Our last day was spent in the capital of Seville.  After the “discovery” of the Americas, it became one of the economic centers of the Spanish empire with its port monopolizing the trans-oceanic trade.  As a person proud of their Native American heritage, I confess this particular city did not sit well with me.  I understand it happened in the past, but, for me at least, it still seriously rankled.  We all know Christopher Columbus set sail for the “New World” and hit land in 1492.  I wonder how many know of the heinous atrocities committed after he landed?  He and others such as Hernando de Soto and Cabeza de Vaca slaughtered thousands of innocents and enslaved the rest searching for riches not theirs to be plundered.  It sickens me.  And then there was the dreaded encomendia system which whipped Native Peoples into submission and enslavement all under the name of God, King and Country (Spain).  If you care to research this further, do yourself a favor:  they say history is written by the victors.  Do not read some glossy bio of the “great explorers”; rather I encourage you to look deeper and find reading material giving a more truthful historical account of what Europeans did to Native Peoples.  I created my own minor at SMU in Native American studies and if anyone is really interested I can send you book titles.  But I digress.  This day we would see the Seville Cathedral, the largest gothic cathedral and the third largest church in the world.  I had a visceral reaction to seeing Christopher Columbus’ crypt.  I just remember lots of gold and silver and felt I should leave because it was not good to be filled with such hatred in a house of God; really anywhere for that matter.  Outside it was hot — sweat trickling down your back hot.  I found myself worrying about the horses who were giving carriage rides at the Maria Luisa Park.  Pictured here is the Plaza de España complex, a huge half-circle with buildings continually running around the edge.  It is surrounded by a moat accessible by several beautiful bridges.  In the center is a large fountain and the walls of the plaza have tiled alcoves, each representing a different province of Spain.  Last, we visited the Alcazar of Seville.  A royal palace originally developed by Moorish Muslim Kings, it is renowned as one of the most beautiful in Spain and regarded as one of the most outstanding examples of mudéjar architecture found on the Iberian Peninsula.  The main entrance to the Alcázar takes its name from the 19th century tile work inlaid above it, a crowned lion holding a cross in its claws bearing a Gothic script.  I loved the rounded doorways and the dark blue tile work.  The gardens were beautiful, as was the reflecting pool.  I found myself idly watching the koi swirling their tails languidly in the heat of the mid-day sun and missing our own koi at home in our beautiful, tiny pond.  With this, I knew I was ready to come home.  As our van wound its way back up the sharp twists and turns of the cobblestone streets of Vejer past the white washed buildings for the final time I was looking forward to one last sangria and cigar.

“Journalism can never be silent: that is its greatest virtue and its greatest fault.  It must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes of wonder, the claims of triumph and the signs of horror are still in the air.” ~ Austrian-born former managing editor of Time magazine Henry Anatole Grunwald

It would be my favorite city we visited on this trip.  Clearly visible from the southern tip of Spain, the continent of Africa could be seen.  And by that I do not mean Sarah Palinesque; you really could see it!  A short ferry ride later and we were in Tangier.  Morocco!  Of course they speak French so I was thrilled.  It holds a rich history beginning with being a strategic Berber town in the 5th century.  In the 19th century it was considered to have international status by foreign colonial powers and became a destination for many European and American diplomats, spies, and writers.  I have read romance novels where the heroine gets lost down some narrow alleyway.  I could certainly see that happening if one veered off the wide, main street.  But cool, narrow alleys darkened by shade shielding against the afternoon sun beckoned with the exotic.  There were spices of every conceivable sort, silks, and trinkets behind heavy rugs that covered some of the vendors’ openings.  If one gave into temptation, as did I, it was incredibly easy to get disoriented with all the twists and turns.  One shop blended into the next and before I knew it I was beset upon by three charming, very smart, very persistent little urchins.  They hit me up for money in perfect English, French, Spanish, and German before I finally gave in.  The trio could not have been more than seven and they KNEW women would soften seeing their dark, puppy dog eyes peeking up at them from beneath long black lashes.  The youngest one started crying because he said I didn’t give him any money — when clearly I did.  That’s when I realized the little stinkers were professionals.  And they were good!  I shelled out more dirhams before I realized I’d been had.  When I narrowed my eyes and told them in French that was IT the oldest gave me a knowing look and they all scampered off.  Making our way back to the main part of the medina, we sat down for some Moroccan mint tea — my absolute favorite.  I thought it was strange to be drinking hot tea in the middle of a hot afternoon but it was delicious.  When I quietly remarked to my husband how charming the little glasses were with their colorful peacocks on them our sweet server gave mine to me to keep just before we left.  I still have it and I cherish it.  We went through the old Kasbah and I found myself unwittingly thinking of the ’80’s punk rock song “Rock the Casbah”.  We also visited the Kasbah Museum; the former Sultan’s palace.  It contained a collection of artifacts from the Phoenician to modern times as well as a beautiful garden.  We were there during Ramadan and our lunch was a light one.  I remember leaning back against the velvet, colored cushions of my second story window seat looking out over the Grand Mosque of Tangier.  Listening to the beautiful, lilting sounds that were the call to prayer coming from loud speakers throughout town was one of the most moving experiences of my life.  Perhaps even more surprising was seeing the Anglican Church of Saint Andrew coexisting peacefully not too far away.  They seemed to love Americans and Morocco was the first country to recognize the United States in 1777.  Locals would stop us just wanting to talk.  I could not leave without purchasing a beautiful, cobalt blue hanging lamp.  We always keep it on with an electric “gas” light.  American writer Paul Theroux said:

“The two impulses in travel are to get away from home, and the other is to pursue something — a landscape, people, an exotic place.  Certainly finding a place that you like or discovering something unusual is a very sustaining thing in travel.”

In Morocco I found exotic wares, welcoming people, and a landscape framed by the foaming waves of the sea.  It was lovely, memorable, and sustaining indeed.

The port of Cadiz was our next day’s excursion.  Founded 3,000 years ago, it is the oldest continuously inhabited city in Spain and is situated on a narrow slice of land surrounded by the sea.  We visited an archeological museum called the Casa del Obispo.  Just outside the Cathedral of Cadiz’s eastern exterior wall there was an expansive museum of glass walkways that took us over excavated Roman ruins and spanned events in Cadiz’s history from the 8th century BC up until the 18th century.  It served as a Phonecian funerary complex, a Roman temple, a mosque, and then became Episcopal in the 16th century.  Each of the different peoples who settled the city left an important cultural imprint.  Their influence still remains in the character of its people.  What I remember most is our obese, sweaty guide attempting to lead us through the (essentially) nude beach in order to observe one of the cities ancient fortifying walls.  Something tells me it could have been viewed elsewhere and Burk and I decided to sit that one out.  Call me a prudish American but it was just too shocking with everyone exposed like that.  All the men wore thongs with the tiniest scrap holding the front of them in … sort of holding them in.  It was worse than any Texas strip club and frankly I found it traumatizing.  I was not about to schlepp in between naked people fully clothed — history lover or no.  The English poet Robert Browning said, “Perhaps one has to be very old before one learns to be amused rather than shocked.”  All I can say is it was an eye opening experience.

There is something beautifully haunting about ruins by the sea.  It’s the juxtaposition between the ephemeral and the eternal.  This day was a scorcher and we were in Tarifa.  There were only a few people wandering about as the pillars cast long shadows over the ground.  Inside a museum held all sorts of interesting artifacts unearthed in the dig.  Baelo Claudia was an ancient Roman town whose history was with the trade routes that served Europe and North Africa.  The town’s strategic position near the Straits of Gibraltar made it a crucial stopping point between the two continents.  It derived its wealth from the fishing industry and supplied garum (fish paste) to the whole Roman Empire.  Apparently it was a popular delicacy.  The ruins boasted an impressive temple, forum, basilica, and — the town’s livelihood — a large fish salting factory.  At the top was a theater and we walked along the stones against a stunning backdrop of golden sand and blue sea.  I could hear the waves crashing and I thought once again of history and time.  Nations rise and fall but the ocean remains, withstanding the folly of man and bearing testament to it all.  The 18th century French political philosopher Charles de Montesquieu said, “Luxury ruins republics; poverty, monarchies.”  But the tides roll on.

This day we headed out to see an ancient dovecote.  I thought it was so cool until I found out they raised the birds to eat them.  I figured they were used as carrier pigeons.  Apparently they were also utilized for their eggs as well as their dung.  It is in the Guiness Book of World Records as the largest dovecote in the world with 7770 clay nests.  Active until the 18th century, now it was mostly empty.  I learned something else new as well; I had always heard of the Rock of Gibraltar but had no idea we were fairly close.  Never having been on British soil, I wanted to visit.  I remember being so excited to get another stamp on my passport and they didn’t even do it!  It seemed so out of place to see the Union Jack flying everywhere, double decker buses, and people driving on the left side of the road.  There were police with their high, rounded hats and others with large guns at the border.  The highest point of the rock rises almost 1,400 feet above the strait.  Approximately 40% of Gibraltar’s land was declared a nature preserve in 1993.  I so wanted to see the famed Barbary macaques but we ran out of time.  We did get to admire the peaceful botanical gardens which were both quiet and cooling.  English novelist Graham Greene said:

“The border means more than a customs house, a passport officer, a man with a gun.  Over there everything is going to be different; life is never going to be quite the same again after your passport has been stamped.”

As our driver took us back to Vejer along the high, curving roads that lined the sea I realized that although my actual passport stamp had eluded me, I now carried with me the stamp of being forever changed and I looked forward to what else this trip had in store.