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The fairytale that made Santiago de Compostela

Monday, May 14, 2012 in Santiago de Compostela, Spain | 1 comment

The cathedral built over the supposed grave of St. James discovered by a religious hermit 769 years after he'd died. Photo by David Lansing.

Santiago de Compostela is a beautiful city. The Catedral del Apóstol is magnificent. But the whole reason for why this city is here is a joke. It doesn’t speak of man’s faith in The Big Kahuna. It speaks of man’s incredible gullibility. It makes me want to pull my hair out and run around screaming What’s wrong with you people?

Here’s the fairytale: In A.D. 44, King Herod had the apostle, James, beheaded in Jerusalem. Ouch. His body was put in a stone boat (of course) and sailed to Padrón (why not?), way up in the northwest corner of Spain.

Now, if you flew from Jerusalem to Padrón today, you’d get 2,500 frequent flier miles. But that’s as the crow flies, crossing over northern Spain from Barcelona almost to Portugal. If you were going to go by sea, you’d have to follow the northern coast of Africa, through the Straits of Gibraltor, and then up the coast of Portugal. Maybe adding 600 or 700 hundred miles to the trip. In a stone boat. In 44 A.D.

Never mind. You did it. It wasn’t easy, but what the hell. You got that corpse (which is probably a little ripe after godknows how many months upon the sea) to Northern Spain. Now you find a cart and you drag that coffin another 20 klicks or so inland and bury it in an unmarked grave. Where it rots for the next 769 years. Until a religious hermit (what we now call a “homeless crazy person”) claims that he’s rediscovered the grave. Hip-hip-hooray! Send a letter to King Alfonso II. Who actually shows up and says, What the hell—let’s build a big, honkin’ cathedral where the loony guy says St. James is buried. Why not? There’s nothing else here. Maybe it will be good for tourism.

Which it is. Dozens stop by. Thousands. Tens of thousands. It becomes the Disneyland of Europe back in the Middle Ages.

Meanwhile, these nasty Moors have been messing with things. Good Christians are getting pissed off (sound familiar?). For a good 400 years, Christians and Muslims and Jews throw things at each other and slit each other’s throats. Finally, in 1482, the Christians decide that what they need is a good ol’ fashioned Holy War. And if you’re going to have a good ol’ fashion Holy War, you need some sort of a war cry. I know! How about, “Santiago de Compostela!” in honor of the apostle who mysteriously floated back to Spain in a stone boat? Perfect! Yell your war cry and then stick a sword in a Muslim!

By 1492, it’s all over. The Moors plead uncle. All the Jews are kicked out of Spain (or worse). The Moors are given three choices: Convert to Christianity; leave Spain; or die. (Actually, sometimes the choices are combined. For instance, it’s not at all unusual over the next 150 years or so for a Moor to convert to Christianity and then be put to death.)

Lots of people die. How many? Too many to count (besides, nobody cared about body counts back in the Middle Ages). What’s important is that by praying to St. James, the Spanish have been able to slaughter the Jews and Moors and get them the hell out of Spain. Hip-hip-hooray. Let’s go there and say a prayer!

And that’s how Santiago de Compostela became famous.

And people say religion is ridiculous…pshawww!

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Spain: Sangria

Sunday, May 13, 2012 in Madrid, Spain

The following is an excerpt from the excellent Lonely Planet book, World Food: Spain:

The wines of Spain were not always of the high quality we have come to expect these days. When they were good, of course, they were very, very good. But when they were bad—Diablos! But instead of wasting it, the Spanish would take the bad wine and put something into it to mitigate the taste. Sometimes it was just water, sometimes it was other wine, often it was spices or fruit juice.

Over time a few recipes came into being that pleased most and offended none. To this day, sangría is an idea, not a chemical formula. Some people might use apple juice, or pineapple juice. Others might use nutmeg, or cloves. But a fairly standard recipe calls for citrus and cinnamon. How much of this or that to add to the wine depends on the wine—how good, how bad, how sweet, how dry. The final product should be refreshing and quaffable. Unfortunately, when served in tourist restaurants it is usually cloying sweet.

Sangría

2 lemons

4 oranges

1/2 stick cinnamon

1 liter red wine (cheap stuff)

750ml soda water or lemonade

ice

Take a 5cm strip of zest from a lemon and one from an orange. Place them and the cinnamon in a large pitcher along with the wine. Squeeze the fruit, add the juice, and stir well. Let the mixture sit in the refrigerator for at least an hour. Stir in the ice, then add the soda or lemonade just before serving.

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Postcards from Santiago de Compostela

Saturday, May 12, 2012 in Santiago de Compostela, Spain

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Sleeping with the nuns: Parador Hostal dos Reis Católicos

Friday, May 11, 2012 in Santiago de Compostela, Spain

Hostal dos Reis Catolicos in Santiago de Compostela. Photo by David Lansing.

I am staying at a nunnery, the Parador Hostal dos Reis Católicos, in Santiago de Compostela. Actually, it’s not a nunnery. It just feels like one (maybe because there are so many nuns walking around here). It used to be a hospital. Does it make me feel better to know I’m staying in a former hospital rather than a nunnery? I don’t think so. My room is elegantly spartan, if there is such a thing—a plain wooden double bed, stone floors, some religious art on the wall—and last night I fell asleep imagining that I was in the room of the former Mother Superior. And who knows? Maybe I was. Even when it was a hospital, there were a lot of nuns living here.

The parador bills itself as the oldest hotel in the world. But that’s using the word “hotel” in a very loose sense. It was actually built in 1499 by Ferdinand and Isabella because they were tired of so many pilgrims sleeping on the streets of Santiago every night (this might be the oldest documented case of a government trying to deal with the homeless). Eventually it became evident that most of the pilgrims sleeping in the streets were also dying. Pneumonia, tuberculosis, bad blisters—you name it. So it became a hospital. And remained so until Franco had it converted into a parador in 1953.

I don’t know. To me, it still feels like a nunnery.

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Madrid: Spanish saffron from Iran

Thursday, May 10, 2012 in Madrid, Spain

This Trader Joe's "Spanish Saffron" isn't grown in Spain either. But at least it only costs half as much as the so-called Spanish saffron in Madrid.

This afternoon we are flying to Santiago de Compostela. So in the morning Eva and I go to the Mercado de San Miguel. She wants to pick up some Spanish saffron to take home for presents.

“You know Spanish saffron isn’t really from Spain,” I tell her as we negotiate the crowd looking for stalls selling azafrán.

“What?” she says. “Are you crazy? Why do you think it is called Spanish azafrán?”

“Because it is sold in Spain.”

We have found a woman selling saffron in little plastic cases. It is ten euros for one gram, 25 euros for three grams. Eva buys two of the three gram containers. Holding them up in front of my face so I can clearly see the label, she says, “Spanish azafrán—the best in the world.”

“It’s from Iran,” I tell her. “Or maybe Afghanistan. It’s definitely not from Spain.”

Eva is outraged. In Spanish, she tells the woman who just sold her the saffron that I told her it came from Iran. The old woman shrugs her shoulder and looks away, neither confirming nor denying. “Esto viene de España, ¿no?” says Eva, pointing at the containers of saffron.

The old woman points to the label that says Spanish azafrán. “Eso es lo que dice,” she says.

“There,” says Eva. “You see? She said it is from Spain.”

“No she didn’t. She says that it says it’s Spanish azafrán. That doesn’t mean it was grown in Spain. Look it up. No one grows saffron in Spain anymore. The labor is too expensive. It all comes from Afghanistan and Iran. And is then packaged in Spain. So they can call it Spanish azafrán. Even though it’s not.”

“I don’t believe you,” says Eva as we leave the mercado.

“Fine. Don’t believe me.”

Eva puts the packages of saffron in her purse. We walk several blocks without talking before she says, “That was for my mother, you know.”

“It’s still a nice gift,” I tell her.

“Yes, just not as nice as it was before we went to the market. Thanks a lot.”

Okay, maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. I mean, it is good saffron. But the thing is, it’s not Spanish saffron. Not anymore it’s not.

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