Valencia is a beautiful port city on the Mediterranean about four hours by train from Madrid. Like most old European cities, it had been enclosed for centuries by fortifications. Unlike Avignon in southern France, Valencia’s walls were destroyed around the end of the 19^th century to make way for the expansion of the city. Only two of the old gates survive; the one pictured here, the Serrano Towers, gives an idea of how formidable the ancient walls were.

Fortunately, the city’s rulers sometime show common sense: instead of razing the old Mercado Colón, for example, they restored it to its early-20^th century elegance. Although the bakers, olive-sellers, butchers and spice-vendors that used to thrive there have disappeared into memory, the building is now home to restaurants, a flower shop, a couple of bars and a book and music store. Memories for someone else.

I first came to Valencia more than 20 years ago and it was love at first sight. Later, I also lived in the city for 6 months and have returned to it a dozen times, usually spending at least two months at a time with my friends. The Mercado Colón has always had a special place in my heart because I lived not far from it and I used to buy my olives, bread, melons and wine there.

Seeing it today and walking the streets that years ago I came to know and love, I feel like Valencia is two cities: the city of the present and the city of my memories.

For me. the old quarter of the city is the most interesting, with maze-like streets and alleys, small restaurants and bars, an art gallery here and there, the enormous Mercado Central, and IVAM, the modern art museum. There’s also the House of the Marqués de Dos Aguas which has been converted into the city’s Museum of Ceramics. I don’t have any photos of the interior to post, (too bad, because there are thousands of ceramics dating from the ancient Greeks to Picasso,) but a look at the alabaster façade and the elaborately carved portal tells us that the Baroque is alive and well in this city.

The Great Mosque, or Mezquita (The taller structure is the cathedral.)

A friend of mine calls the Andalucian cities of Granada, Córdoba and Sevilla the “Moorish Triangle” because, after the Christian reconquest of the Iberian peninsula, Islamic culture managed to endure in these three cities longer than in other parts of Spain. Like other aspects of Spanish history, Islamic influence survives today primarily in architectural monuments, like the Alhambra in Granada, the Alcazar in Sevilla and the Great Mosque in Córdoba. What now remains from nearly seven centuries of Moorish presence in Spain exists as a kind of cultural debris afloat on a backwash of Christian religious marketing, civic self-promotion and tourist kitsch.

With the exception of some modern renovations, the Alcazar and the Alhambra remain pretty much as they were when the Muslims were expelled from Spain in 1492. The Great Mosque, or Mezquita, has a different story. Construction began in 785, and even though the city was “reconquered” by the Christians in 1236, the mosque remained for seven hundred years as it had been built by the Moors. That is, until 1523, when Christian religious and political authorities, who wanted to put their stamp on infidels by building a cathedral inside the mosque, received permission to do so from the Holy Roman Emperor Carlos V.

If constructing a cathedral on the site of a mosque or, in this case, inside of, and in the middle of,  one sounds disrespectful, it should; disrespect was the point. The mosque had been built on that site precisely because previously there had existed a church of the Visigoth Christians, who had constructed their edifice on top of an earlier Roman temple dedicated to the god Janus. What stood there before the Romans, I can’t say, but I would not be surprised to discover that under the Roman structure there had been a shrine honoring one of the gods of the ancient Iberians.

Below that, who knows?

Why many believers of the multitude of creeds that exist in this world cannot sleep peacefully in their  beds until they have eradicated  as many traces as possible of rival beliefs is a question best left for psychologists.  (Perhaps dogs pissing on bushes and trees that have been baptized previously by other dogs gives us non-psychologists a useful clue to the behavior of some pious human beings.)

In the case of the Mezquita, we should give a measure of thanks to those members of the hierarchy of the Catholic Church of the 16^th century who opposed the total destruction of the mosque. Thanks to them, at least the structure still stands in 2009. What is disheartening about its present existence however, is that it has not been allowed to exist in its own right, but rather as a kind of architectural footnote to a larger story of Christian triumph.

I quote from a brochure I and the other visitors received at the Great Mosque:

“The cathedral of Córdoba is not simply a monument or a temple of different cultures; nor is it a mosque, but the Mother Church of the Dioceses. The term “cathedral” derives from “cathedra,” or seat of a bishop, from where he acts as a pastor of all his people. That is why a cathedral is the express image of the Church of Christ that preaches, sings and adores throughout the world. Thus, the beauty of the Cathedral of Córdoba does not reside in its architectural grandeur, but   in the apostolic succession of the Bishop as a symbol of his pastoral service and the unity of the Church, founded upon the Word of the Lord, the sacraments and the community of believers.” (My italics.)

As a member of the community of unbelievers, I would have appreciated at least some recognition of the beauty of the Mezquita on its own terms. If the pastor of all of his people cannot bear to grant the Great Mosque the status of an architectural expression of a competing religious belief, is it asking so much for him to give at least some recognition that the Mezquita was, in fact, a mosque?

We all know the answer to this question.

Perhaps we should give the last word of our visit to the Mezquita to whomever carved the inscription on Doña Ynes’ tomb.  Or better, let’s leave this place with words written in 1915 by the Russian poet Marina Tsvetaeva (1892-1941):

I know the truth; forget all other truths.

No need for anyone on this earth to struggle.

Look, it is nearly evening, look, it is nearly night.

What will you say, poets, lovers, generals?

The wind is level now, the earth is wet with dew.

The storm of stars in the sky will  turn to quiet

And soon all of us will sleep under the earth,

We who never let each other sleep above it.

]]> http://johnmichaelkeating.com/wordpress/?feed=rss2&p=170 0 http://johnmichaelkeating.com/wordpress/?p=88 http://johnmichaelkeating.com/wordpress/?p=88#comments Mon, 28 Dec 2009 02:43:11 +0000 miguel http://johnmichaelkeating.com/wordpress/?p=88

Yes, I know that I haven’t posted anything for the past several weeks. But who wants to read about excuses for not doing–or doing, for that matter– anything?

So even though I have a few excuses– and good ones!– for not making posts, there’s no reason for you to have to deal with them.

Therefore: here are photos of the Sierra College Madrid crew, Fall Semester, 2009. (I think there are photos of everyone, except Lillian. Why I missed her, I don’t know, but if anyone else hasn’t been included, let me know.)

I live on calle Ferrocarril on the 3^rd floor of a six-story building that is also home for many families, including a lot of children and older men and women. The view– of the rear of other apartment buildings– is hardly inspiring and the sun doesn’t shine directly on my side of the building, so when I want to see what the day is like, I actually have to walk over to the windows and look up over the roof of an adjacent apartment to see whether the sky is clear or cloudy.

But I really like this place. It’s quiet and there’s space to paint and the neighbors I’ve met are friendly. Juan, the doorman, doesn’t say much, but he’s a good source of information, and with his advice, I’ve discovered the best place to catch a taxi, an Irish pub for watching a soccer match and an excellent bakery where I now buy my daily bread. There’s a market and a farmacia directly across the street and it’s a ten-minute walk to a Metro or bus that will take me to within a block of the Instituto.

Here are some photos of mi casa Madrid. What I’d like to show you, but can’t, is the present from Victor and Cory that was waiting for me in a bag on the table when I arrived here six weeks ago, suitcase in hand, hungry, tired and worn out from the flight from San Francisco, and with no idea of what, or where, I was going to eat. The bag contained a note pad and pencil, two rolls of toilet paper, a bag of potato chips, tomato sauce, a package of spaghetti and a bottle of fine Rioja. Welcome to Madrid.