Must-dos: the bane of travel

When we started taking public transit again on the downslope of the pandemic, I swore I would always wear a mask on transit. Close quarters, lots of people coming and going, usually inadequate ventilation–and look, I hadn’t gotten a cold the whole time I was masked for COVID, and I liked it. However, this summer I have forgotten a lot, or in the case of the Paris Metro, put my mask on and then taken it off because it was so, so hot. So . . . I have a cold. Meh.

And of course, since we’re in Madrid for only four days, I hate to miss anything, and yet, I also want to enjoy myself, and forcing myself to go out and do stuff when I’m sick is just not fun. Today is a case in point. The plan was to go to Reina Sofia, the modern offshoot of the Prado, but I slept until 11 a.m. and still couldn’t imagine going anywhere, especially since we had reservations for dinner and flamenco tonight and it would take all the energy I have. So I stayed in the apartment, grateful for the time to rest and recover, trying not to feel like I “should” be seeing this city while I had the chance.

In general, when a tourist, I don’t like to put myself under the pressure of must do this, must do that. Even under ideal circumstances, you can’t get to everything you’d like to see without running yourself ragged. Add a minor illness and it’s goodnight, Irene. But there are two things I really want to see in Madrid. One is the Prado, and tomorrow we have nothing else planned but that. The other is Guernica. That seed may have been planted early. Growing up, I lived near New Haven, and my family went into New York fairly often for art, great restaurants, and so on. The Museum of Modern Art had a huge retrospective of Picasso when I was about 12, probably specifically because they were going to have to return Guernica to Spain. The bombing of the city was ordered by Franco’s forces, and Picasso’s impassioned response was commissioned by the Republic. Picasso did not want a Spain ruled by Franco to have his masterpiece, and he gave it into MoMA’s keeping under the conditions that once Franco was dead, it would return to Spain permanently. So when my family and I went to MoMA to see the exhibit, my dad said, “You have to see Guernica while it’s still here.” And I did. That was 43 years ago, so I want to see it in person again.

Fortunately, we have some time Wednesday before we take the train to Córdoba, and I’m going to go to Reina Sofía then. There is a sculpture courtyard and some other pieces I’d like to see there, but if all I manage is Guernica, I will be content with that.

In Paris, something that wasn’t quite a “must-do,” but up there for me, was the basilica at St.-Denis. If you, like me, have taken art history classes, you have probably learned about St.-Denis and how it took all the elements of Gothic architecture and put them together. In other words, if there is a “first Gothic church,” that’s the one, so if you love Gothic architecture, which I do, it’s on the short list. And it was a short Metro ride from our apartment. I went there on my own, with a sense of religious and artistic pilgrimage.

I was listening to Gilead, with its narrator–a humble, troubled Christian pastor–exploring ideas of blessing, grace, and mystery. I thought having that in my ears as I sat in the church would be lovely. And I was also reading a lot on a Facebook group called “god has the worst fan base,” whose posts (reposts from some of God’s most insufferable fans) reminded me of just how many really destructive beliefs are out there. So when I gazed upon the basilica’s famous tympanum (the half-circle over the front door), which portrays the Last Judgment, instead of shrugging it off as a bit of medieval theology, I was thinking of all those people who really, truly believe that we are all going to be judged, and mostly found deserving of hell. I’m sorry they drowned out the much kinder, wiser Christianity of the fictional pastor John Ames and his creator, Marilynne Robinson, but they did.

I snapped a photo of one small portion of the carving, a tableau of demons and damned, and have been drawing it ever since.

I left feeling shaken. I don’t usually fret much about the theology embodied in the churches I visit. They are aesthetic objects, and I enjoy them for their beautiful elements and shake my head over their less beautiful ones. But I couldn’t look at the tympanum of St.-Denis without thinking about all the people who have passed under it during the past nine centuries. Generation after generation of people living in constant terror of the pit of eternal torment that was about to open up under their feet. People whose loved ones died of plague or infection, rapidly and unshriven, and who were told by their religion that those beloveds were in hell. And how many still live under that weight today. I can still appreciate the art–I even like the demons, who are a lot more expressive and interesting than the placid humans in their clutches–but it’s haunting.

Anyway, I finally finished the drawing yesterday, so there it is. I left off working on the demon that you can see just barely outlined on the bottom, because I had miscalculated and not given it enough room. I think I’ll draw it separately, when I recover from this cold.

Also yesterday, we went to another one of those things that many people say one must do in Spain: churros and chocolate. Of course, something can’t really be obligatory unless you want it to be. And when it comes to dipping churros in rich, thickened but not too sweet liquid chocolate, we did want it to be.

We have just returned from our evening at Corral de Moreria. The problem with dinner theater, cabaret, and all such combination events is often that only one element is really excellent. You’ve got great music and the food is meh, or vice versa. But Joy read that at this place, the food, music and dancing are all extraordinary, and she was not steered wrong. Everything was wonderful, and I was glad I had made it my only activity of the day.

Now it’s back to horizontal mode, listening to a podcast, hoping to sleep so that my poor, cough-sore diaphragm can get some rest, and so that I can enjoy a nice, slow day at the Prado tomorrow. I wonder if they have benches where I can just curl up for a little nap if I need it . . . ?