Saturday, February 16, 2008

Cuenca (2004)

Cuenca ( 2004 ) Blanca has wanted to go to Cuenca, in Castilla-La Mancha, for ever so long. So when she got several days off, due to a local saint’s festival, we decided to seize the day. The trip takes you up the coast to Valencia and then west, about half way to Madrid. It took about 4 hours, including a stop for lunch in a bar in the small village of Almodóvar. The landscape is typical Castilian arid plains, right out of Don Quijote. (The windmills, however, are the post-modern industrial type, which would have given the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance even more of a challenge than the old ones did.)
The most striking thing about Cuenca is its physical setting. The old part of town (the “Casco Antiguo”) is built on a steep hill bordered by two very deep gorges, those of the rivers Júcar and Huécar. The views from various parts of town over the green valleys below are spectacular. The old city itself is medieval. The cathedral is Gothic and was built after Alfonso VIII captured the citadel from the moors in the 12th century. There are still some Arab monuments, but the majority of the buildings of interest are post-reconquest.
By a stroke of great luck, we ended up staying in an extremely attractive small studio apartment, just outside the gates that lead to the Plaza Mayor, on the Calle Alfonso VIII. It has one main room, with kitchen off to the side. The walls are sparkling white, with rustic painted beams. A few books are on a shelf beside the bed, including several volumes on Frida Kahlo, the Mexican painter and wife of Diego Rivera. I´d not known her work before and perusing these volumes left me reeling. (I got the feeling that these books were there because of a deep intellectual and emotional bond between their subject and their owner.) The landlady is Mari Carmen Flores, and she turned out to be the highlight of our trip. More on her presently.
After schlepping our bags up four floors, we headed to the Plaza Mayor and sat in the bright sun to have a beer and some “patatas bravas.” Then we explored. The plaza is dominated by the Cathedral, which we never entered in protest against the admission fee. Malditas curas!
For free, we descended the Júcar side of the hill to the Convento de Las Angustias. (I also later popped in to the Convento de Las Esclavas, where I observed five sparkling white bundles, which I assume contained nuns.) Up the hill we found the exquisite Pensión de San José, which is in restored convent. (Yes, Virginia, there are lots of convents in Cuenca.) Inside it is immaculate and filled with elegant furniture and woodwork. There´s a nice restaurant, which serves tapas as well as full meals. If, Gentle Reader, you ever go to Cuenca, stay there (70€).
Further up the hill are the remains of the medieval castle, from which you get a fine view of the old seminary by the side of the river, which now serves as a Parador (state run hotel in a place of historic interest).
On the way down, we stopped for a beer in the Bar Dulcinea. (The portly bar-tender didn’t seem to mind when I asked if she was indeed Dulcinea, although she roundly rejected the suggestion.) Then, returning to the Plaza, we had more beers and “ajo arriero,” one of the local specialties, outside in the terrace of the bar La Tinaja. We were serenaded by a bunch of semi-drunk gypsies, who played excellent Flamenco on the steps of the nearby Cathedral.
Sunday, Nov.7. We got up late and headed out. First, the Museo Diocensano, which has a reasonably interesting collection of ecclesiastical art and and then down to the Mueso De Arte Abstracto Español. This is a pure gem. It has a superb collection of Spanish modern art, much of it surrealistic, pop, and related genres from the 50´s on. It features important figures such as Chillida, Guerrero, Millares, Saura, Tápies, Torner, and Zóbel. In addition to the great collection is the setting, which is one of the most well preserved of the “casas colgadas” (“hanging houses”) that are the symbol of Cuenca. They are large dwellings built out over the deep gorge of the river Huécar. Inside are bright white walls and exquisite wooden beams. The juxtaposition of the elegant surroundings and the magnificent striking colors of the paintings are impressive.
Just outside the museum is another of the “hanging houses,” which is now the restaurant “Meson Casas Colgadas.” For 65€ (not cheap), we got to sit next to the window with a view over the gorge and to eat my favourite “migas” (fried bread crumbs), Manchego cheese, setas a la plancha, and drink excellent Manchego reserva (“Campo Reales¨).
Monday, 8 Nov. We decided to dedicate the day to exploring the Serranía de Cuenca by car. The first objective was the Ciudad Encantada. North of Cuenca, about 70 kms, is an amazing natural area with gigantic strange rock formations, some of them with recognizable forms, for example “Crocodile fighting with an elephant,” “Sea of rocks,” “Dog,” etc.
In the middle of the rocks, we called Tziporah with Blanca´s cell phone. She had just finished the New York Marathon for the nth time after training hard and pushing through a last-minute case of plantar fasciatis, and I was extremely relieved to hear her voice and to know that she was O.K.
The Source of the Cuervo River (Nacimiento del Rio Cuervo). The river Cuervo begins with a few streams and ponds. You leave the parking area and ascend by a path at the side of waterfalls and deep green forest. The tranquil atmosphere produced by the murmur of the water and the smell of pines was a treat.
After getting back to Cuenca, we went to buy wine a one of the small nearby grocery stores. The owner sent us several doors down the street to her sister, who was the local wine maven and oinologue. She turned out to be the Cuenca equivalent of Susan at Cordoza´s, and had a rather astounding selection of wines, which she was glad to discuss at great length.
She is, it turns out, a best pal of our landlady, who, as I mentioned, was the centerpiece of the trip. When we first arrived, I was taken by her sparkling eyes and bubbling enthusiasm. With her grey hair pulled back into a tight bun, immaculate skin, and trim figure, she was strikingly attractive. She was not the least bit diffident about relating intimate details of her tempestuous life, which she seemed to have lived with great relish.
Flores is 72 years old. She was born in San Sebastian and, according to Blanca, is the epitome of the Basque Woman. (I´m still not totally clear what that means, but “strength” seems to be an important ingredient.) In any case, Flores lived for 20 some years in San Sabistian with her first husband, who had a marine supply business. Then one fine day, Bonifacio Alfonso (b.1933), also from San Sabastián and later to be an important figure in Spanish painting and printmaking, fell in love with her and she with him. They ran away together to Cuenca, where she supported his career, his drinking, and his drugs, with her industrious management of various hotels and restaurants. He became a success, after being recognized by local luminaries, such as Antonio Pérez. But one day—after 22 years living together--he left Flores for a young Mexican beauty. Nevertheless, they seem to have remained great friends. I found, beside the bed, a book about Bonifacio—inscribed to Flores--that describes her and her relation to the artist: “Los ingleses también dicen que, para saber de las mujeres, antes de escucharlas, hay que mirarlas, y así, por los ojos, es como Flores se cuela en la vida de Bonifacio. La de Flores es una personalidad concluyente: trabajará durante años para que Bonifacio, alejado de las fatigas mundanas, pueda seguir pintando esos cuadros ajenos de las modas, que, no se venden. La pintura representa entonces la posesión del día, y la posesión de la noche, esta mujer cuyo nombre engendra la realidad de Bonifacio por espacio de dos décadas, en la época de su vida que va de los 33 a las 54 años. Al cabo, ella ha sido la compañera a la que más ha amado, porque, igual que Chagall no acababa ningún cuadro sin pedirle a Bella su sí o su no, Bonifacio sin el consentimiento de Flores, no da por concluido ninguno de sus diálogos con las formas” (Ignacio Ruiz Quintano, Bonifacio Alfonso, Turner, Madrid, 1992, pp.65-6). She came up to our apartment and told us about her life with all the naturalness and sparkle of a person who has lived to the hilt and has been to the top of the mountain and the depth of the valley.
After a long while talking, I decided that it was time to eat, and I invited her to dinner. We went to a local place and talked non-stop for several hours.
Tuesday, 9 Nov. Fundación Antonio Pérez. Toward the highest part of the city is the incredible collection of art located—yep, you guessed it-- in a former convent (De las Descalzas). It was assembled by the artist-bibliophile-collector Antonio Peréz, and features artists such as Saura, Millares, Gordillo, and Lucebert. There were a number of paintings and prints by Bonifacio, and there was a picture of him with Flores, which I found more fascinating than his impressive productions. Sometimes life is even more interesting than art. On leaving, we met the man himself, Antonio Perez, who was at the moment showing some visitors around. When we recognized him, he was extremely amiable and let us take a picture. He´s now in his 70´s and is the artist of the “found object.” He was also instrumental in creating an atmosphere in which the work of his contemporaries could receive proper appreciation.
Our heads swimming with images, we ate an excellent lunch at Hotel Leonora de Aquitania. (Flores had once managed the place.)
That night, we had another session with Flores. She took us down one floor to her apartment, which was one of the most striking and attractive living spaces I’ve ever seen: austere simplicity producing sumptuous luxury. Reclaimed and refurnished furniture is tastefully arranged amidst countless works of art, books, and bric-a-brac. (The only thing I can compare it to is Neruda´s house, “La Chascona,” in Santiago de Chile. In both places, I felt that just being there created an almost instantaneous intimacy with the owner.)
Wednesday, 10 Nov.
We packed up and we on the road by 11:00. We drove through the plains again, but by-passed Valencia in order to go to Castellón, where we visited Blanca´s family. We drove home along the coast mesmerized by the beautiful sunset that accompanied us and dismayed at the tacky sprawling expansion that one finds all along the coast south of Valencia.
We´ll go back to Cuenca. And I´m sure we´ll never forget Flores. Nietzsche was right: in the end, it´s the arresting specimens of humanity that really count.

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