The Descent

I had saved some coins for this journey and packed a few new

clothes.  I traveled light for I knew the weather would be

hot, still, when we arrived in Madrid, I was surprised to see

how scorched the grass and trees looked.  Our guide told us

there had been a drought since last May and it was 

September.  I removed the white silk scarf I wore around my

neck because of the hot air bouncing off the high rise

apartments, and billboards for American rock concerts.  I

must have left it behind on the commuter bus, because I never

found it again.  We passed through the ancient gate of the

city, the city that lay beneath surrounding mountains.

The next day we met the guide who would be with us all

through our journey, a man so like a bull that he could have

depicted the bull on the posters we saw rather than the

bullfighter.  His name, Domingo.  Were his feet cloven? I

never saw him barefoot.  His strong head could have sprouted

horns and it would not have seemed unusual. He spoke no

English but expressed himself humorously in sign language.

To our English guide Isabel Teresa, he rumbled in his

pleasant Spanish voice.

                               2

We drove past a statue of Cybele in a two wheeled chariot

driving two lions. A canvas shrouded part of the sculpture

due to renovations.  Cybele's spirit, a mystery to me then,

became more and more familiar as the journey continued.

Cybele surrounded with animals, a Great mother like Artemis

or ancient Inanna who descended to the underworld.  We passed

a statue in the town square of a bear rampant eating leaves

from a tree. The bear, wilderness in the middle of Madrid. I

like his. Madrid feels good to me.

At the Prado, we were greeted by a saturnine man named

Umberto who called me Barbara with a raised eyebrow.  He knew

my name from the name tag I was told to wear as part of a

Christian tour group.  I felt conspicuous.  I didn't like

this familiarity--he spoke as if he knew me--and I didn't

want to know him. I don't think he had changed his shirt for

quite a while.  Avoiding his gloom as he led us through the

El Grecos and Valezquez paintings, I deliberately looked at

other paintings than the ones he pointed out.  In an El Greco

I had never seen before, a chimeral dragon rises from a

communion cup while Umberto prattles on about how the El

Greco fingers are painted.  In another room Umberto wipes his

eyes at a sad looking Spanish man wearing black--the way a

man should look he says.  I saw Umberto in a different light

now-- strange and sensitive to the dark side; now that he

knew my name, he had power over me. I ripped the name tag

from my blouse, but in my haste I tore the fabric of its fine

white silk so later threw it away.

Our time in the Prado was not nearly long enough for the

treasures we never got to see.  Umberto led us to a shop

across from the Palace Real that plied us with free red

Sangria.  I wanted to buy a carving of Don Quixote in black

wood, but the prices were ridiculous.  I bought a postcard of

the Cybele statue--where is Cybele headed?  Her bare arms

look strong as she guides her stocky horses.  A beautiful

woman.  I also buy a postcard of the droll bear eating leaves

from the tree.

Madrid used to be surrounded by a forest and the bear would

come down from the hills and eat of the leaves of the tree

that stood in Madrid.  Was it a fig tree? No I was told it

was a strawberry tree.  I like this image very much. The bear

is life size and cast in a dark metal, probably bronze.

                          3

I see a view of Toledo from a distance with its hills, walls,

spires bridges and the river Tagus enfolding it. We pass

though the walled city gate where we meet our guide, Charo.

She is happy to be from Toledo.  “Do I look like I'm from

Toledo?”  she asks.  I say yes, enthusiastically.  Charo is

now fond of me.  We look into walled gardens and blooming

wrought iron balconies, an inviting square, the cathedral

filled with golden treasures, and resonant sounds: ringing

voices, solemn harmonies of a choir then an organ concerto.

Paintings by Caravaggio, El Greco and in another room,

paintings of holy men one sardonically rendered by Goya. We

press on to El Greco's house with tunnels below due to the

inquisition.  We were in the Jewish quarter of town. Did the

place give El Greco his tragic vision?  Toledo was the right

place for him.  And then soon we found ourselves in the gloom

of a cavernous workshop where a gnome like man sat hammering

gold and silver into dark steel.  We saw the finest

craftsmanship: steel blades brought to Spain by the Arabs

from Damascus.  My thin voile skirt of many colors catches on

the end of a lance and tears. For such a colorful garment,

Joseph went down into a pit.

Leaving Toledo, we travel through groves of ancient olive

trees, some 300 years old and more and still bearing fruit in

the dry rocky soil. Their twisted, gnarly trunks defy the

hot, dry air, but I am not made of such sturdy stuff.  I

thirst.

On this barren stretch Don Quixote battled windmills, a

desert dreamscape. The windmills still stood dreaming in the

heat.  I thought I saw Quixote once--or a least his old nag

dozing under an olive tree, resting one forefoot.

                  4

My roomate Betty divorced her alcoholic husband and worked at

the bank.  She said her daughter wanted her to divorce.  "Get

a life," her daughter said.  She eats a lot of ice cream, but

looks hungry all the time. She remarks on how Domingo keeps

looking over toward our table.  He is alone.  We feel sorry

for him.

I am wearing a red silk blouse and long silk shorts,

fashionable this year and, I thought suitable, for the resort

town but I am quite conspicuous. The Spanish women wear more

sophisticated clothes: beautiful high heeled shoes, black

My suitcase is lighter now.  I've had to discard a scarf, a

blouse and a skirt.  I am stripping down.  We reach  sun

dresses.

drenched Torremolinos. Betty stays in the hotel room so I

head for the beach to explore. Betty doesn't want to get her

hair wet or her feet sandy.  I go down the hill through the

labyrinth of little shops and restaurants serving seafood

specialties.  I take pictures of couples from our group then

head back.  Domingo.  He stops me on the street and asks if I

would like something to drink. So he can speak English a

little.  We find a little outdoor cafe and he buys me a beer,

for I am very thirsty.  We try to converse, but I don't speak

Spanish and he only knows a few words of English.  We laugh a

lot.  I know what he wants, but I say No comprendo.  He says

si you comprendo.  I say no way Jose.  He grabs my arm and

for the first time I fear, yet I know I am safe. Come to my

room for coffee he says.  I say no.  Whiskey?  No. Domingo

snorts.  Never on Sunday I think. He splits.

After dinner I sit with the Christians in the hotel lounge

listening to live music. Betty has gone back to the room

again.  Torremolinas does not seem to agree with her. A

Spanish man who looks elegant like a retired matador asks me

to dance.  We float across the dance floor.  No one else is

dancing. The music stops and we are to ask others sitting

around to dance.  It’s a broom dance like in high school.

I choose partner after partner and they are all fine to dance

with.  Dancing must be universal it is so easy to change

partners, not speak, and move to the music.  My feet get

tired with so much dancing so I take off my shoes, and when I

leave I forget to take them with me.

I am fond of Isabel Theresa who warns us about buying leather

goods in Morocco, our next stop.  If you buy leather, you

might have to shoot it first. She is a petite, gamin type,

multi-lingual with a charming sense of humor.  She wears her

hair short and points out what interests her--practically

everything from the types of rocks to the personalities of

the Spaniards--a mystery to me.

On the ferry to Tangier, two Arab girls sit across from me.

One has intricate designs drawn on her palms with henna.

They motion to me.  I look around and see nothing.  They

giggle.  I have dropped my notebook on the floor.  I thank

them and pick it up.

5

We are met on the other side of the straits by the Muslim

Bushta, a man with a warm smile who wears a delicately

crocheted sort of tall white beanie, and a long caftan.  He

leads us through the narrow winding streets where small

children hold up flowers.  La I say.  They disappear. I have

learned one word of Arabic and it means no.

Tangier smells strangely sweet, yet the odor is not pleasant.

Sweet piss.  A group of young boys beat ceramic drums and

sing on a rooftop. Minarets and domes of mosques give the

city beauty, yet I hardly ever look up--I am too busy

guarding my handbag from the street boys.  Dorthea, a

septuagenarian dressed in a purple dress that doesn't suit her

at all asks "Who is he impersonating?" of a mysterious Arab

man who follows us.  "I think he's from central casting," I

tell her.  A hot wind blows.  Bushta tells us its the sirocco

that dries up the crops, an evil wind from the Sahara.  My

bra feels constricting. I am sweating.  At the hotel again, I

get rid of it and feel cooler.

                            6

We are headed for Lisbon.  Portugal is poor.  We pass a

cemetery that looks much like ones I saw in the Yucatan and

Guatemala--little low houses where the dead reside.  We pass

the spoils of a uranium mine, dark and barren.  The weather

has turned dark and rainy.  Domingo finds a little cafe where

we stop for coffee.  Inside, it is cheerful, homey.  I know a

woman has hung the pictures and tends the potted plants,

although I don't see her there.  A man and his teenage son

wait on us.  A massive traffic jam puts us on hold as the try

to cross the bridge into Lisbon.  Isabel Teresa says it must

be a bull fight.  She tells us of her love of the ancient

rites--how the bullfighter stood under a grate and let the

bull blood fall on him, how the ancient paintings in the

caves recall a time below time.  We are descending,

descending, finally across the bridge and into the labyrinth

of Lisbon with tangled traffic braying, snorting into the

night air.  A Michael Jackson concert has caused the mayhem.

There is not a room in the hotel.  The concert crew is

staying there.  The wine served is excellent though and the

bread.  The chef smiles as I praise the beauty of the

cuisine.  What more do I have to lose?  I have trouble

finding my room.  The elevator descends, ascends, descends.

Have I drunk too much wine?

7

We pass through a rocky, barren landscape where an occasional

sheepherder guides his flock to grass or water.  By noon we

have reached Spain's El Escoral,  on the last leg of our

journey.

Victor, our guide, has dark eyes, large ears, dark

complexion, and a sepulchral voice. He has spent 40 years

wandering El Escoral's labyrinth.  He shows us the bedroom

where Philip II could draw a curtain and look into the chapel

where a saint roasts on a grill for all time.  Philip's

Armada lost to England: his memorial to all the dead kings

and queens of Spain remains glowering over the desolate

landscape.

Victor's voice echoes through the halls and he leads us down,

down, down to the tombs where the bones of royalty lie. "Our

last queen is in the rotting room," Victor tells us.  Of

course this must happen.  Only bones rest in the coffins.

At last we reach the inside of an octagonal room

of red marble where stacked on each wall are ornate lapis

lazuli coffins.  Some queens were loved and some were not.

Some kings were treacherously murdered and some went mad.

Some women died in childbirth and some of the children died

under suspicious circumstances.  Now all are stripped, only their

 bones remain.

  I recall the tombs of the Maya at Tikal.  Their

dead also lie stripped to their bones, commemorated under a

pile of stone like El Escorial.  I feel naked.  I am dead/

not dead.  I have made the descent, and survived it like

Inanna or Cybele and now it is time to return to the light.

"Back to reality again," says Betty.  She has snapped a photo

of the tombs disobeying orders not to take pictures.

We climb up the stairs and finally we see light.  Victor

calls our attention to a painting of Christ by Hieronymus

Bosch.  Christ wears only a crown of thorns.  His body is

naked and he is surrounded by a demonic crowd much like types

Da Vinci liked to paint. Weakness, stupidity, sly malevolence

show on their faces. Christ's grace illuminates the painting

in a circle of gold.  The square black background outside of

the circle of gold teems with barely discernable

figures...are they the future?  Outdoors I can see the wind

stirring the leaves of trees, surprisingly green. 

God, both and neither male nor female and beyond both has protected us

through this perilous journey.

Outdoors again I take a deep breath and look into the

distance where shepherds guide their flocks through the

desolate countryside.

"Tourists are children," Victor tells me.