The Continued Journal of an Anachronist in Spain:  Cordoba by Dona Ana
Ravaya de Guzman

My aunt and I had to travel back north to Madrid to be able to travel
southward to Cordoba (accent on the first syllable, please, not on the
second, as a sell-out Latin actor hawking a certain make of carriage
might say it).  There is an extensive network of Iron Caravans
throughout the country, but a particularly fast one runs from Madrid to
Cordoba and Sevilla, and we wanted to make the most of our time.  This
ride was swift, smooth, quiet and beautiful, as we saw the countryside
glide by our window and were even fed a filling Spanish lunch with
sparkling wine along the way.  We sped past distant castles and
fortresses; plains of just-harvested wheat fields, corn fields, cotton
fields and sheep meadows gave way to the rocky Sierra Morena and
orchard after orchard of olive and orange trees.  The buildings also
changed, from the red brick and clay and stone of the north to the
whitewashed stucco and  red-tiled roofs of the Andalusian countryside.

The middle table-land of Spain is temperate, if dry, the north is said
to be green and wet and hilly, but the south is almost desert, except
where the Moors improved upon the irrigation systems the Romans had
started.  The many small rivers of Spain cut through its crisscrossing
mountain ranges, rocky, scrub and dry land, until they reach lush,
verdant cities which dot their paths to the sea.

One such civilized oasis is Cordoba, once a Roman city, like Toledo, on
the banks of the Betis.  When the Moors established their emirate here,
they had never seen such a wide river as this, and re-named it.  The
root word for the Guadalquivir would roughly translate to "The Big
River" or "The Queen of Rivers."  We on this side of the ocean who are
used to the likes of the Hudson or the Mississippi would not think so,
but the Moors had never seen so much water in their lives, so their
poetic license is understandable.

The sun was low in the sky when we arrived, so my aunt and I hurried
quickly to our lodgings, left our luggage, and went directly to the
Mezquita (Mosque).  This great monument to the Caliphate at its zenith
was built between 785 and 961; it  became a Christian cathedral in
1236.  It rests on the northwestern bank of the Guadalquivir, near the
Roman Bridge, which is still used today by carriages.

The building is immense, 590 feet by 425 feet, one third of it being an
enclosed courtyard of orange trees and a fountain where the faithful
would perform ablutions before entering to pray.  One tall minaret, now
a bell tower, stands near the entrance into the courtyard.  Cross the
courtyard and enter the Door of the Palms with me.  However many
illuminations you might see of this wondrous building, nothing compares
to standing in the midst of the forest of arches and pillars of the
Mezquita.  Of the original 1,200, pillars roughly 800 remain.  No
matter where you look, you are lost in the delicate rows of onyx,
jasper, marble and granite. The pillars are topped by ornate capitals,
some from the Visigothic cathedral of St. Vincent which had been razed
to build the mosque, some from Roman buildings, some as gifts from the
Byzantine emperor.  Crowning the pillars are two rows of red-and-white
striped arches, the lower row of the characteristic Cordoban horseshoe
arch, the upper one semi-circular, and a simply-carved wooden ceiling
quietly covers all.

In the days of the Moors, there were as many doors as there were rows
of pillars, and they were always open when the mosque was in use.  The
orange trees in the patio outside continue the line of the columns
inside, linking the man-made house of worship to the world of God's
creation.

The southern wall of this place is the Qiblah, and built within it is
the Mirhab, the sacred prayer-niche which must face Mecca by the Muslim
law.  An error in calculations when it was finished in the 10th century
has this one  facing more south than east, but this mistake was allowed
rather than destroy such a lovely work of art and start over.  This
exquisite mosaic of blue, green, scarlet and gold, of geometric
patterns, Arabic letterings and floral designs can only be appreciated
in the morning and early afternoon, when the sun shines through the
doors and high windows of this place, so we were determined to return
in the morning, with Master Minolta in attendance.

When the Christians took over in 1236, the first thing they did was
wall up most of the doors, so there is not enough light to do this
place justice, but at least it was not torn down.  A small chapel was
built near the center by mudejar craftsmen, so the architectural style
blended nicely, but the Christian cathedral choir at its center was
built in the 16th century, jarring and out of place.  When Carlos V
(grandson of Fernando and Isabel) saw the finished choir, he was said
to have remarked to the residing bishops, "You have destroyed something
that is unique in order to build something that might have been
constructed anywhere."  The building is so large, however, that you
don't see the choir until you're almost on top of it.  My aunt
commented that she had seen how the Turks had done a similar thing to
the Santa Sofia in Istanbul, making that cathedral a mosque.

We wandered the quiet forest of arches and pillars a while longer and
then walked back to our inn quickly.  We had been told that the streets
near the river were not safe after dark, so we discreetly made our way
to the more bustling side of town and had some tortillas and bocadillos
(small sandwiches) at a cafe in the Plaza de las Tendillas.

The following morning we wandered the Juderia, the famed Jewish Quarter
of Cordoba near the Mezquita, where I entered the only other
synagogue-turned-museum in Spain and gazed upon the Hebrew letterings
and intricate traceries and designs upon the walls.  In this maze of
streets I also found a statue of Maimonides, the famed
poet-doctor-philosopher who was a native of this place.  That this
statue was built at all in our century is a sign that finally a spirit
of remorse and reconciliation was in effect among the people of Spain.
On the 500th anniversary of the Edict of Expulsion in March of 1992,
King Juan Carlos had it rescinded.

Among the streets near the Mezquita I purchased more gifts for my
friends and one extravagance for myself, a pair of hand-sewn shoes of
soft, yet sturdy real Cordoban leather.  Court shoes at last!  I also
found a house which had been turned into a museum, resembling as much
as possible the home of a well-to-do 12th century Moorish nobleman.  I
saw the large, plush floor cushions, the low writing desks of carved
and inlaid mahogany, the inks and pens, the quiet fountain in the
central patio within.  The Moors were a society of religious warriors
turned poets, and such a society eventually makes way for a new order
of warriors to take over.

This leads me to my visit to the Alcazar of the Christian Kings.  This
is a Christian castle along the banks of the river not far from the
mosque-cathedral.  Before reaching it, you leave the Juderia (which is
partially surrounded by a wall) through the Gate of Almodovar and pass
a statue of Seneca, who was also born here.  The Alcazar is not much to
look at from the outside, but there are vast, lush and sumptuous
gardens, terraced fountains and fish-ponds on the other side of these
plain walls and strong gates.  Within the castle itself is a museum of
the art andculture of the Romans who once called Corduba (the original
name) home.  Alfonso XI built the Alcazar in 1328. Fernando and Isabel
made this place their home while they planned the taking of Granada.
Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Granada, was briefly held prisoner
here in 1483, and the Inquisition held office here for nearly 300 years
after 1492.

The Spanish love of gardens and fountains was inherited from the Moors.
Near the middle of this verdant refuge from the cares of government are
three statues, of Fernando and Isabel coolly, regally facing Cristobal
Colon who is standing before them with a plainly supplicant expression
on his face, a scroll (perhaps a map) rolled in his left hand.

Our next stop, and the last one on the Swift Caravan, was Sevilla,
which I will describe another day.


from the February 1998 Seahorse