Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 years of marriage. This is number 27 of a series about our lives and travels. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts you'll find below that are a previous series about later travels.
Sherrill & Simone, Spring 1988 Spring, 1988 was especially beautiful in Berkeley. We took advantage of the weather with a celebration on the deck overlooking the garden that Simone and Paul had created for their new home. Trees and shrubs were luxuriant, responding to the moisture and sun of the Bay Area, and the flowers were blooming in a carnival of color. Just a few months later, however, Sherrill and I were following the shadows racing across Spain's sun burnt hills.
The thirsty terrain did remind us of parts of the West Coast not too far from Berkeley, but instead of passing golden poppies or California missions, we saw Moorish castles and the remains of Rome's far-flung empire. In the city of Merida alone, we found the longest surviving Roman bridge, a temple to goddess Diana, an amphitheatre where gladiators fought, and a hippodrome where chariots raced. We wondered what still lurked under the modern city. And when we hiked along the streets of ancient Italica, near Seville, we found the remains of an even larger amphitheatre, public baths, and the mosaic floors of Roman villas.
Sherrill at excavations of Roman City of Italica
Sherrill in Seville Garden Rome, of course, wasn't the only empire to leave bits and pieces of their world behind in what became Spain. In one day, sometimes less, we walked among Roman, Christian, and Islamic splendors. Each place had a story—maybe history, maybe myth. The famous places were well known for a reason, but sometimes a site previously unknown to us was as interesting as better known ones. Then, sometimes, everything seemed like a deck of pictures in the hands of a sly magician, shuffling crazily in front of us—or was the experience about the unpredictability of it?
In my memory, the huge Seville cathedral and ornate bell tower (originally the grandest of minarets for a long ago razed mosque) dominates the city, but I also remember lush green gardens and ripe oranges on the ground, exuding their sweet perfume as they rotted. Sherrill hit the jackpot here when it came to reliquaries, including one with a thorn from Jesus's crown, one with a piece of the True Cross, and another with one of St. Peter's ribs. I confess that I was more interested in the tomb just inside the cathedral door where Christopher Columbus's remains finally rested after boomeranging across the Atlantic several times—unless, as some people suspected, it was only his brother's bones.
In my memory, the huge Seville cathedral and ornate bell tower (originally the grandest of minarets for a long ago razed mosque) dominates the city, but I also remember lush green gardens and ripe oranges on the ground, exuding their sweet perfume as they rotted. Sherrill hit the jackpot here when it came to reliquaries, including one with a thorn from Jesus's crown, one with a piece of the True Cross, and another with one of St. Peter's ribs. I confess that I was more interested in the tomb just inside the cathedral door where Christopher Columbus's remains finally rested after boomeranging across the Atlantic several times—unless, as some people suspected, it was only his brother's bones.
Sherrill posing at Cordoba's great gate Walking through Cordoba's old city was a luxurious adventure. We never knew what would be around the corner or beyond the next block, but could be sure it would be beautiful. Sherrill loved the gardens and flower-filled courtyards. At various times, we found ourselves on the irregular little streets of the old Jewish quarter or gazing down an alley of whitewashed buildings covered with hanging flower pots or suddenly in view of the arches of a Roman bridge still spanning the river, the enormous bulk of the great mosque just beyond.
"If you loved me," Sherrill told me, "you'd buy me Spanish tiles and flowerpots."
"And carry them home for you."
"Of course."
"If you loved me," Sherrill told me, "you'd buy me Spanish tiles and flowerpots."
"And carry them home for you."
"Of course."
A massive bell tower led us to Cordoba's great mosque, where we wandered among a vast forest of columns under red and white striped arches until abruptly we confronted the huge, almost overwhelming, cathedral built inside with its 16th century Renaissance nave—which explained the bell tower that replaced the old minaret. Despite its size, the church seemed to have been swallowed like a fish by the great whale of the mosque. Before we left, we did pay our respects to the bejeweled golden reliquary of St. Ursula in the cathedral treasury, shaped the way an anonymous medieval craftsman must have imagined her head should look. It certainly was spectacular, but Sherrill never did learn which of the saint's body parts was hidden in it.
Interior, Great Mosque of Cordoba Out on the street, dusk had turned the bell tower into a pale blurred shape. I paused while Sherrill, backlit by the rising moon, gazed up at it, then we walked to our hotel. The golden light of the day was gone, but had left warm memories on our faces. As we walked, I touched a wall with my fingers and discovered that it held its own memory of the ninety degree day. For a while, we joined the evening paseo of families and young people strolling the streets together, looking into shops, buying drinks and tapas and other snacks, enjoying the cooling evening, waiting for the hour to dine. At least once, we heard the dramatic sounds of flamenco, but didn't see where that song of love and pain was coming from.
A few days later, as we waited to cross the bridge on the way out of town, a man carrying a bucket and soggy rag rushed up to our car and smeared the rag across the windshield in front of Sherrill, leaving a disgusting mess on the glass, then held out a hand for money to clean it off.
"No!" Sherrill told the man, rolling up the side window.
Despite the sun half-blinding her through the wet mess, she turned onto the bridge. This gypsy wasn't going to intimidate her! When she reached the other side of the bridge, she found a place to park, I got out, and did the best I could to clean the windshield.
"No!" Sherrill told the man, rolling up the side window.
Despite the sun half-blinding her through the wet mess, she turned onto the bridge. This gypsy wasn't going to intimidate her! When she reached the other side of the bridge, she found a place to park, I got out, and did the best I could to clean the windshield.
 Sherrill at remains of Alhambra Fortress, Granada, Spain |  Sherrill, Fountain of the Lions, in the Alhambra |
In the Alhambra Gardens We'd already encountered gypsies in Spain and would see more, including some very aggressive ones—adults and children—outside our hotel in Granada. A year later, in Romania, we'd see encampments of very poor, badly treated, gypsies—or Roma, as they should be called. Still later, however, we spent Easter with the local people in a Bulgarian village, including a number of Roma, who had been integrated into village life, educated and employed contributing members of the little town. During and after Easter dinner, everyone took turns toasting everyone else, Roma and non-Roma, with a strong, locally produced, wine until all three dozen of us were one red-faced family, at least for the day.
In Granada, we weren't able to get a room at the parador inside the Alhambra, but—we told ourselves—it didn't matter because we'd be spending most of our time exploring that vast complex of buildings, gardens, fountains, and reflecting pools, anyway, not hanging out in the parador. More than anyplace else on this trip, Sherrill had wanted to see the Alhambra, its beautiful architecture, gardens, and courtyards. Perhaps the most beautiful of the many patios and courtyards we saw there was the Court of the Lions, a private retreat of Mohammad V in the fourteenth century. Small thin-tailed lizards darted across the tiles and walls as if they were directing our eyes to different features and details. Delicate calligraphic tracings, plaster reliefs, and mosaics of countless small tiles gave every room and space a surprisingly light and cool feeling, despite the heat of the day. I could see Sherrill returning to Berkeley, ripping out flower beds, and replacing them with tiled courtyards and reflecting pools. Fortunately, she also loved English-style gardens like the one she'd already made for us.
To be continued....
In Granada, we weren't able to get a room at the parador inside the Alhambra, but—we told ourselves—it didn't matter because we'd be spending most of our time exploring that vast complex of buildings, gardens, fountains, and reflecting pools, anyway, not hanging out in the parador. More than anyplace else on this trip, Sherrill had wanted to see the Alhambra, its beautiful architecture, gardens, and courtyards. Perhaps the most beautiful of the many patios and courtyards we saw there was the Court of the Lions, a private retreat of Mohammad V in the fourteenth century. Small thin-tailed lizards darted across the tiles and walls as if they were directing our eyes to different features and details. Delicate calligraphic tracings, plaster reliefs, and mosaics of countless small tiles gave every room and space a surprisingly light and cool feeling, despite the heat of the day. I could see Sherrill returning to Berkeley, ripping out flower beds, and replacing them with tiled courtyards and reflecting pools. Fortunately, she also loved English-style gardens like the one she'd already made for us.
To be continued....
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