October 16, 2008
In the distance I could see a small cross, gradually getting larger and larger. As the bus climbed the hill and stopped in front of the large stairs, I could not believe that actually size of the structure. So domineering and gray, with a picture of an agonizing pieta above the door, this was a place of pain, or a place to be respected. That was just the outside.
Upon entering the structure, I was surprised by the darkness and plainness of the interior. Arches after arches down a plain corridor, I was torn between walking slowly to let the prickling sensation overcome me and walking fast to escape the feeling. I lingered, meandering deeper in Franco’s domain, where religious art loomed over the observer. Continuing onward, I found myself in the center of the Basilica, facing a tomb that was not Francisco. Around me, at each corner, stood figures twelve to fifteen feet tall, dark, commanding, powerful. They reminded me of the Ringwraiths from the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Slowly I circled around the central structure, where a Christ in agony hung from the cross. At the back was the tomb of Franco: plain, simple, and surprisingly adorned with fresh flowers. I wandered in and out of the candlelit chapels, and became even more creeped out upon reading that la Valle de los Caidos was constructed using the bodies of the dissidents as part of the foundation. The entire place held an aura of imposition, and I couldn’t believe people would actually go here to pray. It was so … isolating that wandering the monument by myself gave me goose bumps. Yet ironically, I was not pleased to leave, feeling that I was missing something here. I slowly made my way back through the corridor, past two statue guards I hadn’t noticed earlier that reminded me of Harry Potter’s Dementors. I passed through the doors and into daylight, still slightly overwhelming on such a cloudy day. With one last glance at the view, where I felt I could see everything for fifty miles, we headed back to the bus and onward towards el Escorial.
On the bus, my friend Sasha (who was visiting me) and I could not get over the Valle de los Caidos and how surreal a place it was. We prepared ourselves for something just as nerve tingling at el Escorial.
I was surprised. Through a pleasant color-changing row of trees emerged the palace of el Escorial. True, it was no Palacio Real, but it wasn’t as polarizing as the Valley of the Fallen. Actually, it reminded me of any colonial house tour I’ve taken back in the US – only 200 years older and much bigger.
The only thing that may have been considered creepy were the tombs of the monarchs in the basement. Having already seen Columbus’ tomb in Sevilla, this did not unnerve me. I actually thought it was cool to see the legendary Charles V! The cool marble was appropriate for the room, and seemed to reiterate the fact that no warm blood pumps through these remains to keep them alive. The room was so ornate and beautiful compared to the rest of the palace, save the library. It was kind of sad that the dead are given greater luxuries than the living.
How do these represent the role of dictators? Both placed heavy emphasis on religion and used austerity to intimidate the populace. Both appeared to use religion and might as a means of legitimizing their rule. And yet, I believe the modern horrors to be a million more powerful and impacting than those of hundreds of years ago.
After el Escorial, we headed to the restaurant MariCarmen picked out for a preemptive celebration of Paul’s jazz gig. I sat with Sasha, and we had fun catching up and chatting over our paella, steak, and dessert (yum!). We soon headed out to the Jazz Bar, where Paul played phenomenally. I chatted with my friend Tom for a while, and enjoyed a drink and the music with Sasha. As it grew towards the time when the metro closed, Sasha, Alex, Tony and I headed towards the metro. I was sad to see Sasha go, but was glad there could be such an uplifting end to the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment