity. I have my own way, but it’s a secret.”

Both Mark and Adam would qualify as small-business owners. Thanks to Adam, however, I got a chance to talk to somebody who produces hot sauce on an industrial scale.

Carlos Carvajal is Spanish-American—with a Granadina mother and an American father. Born in Spain, he grew up in California. There, as a young man, he met a Jamaican man named Joel, who introduced him to the magic of jerk sauce. Carlos himself learned the recipe and, in 1994, opened a hot sauced company with another friend called Slow Jerk. The company was relatively small and they eventually sold it, but it was a beginning.

Now, he is the founder and part-owner of Salsas y Especias Sierra Nevada, which sells hot sauces under the brand Doctor Salsa. In just over a decade, his company has grown into a veritable empire of picante, selling chutneys, seasoning mixes, spicy chips and peanuts, and even spicy honey, in addition to his hot sauces. Most dangerously, you can order pure capsaicin extract from the website—aptly called “tears of the devil.” Based in the town of Ogíjares, near Granada, Carlos’s company now sells sauces throughout the country and beyond, exporting them around Europe.

During our phone conversation, I asked Carlos something that I had also asked Adam and Mark: “Is hot sauce a way of life?” A silly question, sure; but there does seem to be something that unites chiliheads together. In Carlos’s case, he is a blackbelt in several martial arts, and in his free time likes to drive high-powered cars. Adam, as we saw, is a world traveler, while Mark spends his scant free time, not relaxing, but playing golf and tennis. If anything unites lovers of spice, I would posit that it is a certain restlessness: a dissatisfaction with the ordinary, a need to take things to the next level. Why else would they need to make their food painful?

And this brings me back to an earlier question. Is hot sauce unhealthy? The answer seems to be a qualified no. Rather than causing stomach ulcers, hot sauce may actually help prevent them—though it can aggravate any ulcers already formed. Chilis are extremely high in Vitamin C, but only a few drops of hot sauce won’t contribute much to your diet. It’s possible that capsaicin has some health benefits, though the evidence is unclear. According to this article, however, if you ingested too much capsaicin it could actually be fatal; but you’d have to eat 2% of your weight in superhot peppers—an unlikely scenario. For most people, then, the quantity of sauce they consume probably proves to be nutritionally insignificant.

This may sound like a letdown, but I find it liberating. As Carlos pointed out to me, just a few drops of a sauce can change the flavor of an entire dish—adding a new element to it—without altering its nutrition. A simple dish of, say, rice and beans can be turned into a memorable meal with the shake of a bottle. So I think I will continue my Tabasco habit at the school cafeteria.

Lotz in Translation

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

Tag: Travel