Exploring Zaragoza

So off I go exploring.

Exploration is something that I always used to do with N – for many years, anyway.   Before that, I explored in my own little way, always trying to leave the suburb to head for the hills, the sunset, the motorway; anywhere but the pub at the end of the street.

I took the tour bus around Zaragoza to see the layout.  I didn’t have the earphones for the guided tour, but that was fine.  I’d see what was there and it didn’t matter too much about what wasn’t.

The bus swung through the tight streets and boulevards, trimming the low-hanging trees.  I didn’t know what I was supposed to be seeing, but tried to keep track of where we were from the map.  There was no shade from the sun and I’d given up on the hat the day before when the wind kept blowing it off.  The wind in Zaragoza can be crazy.  It kept me awake half the night.

I watched the castle go by – we’d be coming around again in a big loop, crossing the river.  We spent a lot of time touring a complex of modern administrative buildings out of town, close to the bus and train intercambiador. 

It all spoke to me of Civic Boosterism and hubristic public investment – one giant steel and concrete white elephant after another.  Great areas of concrete public space with no public in sight.  Barren.  A sign stated that it had been built for the 2008 Expo.  The timing is informative.  I expect they’re still paying for it now.

The bus stopped at the castle – massively rebuilt.  It had me thinking about conservation and renovation.  The whole thing looked a little like I imagine Las Vegas or Disneyland.  I didn't bother getting off.  I read later that there are ornate Arabic arches inside – it was built more as a palace than a fortification.

Later, I took a walk to find the Roman theatre.  It’s protected under a tent-like roof.  You get to it through a café-museum.  I looked through the fence.  Beside me, a large hammer-drill was being used to dig into a wall.  Balearic dance-music was being pumped from speakers somewhere.  I’ve stepped aside – my ears are crammed with olden music these days.  It’s the only music that makes sense to me anymore.   I wandered on.

I found a shaded terraza on the edge of Plaza de Espana and sat at a table to observe.  The square was bustling.  I asked for a menu, but there was no food.  Gin tonic at six euros fifty seemed a good plan.  When I walked through the same square the following evening around dusk, it was party-central.  Not bad for a Wednesday.

I felt I ought to take a look in some of the churches.   Architecturally, there’s a real crossover from Romanesque to Gothic to Renaissance and Baroque, but Zaragoza also has a strong Arabic influence in its Mudejar style.   I read that Zaragoza was more tolerant to continued Arabic presence after the Reconquest, employing the skills of the Arabic builders – a gross oversimplification of events, but you get the picture. 

The Mudejar style is very visible in the major buildings of old Zaragoza.   Yet, once inside the basilicas, there’s usually a chapel dedicated to Saint James or Santiago.  The Church depicted him as The Moorslayer during the Reconquest.   Looking at the paintings and sculptures in the chapels, you wonder how Zaragoza is so culturally cohesive today.

I often think about the opulence of these religious buildings: the churches and cathedrals; the bishops’ palaces.  How does all that square away with New Testament accounts?  How did the patriarchs move it all so quickly from a life of humility to fur-trimmed clergy, dripping gold? 

Modern churches in the US are the same.  Bussing down through the poorest states six years ago, the big new churches kept catching my eye.  I remember trying to photograph a big shiny car tucked next to one of them.  Nothing changes.  The wealth in so many churches is obscene, yet their fabric is crumbling.  I get a feeling that the motorways and ostentatious public buildings might go the same way.  What’s going to happen when the bills pile up?

All this stuff had the gears crashing around in my head.  I decided to go and sit in the sun for a while.

Perched on a low wall, I had a strong sense of being “here”, but it wasn’t clear what “here” was.  The ground under my feet?  Some place in a cosmologist’s multiverse? Images pouring out of the luminous storyteller in the corner of the room?  (The lens-view of Attenborough’s cameraman?)  The guitar in my lap?  A book?  Maybe for some it's the next make-or-break deal?  Why not relativize the whole thing to win-lose, profit-loss or numbers on a bank statement?

The Church and its sisters tell us the reward comes after all of this.  Looking around the square and thinking about all the castles on the hilltops, The Church’s donors weren’t waiting.  The fat, fur-lined, gold-ringed bishops in their palaces aren't waiting. 

Sod religion.  It’s time for a coffee.