Saltair

It's Friday night, and a long line of punk kids snakes from the front door, fills the wide sidewalk, and extends well into the parking lot. Black seems to be the color du jour. Black pants, black shirts, and black hair. Some have pink hair and others purple. Here and there are clouds that bellow into the air. Some from cigarettes and others from vape pens.

We are at Saltair on the south shore of the Great Salt Lake. The kids are in line for a double concert: Pierce the Veil and Sleeping with Sirens. Until recently, I hadn't heard of either of them. I still don't care for their music. That is why my son and his friend are in line and I'm not. I conceived the idea that I could bring my camera and wander around taking pictures. I also threw a mattress and sleeping bag into the back of the vehicle for later. I brought a book and journal. Enough to keep me occupied for six hours on a cold January evening.

First of all, let me say that there is nothing else around here. No gas stations, no stores, no hotels. Nothing. Across the freeway is a refinery for the Kennecott Copper Mine. That's it. There aren't even bathrooms outside the building . . . which has me worried. Just a parking lot, the edifice of Saltair, and the Great Salt Lake, which at this corner of the lake doesn't exist. The nearest body of water is at least a couple hundred yards from shore. All that's here is mud.

The sky is overcast, the air is humid and cold, and light rain sprinkles from time to time. No beautiful sunset, no seagulls playing on the shore, and from where my car is parked, I am practically trapped inside the parking lot. This evening might be more of a challenge than I anticipated.

The original Saltair was completed in 1893. The pictures I see of the original building look nothing like Utah, but more like a scene from India. The palace stood on a platform in the midst of the lake, supported by 2,500 pilings. The pavilion was 100 feet high, and people could dance on what was advertized as the world's largest dance floor. The roof had several onion-shaped domes that gave the appearance of a mosque. Some photographs even offer a resemblance of a miniature St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow.

The Mormon Church built Saltair. At this time they were trying to put polygamy behind them and bring the church more into the mainstream. One of the objectives with Saltair was to create a “Coney Island of the West” to demonstrate that Utah was not a strange place. Another objective was to create “a wholesome place of recreation” for its members. I don't think that they had Pierce the Veil and teenagers puffing with vape pens in mind when they made that goal.

During Saltair's golden years from 1893 to 1924, it saw mechanical rides, Ferris wheels, roller coasters, swimming, and dancing. During these years, Saltair saw more than a million visitors.

In April of 1925, a fire broke out and destroyed most of the building. The years that followed were up and down with more fires, flooding, low lake-levels, war-time non-use, and finally, abandonment. In 1970, the original structure burned down for good.

In 1982, Saltair III, which is the one where I now am, was built. Less than a year after it opened, this new palace was ¼ mile from the Great Salt Lake due to drought conditions and a receding shore line. The following year there was a bumper crop of water in Utah and the pavilion of Saltair III was under five feet of water!

Saltair III, I've decided, is no Saltair I. It is a bland, rectangular-shaped building with a few of the onion domes on top, but none as spectacular as the originals. It is built on the shore, instead of on pilings that reach into the distance of the lake. And worst of all, an ugly parking lot surrounds the building. I came with the idea that I would take photographs during the concert, but it is difficult to create a good angle without blacktop and cars in the background. That's alright. The lighting is poor anyway, and the lake level is incredibly low. Nothing is lining up for a good photograph.

I wander down at the shore of the lake where the bulrushes grow. There is a narrow strip of dry sand between the bulrushes and lake mud and I maneuver between the two to find an angle where the bulrushes block out the parking lot. Surprisingly, the lake-stink isn't present now. I notice other concert-goers wandering by the shore also.

Above the rocky south bank, there is a quiet road that runs from Saltair to the Great Salt Lake Marina, two miles away. Between that road and the freeway is a pond of water, surrounded by more bulrushes and a few small trees.  Beyond the pond and beyond the freeway are the Oquirrh mountains and the Kennecott smokestack.

I wander around for about forty-five minutes before I decide that it's time to take a break and retire to my vehicle and read a book. Like I stated, we more or less have a front-row parking spot, and now that all the kids are in the building and the concert has started, I'm not far from having a front-row concert seat also. The music is blaring beyond the walls, and I can see the strobe lights through the large glass windows. I am able to make out many of the words they sing. I can even hear the girls scream. It will be a fun six hours.

I read in my vehicle and watch the occasional pinprick of rain land on the windshield. Every drop of daylight has now vanished and I know that I want to get out one more time and take some night photos with my tripod. The slight, but constant mist from the sky makes me hesitant. Finally, I decide to man-up, and begin my second tour of the premises.

I commence by wandering around the muddy shore of the lake. I don't know if the lake level was recently higher, but all the earth within the basin of the lake is wet, and I don't dare walk there. Instead, I skirt around the edges, near the bulrushes, and try to work my way behind the Saltair building. The mud is becoming greater and there are large puddles of standing water. In addition to that, the rear lights of Saltair are not even illuminated. I decide that I have no picture worth taking.

Alternatively, I turn to the empty lake bed and see a possible photograph. The muddy wallow is full of divots and ruts, and the light coming from the parking lot accents the interesting texture. I set up my tripod and take a shot with the shutter open for ten seconds. I am pleasantly surprised with a result that looks like the landscape of the moon.

I return to the pavement of the parking lot and walk to the opposite side of the building in search of that quintessential night shot that I had conceived in my mind. I envisioned a photograph like the many I took of the monuments in southern Spain at night. But I can't find it. The first problem is the parking lot lights: too bright and too close to the subject. The second problem is the subject itself: Saltair III is certainly no Alhambra Palace. Half the dome lights are snuffed out, and the building is just . . . lackluster.

I find myself back on the quiet road that runs from Saltair to the Great Salt Lake Marina. The January air is taking its toll on my body. The tips of my ears and fingers are turning numb. A small drop of snot is at my nose and I am having to constantly wipe it away.

It is the smokestack that really draws my attention. On the other side of the freeway, placed in the foreground of the Oquirrh Mountains, the Garfield smokestack stands as majestically as the Washington Monument . . . only it's twice as tall! This very tall cement chimney stands 1,215 feet high. That makes it by far the highest man-made structure in Utah and the loftiest freestanding structure west of the Mississippi. It is just thirty-five feet lower than the Empire State Building and is the 31^st tallest freestanding structure in the world!

The smelter belongs to Kennecott Copper, who also owns the Bingham Canyon Mine, the largest man-made excavation in the world. Kennecott knows how to do things BIG.

The reflection of the lights shimmy on the little pond between the desolate road where I stand and the freeway. I watch the smoke or steam as it bellows from another location next to the Garfield smelter. I set up my tripod on the road and experiment with different shots. An orange hue projects onto the clouds that are closer to the Salt Lake Valley. The willows in front of the pond silhouette against the water.

My time outside, in the chill of night, is ready to end. A man can only stand such discomfort for a time. I wander back to my vehicle and crawl into my sleeping bag that I have rolled out on top of a thick foam mattress. I push plugs into my ears and pull a long stocking cap over my eyes. I can still hear the bass of the music thumping in the background, but it is now mellow enough that I can close my eyes and snooze for just a while longer.

References

Allen, C.D. "Saltair, a Unique Resort." UC Denver. 1993. Web. 25 Feb. 2015

Arave, Lynn. "Holy Smokes: Kennecott Smelter, Utah's Tallest Man-made Structure, to turn 35." Deseret            News. 16 Nov. 2006. Web. 25 Feb. 2015

McCormick, John S. "Saltair." Utah History to Go. 2014. Web. 25 Feb. 2015

Sevilla

First impressions are always interesting. When I first traveled to Sevilla, in southern Spain, I expected to find sunny skies and flowerpots on the balconies and terrace-filled streets with tables and chairs and waiters serving gazpacho.

I didn't expect to see the bikes. Bicycles everywhere! While walking down the street, it took a few dirty looks for me to realize that I was walking in their lane. We noticed that many of the bicycles were identical, painted in the same color and donning the same style of basket in front. Each bike wore the same large red fender, each with a white circle and the word “Sevici” inscribed in the middle.

We saw racks with at least a dozen of these bicycles latched onto them. Little by little we pieced together the puzzle, learning that these were bicycles made available to the public, by the city, to encourage public transportation.  “Bike stations” were scattered throughout the city where a person could retrieve a bike from one location and drop it off at another on the other side of town. I kind of liked the idea.

But it wasn't just the cycling that caught my attention. The people in Sevilla were very active. Runners jogged along the sidewalks, school girls on roller blades moved on the paseo, and kayakers streamed along the Guadalquivir River. There were all the pedestrians also, but that is a common occurrence in every Spanish city.

That was my first impression. Of course, there is much more to the capital of Andalusia than just bikers, runners, and kayakers. Seville, or Sevilla as it is known in Spanish, is arguably the most beautiful city in all of Spain. At one time, it was probably the most important city in Spain, also. After the discovery of the New World, every ship with goods from the Americas had to first stop at the river-port in Sevilla.

Giralda Tower

A mandatory destination while in Sevilla is the cathedral. This massive structure is the largest Gothic cathedral in the world. It was built on the site of a former mosque. From the exterior, the most impressive feature is the bell tower. The Giralda, as it is known locally, was originally a minaret of the mosque, and built to closely resemble the minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque in Marrakesh, Morocco. A man would travel up the 343 foot tower five times a day to call the Muslims of Moorish Sevilla to prayer. After the Reconquest, the minaret was converted to a bell tower.

A trip to the top is certainly an adventure. The passageway was choked with people when we went, the right-side traveling up, and the left-side traveling down. There are no stairs leading to the top, but rather a series of ramps. We were told that it was built wide enough that a horse could ride to the top.

Along the way are many peep holes, or windows to view outside. These points allow peeks into the courtyard of the cathedral, as well as views of the roof, and close-up glances of gargoyles.

The very top allows an excellent view below the bell, and also vistas of the city. We could see the bullring, the Alcazar, and some rooftop swimming pools. Far below us, a semi-circle of horse and carriages parked along-side the cathedral. We waited for the top-of-the-hour to hear the bell ring close-up. To my disappointment, it only rang once, even though it was twelve-noon. Perhaps that is in consideration of all the tourists.

A view from the Giralda tower of the cathedral.  The "Patio of Oranges" is visible in the foreground.

This view from the Giralda Tower includes the Alcazar (top left), Archive of the Indies (top right), and the Plaza del Triunfo (center).   The dome, with the blue and white cupola, is above the Royal Chapel of the cathedral.

The main sacristy of the cathedral.

Back down in the cathedral, we walked around the massive interior, admiring the detail and art of the building. The main sacristy contains a gallery of paintings, including some from Francisco de Zurbarán, an artist from Extremadura who was commissioned by the church to create several paintings for the cathedral.

I was also impressed with the main altarpiece, so ornate in gilded decoration that it is difficult to make sense of what it represents. The altarpiece depicts stories from the birth of Christ to his resurrection. One of the first thoughts that crossed my mind was whether any of this gold was brought over from the New World. That is unlikely since the piece was completed in 1480, well before the first voyage of Columbus.

Is this really the tomb of Christopher Columbus?

Speaking of Columbus, he is buried here, or at least that is the belief. In the transept, a statue of four pallbearers, each representing a medieval region that would become Spain, are carrying a sarcophagus containing the bones of Columbus.

The Italian navigator's body took quite a journey after his death in Valladolid in 1506. Three years later it was moved to a convent in Sevilla. In 1537, his remains were transported across the Atlantic to lay to rest in the cathedral at Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic. In 1795, Spain ceded Hispanola, which included Santo Domingo, to France. Therefore, the remains of Columbus were moved to Havana, Cuba. A century later, it was decided to move the bones back to Spain, and that is where they rest now, in the cathedral of Sevilla.

There is a controversy. In 1877, workers in the cathedral at Santo Domingo found a heavy box of bones with the name of Christopher Columbus on the box. It is now speculated that transporters in 1795 may have intentionally, or accidentally, moved the wrong bones. Modern experts in Spain claim that the DNA of the bones in Sevilla are a close match to his brother's. In any case, two countries claim to hold the remains of Christopher Columbus, and since I was at cathedral in Sevilla, I choose to believe the claim of Spain.

A typical café  in the neighborhood of Santa Cruz.

Sevilla is a city full of atmosphere. Whether it is a flamenco dancer twisting and singing next to a café, or a lone guitarist strumming a tune from Segovia, there is always sound in this Andalusian town. Then come the clapping of horses hooves, consistent prancing combined with subtle jangling of bells and the neigh of a horse. These are the horse-drawn carriages that are all over the city.

Torre del Oro

Gypsies hover around the cathedral and other tourist destinations. At one time, theft was a major problem in Sevilla, and I believe that the Gypsies were a contributing factor. Times are better now, and tourism is safer. But they are still there, trying to capitalize on the weak. We found a group of Gypsy ladies near the cathedral trying to sell “aromatic plants” to unlucky pedestrians. We adamantly refused, having learned our lesson years ago. Later, we watched one of the ladies walk to the building next door, the Archive of the Indies, and gather some more “aromatic plants” from the shrubs near the fountain that the gardener had just trimmed. That was what they were selling!

Spanning across the Guadalquivir River is the Bridge of San Telmo. It stretches from near the Tower of Gold, or Torre del Oro, to the Triana District. The bridge provides great views of the tower and of the boaters on the river. It is also a location where peddlers set up their wares.

One of these peddlers caught our eye. He was a midget and he sold jewelry. Not just any jewelry, but hand-made rings, pendants, and earrings, using not much more than needle-nosed pliers and jewelers wire. He would twist the wire in elegant curls around a stone and form it into whatever the customer wanted. My wife, Jenelle, had seen a shop like this in Granada, but we were unable to buy anything there.

We talked to the midget on our first day in the city, and when we saw him again on the second day, he remembered who we were and was very friendly with us. For 20 € we bought a set of earrings, a pendant with an amber-colored stone set in the center, and a turquoise ring that the midget made personally for Jenelle. Then he threw in another set of earrings, just because we were friendly. What a nice guy!

One of my favorite places in all of Sevilla is the Museo de Bellas Artes. This art museum, housed in a former convent, provides a peaceful escape from the chaos of the city, as well as a look at some of Spain's best art. Some consider this museum the best collection of Spanish art after the Prado in Madrid.

That is saying a lot. Spain has produced some of the greatest painters of all time including El Greco, Goya, Picasso, Dalí, Miró and Velázquez. This museum focuses on many of the Baroque artists and highlights the works of two local painters: Bartolomé Murillo and Francisco de Zurbarán.

Many of the compositions focus on the birth, life, and death of Jesus Christ. It is common for the same scene to be depicted by several artists, each offering the artist's unique interpretation. For example, both Peter Van Lint and Murillo have a picture representing the “worshiping of the shepherds.” Both have common players: the shepherd holding his sheep, a proud mother looking at her baby, a chicken, baby angels hovering in the air, and of course, the baby Jesus. Murillo's tends to be more simplistic, while Van Lint's gives more detail, consisting of more onlookers, including a boy with his dog.

I found it interesting that many of the paintings included a human skull placed somewhere in the composition. This style of art comes from a type of symbolic work called vanitas, or vanity. Used in the 16^th and 17^th centuries, symbols such as rotten fruit represent decay, and bubbles exhibit the brevity of life. In the case of the skull, this represents the certainty of death.

One such depiction in this museum is the painting of “The Temptation of Saint Jerome,” by Juan de Valdés Leal. Saint Jerome is seen on his knees, using all his will-power to reject the temptation of the courtesans behind him who are luxuriously dressed. In front of Jerome is a copy of the bible and a crucifix. Next to the bible is a skull.

My favorite work in the Museo de Bellas Artes is a painting by Maestro de las Medias, an anonymous painter from the 16^th century. Piedad, or piety in English, is a portrayal of Mary Magdalene holding the deceased Christ in her arms. His lips are gray, and body limp. Cracks throughout the canvas offer testament to the age of the painting. The most dramatic detail, however, are the eyes of Mary. They are piercing, loving, and beautiful, all at the same time.

The Temptation of Saint Jerome by Juan de Valdés Leal.

Piedad by Maestro de las Medias.

Cristo Crucificado by Francisco de Zurbarán.

After our visit to the art museum, we strolled back toward the Guadalquivir River. The sun was inching closer to the horizon, casting longer shadows on walls and sidewalks. We passed the bullring, unique in its white-washed color and golden trim. A statue of Pepe Luis Vázquez stands outside. The interior of the ring was closed, so we just perused the outside.

Along the the banks of the river, the local youth were out in high numbers. Many roller-bladed on a bike-path, many of them still in school uniforms. Some relaxed at the bank's edge, dangling their feet over the river. On the water, kayakers were well at work, streaming along the surface.

Around the Torre del Oro, we found many school kids walking around with instruments in their hands. Some carried trumpets and others drums. Random bursts of the horn, or tinkering of the drums could be heard. We couldn't figure out what it was all about. Suddenly, one instrument began to play, and soon they were all playing together. It sounded like an old Spanish folk song, but I was not familiar with it. The music sounded a little discordant, but it was obvious that now they were all playing together. We sat back and listened, enjoying a moment of serendipity.

These teenage boys paint graffiti on a wall on the Triana side of the Guadalquivir River. 

During our previous stroll past the river, Jenelle had noticed paddle boats being rented for 10 € an hour. She suggested this to me, and I will admit, I was a little hesitant at first. I don't know why. Perhaps it is because I don't have a lot of spontaneity in my bloodstream. She nudged me until I finally gave in, and I am glad I did. Our paddle boat excursion on the Guadalquivir River was one of the highlights of our entire trip.

There wasn't a big rush of adrenalin associated with it, nor was there a history lesson to be learned. For one hour, Jenelle and I sat side-by-side and paddled the boat with our feet. I controlled a rudder that steered us. The only thing to be cautious of were the cruise boats and kayakers. But the river was wide, with plenty of room for all of us. The water on the river was very placid. (I'm not even sure if this is truly a river anymore. I think that the true Guadalquivir was diverted years ago, and where we were now was only a canal.)

We paddled toward the bridge of Isabel II. Clusters of people lounged around on the quay near the bridge. We passed beneath the bridge and the steel circular designs on the arch. Above the bridge, tiny-looking people walked across, completely oblivious to us, and going on their way.

After passing beneath the bridge, we made a large, u-shaped swoop in the water and returned in the direction we came from. Now we paddled closer to the Triana side of the river. We watched a group of boys spray graffiti on a cement wall. Vines and leafy shrubs hung down over the stone wall in some places. Above the wall, at street-level, a restaurant had its doors open for the evening. Now, its lights were coming on and customers sat outside on the patio, looking over the river.

We paddled all the way to the bridge of San Telmo before we turned around again, and returned to the place where we began. We carefully inched to the side and docked the boat.

As the sun disappeared deeper and deeper below the horizon, the lights of Sevilla began to emerge. We walked back onto the bridge and found the city magically lit up. The Torre del Oro illuminated splendidly and the Giralda Tower peeked just above the trees. The cruise boats appeared to be docked for the evening. Reflections of street lights shimmied in the river. An ambitious kayaker slithered by beneath the bridge.

Ornate decoration at the Plaza de España.

Next, we walked to the nearby Plaza de España. We didn't have a lot of time, as it was night already, but we couldn't leave Sevilla without visiting one of its major icons. This massive plaza was completed in 1928 for the Ibero-American Exposition World's Fair. It is a semi-circle of ornate buildings, tiles, a canal, bridges, and a large fountain. Attention to detail is given for every last space in the plaza.

Although it was night, the plaza was lit up well when we arrived. There weren't many people, so we roamed freely throughout. This was just another example of the many troves of treasure in Sevilla.

A statue of El Cid on his horse on the Avenida El Cid.  A tower at the Plaza de España is visible in the background.

After our visit to Plaza de España, we walked to another plaza, this one smaller and less conspicuous. Along the route, I marveled at the atmosphere that came alive at night. Horse-drawn carriages still clapped down the street, and the monuments of long-ago Spanish heroes now lit up. We soon arrived at the Plaza de Santa Cruz. On the the west-side of a small square of orange trees stood the Tablao Flamenco Los Gallos, a modest three-storied building with iron-railing balconies. This is where we would watch our Flamenco show. I don't think that a trip to Sevilla would be complete without experiencing good, authentic Flamenco.

We bought our tickets earlier in the day near the cathedral for 30 € a piece. This included the two-hour show and a drink. The show began at 10 pm. This is considered early in the evening by Spanish standards.

The auditorium was small, the stage smaller. There were a total of twelve performers during the evening, but usually only four on the stage at one time: two singers, one guitarist, and one dancer. The stage was lit by a red or white light, with two chairs, wooden beams on the ceiling, and a cast-iron stove for decoration. “Los Gallos” was painted on the wall, along with a picture of two roosters, as if about to engage in a cock fight.

The first dancer was much younger than I anticipated. She wore a polka dot dress with a long train that she always kept lifted as she danced and stamped on the stage. She used a fan, opening it, fluttering it, and waving it with her hands. Everything was done gracefully, and with emotion. When they sang, usually it was with their eyes closed, and almost a cry on their face.

Even when the men danced, they did so sumptuously. They grasped their coat sides, just as the women did their dresses, and waved them seductively back and forth. The men were so good at clicking their fingers that I had to look closely to be sure they were not using castanets. One man was dressed all in black with a bandanna around his neck.

Behind the dancer was the guitarist, his fingers going at incredible speeds. On both sides of him were the singers, one a fat gypsy with a low voice, and the other an awkward slim guy with glasses, singing at a high pitch. At the end of each song, the fat guy would say, “Olé!”

Each performance lasted about fifteen minutes. Between performances they would take a little break, then scramble up the performers and play again.

After two hours, I was completely awe-struck. Like many other things in life, Flamenco is something that has to be witnessed in person to gain the full experience.

It was well past midnight when we returned to our hotel. As we were headed in for the night, others were just beginning, walking in the opposite direction to join their friends. From the third-story balcony of our hotel, I looked down on the street and saw a large group of evening-goers sitting down at a long, rectangular table. They were eating an evening meal. Such late meals are typical here in Spain.

As for us, we were wiped. We had to catch a morning train to Madrid. It was time to close the doors, close the eyes, and try to get a little sleep. It would be a little more difficult to close the mind: the stomping, the clicking, and the castanets would play long into the night.

Chopin and Valldemossa

Last week, I had the privilege of attending a Chopin concert at our local university. A pianist named Robert Nakea performed twenty-four of Chopin's Études . I will admit, as an admirer of his music, but not an expert, I didn't know the difference between études, mazurkas, nocturnes and polonaises. But I did know that I loved the music of Frédéric Chopin.

Mr. Nakea entered the simple stage to an applause, wearing a black suit and red tie, bowed to the audience, and without wasting any time he sat down to a black Steinway piano, adjusted the bench ever so slightly, placed his fingers on the keys and began to play. Never had I seen fingers move so fast! They fluttered like hummingbird wings. I watched as his fingers crawled the scale, then descended, after which he ascended again, then repeated the cycle over and over.

I later learned that “étude” is French for “study.” Chopin created these pieces as practice material, designed to help one perfect a specific skill. This first piece focuses on stretching the fingers of the right hand. As I watched, I'm sure that it did just that, as Mr. Nakea's hands moved up and down the scale with great dexterity. They moved so fast that it was hard to see just how far they were stretched.

By the time the evening was over, Robert Nakea had officially impressed me. He played without a glitch. Not once did he use sheet music, and most often he didn't even glance at the keys. He received a standing ovation when he left the stage.

Twenty-one years ago, I visited the village of Valldemossa on the island of Mallorca. Most of the details of that day have faded away. I remember the village was very picturesque. The little community sat nestled among the green-terraced hills on the northern side of the island. A Medieval monastery with a tall bell tower stood in the middle of town, surrounded by other stone buildings.

This former Carthusian monastery, now a museum, was the temporary home of Frédéric Chopin and his girlfriend and French novelist, George Sand, during the winter of 1838-39. The building wasn't even a monastery when Chopin rented it out. A few years prior, the monks were forced to leave, and it was sold to a private individual.

The two escaped to Mallorca  with hopes that the island weather would help improve his declining health. They were miserably disappointed, not realizing how cold the humid island could become.

Sand later published a book, A Winter in Mallorca, detailing the hardship that they suffered while in the old monastery. In the book, she also recognizes the beauty of the village: “Never have I seen a place so delightful and at the same time so melancholy as this, where the green oak, the carob tree, the pine tree, the olive, the poplar and the cypress mingle their varied hues in a dense, leafy tangle of branches, forming deep green chasms, seared by a rushing torrent beneath a sumptuous undergrowth of exquisite beauty. I shall never forget the spot from which, as one looked back, one could see perched at the top of the hill one of those lovely little Moorish houses, (…) half hidden amongst the foliage of the walnut trees, and the silhouette of a tall palm tree bending over into the void. When I'm plunged into ennui by the sight of the mud and fog of Paris, I close my eyes and see once more, as in a dream, that verdant mountain, those bare rocks, and that solitary palm tree outlined against a distant, rose-colored sky.” 

Chopin remained very productive and composed some of his best preludes and nocturnes while in Valldemosssa.  Among these are his 24 preludes, Op. 28; Ballade No. 2 in F-major, Op. 38; the twin Op. 40 Polonaises; and the Scherzo No. 3, Op. 39 in C-sharp minor.

Among the few details that I remember from my visit is the actual piano that Chopin played on while there. After our tour, we sat down and listened to a thirty minute piano recital of Chopin's music.

That day, a seed was planted inside of me. A seed that would not have taken root had I not been traveling. Yes, I had heard of Frédéric Chopin before this experience, but that was about all. Now I wanted to learn more about him and become familiar with his music. After that day, any time I heard the name Chopin, my ears pricked up and I paid attention.

I bought more postcards than I took pictures. When we took the bus back to our apartment in Palma, I don't think that I brought too many details with me, but rather the knowledge that I had met Chopin in his own territory and now I wouldn't forget him.  It is amazing how travel can teach us things that we normally would not learn.

I had one more experience with Chopin while living in Spain. This was in another city, back on the peninsula. We served as missionaries. A lady that we taught was born and bred in Poland, later emigrating to Spain. Krystina Staniszewska and her daughter Isabella now sat in a chapel with us. While we were waiting, one of the other missionaries, who had been blessed with amazing talent on the piano, approached Krystina and asked her in Spanish, “Do you like Chopin?”

He then proceeded to play from memory a beautiful piece of music on the piano. He probably hadn't played that piece since he had left his home in Chico, California. I didn't know the name of it, but it was very soothing and graceful. I was hooked.

10 Pleasant Surprises in Madrid

My second visit to Madrid was just a pass-by.  We had just flown to Barajas Airport and would be catching the train to Córdoba.  After what felt like a ten-mile taxi on the runway, we finally disembarked and made the long underground walk to the metro-station, towing our luggage. I wore mine over my back, while Jenelle wheeled her's behind.  

I was excited to ride the subway.  The whiz of the train and the hum of the wheels on the rails and the echo in the tunnels, all brought back nostalgia of Spain.  I felt that we had left behind the tourists of the airport and were now mingling with Madrileños on the metro.  Castilian was the preferred language here. 

We rode the pink-line to its terminus at Nuevos Ministerios, then caught the circular route for one stop and transferred to the blue-line at Cuarto Caminos.  From here, our journey to the Atocha train station moved relatively quickly.   

A subway ride is a good time to watch people.  Spaniards, in general, dress very nicely. This Wednesday morning was no exception.  Whether they were off to work, or off to the University, they wore nice dress shirts, slacks, dress-shoes, and scarfs - no jeans or t-shirts.  Most of those whom we saw that morning were younger, under age forty.  The riders sat patiently in the seats of the subway car, and when there was no room, they held to the pole near the door, or the railing that runs above the seats.

What surprised me, however, was how these Madrileños passed their time.  They didn't pull out their cell phones and begin to text or play games.  Instead, they read the morning newspaper, or they read a book. There were a few who were on their phones, but that was the minority. I was pleasantly surprised.

Madrid, like any other place in the world, is full of hidden experiences that are unique to the traveler.  Some are subtle, while others are bold.  Here are ten pleasant surprises that I discovered while wandering the streets of Madrid.

1. Elegance. Madrid reminded me a lot of Paris: balconies with cast-iron railings, Romanesque statues, and alabaster-colored palaces. No where is this more apparent than the area around Plaza de Cibeles and the Gran Vía.

The fountain of Cibeles, located in the center of a roundabout, contains the statue of the Roman goddess, Cybele, riding a chariot, being pulled by two lions. Across the street is the Palace of Cibeles, a large ornate building that once housed the Post Office. Now there is a high-end restaurant inside and tourists can pay money to view the panorama from the top.

Just up the street, forking off from the Calle de Alcalá, is the Gran Vía. Rising high between the intersection of these two streets is the Metropolis Building, crowned by a statue of the winged goddess, Victoria. The rest of the street is lined with lavishly ornate buildings, large movie theaters, hotels, and plenty of places to shop. For me, the treat was just in the watching; strolling down the street and admiring what lay in front and above me.

2. Lavapiés. On our way to visit a museum, we decided to walk through the neighborhood known as Lavapiés. This is the old Jewish Quarter and is now home to many immigrants. Devoid of the elegance of the Gran Vía , Lavapiés has a flavor all its own.

We stop in a small plaza and watch two boys from India. One boy, in a white t-shirt and baggy blue jeans, pitches a tennis ball to his friend, who hits it with a flat wooden cricket bat. This is the first time that I've ever seen anyone play cricket. After a swing and a miss, the boy pitches (or bowls) it to him again, and this time he drills it to the corner of the plaza. The boy from India, completely unaware that we are watching him, runs over to retrieve the tennis ball.

Across the plaza at a playground, two boys from Middle-Eastern decent, play ping-pong with large, yellow paddles. This is their world and their playground.

Moving further up the street, we find a curious pastry shop. We step inside and find that it is a Pakistani shop. The pastries are all foreign and look nothing like typical Spanish confectioneries. One in particular grabs our attention: it is flaky green, rolled up and sliced, with something white sprinkled over the top. They say it is made of pistachios. We buy a little selection and vow to return before our trip is over.

3. Protest in Puerta del Sol. A protest is always exciting to happen upon. This was no exception. When we entered the Puerta del Sol for the first time on our second trip, the place was shoulder to shoulder with people.

Madrid is the geographical center of Spain, and the Puerta del Sol is the geographical center of Madrid. Even without the protest, it would have been a happening place. Families were out for the nightly paseo, everyone dressed in coats and scarfs and other neat attire.

This protest attracted both Spanish and Muslim people. A man with a microphone spoke briefly to the people, then chanted a song in what appeared to be Arabic. Although still somewhat befuddled to the true purpose of the protest, I believe it had something to do with 9-11 and 3-11 (the terrorist attacks on the trains in Madrid), and getting down to the truth of who was involved. A multitude of signs waved on sticks: Democracy in Morocco; Tunisia and Egypt, free people!; Stop the murderer [accompanied with bloody pictures of dead people and a Muslim leader].

The protest was mostly peaceful. A police van parked on one side of the plaza and I saw a man sitting inside wearing handcuffs. On the other side of the plaza, a mariachi band from Mexico serenaded a small crowd.

4. Sky-tram. Near the Manzanaras River on the west side of town, there is an attraction that not many tourists know about. We found it quite by accident. It is a sky-tram that takes the rider across the railroad tracks, across the river, and over the cypress trees at the Casa de Campo. A ticket for 7 € buys a round-trip ticket.

From here we saw the skyscrapers of modern Madrid. It also gives a unique perspective of the Royal Palace, and the situation of the city on a hill. Most of the ride, however, is spent above the Casa de Campo.  It used to be the hunting grounds of the royal family. Although there is an amusement park and a zoo, the Casa de Campo appears to me much as it was several hundred years ago.

5. Thunderstorm. While wandering through the streets one evening, it began to rain. We pulled out our umbrellas, which sufficed for a moment, but soon the water came down in droves. The pelting drops came down at an angle so that we had to hold the umbrellas diagonally in front of us, attempting to maneuver the narrow walkway between the parked cars and the walls of the buildings. We could not see where we were going. Small streams began to form in the streets. Vehicles, with their headlights blaring, sped past, spewing a spray of water on us.

At last we found shelter in the entryway of a building, beneath a stone doorway. Others found this shelter with us as we all watched the storm outside. Rain roared and thunder bellowed in the near distance. We glimpsed flashes of light, but could not see the lightning bolts. A moped hurried along the cobblestone road, surely in panicked misery.

6. Petanca. Away from the Madrid found in guide books, we came across a game of petanca. Anytime you find a court with old men wearing beret's and tossing metal balls, you know that you're mingling with the locals. Petanca, closely related to the French game of boules, is popular throughout Spain. I think of it as their version of horseshoes. Although I've observed the game, I still struggle to grasp the rules. Each man has a hollow metal ball. With the concentration of a golfer, they hold the ball, palm down, and with a gentle swing of the arm, they toss it down-court, attempting to get as close as possible to a small red ball, or else to knock their opponents ball out of the way.

Watching a Petanca game is slightly awkward. They know that you are watching them. Most are old men who tend to shy away, while others are visitor-friendly. Each player has a little leather bag to hold their equipment. We found their bags hanging on nails pounded into a tree.

7. Singing Trio. While leaving El Rastro, the largest street market in Madrid, we happened across a very cute trio, ensconced on a street corner, singing music for the crowd. The old husband sat on the end, wearing a black leather jacket and playing an accordion. His head was round, eyes were round, and skin looked well-tanned with that nice Spanish complexion. His receding hairline left a swath of short gray hair that circled about his head.

His wife, very portly in figure, sat in the middle.  She wore a scarlet scarf atop her head, and a red sweater, lip stick, and carnation in her hair, that were all of the same bright color. Her hair was even dyed a purplish-red.

It must have been a son who sat on the left, he being the tocador, or guitar player. The family had a look of gypsy in them, but I wasn't completely sure. It was their singing that made them stand out. They didn't sing a single word, but instead, hummed the entire tune, like a child would who doesn't know the lyrics. Father played the accordion and son strummed the guitar. They looked at each other during the entire song with endearing gestures, chanting their song with passion. When they were done, the crowd gave them an applause, some gave money, and they moved on their way.

8. Catholic Mass. Sunday morning, we happened to pass the church of San Isidro. We observed a few people entering this 15^th century building and soon learned that mass was in session. As a curious student of all religions, I was excited to sit along-side the votaries and observe. It had been years since I had attended a Catholic Mass.

There was a lot during the mass that I didn't understand. Someone would swing a holder of smoking incense before saying a prayer, and they would intermittently sing hymns. At one point, most of the people stood up and recited a prayer.

The mass was very uplifting. Most of the people there were not tourists. Jesus Christ and his resurrection were mentioned several times. We were surrounded on all sides by images and statues of Christ and his life. The organ was beautiful and occasionally the congregation would sing. Most of those who attended were elderly, but there were some youth also.

9. Francisco de Goya. The Prado Museum is one of the greatest in the world. Of all the great artists whose work lie within its wall, those of Francisco de Goya were the most impressionable. The Third of May 1808 is a painting that depicts the Spanish resistance to Napoleon's army. With the dead piling on the ground, a man dressed in a white shirt, glowing in appearance, stands in surrender with his arms to the air while the French army points their bayonets at him.

But it is Goya's Black Paintings that stood out the most to me. These are a group of fourteen pictures that he painted during the darkest period of his life. These paintings portray haunting themes. Saturn Devouring His Son depicts an insane man with long gray hair biting off the body of a naked corpse. For me, a great painting is one that makes an impression that doesn't leave my mind. Most of Goya's works did just that. Before visiting the museum, Goya's name was one that had scarcely sounded familiar. Now, it is one that demands respect and awe, and a name that I will never forget.

As a side-note, Goya is also buried in Madrid. His remains abide in the Royal Chapel of St. Anthony of the Florida, a structure on the Manzanares River. When we traveled there to pay tribute, the chapel was closed. We had to be satisfied with a statue outside the chapel that commemorates the artist.

10. Train to Seville. High speed trains in Europe have had the ability to drastically shrink travel times between cities. The AVE, from Madrid to the southern charm of Seville, will take two and a half hours. If you wanted to make a day-trip out of it (which I would not recommend because Seville has too much to do in just one day), you could certainly do it. There are twenty-three trains every day that leave the Atocha Station, our one-way ticket costing 84 € each. Inside, the coaches are spacious, smooth, and comfortable. The scenery along the way isn't superb, but that doesn't matter because once you are in Seville, the scenery is amazing. According to my rough calculations, a 330 mile trip to Seville, lasting two and a half hours, not even including the one or two stops in between, would put the train traveling at least 132 mph.