Daytrip: SEGOVIA

I emerged from my bed between 8 and 9 am on monday morning. had some coffee and cereal and got on the cercanias line which is a train that goes to only select major subway stations to make cross-city commute a snap. of course i got it facing the wrong direction and instead of being one stop away from the Chamartin train sation, i went around the entire city and thus held up the group from catching the 10am slow train for 6 euros. not a huge deal because we got to tide spain's high-speed line a half hour later for 9euros that reduced a 2 hour trip to 30 minutes. the views leaving madrid were gorgeous as we descended down from the plateau of the city and rolled across a mostly barren plain before coming to the foothills of the northern sierra. we passed a gorgeous glass lake surrounded by a small village before plunging into the mountains themselves, reemerging on the otherside to see more barren country and the backside of those mounts, blanketed in virgin snow. the day was crystalline - piercing sunrays and endless blue sky. in a few more minutes we landed at segovia guimar and got out to inhale the freshest air we'd had in months. It's all around you on the walls and streets but it's easy to forget how dirty the air is in Madrid. It was like stepping out of a bar into the sunshine.

Outside the train station, a line of camera toting city dwellers in black and rotund tourists from small central european towns had formed and waited patiently to board a short blue bus that was not qualified to bear them all. We stood squinting and musing about the shabby cattle that mingled lazily in a barron beige pasture on a nearby hill. Standing on the bus we guessed at the uses of buildings that drove by and imagined how much of a city the place might be. Unlike the photos which manage to decieve without lying outright, it was unclear while approaching as to where Segovia proper was situated. There are settlements and roads all around it, and the one dominant building to be seen hides its majesty from a distance. It was not until the bus was doing the european swing around one-lane hairpin turns over cobbled streets among uneven beige and terracotta buildings that we realized we were near. And then there was the Aqueduct. When hearing about Roman aqueducts and that they are the main attraction of a city, one wonders what could possibly be worthwhile there. A few decaying arches reminiscent of the vapid grandiose Roman administration and engineering? I'll be at the bar. But this is no crumbling suggestion. This massive structure stretches clear across a valley and encircles the town without seeming to have lost a single stone. It's massive, and the double stack of arches that support the waterway above are all the more impressive, when one learns that they were (and are still?) held together without mortar. That is dubious in some parts, esp. near where it begins but the most impressive stretch shows off without any visible binding agent. So we stood around for a while as the bright sun poured in pale morning yellow rays from the southern sky and made the worn stones of the street glisten. Cigarettes and pictures as we tried to get our bearings in the age old male fashion of looking around and guessing.

Our first move was for a market, and we headed down what looked to be a main street. Fortunately we were right, and we stepped into a Dia, the same kind of market I frequent here and buy the essentials: milk, cereal, red wine and the occasional vegetable. This time we planned to have a picnic outside in order to save money so we bought some baguettes, two kinds of cured pork, olives, pasta salad, and, of course, a few bottles of tinto. After the painful process of waiting in the only open queue with grumbling geriatric segovians, we headed back to the aqueduct to take the other main road which led to the center of town. Calle Juan Bravo, much narrower than the previous street, is actually the main throughway of pedestrian Segovia. It ascends from the lowlands of the aqueduct in jerking, angular turns between a hodgepodge of stone and wooden buldings dating from very recently all the way to the times when men rode horses and drank in torch-lit taverns, I imagine. Christmas light nets hung above our heads as we moved in and out of shade on our way toward Plaza San Martin. There stands a beautiful ochre church in Spanish romanesque style. We parked outside the church and found a stone platform in the sun next to the escalating terraces of the inclined plaza and took off our coats as we developed layers of sweat while trying desperately to hackey-sack with any proficiency. People walked by and chatted, stood to watch the strange activity of 4 colorful young men, and took pictures by fountains, statues, and architecture. Across the Plaza a building stood in a much different style than the church - red brick outlining sections of wall mostly made-up of pulverized grey stone mortared together with only an arched clerestory at the top to let in light under a flat wooden roof that jutted out about 2 feet beyond the wall. Very old and rustic spanish looking, contrasting with the golden hue of the great stone church. After a while we lost interest in sucking with the hackeysack and went off in search of a picnic site. 

A little ways ahead, the street divides and we took the low road that descends in broad steps to a short, wide stone arch and opens out onto a wide dirt boulvard that hugs the city wall to the north with a bench-lined swath of green grass and trees in the middle. Open air feasting summarily begun and as we wrapped pieces of bread with jamon and chewed on olives, we watched the eternal and ubiquitous small groups of unknown aging spaniards sit on benches in solidarity while two young children dressed in church clothes sped around on aluminum scooters, stopping every once and a while hop back to where their shoes had come off. We spoke inconsequentially as we ate, and after we rested for a minute and polished off a bottle of tinto, we set off to re enter the city further along the wall.

By now, I am realizing the time I have spent on this account and the fact that I've already seen a new pueblo and a birthday and end of year celebration has passed, I feel the need to complete this tomfoolery. We walked through some super narrow alleys, lit by diffused sunlight bouncing in angular waves from the tops of the walls to our feet. Enter el Plaza Mayor. Totally different from the enclosed square of madrid, this one is quite a bit more charming and more like what you would expect a main square to be. Away from the major auto roads, elevated and situated a point where all small ambulatories seem to converge, set between the gorgeous pale yellow romanesque cathedral where isabella was coronated and the peach colored teatro real. we spent quite a bit of time here, digesting and soaking, comparing this with our own plaza mayor. I think i'm the only one who didn't immediately prefer the segovian model. Having taken at least a half dozen pictures each of the outside of the cathedral, we opted to check out the inside. Much less dark than one would expect from a pre-gothic cathedral, it was spacious and frigid inside. Massive pillars flanked the nave and over a dozen chapels with the typical ornate altars and ceilings piqued our fancy as we spread out and admired in silent contemplation. some nice photos, though one wishes they had more than a little point and shoot at their disposal to render these sorts of places. How people can worship there on a regular basis is beyond me. Aside from the need to constantly be wearing a parka, how do you feel genuine? People come from all over the world and pay to get in a take illegal photos, and you sit and believe in it all? Guidebooks at the door? The building is amazing but doesn't that render it useless for its initial purpose? I imagine stargazing in a famous planetarium or cooking fish over a fire in a life-size diarama in the natural history museum. Maybe it's a quality possessed only by the faithful. Anyway, we bust out and stand in the sun for 5-10, allowing our blood to rise above amphibian temperatures before heading down a shabby cobbled alley in search of the most famous edifice in the city - el Alcazar.

Pass by a witchcraft museum and stop to stand in single file for numerous infuriating autos before coming around the corner to a sunspot before a grove of trees and an iron gate. to your immediate left a vendor sells swords, canes, and post cards. 10 lb man-killing letter openers. ceramic ashtrays that read segovia. beyond him, you walk to a shin-high wall of solid stone that looks out over an expanse of land  stretching for miles to the mountains that divide this land from the plain of madrid. photo op. here most sound has dispersed and you walk alongside picturesque euro cars from the 50's parked on a gravel drive like film props and finally you see a massive keep rise in the middle of castle walls, standing at the other end of a bridge over a 40 foot moss-lined stone drop to a tiny serpentine moat. it's almost too authentic till you remember that its an 18th or 19th century reconstruction of the ancient moorish castle that stood guard over the vast expanse of nothing beyond it. two rivers converge a few hundred meters below the westernmost extremity of the castle. 4 euros to climb the keep, but shit, what else did we come for? suckling pig? maybe next time. 152 spiral steps later we hit the top and set up camp for 20 minutes while we individually recuperate from the strain on our lungs and bask in the sunshine and crystal clear air. at this point im farting like a bastard and we are all chuckling as we give my flatulence epithets like castle-crop (dust) on the spiral stair. the thought crosses our mind to roll up some hash but the boys are fearful and i accept their decision as a fortunate defense from the darkness of confinement. rather, we do the tourist thing and snap foto after foto. the views to the east show the bell tower emerge from the cathedral in the center and look out over the entire pueblo, ecompassng fields all around and nearby settlements and, of course, those eternal mountains behind. finally, we have used up the castle and descend to make another pass around the city. 

Take the low road by some ancient looking homes and take another break at a tiny grass square to toss a frisbee, juggle a hackysack, and burn some tree. somehow our hacking has improved 5fold and we get a real kick out of it this time. but there is more city to see and we move along. on this side of plaza mayor there is little traffic, foot or otherwise, and we are able to spread across the roads and admire different aspects at our leisure. every now and then a strange statue marks our progress; juan bravo the poet (?) stands with pointed features and an upturned face, in a dontellan pose; even further a strange figure in garb identical to our ku klux knights stands firm, grasping and touching to his nose a massive, ominous iron cross. a creepy sight. one more small plaza contains a playground and at its northwestern corner a gate looking into what used to be the inside of a building but has since been derooved and left to the devices of nature, who has planted what looks to be the softest verdant moss along the once marble floor. here in this plaza there is a small drinking fountain one must stoop to reach that pours the coldest, freshest tasting water in the whole of spain, I am convinced. i fill my bottle, and we all swig and feel the purity slide down our gullets. onward.

more views more pictures more buildings and streets and back at the aqueduct. still time to kill, but there is one thing we have set out to do and have not yet achieved - ponche. according to the spain guidebook, a native segovian desert, some sort of richness drenched in local sweet liqueur and worthy of the most fervent adoration. on to the cafe Limón y Menta, right off the plaza mayor to the southwest. 3 euros gets you a cube a bit smaller than your palm, and introduces you to one of the finest culinary delights one can ever enjoy. I will not attempt to describe the taste, however once your fork pierces the sweet, delicate, dumpling-like casing and grabs a slice of the dense yellow cake-like interior and dutifully delivers it to your anxious mouth, you will never consider another desert worthy of a moan again. the holiday lasted over 3 weeks, and among all of the meals, parties, events, sights, women, and trips, this delight remains in the top tier. i will never forget eating that thing, whatever it was. 

sated, we decided to kill another hour in a bar, drinking coffee and wine and actually getting to pick the tapas we received - a rare privilege, reader, i assure you. as the sun went down we learned we had yet another hour before the bus arrived and decided to follow the aqueduct till we could follow it no more. this took us to the edge of the old town, where the start of the structure is marked by a small obelisk and a stone plaque. a few more pictures and we found ourselves more than ready to head back to the city. on the train we busted out the rest of our food and had a crumb-factory feast as we guzzled the last bottle of wine and finished our ham and bread and pasta and everything. Like the royalty of olde, we took a leisurely day to enjoy the quietude of the country, and we were pleased.

Segovia showed us it doesnt take a lot of advanced planning to have a good trip. it doesn't take a lot of money and it doesn't take a lot of endurance. We saw another side of Spain for less than 40 euros for the entire thing, and i was back in time for an hours-long calimocho session with an old friend from the shire...