A Pandemic Upshot

 

Ninety days in isolation!

Ninety days of house arrest!

Can I stand this any longer? Being a senior citizen, I have to.

            I used to think that living away from society would not bother me a bit. I was raised as an only child after all—sheltered and hinted once as provenciana. Father, Mother, and I lived in a household with aging grandaunts temporarily staying with us until they went back to their Creator. My old grandfather later left me grandfather-less.

            Living alone would not bother me, so I thought. I could be a hermit, be stranded on an island, be in prison, as long as I have a book to read, paper and pen, yarn, thread and needles, I can survive that kind of life, until Lady Corona came. She came silently and devastatingly and all my confidence of surviving a life of seclusion drastically changed. I guess, it's just human nature to want the opposite—the poor wanting to be rich, the rich giving away their riches, the ugly wanting to be beautiful, the beautiful marring their faces with unnecessary contraptions, the blind wanting to see, the seeing being blind to the afflictions in the world, the deaf wanting to hear and the hearing being deaf to the clamor of the oppressed.

            Ninety days indoors and had only gone to town three times for something emergent. For one, I had to buy a hairband because my hair is getting long because the beauty salons were closed. Only Ron goes to the store and it would be ridiculous of him to buy a hairband. Now I feel so confined and could not stand anymore breathing the same circulated air in the house, but I also fear inhaling the air that people had exhaled, and so I don't take a walk. I have started to develop a phobia of being near people. Although I go to the yard to pick strawberries or cut roses for the vases, I do so on occasion because it is cold and wet outside in this Bremerton weather. However, I busy myself with indoor activities: finished three knitted blankets, which I started months ago, read four books, sewed forty-five facemasks, cooked and baked, at last finalized my second book after several revisions and three professional editing, and occasionally played the piano. Then there is the unnecessary eating and my stomach now walks in front of me—there is the treadmill that stares at me and I stare back at it. Ron finds excuses to go to the store and I try hard to keep him indoors, but in spite of my nagging, I see him open the door to the garage.

            I imagine Lady Corona in red, fleeting from person to person, lurking around me, silently devastating our lives and our souls, and leaving us fighting an unseen enemy.

 

El Cid Country and San Sebastian

September 17, 2010

Day 6

We have been waking up to good breakfasts in nice, well-set-up hotel dining rooms. Today was one of those mornings as our group readied for our journey to the Basque country, the end of the day's trip being San Sebastian, with a stop at Burgos, the land of El Cid.

It would have been awe-inspiring to be riding to Burgos with Rodrigo de Vivar on a horseback, but I know there was no way to even just traverse half way of a two hundred forty-four miles stretch of cross-country on a saddle. We took the easier way—drove to it with a more comfortable stop for lunch and WC along the way. At the stopping place, some of us had tiny sandwiches called pulgas, (meaning fleas). After we had our fill and our "relief," we continued our way to El Cid country.

We passed by castros, old settlements of granite stones. Granite stones were available in abundance then. We passed by a few castles. From our tour director, I learned that the Moors did introduce the concept of castles in Spain. This was interesting new information. She said that the weather and climate of the countryside is dessert-like, having very cold winters and very hot summers, and this reminded me of the weather and climate I once lived through in Eastern Washington, U.S.A.

To get into the mood of appreciating Burgos, we watched the movie El Cid on the bus on our way there. El Cid, meaning The Lord, was the name given to Rodericus Didaci Campidoctor (Campidoctor or Campeador means Master of the Military Arts or Champion), whose real name was Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, El Cid, a real soldier best known for his re-conquering Valencia from the Moors.

Burgos is the burial place of Rodrigo de Vivar. It is is a typical medieval town that used to be the capital of Castile. It is one of the major stops of pilgrims on their way to Santiago de Compostela. Here we visited the beautiful, magnificent, and massive Gothic-style cathedral, the Catedral de Santa Maria or just plainly known as the Catedral de Burgos, known for its elaborate decorations, some of which were in gold leaf.

Bidding goodbye to Burgos, we then continued to San Sebastian, passing the famous Rioja wine-producing region. That evening, after two hundred forty-four miles of travel from Leon, we reached San Sebastian, known as Donotia to the Basque people. We happened to reach San Sebastian during the week of the Spanish Film Festival. People and the media were on the street and we drove into the middle of the crowd who were waiting for the celebrities, unfortunately, not us. We waved at them and they waved at us. We waved at the guests staying at the Queen Maria Christina hotel, a famous high-end hotel where celebrities mostly stayed. One of the guests expected to lodge there was Julia Roberts, eagerly anticipated, and waited for by the locals. She was expected to arrive in two days to receive her award for her movie, Come, Reza, Ama, opposite the Spaniard Javier Bardem.

Because it was already dusk when we arrived in San Sebastian, there was no time for sightseeing. We had an "included" dinner that night and spent our next relaxing nights by the Gulf of Biscay. The region is elegant and according to what I have read, it is a prosperous region. During July and September, tourist, as many as the town's population—around  180,000—flock to San Sebastian, not much for sightseeing but for its culinary attractions. It has the top tapas in all of Spain. People said that the inhabitants of San Sebastian invented tapas. Speaking of tapas, that's another interesting topic.

On to Leon

September 7, 2010

Our two hours of free time to explore the final destination of the pilgrims was up and we drove to Leon. On our drive to Leon, Tania played Nana Mouskouri's "Nuestras Canciones," a very soulful rendition of the classical Spanish songs such as the Malagueña, Granada, and others. Juan drove on the highway that was parallel to the Camino and I continued to see the scallop shell signs indicating the pilgrims' route; even saw a handful of pilgrims walking the dusty path.

We reached Leon after a very long and tiring drive. We headed up to the cathedral.  Apartment buildings were along each side of the street, with their balconies by the windows decorated with colorful petunia flowers. I saw a couple of men on a crane watering and tending to the flowers. I do not know if they were government-hired people or were maintenance crew hired by the apartment renters. Nevertheless, the apartments were pretty and they made the walk up to the cathedral enjoyable.

We reached the cathedral, beheld the west façade of pale yellow stone flanked by two towers, marveled at its beautiful rose glass window above its intricately carved portals. The portal displayed the last Judgment. Inside, sunlight filtered through the medieval stained glass windows, a kaleidoscope. People say that this cathedral has the best stained glass windows outside of France. Because of this awesome kaleidoscope of colors, the cathedral, Santa Maria de Leon Cathedral, was nicknamed "House of Light" or "Pulchra Leonina." This stunning sight certainly moved me. 

Inside was a feast of beautiful architecture, paintings, sculpture, and other art. I also saw the oldest choir in the country. I believe centuries ago people were more appreciative of art and would not hesitate to spend money on it. They gave time for art. Nowadays everyone is on the go; people do things fast: walk fast, drive fast, eat fast, and work fast—no siesta.

We had dinner in Leon in the hotel's dining room—round tables with white tablecloth. Ron and I were late for dinner although no one had started to eat yet. We had salad, baked chicken, and fried potatoes. The group conversation was good and varied. We came to know each other better. The school administrator from Hawaii proved to be a good conversationalist.

Sleep was good that night after considerable walking in the last three days, riding the bus, and soaking in the sights and architectural wonders of the cathedrals.

The Way of the Pilgrims

September 16, 2010

We were now on our way to Leon and as we neared Compostela (Santiago de Compostela), I saw pilgrims walking on the Camino (Camino de Santiago) assisted by walking sticks, carrying knapsacks on their backs, and wearing the scallop shell (the insignia) around their necks. Compostela is the destination of pilgrims from all over the world.

I became interested in Santiago de Compostela after I read Paulo Coelho's book, The Pilgrimage. Now I see the place and the pilgrims, not merely read about them.

The Camino de Santiago is a seven hundred kilometer route from Saint Jean-Pied-de Port in France to Santiago de Compostela, although pilgrims from different parts of Europe use a different route. The pilgrims use a guidebook, supposedly written by Pope Callixtus or by Aimery Picaude, a Frenchman. The book guides pilgrims on the "sights, shrines, and people that the traveler is likely to meet along the road." It also lists inns where pilgrims could receive complementary meals and lodging or little stores where they could buy food at a cheap price. Near the plaza, Praza do Obradorio, food is supposedly cheap, as pilgrims may not have money left at the end of the journey. The pilgrims' aspiration was to receive a "certificate of completion." To get the certificate, one must walk for at least one hundred kilometers starting at Sarria or ridden a bike or a horse for at least two hundred miles and must have a spiritual motive of doing the pilgrimage. Because the route was so long, some pilgrims would arrive in Compostela looking sicker than when they first started, so King Ferdinand and Queen Isabela constructed a hospital for the pilgrims.

According to old records, walking the Camino did not use to be a pilgrimage but a penance imposed on criminals as part of their sentence. This later evolved into a pilgrimage. What motivates these pilgrims to walk 700 miles? Some believed in the healing power of St. James's relic upon contact or nearness to it; some aspired for self-purification gotten from contemplation provided by time and tranquility during the arduous journey; others wanted to experience the merits of constant prayer while walking the hundreds of miles. Yet, some said that they experience a sense of "awakened wonder" in beholding the different scenery as they traveled from the Pyrenes to Spain, meeting strangers in a strange land, communicating and adjusting to other people while seeking refuge, eating in hostels and inns, and dodging rain and welcoming the sun while treading on some old gravelly paths.

After seeing the pilgrims along our way to Santiago de Compostela, I felt the urge to do the pilgrimage myself. Would my sixty-six year old arthritic body survive the "perils" that could be encountered on the way? Intent, aspiration, and inspiration might provide me the strength to do it.

At Santiago de Compostela, we walked to the square, Praza do Obradorio, and the Cathedral. As we reached the square, our tour director, gave us a briefing of what we could do and when she expected us back in the bus. Ron and I immediately looked for the concrete embossed scallop shell in the middle of the square. I took a picture of my foot stepping on the shell to show that I have reached the place. Although not a pilgrim, I was satisfied with the thought that I had reached the place just as like the pilgrims.

At the plaza, we saw some pilgrims just arriving. A number of them had already arrived and were lying on the plaza resting. Some were in the cathedral praying; some were attending the eleven o'clock mass. I made a 360 degree turn and viewed the statue of Saint James, the hospital, and the cathedral. I went inside the cathedral and marveled at the intricate décor of the altar. 

With disappointment, I was not able to take a picture of the famous Portico of Glory as the cathedral's façade was under renovation.

After we had visited the surroundings, Ron and I went up and down some streets to look for a restaurant that would cater familiar food. We found one. We had empanada, a couple slices of cheese, bread, a can of coke and cerveza. Cost us 16.80E.

The short stop at Compostela was a welcome break from the road trip. It not only gave us time to stretch our legs, it also gave us the opportunity to visit the resting place of Saint James's relics. Unfortunately, the two-hour stop was not enough to appreciate everything there was to see and experience in Compostela. We had to go…to Leon.

THE PORT IN PORTO

The drive to Porto was pleasant and relaxing. We passed by olive tree farms, vineyards, cork trees, and eucalyptus trees. We reached Porto and saw the beautiful pastel-shaded buildings and the bridges of Duoro, a major river of the Iberian Peninsula.

 We stepped out of the bus to a lovely day; a comfortable weather that I guessed could have been 75 degrees Fahrenheit. A winery employee met us and introduced us to our guide. The guide showed us the old winery, now converted to a museum. Here we heard about Enrique who started his winery business at the age of twenty-one. Our guide said that Enrique was ahead of his time. His marketing strategy was of 20^th century approach. I was impressed by what I heard of his business acumen. Then the guide ushered us to the cellar and there we saw numerous barrels of wine. She took us to an underground lobby called the cave', a cordial, cozy tasting room where we tasted fine Port. We tasted young Port (Port Verde) and medium Port. I thought young Port tasted better. In a few minutes, she ushered us to a room where we watched a slide show of the way port was prepared.

According to the history of Port wine making, production traced back to the 17^th century when Britain was at war with France and the supply of good French wine to Britain through Portugal was not available, and the British needed a better quality wine than those red wines found the Douro Valley.

Port is a sweet red grape wine, fortified with brandy, not the commercial brandy but with aguardente, a neutral grape spirit. Adding aguardente stopped the fermentation thus making the wine sweeter but full-bodied due to the increased alcohol content being up to 19.5 or 20%.

Here are a few lessons on Port Wine that I extracted from Wikipedia:

The two broad categories of Portugal Ports are those matured in wooden barrels that allow a small amount of exposure to oxygen and those that have matured in sealed glass bottles with no exposure to air. Those aged in barrels mature through "oxidative" aging while those in glass bottles mature through "reductive" aging. Wine aged in wooden barrels leave a viscous taste to the palate while those aged in glass bottles are smoother.

Barrel-aged ports are called Tawny port, such as Colheita (col-YATE-a), and Garrafeira.  A Tawny port came from red grapes aged by exposing them to gradual oxidation and evaporation in wooden barrels. These wooden barrels gave them the "nutty" flavor. Wine enthusiasts typically consume Tawny Port as a dessert wine and as either sweet or medium dry. Port is assumed to have spent at least two years in barrels unless the bottle indicates its age. Indicated age such as 10, 20, 30, and over 40, does not mean the actual age, but indicates the target age profile for the ports. However, most people mistake this as the minimum average age of the blend. Colheita, although is a kind of port where the actual vintage year is mentioned, should be distinguished from Vintage port. A Vintage port is one that was bottled about 18 months after being harvested and one, which will continue to mature after being bottled. Colheita on the other hand may have been in barrels for more than 20 years before being bottled and sold. A Garrafeira is a rare intermediate vintage dated style of Port. It uses both the oxidative aging of years in wood—between three and six years—and the further reductive aging in glass demijohns—eight years of more—before bottling.

Examples of bottle-aged ports are Ruby port, Reserve, Pink port and White port, late Bottled Vintage (LBV), Crusted, Vintage port, and Single Quinta Vintage Port. Of all the Ports, Ruby port is one extensively produced. It is a product of grape fermentation in tanks made of concrete or stainless steel. These tanks prevent oxidation and preserve its rich claret color. The port does not generally improve with age. Reserve port is a premium Ruby as approved by the IVDP's tasting panel. Pink port is made from the same grapes as those for making vintage, tawny and ruby ports the only difference is that it is fermented the way a rose wine is. It has the hallmarks of a light ruby containing a fruity flavor. White port is made from white grapes, although if matured for long periods, the color darkens eventually reaching to a point where it would be hard to distinguish whether the wine was originally red or white. It can also vary from dry to very sweet. Late Bottled Vintage is originally destined to be a Vintage port but was left in the barrel longer due to lack of demand. It is lighter bodied than the vintage one. Crusted port is usually a blend of several vintages and will improve with age. Vintage port is made only from grapes of a declared vintage year, as declared by each individual port house.

After our wine tasting and tour, we headed across the street that was along the riverbank, back-dropped by beautiful, colorful houses or apartments looking like being stuck together. From the street we saw Rabelos, a type of boat used to transport port down the River Douro. These barrels of Port are headed for storage in caves at Vila Nova de Gaia near Porto.

 After a relaxing few minutes, we headed for our hotel. There was no time to explore Porto. We missed visiting the Porto Cathedral, one of the oldest surviving structures and other tourist attractions such as the Palacio da Bolsa, the Palacio de Cristal, and the tile-adorned Sao Bento Train Station.

We stayed at Vila Gale Porto Hotel and had dinner there. We slept relatively early this time, in contrast to the night before. It was a peaceful night, a good one that we needed to unwind and get ready for the three-hundred-sixty-one-mile ride to Leon, with a two-hour stop at Santiago de Compostela.

FATIMA

September 2010

Today, we headed up for Fatima, south of Porto, approximately one hundred twenty three kilometers north of Lisbon to visit the Basilica of our Lady of the Rosary. This time we had a new driver, Juan (Joao in Portuguese). For Ron and me, the visit to Fatima was one of the highlights of the trip, in fact, one of the reasons for including Portugal in the tour. It sufficed that we were not going to Fatima as pilgrims but as tourists. We wanted to see the place and to walk on the very ground that was sanctified by the Blessed Virgin when she appeared to the children ninety-two years ago.

On our drive to the Basilica, we stopped at a religious souvenir shop. Ron and I bought rosaries and a small statue of the Lady of Fatima.

As we resumed our drive to the basilica, Tania distributed religious medals to each of us. She also raffled off a souvenir. I was the lucky winner. It was a colorful wooden carving of a rooster, a memento of the legend of Santiago de Compostela.

As Juan continued to drive, we passed by the place where the three children, Francisco, Jacinta, and Lucia used to live. In a few minutes, we reached the Basilica. I did not expect to see that the grounds leading to the basilica was considerably spacious. There was a concrete lane where the devotees walked on their knees towards the shrine. There was a chapel by the tree where the Blessed Virgin appeared to the children. A celebration of the Eucharist was going on at the chapel when we arrived, so Ron and I attended it. After the service, we entered the Basilica, lighted votive candles, and silently said our intentions.

From what I read, I learned that Fatima, a town that used to be a small village, whose main product was olive oil, got its name after the Moorish princess who was converted to Catholicism during the Reconquista. It was in Fatima that Our Lady appeared to the three sheepherders, Jacinta, age seven, Francisco, age 9, and Lucia, age 10. According to church records, the Blessed Virgin appeared to the children on 13 May in 1917 and again on each thirteenth day of the month until October of the same year. During the appearances, a supernatural phenomenon occurred, the sun dazzling radiantly in different colors and seemed to be dancing and even zigzagging towards the people that witnessed the occasion. According to the children, during all the appearances, Our Lady had consistently urged them to pray the rosary, to pray for world peace, do penance, and pray for the repentance of sins. She also told the children three secrets, two of which one of the children revealed later, the last secret revealed by the Vatican during Pope John Paul's time. The townspeople and the authorities did not believe what the children related. They said the children were crazy, liars, or dupes. Fearing the authorities, the parents were not supportive of the children. Yet, the Blessed Mother provided the path to truth and faith. Today pilgrims travel from all over the world to Fatima, either to ask for favors or to give thanks for favors granted.

We spent about an hour or so in Fatima and we proceeded to Porto, the region where Port wine originated. As we drove on to Porto, I thought deeply about Francisco, Jacinta, and Lucia. If I were a parent in their time with the same economic and social class as the children's parents, would I react the same way the children's parents did? Most likely, I'd also be in fear of the authorities and I would most likely tell the children to hush up. It was the mood of the time. I am thankful that I live in a place and a time where freedom is in the heart of the country.

 

The Fado

September 2010

We got back with just enough time to freshen ourselves and to get ready for the dinner at a typical Portuguese tavern in the old quarter. Our tour brochure described the place as a "characteristic Portuguese tavern." The description in the brochure gave me an impression of it being just a typical tavern – a bar, some food, and a stage for the show. We arrived there to find an unimpressive tavern, its small door facing a narrow street. We got in. I realized how wrong my preconceived idea of the tavern was. As we entered the small door, we were ushered to a cozy and quaint place, yet elegant in its own way. Exquisite pattern of intricate lacework on wood as those of the Alhambra embellished the ceiling and sidewalls. The usher led us to our seats and I was lucky to be seated at a table that was right next to the stage where the Fado and the folk dances were to be performed.

Fado is a Portuguese word meaning destiny or fate. Unlike the Coimbra Fado, the Lisbon Fado is a mournful song, originally about the sea or about the life of the poor. It symbolizes a feeling of irreparable loss that has a lasting damage to one's life or one's soul. However today, it could be a song about anything as long as the faddista follows a certain structure of the song.

I was seated next to Florence who was seated just below the stage. Across her was her husband Paul who sat next to Jose Gonzales and his parents. Ron sat to my left. We were virtually looking up to the performers. Without any obstruction, we watched the faddistas sing their soulful songs of lament to the accompaniment of the two guitarists who, from time to time, would make eye contact with each other as if savoring the music and feeling it with their souls. We enjoyed the performance so much that Paul could not contain himself from shouting "bravo" and "ole" at the performers. Ron also showed his appreciation vocally especially when one of the guitarists demonstrated his expertise and superbly picked his twelve-string Portuguese guitar.

While we heard and watched the Fado and the folk dances, we had an appetizer of chorizo with wine. Caldo verde, which was kale soup, followed the appetizer, then the dinner of cod, potatoes, greens, roasted turkey with mushroom sauce and rice. A dessert of flan punctuated with a demitasse of dark coffee ended the meal. There was an assortment of wine served during the meal. Dinner ended with a glass of Port.

The Fado show ended, so did our dinner; and it was time to head home to the hotel. We exited through the little entrance door, while the performers lined down the aisles and outside. Florence and I congratulated the two guitarists who happened to be outside and we expressed our appreciation, in English, of course, and they responded in Portuguese. Florence said that she was sure they understood what we said.

It was a dinner and a performance to remember.