Cooked in Cordόba

Cordόba was our third destination in Andalucía and the place appeared to be so startlingly desolate when we arrived that it reminded me of the setting in I Am Legend. In the scorching heat (it was a quite frightening 45°C at twenty past five), we briskly made our way to O’Connell’s Irish pub to catch the Wimbledon final between Murray and Djokovic which Robbie had been eagerly anticipating. Unfortunately, we had to contend with a delayed telecast and although Robs instructed his Mum to stop updating him on the match’s progress, his text did not get to her promptly enough. While we were watching the third set, just as Djokovic appeared to be regaining some momentum, ‘HE’S DONE IT!!’ arrived in Robs' inbox. The knowledge that Murray had won when we had attempted to watch the game as 'live' as possible, though frustrating for us both, did not prevent my English friend from enthusiastically reacting to certain points and from almost being reduced to tears when Murray fell to his knees in triumph.

A visit to a foreign place is always enriched when one has the privilege of knowing a local or two. We had the opportunity to meet Robbie’s former housemate when he lived in Barcelona, Julia, and her boyfriend, Danny, who met us at our hostel (named Hostal de la Fuente, it was more like a hotel than a hostel and we didn’t pay all that much for it). They took us on a walk along the streets of the city, passing the Puente Romano and the famous Mezquita, and through the narrow streets of the old Jewish quarter, before settling down in a tapas bar for dinner. We got to try some tasty salmorejo, a purée originating from Cordόba containing tomatoes, garlic, bread and egg white, and tiny Andalucían hamburgers.

Robs with Julia and Danny

We then made our way to Danny’s favourite bar which his friend operated. Large (they must have been the biggest I’ve ever seen), juicy, red tomatoes greeted us at the bar, together with two of Danny’s friends. One of them was a lady who was clearly inebriated and would intermittently burst into song (more like chanting, actually). We got to sample what seemed to be the bar’s signature cocktail (yes, containing those red and juicy tomatoes) and we had a bottle of Mayo each, a local beer which was quite strong at 6.8%. Sticks of carrot and cucumber dipped in gorgeous hummus accompanied our drinks, together with those red and juicy tomatoes, sliced and topped with vinegar and salt. We had the privilege of being served the largest one on the bar and Robbie found himself discovering the joy of eating tomatoes in their raw form, a testimony to their natural delectability. It was nice seeing Robbie catch up with his old friends and their hospitality helped to give Cordόba a warmer, more personal character.  

Inside the Mezquita

Our next day began at the Mezquita, Cordόba’s most renowned attraction. Dating back to the 8^th Century A.D., the Mezquita is a monument to Andalucía’s Islamic past when Cordόba had been the Islamic capital on the Iberian Peninsula. After the Reconquista, a cathedral was built inside the mosque itself and today, Mass is observed within the walls of the Islamic building. Contrary to our expectations, entry before 10 a.m. (as stated in my Lonely Plant guide) was not free of charge. In fact, there was a queue when we arrived at quarter to and it didn’t look like one could have entered before 10. The introductory flyer contained language and a tone that conspicuously betrayed a clear, pro-Christian sentiment. Although some Cordόbans may claim that the place is not a cathedral but a mosque, the cathedral inside, added in the 16^th Century, juxtaposed with its surrounding Islamic pillars and arches, ensures that the place is probably best (and most objectively) described as an architectural hybrid.

Vantage Point @ the
Torre de la Calahorra

Leaving the cool interior of the Mezquita and going back out into the Cordόban heat, we crossed the Puente Romano and headed towards the Torre de la Calahorra. It was amazing that both Robs and I missed the entrance and ended up combing the entire circumference of the tower before realising that it had been right in front of us as we approached the structure from the bridge. The tower has been converted into a small museum touching on the city’s Christian, Judaic, and Islamic traditions, the exhibits bringing to life Cordόba’s multicultural past. The short climb to the top affords one a good view of the Mezquita on the other side of the Rio Guadalquivir and its impressive façade was vividly reflected in the river.

Jamon Iberico!!

After having what was undoubtedly the worst cafe con hielo of our trip, we met Julia who brought us to the Mercado Victoria where Danny worked as a cook. It was sheer bliss surveying the range of food and beverages on offer after entering the cool marketplace on quite empty stomachs. We were able to savour a variety of food, such as corn-flavoured salmorejo with a topping of caviar (courtesy of Julia), morcilla slices ‘impaled’ on a stick and sumptuous paella prepared by Danny. Not to forget the jamon iberico from Covap (a livestock company from Cordόba itself) which I couldn’t help but fall in love with. Writing this, I wish that I had been less self-conscious of the inner Asian tourist in me and that I had taken a few photos of these dishes. Savouring such a variety of good quality Spanish delights, accompanied by refreshing gazpacho and freshly-squeezed watermelon and strawberry juices, we were to find relief from the assault on our senses and our senses of taste and touch were temporarily satisfied. In fact, I may have gone a little too far (food has always been a vice, especially on my travels) and was labelled 'pregnant' by Julia. 

Julia had stated that we were 'crazy' when we told her that we were going to continue walking around Cordόba in the afternoon. Her comment was vindicated as our hitherto siesta-less trip began to take its toll on us. Ice-cream in an air-conditioned parlour was too difficult to resist and we also abandoned our objective to reach the distant hills from which we had hoped to get a view of the city. On a positive note, we were out long enough to see the intensity of the sun reduce enough to get a nice polaroid shot taken of us with the Mezquita (courtesy of a Chinese tourist).

The Puente Romano

Julia and Danny accompanied us on the walk to the train station where we caught our train back to Sevilla. Having bid farewell to our lovely hosts, I probably speak for the both of us when I say that the train ride was a welcome break as we watched the slow, Spanish sunset embellish the fields of sunflowers with a warm, orange coat, affording us a sight so serene I couldn’t help but sink into a deep slumber – before being rudely woken up by our water-bottle falling on my sensitive area. 

P.S. This will probably be my last travel post for a while and publishing it helps me to formally bring my time in Europe to a close. Mark Twain said that 'Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness,' and visiting the various places and meeting, as well as travelling with, different individuals have served to make my overseas education a more complete one. I'm grateful for the travel opportunities during my three-year stay in England and for the privilege of having a number of awesome travel companions to share the experiences with. With a click of the 'publish' button, I hope to wake myself up to the fact that I'm finally back in Singapore for good.

A Swedish Midsummer's Dream

A Little Bit about Växjö

Stockholm would have been the obvious place to visit in Sweden but I decided to give it a miss this time round (although I did spend a day touring Copenhagen) and was happy to let David, my dear friend from University, show me around the vicinity of his hometown, Växjö (I took two days to get the pronunciation right). 

Växjö

Inside Växjö Cathedral 

I was told beforehand that Sweden's not the most religious of countries (apparently, Zlatan Ibrahimovic is the dominant religion) but the medieval cathedral which I visited in Växjö left an indelible impression on me. Relatively simple and sparse in the interior compared to the ornate cathedrals of Italy, the altar was a visual treat! This part of Sweden, according to David, is famed for its glasswork and blue-coloured glass was carefully crafted to make images of the various apostles which were placed beside the cross (also made from glass!). 

Midsummer's Eve

When David first found out about the exact dates I'd be spending in Sweden, he jubilantly declared that it 'ought to be considered a massive win by you,' as my stay coincided with Midsommarafton (Midsummer's Eve), one of the most significant holidays of the year in Sweden. Pre-Christian in its origins, the Midsummer has (according to Wikipedia at least) become such an important festival in Sweden that there have been discussions over whether to turn Midsummer's Eve into the National Day of Sweden.

Midsummer's Lunch @ Korrö

We enjoyed a sumptuous buffet lunch at the restaurant where David's girlfriend, Rebecka, works. About a third of the dishes involved salmon (my favourite fish) and another third involved sill (herring) prepared in different ways: pickled with onions, seasoned with mustard or with cream sauce containing fish roe.

After filling our bellies, we proceeded to the garden to watch a trio of musicians perform a combination of Swedish traditional songs as well as one or two English golden oldies. The audience, sharing songsheets among themselves, clapped and sang along, providing a hearty atmosphere to complement the glorious sunshine above. Jokes were told in between songs and David was kind enough to translate them for me. Well, after one of them, he turned to me and laughed, saying, 'Sorry, this can't be translated.'

It's a tradition on midsummer's eve to dance around the maypole, a phallic symbol representing the desire for the Earth's fertility. We were to do so later that night at David's, dancing around a much smaller maypole in his garden along to a song about a little frog. There's also a practice of picking up different kinds of flowers and placing them under your pillow before you sleep on Midsommarafton. Apparently, this will ensure that your dream that night would be of your future spouse! I was too timid to attempt it.

A miniature maypole (courtesy of Rebecka's Mum) that I've brought back to Singapore.

Kicking off the Midsummer's Eve evening celebrations in David's garden.

The Swedish medieval game of Kubb. Players are separated into two groups and participants take turns to throw wooden batons at uniquely-shaped blocks, attempting to knock the latter over. Although the rules of the game are simple enough to understand, the influence of alcohol and psychology plays an important role in determining its outcome.  

With Lydia's friends from IB who played their part in injecting youth into the party.

With David and Martin. Kind of a reunion as one year back, the three of us were at the Stadium of Light watching Bruce Springsteen blow everyone away. I was to discover, to my delight, that Martin's a big Dire Straits fan after 'Darling Pretty' (a Mark Knopfler song from 'Golden Heart') began playing on his iPod.

'This is Midsummer's Eve for you,' Lydia, David's sister, concluded. There were not many of us who were sober at the end of the evening (although I remained so, somewhat surprisingly after all that snaps). Was proud to have been able to teach the 'yaaaaam seng' (our way of doing it in Singapore) to my Swedish friends.

David passionately playing 'La Bamba' into the night. Passion is something that my Swedish friend has in abundance and it's a trait that I'll miss a lot now that we'll no longer get to see each other on a regular basis.

With the Shukur-Arvidsson Family 

Many thanks to David's lovely family for graciously hosting me in their cosy home and for making me feel as welcome as I could possible have been. 

Granada: Tierra Soñada Por Mi

Back in 2006, I watched the Three Tenors’ Rome concert on video and I vividly recall that besides Pavarotti’s ‘Nessun Dorma’, I was enthralled by Carreras’s rendition of ‘Granada’, a traditional Spanish song about the titular location. The song paints a picture of a place filled with a romantic exuberance springing up from seeds of passion as numerous as those found in a pomegranate. I knew then that I had to visit the Andalucían city one day and having made the decision to visit Southern Spain this July, Granada had to be included on the itinerary (we also visited Sevilla and Cordόba). For my final trip in Europe, having graduated and preparing to move back after three fruitful years at university, I had the privilege of having Robbie, who studied (it’s strange putting this in the past tense) both History and Spanish, as my travel companion.

@ the Mirador de San Nicolas with the Alhambra in the background

Inside the Alhambra

Granada was the last Muslim stronghold in Spain to fall into Christian hands, and its capitulation occurred in the same year (1492) as Columbus’s discovery of America. The Moorish heritage however, remains palpable in this final remnant of Al-Andalus. There is no more conspicuous embodiment of such an influence than in the Alhambra, a fortress dating back to the 9^th century but converted by Nasrid emirs into a fortress-palace some 400 years later. Although we visited Granada’s most renowned attraction during a period not considered to be a peak season for tourists, the main palace, Palacio Nazaríes, was relatively packed with visitors when we visited at half nine in the morning. In the relative coolness of the palace interior, one observed the variety of ways in which tourists expressed their appreciation of the place, some attentively listening to their audioguides as they surveyed the architecture and interior design while others monopolised the more picturesque spots to pose for photos. The palace’s exterior is relatively simplistic, not unexpected considering its status as a fortress-palace, but its interior design, lined with geometric patterns and the impressive stuccowork with Arabic inscriptions, gives the palace, in contrast to the usual grandiosity of royal residences, a more subdued yet sophisticated character.

We descended the hill on which the Alhambra stood and headed for Albayzin, the old Muslim quarter. Walking uphill along cobblestone streets to get to the area around Plaza Salvador, we settled for lunch at Plaza Aliatar at a restaurant which offered a reasonably-priced menu del día. Our hopes for tranquillity were all but brutally dashed when some five minutes after we sat down, a procession of ladies entered the square to the sound of trumpets and drums. There was lively dancing and singing from the ladies who wore phallic whistles around their necks before the participants took their seats in the restaurant (it had to be) next to ours. It looked like the Spanish equivalent of a hen party although there was also the singing of ‘Feliz Cumpleaños’. Curiously, among the group of about twenty-five ladies, there was a little girl of about six and a boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve years’ of age. I’m sure that at some point, the kids would have raised innocent questions about those whistles. The number of locals who stood outside the restaurants in keen observation of the activity signaled that such happenings were not as commonplace as one may have expected. Most of our lunch (somehow, we were seated for about an hour and a half) was spent observing the group burst into song and dance and their collective chatter and laughter drowned the words we directed toward one another. The livelier they became, the more fatigued I felt. It’s like being with one of those hyperactive friends whose perpetual exuberance never fails to drain the energy from those around them.

I’m not sure about Robbie but my most memorable part of our Andalucían sojourn was not being in the famous attractions but rather, the moment we spent at the Mirador de San Cristobal. After enjoying a cup of lemonade each, freshly made in what appeared to be an Islamic tearoom close to the Plaza Salvador, we made our way up to San Cristobal after a short stint at the Mirador de San Nicolas which had afforded us a spectacular view of the Alhambra. The walk to San Cristobal took about fifteen minutes as we traipsed uphill, dodging countless heaps of dog poo on the way up while discussing politics which, in retrospect, appears to be a scene of sheer poetry. The climb was less tiring than I had expected and moreover, it was necessary to walk off our three-course lunch. The view we got was simply soul-stirring as we surveyed the ‘land of dreams’ from a great vantage point. At the top of San Cristobal stood a church whose wall at the entrance had been spray-painted with the words ‘gracias dios soy atea’ (‘thank God I’m an atheist’). Seated on the parapet, we spent what must have been more than an hour discussing a range of topics with our eyes fixed on the gorgeous landscape below us. It was a pity that we could not enjoy the sunset from that wonderful position. Before embarking on this final trip of mine, I pledged to savour every moment of it (which explained a reluctance to go on Facebook during the trip and the relative paucity of photos taken) and even as the actual image that had been registered in my mind then fades with time, I’ll always vividly remember the emotions experienced in that very moment.

View from the Mirador de San Cristobal

Perhaps ironic for a place with a reputation for political conservatism, Granada’s most famous man of letters, Federico Garcia Lorca, was an important liberal voice during the political turmoil which characterised Spain in the 1930s. Both Robbie and I possess an interest in the Spanish Civil War (Robbie did his dissertation on the conflict) and we decided to spend our last morning visiting the house (Huerta de San Vicente) Lorca resided in while he wrote his famous works like Blood Wedding. The house was tiny and the tour, conducted entirely in Spanish, lasted barely half an hour. Thankfully, Robs was able to translate all the important details for me (must have felt like another Spanish exam to him) or it would have been a similar experience to that which I had in Aachen attending a German tour (I understood zilch) of the Cathedral just to see Charlemagne’s throne.

Huerta San Vicente

Sadly, our tight schedule meant that we could not spend as much time in Granada as we would have liked to but we agreed that, from what we saw, the city is, in its own unique way, as romantic as the song depicts it to be. It was quite an emotional experience for me, being in Granada, as when I first endeavoured to visit the place, I didn’t think that it would have been this soon and remembering what I felt then ensured that I did not take (as I admittedly have done on a few occasions) trip for granted. As I told Robs, it is probably my favourite Spanish city (as of July 2013) and I can see why the songwriter wrote that Granada was his tierra soñada. I would not rule out a return to the area to climb the majestic Sierra Nevada someday.

Mining Their Business: Durham Miners Gala 2013

Coming back to Durham from the cauldron that was Southern Spain, I was thankful to have been greeted by what has probably been the best spell of warm weather that I've experienced in Durham since I first arrived in 2010. Preparing me for my return to Singapore, yet at the same time, making it more difficult to say 'goodbye' to the place. The good weather provided the perfect backdrop for today's Durham Miners Gala, an annual event organised by the Durham Miners Association.

One of the first collieries to march in

Before the closure of mines began during the Thatcher era, coal-mining had been an integral part of life here in the Northeast. It was a privilege to have been able to attend the event this year, having always returned home in late June, and to observe the commemoration of a tradition which had done so much to define the working classes of the region. Although a few friends have asked if it was too Left-leaning for me, I decided to view it as a cultural experience to help to make my time in Durham more complete. ‘You’ll love it,’ Hughie, a dear friend from my local, remarked on our night out when we spoke about the event. Leaving the house at quarter past seven, I made my way along the (still) tranquil riverside to Elvet Bridge where I'd arranged to meet a few mates from Singapore to observe the procession. We managed to secure a quite strategic spot on the other side of the County Hotel to watch the ceremony where I was given a free copy of the Morning Star (probably the first time I've touched a left-wing paper). At half past eight, the procession began with the first banner making its way along the oldest remaining bridge in Durham led by a brass band and past the applauding crowds. As we were to learn, it was the first of about three hundred unique banners, each representing a different colliery hailing from not just the Durham county but also from areas like Northumberland, Peterborough and even Nottingham. The VIPs of the day stood on the balcony of the County Hotel and most banners would halt for a few minutes while accompanying bands played a tune for the guests. Tunes like the familiar 'Blaydon Races' were commonplace but others on the song list included more pop-ish tunes like 'Copacabana' and curiously, Rihanna's 'Umbrella.' We got a chance to speak to a former miner who worked in the Easington pits and he gave us intermittent commentary on the passing banners. One of the banners contained images depicting the West Stanley Pit Disaster during which more than 160 miners were killed. From an outsider's perspective, the pride etched on the faces of the residents following the various banners seemed to point to the enduring strength of local identities. Although the turn-out was large enough, our newfound friend told us that at its peak, about half a million people (he may have exaggerated a little) attended the event and breathing space, which we were afforded plenty today, was scarce.

My favourite banner

After more than two hours of standing by the barricades, we made our way to the Racecourse where the banner processions came to a halt. There were numerous food vans serving burgers and chips - the normal fare - and ice-cream vans were also commonplace. Amusement rides had also been set up, which added to the vibrant atmosphere on the green. We got there early enough - we were told by someone that in an hour, we'd not be able to see the grass - and managed to get on one of the rides (reluctantly, for Kesavan) at the fun fair. It was probably the most frightening one of the lot and we were swung high enough to enjoy great views of the Cathedral while holding our screams. Having planned to spend the afternoon in Newcastle, we left prematurely. We missed the political speeches and the probable outbreak of fights (all my friends who live in Durham told me that this had become a ritual at the annual event). Grateful to have been able to attend the event, it was every bit as fulfilling as many of my local friends promised and even if I never get to attend another one (there are also questions as to whether these events can continue to be financially sustainable), today's experience will remain an indelible one to me and it was a great way of bringing my time in Durham to a close.

@ The Racecourse

Bullfighting in Sevilla

In all honesty, I never thought that I’d summon enough courage to attend a bullfight, having heard all about the cruelty involved in the activity and being cognisant of the ethical issues surrounding it. In fact, we went to Sevilla thinking that the bullfighting season had stopped for a couple of months as the scorching Andalucían summer reached its zenith. We were thus surprised to see bullfighting tickets on sale as we took the short walk from Sevilla’s historical centre to the bullfighting ring, merely hoping to do a tour of the arena. Ticket vendors (scalpers, perhaps) loitered around the main gate of the Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza, reputed to be one of the most impressive bullrings in the country, and having managed to bring our flamenco performance forward, we purchased fairly decent seats at €15 each (we had expected to pay €40). Banned in Catalonia, bullfighting appears to be very much a mainstay in Andalucían culture and having expected the arena to be filled with tourists, we were astounded at how ‘local’ the event was. There were definitely a noticeable number of foreigners in attendance but the majority of the spectators comprised Spaniards of all ages, many bringing boxes of drinks into the arena as well as tortilla to munch on. The chirpy atmosphere, with trumpeters playing Spanish tunes and the crowd’s constant chatter, coupled with all that eating and drinking made the scene resemble that of a massive picnic. It didn’t seem as though death was on the cards that evening. I sat next to a garrulous Australian tourist who had a ‘funny’ face-shape and who had been touring Spain for some six weeks. Robbie’s Spanish was of great utility as his bullfighting experience was enhanced by the informative conversation he maintained with a local university student seated to his left.

The Pass

The matadors involved that evening were young and inexperienced. We were to find out that the actual season had not actually started and these events were something like a pre-season warm-up to prepare the relative tenderfoots. This explained the casual mood which pervaded the arena and the (comparatively small) sizes of the bulls used that evening. The spectacle of bullfighting itself is, amid the brutality, supposed to be characterised by a degree of poise: banderilleros who waved pink capes took turns to plunge coloured barbed sticks into the shoulders of the bull before the leading matador used his red cape invite the bull to pass. The more spectacular passes gave the impression of a ‘dance’ between matador and beast and these invited shouts of ‘ole’ from the crowd. Then came the actual killing of the beast when the matador forcefully plunged a sword into the bull to administer a ‘quick and clean’ death. Even when this was moderately successful, the bull never really seemed to die quickly enough. Six bulls lost their lives that night, to the horror of our Australian friend who was somehow unaware of the fact that bullfighting was synonymous with bull-killing. The most memorable part of the evening was certainly the most worrisome one when a matador was gored by the bull, throwing him to the ground. Even as he curled up on the ground to protect himself, he was lifted by the bull’s blunted (thank goodness) horns and tossed around like fresh lettuce. It was quite horrific seeing the bull exact its ‘revenge’ and the rest of the bullfighting team raced into the ring to divert the bull’s attention away from the wounded matador, who was carried off to applause from the audience.        

I found it a tough spectacle to enjoy and it was difficult to applaud when the various steps of the fight were completed as each only served to increase the bull’s agony. The blood spilling from the animal’s body after the stabbings was conspicuous enough under the arena’s light. When the sixth bull was eventually killed, I felt a keen sense of relief after, for the first time, seeing six living creatures being taken from life to death right in front of my eyes in the matter of a couple of hours. Although watching bullfighting proved to cultural experience in its own right, I think I enjoyed the flamenco performance we attended earlier that evening more. 

Dead bull being dragged away by mules

P.S. I also realised that picture of the arena used as my blog's background is that of the Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza. Emily was right.

(Photos courtesy of Robbie)