Tokens Along The Way

View of the old tannery, Fes, Morocco

Our taxi drive from Chefchaouen to Fes, Morocco, took just over three hours. After a brief wait at an arranged meeting place, a middle aged woman in long gown and head scarf gently approached and peered inside our car. Seeing two foreigners, she smiled. “Rachida?” I asked her name. She nodded.

Dining area and kitchen

Rachida works for Tara, the British owner who lives in Fes and Barcelona.

We gathered our things and walked a few minutes to a plaza and mosque. A couple zig-zags took us into dark, grimy passageways having to unlock gates. I felt bad for Amy’s fist impression of Fes. This would be our living experience for a week. It all changed when the massive wood door to our home opened. Rachida began showing us around. The house is an artist's delight. Intricate tile mosaics abound. Doors from previous centuries adorn, as well as tapestries, candle chandeliers, two bedrooms and baths, two kitchens and a delightful rooftop veranda with views over the city. The place is in the shape of a square. An inner courtyard is in the middle and goes straight up three floors—so each floor has rooms surrounding the inner court, connected by a flight of stairs. As we toured the second floor we turned a corner and found a reading room. Curled in one of the chairs we found Tiger, the resident calico cat. He is a welcome housemate.

 

We did not know that Rachida would be our breakfast cook and housekeeper. One special afternoon we went with her and her twelve year old daughter, Doha on a walk through the old Medina. to a famous restaurant called Cafe Clock. An Englishman started it and the woman who owns the house we are in in produced a cook book with Moroccan recipes for the restaurant. She has employed Rachida for about ten years.






Fes is a complicated maze of boulevards, hills and narrow passages filled with shops. So many things to delight the eyes. The second largest city in Morocco, (pop. 1.1 million), it first established itself in 8th century. Kingdoms have risen, fallen and risen again, leaving historic symbols and tokens along the way.









Tomorrow we leave for Tangier. We must be at the train station at 08:30 for the five hour trip. In three days we return to Spain. This is THE DREAM we are in.

Blue the Color of the Sky

 

Blue the color of the sky covers the walls in Chefchaouen, Morocco—founded in 1471. It is said to symbolize the sky and heaven, and serve as a reminder to lead a spiritual life. Some say that it didn't get its distinctive color until 1492, when it received an influx of Jews escaping the Spanish inquisition, who brought a tradition of painting buildings blue. Since nobody seems to have a definite answer, and the town is high in the mountains and close to the celestial vault anyway, I like the sky and heaven story.

This is my second visit to Chefchaouen also known as Chaouen—and the first for Amy. It is great for picture taking, writing, poetry, painting and being refreshed spiritually.

Chefchaouen’s soul reminds me of Venice—another totally unique city.




Amy and I are staying in a quaint “Dar” or house. A family lives here and has let out apartments beautifully decorated with Moroccan flourishes.
Dar Aldea is in a Medina, the walled historic city center off limits to cars.




 
Cats make for good portraits in the Blue City. They are abundant and know that they are honored. On the other hand, dogs are second class and far more scarce. Amy has encouraged me to do a picture story called The Cool Cats of Chefchaouen.

Also see: The Worn Tracks of Common Man
and Destiny

Enchantment

The little cobbled streets bend and turn in every direction. An average sized American car would be useless. Amy and I have arrived in Ronda, Spain driving a rented Peugeot that is small enough to get through narrow streets, but at times I get frustrated how close I am to other cars, curbs or walls. Looking around I am amazed that I do not see vehicles with dents and scrapes. Getting to our apartment using Google Maps proved almost impossible. We stopped from frustration and walked, knowing we were close to where we wanted to be. It was then that we we felt enchantment for we were in a very old part of the city, with winding cobbled paths, a bridge built by Romans over deep gorges with a spry river running underneath, and little plazas with statues. Eventually our proprietor met us at a plaza and guided us to our flat.

We have learned that Ronda has enchanted and invigorated some very famous artists including the German poet Marie Ranier Rilke, American writers James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway, and actor Orson Welles—who chose to have his ashes scattered over the earth here. He loved Ronda and said, “A man does not belong to the place where he was born, but where he chooses to die.”

Hemingway came for the bull fights. Ronda’s spectacular bullring is the oldest in Spain, built in 1785.
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) was suffering terrible writer’s block and overcame it after leaving Paris and sojourning in Ronda. He said, “The spectacle of this city, sitting on the bulk of two rocks rent asunder by a pickaxe and separated by the narrow, deep gorge of the river, corresponds very well to the image of that city revealed in dreams. The spectacle of this city is indescribable and around it lies a spacious valley with cultivated plots of land, holly and olive groves. And there in the distance, as if it had recovered all its strength, the pure mountains rise, range after range, forming the most splendid background.”

We knew nothing of famous people, bullfights, or legends when we arrived. It is on our way to Algeceris, Spain near Gibraltar where we will be in a few days to hand over our rental car and take a boat to Morocco. On the map it looked like an attractive stop on route. Today, Amy said, “I like Ronda better than Granada or Cordoba . . . it is my favorite place so far.” We extended our stay.
I have to agree because the setting is wonderful, it has a historic yet urban demeanor, is lively, but respectful and in short, a great place to be creative.

Windmills To Vanquish

After leaving cosmopolitan Granada, Spain, Amy and I have gone north. Every night in bed we read from Don Quixote, written by Miguel de Cervantes in 1605 - 1615. “The story follows the adventures of a noble (hidalgo) named Alonso Quixano who reads so many chivalric romances that he loses his sanity and decides to become a knight-errant(caballero andante), reviving chivalry and serving his country, under the name Don Quixote de la Mancha. He recruits a simple farmer, Sancho Panza, as his squire, who often employs a unique, earthy wit in dealing with Don Quixote's rhetorical orations on antiquated knighthood. Don Quixote, in the first part of the book, does not see the world for what it is and prefers to imagine that he is living out a knightly story.” (Wikipedia). How appropriate that I have also followed in his footsteps—referring to my life as THE DREAM. Amy is totally with me, so we have gone searching for windmills to vanquish, and found them.



Our first stop was Baeza. In the two days we stayed there we saw hardly a soul. Some if its streets are a thousand years old and the town is so preserved with antiquity that in 2003 it was added to UNESCO's list of World Heritage Sites.It seemed we were in a movie, with a stage set in the renaissance and all the actors were gone.



Heading north again, following road instructions on Google Maps, we immediately found ourselves amidst immense tracts of olive orchards. Both of us were amazed at countless olive trees in neat rows as far as we could see. They sometimes overtook entire mountains; marching up one side and down the other. At one point, a gleaming golden wall caught my eye in passing. It was shrouded on a hillside not far off, amidst trees. I knew from my previous trips to Andalusia that there are many deserted estates. “Oh, I want to explore!” I said. Amy replied, “Well stop and turn around.” We found a little road and it was slick with mud in places. Adventure called and I managed to get to a dry place and stop, almost entirely confidant I could get us out again. We walked in wet grass and slippery clay to get to the place.

 
I felt such excitement and nostalgia too. The walls were holding up but the roofs were caved in and gone. Rubble filled the inside but I found a way in. Just then the sun came out from behind clouds and I felt the grand nature of the place as it once was. I took pictures as Amy sat  pondering by an old well. When we reached our car we were both covered in clumps and splatters of white clay. “Oh well, “ I said as we drove out, “it was worth it.”

Now we are in Consuegra, Spain. Our flat is spacious but does not seem to get warm enough. Our first excitement was to find the windmills that stand on a hilltop next to a castle built circa 1183 overlooking the town. Amy and I imagine these are the mills that Don Quixote took to be giants and charged at on horse with his lance intent on doing battle—heedless of the entreaties of his squire Sancho Panza that he was only fighting windmills.

Thick Of Tradition

Until death it is all life”
― Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote

Now that we are in Spain, a curious ritual has arrived unexpectedly. In bed at night in our quaint apartment tucked on a hillside along a stream we read to each other Don Quixote of La Mancha, by Miguel Cervantes, (Spanish, 29 September 1547 (assumed) – 22 April 1616). At separate times in our youth both of us attempted reading the famous work from the Spanish Golden Age of literature but were daunted by its idiosyncrasies. Now in the land of its birth and on our own Quixotic journey of sorts, chasing windmills of our imaginations, we feel the pathos and understand the humor—exclaiming out loud and laughing with one another. When lights go out we continue to adventure side by side in dreamland.


Our first sojourn as a couple in the Old World begins in Granada. Years ago I lived here briefly and liked the part of the city called Sacromonte. It is best known for the flamenco venues. Caves in the mountainside are home to troupes of dancers and musicians. We will go tomorrow night and be in the thick of tradition. I am taking Amy to the same cave I experienced earlier. It is a narrow room with whitewashed earth walls and wood plank runway down the middle. The audience sit on either side within touching distance of the flamenco dancers as they strut and twirl to the strident notes of the musicians just behind them.




My fair lady Amalia de Córdova of Santa Fe, Nuevo Mexico USA is wounded but carrying on gallantly as a woman of high lineage does. Before we left Mexico City less than a week ago, she was bitten by bed bugs. Maybe I was bitten too, but it had no effect. Our hotel was highly rated and we were pleased, yet I saw a bug on the bed our last morning and killed it, thinking nothing much about it. When we arrived to Europe after a long trip, Amy had inflamed bites on her chest, back and neck. It got worse. The red circles around the bite centers expanded so much that a bright red welt became one mass the size of Texas on her torso. It has hurt terribly. So with some difficulty we ventured forth to Alhambra, the awesome palace overlooking the city—and just above our apartment. Amy has refused a doctor so I have been concocting home remedies to help. Thankfully, a paste of honey and turmeric applied over the welt is slowly helping. A spice shop just on the cobbled street out front along a little river has all the herbs we need.

Don Quixote and  Nasrid emir Mohammed ben Al-Ahmar of the Emirate of Granada would approve.
Amy has said she feels “at home” here although it is her first visit. Even more so than when she stayed in Córdoba, the town that is her namesake.

We will venture forth soon in quest of windmills that stand like giants and once battled Don Quixote at Consuegra, then on to Córdoba.

Take my advice and live for a long, long time. Because the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die.
― Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote

(For more from my previous adventures here, type Granada in the search bar at the top right of this blog.)

Hasta Luego Mexico!

Goodbye Mexico, until we meet again . . . hasta luego!

As the Grateful Dead said, “What a long strange trip its been.”

Tonight we board a plane at the Mexico City Airport and fly overnight to London, then board a flight to Madrid. We board again and fly to Granada.

To taste Mexico City, imagine if you will boarding in the middle of the “historico” center. The place is called “Chill Out Flats” and has high ratings on bookings.com . The owner and his mom speak good English and rent out five apartments in an office building with security. Breakfast is served every day.


A walk to the National Gallery of Art is about two blocks. Along the way, next to a perfume shop, a queue of young people wait to enter a museum of torture (Museo de la Tortura). The place with the masterpieces of art has no line.

Taxi’s are ubiquitous but beware of being overcharged. One day a driver refused to take our money. We could not figure it out until later when the maid at our hotel brought our clean laundry to our room and also refused to take our money. Turns out a bank machine had delivered us fake bank notes. Oh well, the mariachi musicians are out on Garibaldi plaza playing old time Spanish favorites for anyone who stops to listen. A few dirty songs are tossed in that make the young girls blush.

Streets are full of shops and some districts are known for perfumes, others for clothes; including blocks full of shops dedicated only to gorgeous, voluptuous wedding dresses or white baptismal clothes for children. Families arrive in preparation of big domestic events, then linger and choose.

Walking on streets is a carnival, day and night. Musicians play for change, as do organ grinders and young children strumming guitars or pumping accordions.

Frida Kahlo is everywhere—on the sides of buses, adorning posters and graffiti walls. Her lover and husband,  Diego Rivera, is also prized by Mexico. His immense murals are to be seen in museums and government buildings. After the Rockefellers paid him to make an immense mural in New York City, the subject matter was communist, celebrating workers rights and later destroyed. So Rivera made it again in Mexico City where astounded visitors at the Bellas Artes Museum can stand entranced by its grandeur and passionate appeal to rights for the common man.

The Museum of Anthropology is free, and a rich experience cataloging the earliest beginnings of human culture in Mesoamerica. The botanical park is across the street, near the Museum of Modern Art and the Rufino Tamayo museum. In the little park out front men dressed in Aztec regalia climb a giant pole then begin spiraling down, their ankles tied to ropes, in sweeping circles playing flutes and beating drums on the descent back to earth.  It is called “Danza de los Voladores” (Dance of the Flyers).

I have thought more than once that I want to live in Mexico City. Amy too. We can be so creative and the crazy ideas flow freely.



Oaxaca and Day of the Dead

 

Now that Amy and I are in Mexico, we give ourselves to surprise and the unexpected. Being in Oaxaca during the celebration of Dia de Muertos, (Day of the Dead,) takes our experience to another level altogether.

We are situated in an apartment just two blocks from the town center. Our comfortable room is in a complex belonging to an elderly Mexican woman, Maria, who shares her extra space.  Amy is conversational in Spanish.

We have been in Oaxaca four days but it feels like we are living lifetimes. Mornings start out quiet and relaxed with barely traffic, then as the day progresses everything intensifies. By evening lines of cars move slowly on the avenues that are open and people flood streets in the center that are closed to traffic. Families are in costume and many people parade with painted faces. Clusters of musical groups abound, often accompanied by costumed dancers. I love the strong brass sections that always have tuba players that huff and puff along with the drummers belting out percussion.

Naomi, along with Maria's family

The multi-day Dia de Muertos holiday focuses on gatherings of family and friends to pray for and remember those loved ones who have died, and help support their spiritual journey. It is common to see “ofrendas”, altars decorated with marigold flowers and items like food that are made as gifts to the deceased. Supposedly the dead can follow the pungent scent of the marigolds and arrive home. Copal incense is burned too. Maria set up an altar in her home and when she learned that Amy and I were going to make a little altar for Naomi, my daughter, she told us to include Naomi’s picture with those of her family.

The first night of the holiday, Amy and I hired a taxi and went to Xoxo (pronounced ho-ho) cemetery, an old, intimate resting place for the dead that is known by locals as the best place to have the real experience. We arrived at dusk and stayed until after nightfall. Families brought huge bundles of flowers and marched to the graves of their loved ones to place the blooms and light candles. We were careful at all times not to step on graves. We saw a big foreign man sitting on tombs while taking pictures and knew he did not know how to respect the place. I could hear Amy praying in Spanish as we went. I took photos of candles and tombs. Early in the evening we came upon a small group of locals sitting by the grave of a loved one. An old woman caught my eye and I asked to take her picture. She said something and nodded. Afterward Amy told me she had agreed and said, “Yes, because I will fly away very soon.”

The next night we painted our faces in our room and found a cab to drive us to another cemetery, called Panteon Generale. It is bigger, but to our chagrin, after walking down a closed street with festive booths on each side we found the gates had closed at 6:30 PM. Oh well, that is how THE DREAM is sometimes. So we mingled with families having fun at a mini-carnival. At various times proud parents asked to photograph their children with us.

Isais Jimenez and Amy Cordova

Events continue to unfold and yesterday a wonderful wood carver whose father is very famous drove with his wife from a nearby village to retrieve us and take us home. Isais is the son of artist Manuel Jimenez Ramirez (December 9, 1919 – March 4, 2005) who is a legend in southern Mexico. He and his family carry on the tradition begun by the father of painted wood carvings that are magical (alebrijes). Amy illustrated a book about Manuel, called Dream Carver. It is about a young boy who has visions to make wooden animals. He wants them wild and wonderful, different than the traditional carvings of his people. The animals he sees in his dreams are ones that he carves and decorates. The text is written by Amy’s friend, Diana Cohn.

Isais, with the carving he gave us.

To our surprise Isais has made a museum to his father and on the walls surrounding the museum are huge mural copies of Amy’s illustrations. We were treated very warmly and talked with Isais about how to revive the book, which is out of print. He said he is asked every day for copies. As our time with Isais concluded he took us into the showroom and with a wave told us to choose any painted wood carving we wanted. Amy and I both gasped because the artwork is very valuable—and masterpieces. Isais would not let us offer any money. We chose a sculpture and Isais had his son wrap it, then we got back in his Chevy Suburban and drove the forty five minutes back into town.



Before we left he said, “You are both part of our family now.”

A Blessed Path

We are both a bit thunderstruck—hit by lightning; not burned but filled with a higher vibration from heaven that gleams with light.

Barely a week ago we did not think that our little wedding would be today. Just four other people were with us to make it official.

Now the sun is out and shining brilliantly. A blessed path is before us; we both know it.
Amy Cordova and I intend to walk a holy path together. Our days as artists will be filled with creativity. We share love for life, Spirit and God.

In two days we will be in Mexico. First, Oaxaca for Day Of The Dead celebrations, then Mexico City. From there we will travel to Spain and Morocco. We don’t have a return ticket, but guess that in three months we will be back to the USA. Perhaps then we can celebrate and have a ceremony with loved ones and friends.

Our DREAM together is bigger and better than we can imagine and we are in awe. Our hearts are full and thankful.

The Diamond

 

Amy gave me a special potion and offhandedly said, “This will give you sweet dreams.” It is YIang Ylang and comes from flowers that grow on an exotic tree in Madagascar, the island off the eastern coast of Africa. I dabbed a little on my wrists and under my chin and went to sleep. Sure enough, I had a sweet dream. Like everyone else, I probably dream 3-6 times each night in segments lasting 5-20 minutes. Ninety five percent of dreams are not remembered, but with me, it is closer to 100%.

It was not always so. Earlier in my life I dreamed and remembered frequently. I kept a journal that quickly filled a binder with pages of handwritten recollections. Then in mid-life my entries tapered off. For a couple of decades now, I might recall a dream only a few times a year. I explain it away by rationalizing that my waking life is so full of creativity that I need a rest from the fantastic during my conscious hours.

The morning after I sprinkled Ylang Ylang on myself I woke with a dream lingering in my mind. I recalled that I was outdoors in a tiny clearing in a forest. I was seated and looking down at the earth under me. A gleaming stone half covered by dirt caught my attention. It was a diamond about the size of a golf ball. Wow, what a dazzling gem! I picked it up and felt its impenetrable facets and gazed at its magical capture of light. I knew I had something of great value and immediately began wondering if I could keep it safely, and thought it may be taken away. Shortly afterwards I awoke.

Dreams can foretell events in real life and this one did.

Two days later, a man came into my gallery. I was at my easel working. We greeted and he went and stood in front of my biggest painting—a sunset that is easily seen through the gallery window. Many people have admired it and wished they could buy it but the price is high. The man and I talked a bit about my painting process and the way I use thick layers of paint, called “impasto” effects. He asked how the colors were so brilliant and I explained that I use only the finest oils. He then left but came back with his wife. I liked the the couple very much. They began discussing where the painting might go in their home and decided another piece of art would have to come down and be replaced by the sunset. They left but said they might come back.

I went back to work and about an hour later turned from my painting to find the man standing behind me. We smiled and gazed in each others eyes, then met with his wife again in front of the sunset painting. They bought it. As I was writing up the big sale, he said “Hold on a minute . . . my wife is looking at something else as well.” She was entranced with two other landscape paintings and instead of picking one or the other, the couple bought both.

The experience was entirely magical and I could not help but think of the dream—and the diamond delivered into my hands.

 

Ocean Of Trees

 

I stumbled upon a shrine someone made and hid in the woods. Intoxicated with mountain fever and wandering off a trail at upper elevations, beauty had made me drunk. It is in moments like these that surprise comes.

Shimmering gold against a blue sky makes for a sublime dance in the mountains. For a brief span of about two weeks at the beginning of October it’s entrancing to go hiking in the woods high above the city. As seasons shift and autumn arrives, aspen trees heart-shaped leaves quake and gleam golden at the slightest breeze. Each white bark tree is rooted with another close by so that together, they make for some of the largest living organisms on earth and blanket mountainsides.

Amy and I began early—At 7, beginning with a stop for fresh coffee at a local cafe and then up along the winding road to Santa Fe Ski Area. Near the top is a favorite trail called Aspen Vista. We stopped there and to our surprise, although it was not yet 8:00, many cars were parked at the trailhead. It had rained recently so the ground was soft. A mist shrouded the upper mountain. We hiked on the broad path, reveling in the color of the aspens with accents of deep green from fir and spruce trees.

Near a small stream, we left the main trail to follow the water upward. Amy felt dizzy from high altitude so we found a place along the stream for her to sit. “I am going to explore the woods but won’t go far” I said, and left for a short sojourn into the primitive terrain, looking for the next photograph. Soon I was climbing over fallen tree trunks on the densely forested mountainside. The aspen stood side by side and shot up hundreds of feet toward the heavens. Often they are bare until near the top where foliage grows and receives sunlight. Dotted amidst the aspen are the deep green, sturdy fir trees with their skirts spread. I clambered over fallen trees and took photos, but thought of Amy and turned back after ten minutes. As I neared the stream, something caught my eye. A large shell gleamed underfoot. I had seen mollusk shells before in the southwest, even in desert regions where millennia before oceans covered the land. But this one was iridescent abalone and therefore struck me as unusual. Reaching down, I turned it over and saw that someone had put small symbolic objects underneath the protective cover. “Amy! Where are you?” I shouted. “Here” she replied and I saw her move just fifty feet away. She came and we both studied the tiny shrine. Amy is more familiar with native symbols and began telling the importance: Abalone shell used in sacred ceremonies for burning sage, obsidian stone, also called dragon stone, is volcanic glass and used in making arrow heads and also clearing blockages, white quartz for healing and purification, Native American pottery shard representing first people, and a metal bookmark with shell emblem—perhaps representing wisdom.

Someone had deep communication in the woods and felt thankful enough to make a sacred offering in a private ceremony which for some reason I was meant to discover.

The abalone is back in its place in the ocean of trees.

Amy, with two friends she met on the way home