The Moor Tour

Once upon a time - when the moon was bright and the sky was young - there lived a revered sultan of Baghdad who sought counsel with the world's greatest intellects. Invitations were written, dispatches sent, and word of the inquest soon resounded across the kingdom to lands far beyond the desert sun. The response was laudatory as Persia was soon aswarm with poets and sophists, sages and scholars, magi and brahmin. Gathered together in his palace, the sultan set forth his request: the compilation of a voluminous tome which would encompass and elucidate life's eternal verities ... timeless truths which would echo harmoniously throughout the ages to come. A pre-Diderot Encyclopédie, so to say.

The assembled brain-trust gladly accepted this daunting task. They studiously set about examining all possible jewels, facets, and glints of wisdom. What would stand the test of time? Ideas differed, postulates flew, and theories collided. Months passed by and seasons changed. At long last, the great undertaking was complete, the brilliant minds were in accordance, and the book of unchangeable/unchallengeable knowledge was presented to the sultan.

Expecting a weighty text, he was surprised upon being given a single sheet of paper. It read:

"The only eternal truth of which we can be certain can be expressed in four words -

THIS TOO SHALL PASS."

Is there a point or relevency to this story? As usual, no. I recalled it a few weeks ago during an impressive bout of Linda Blair-Exorcist-style projectile vomiting. It offered solace and perspective. Since our last communiqué I haven't covered a great distance, yet it seems so. From battling inner demons (tapeworms?) to basking on the shores of paradise, the adage 'This too shall pass' has alternatively gladdened and saddened.

The Middle East peace summit held this past weekend at Camp David once again tumbled and crumbled like the fabled walls of Jericho. While recent history dictates otherwise, there was once a time and place when all three monotheistic religions flourished, nourished, and enriched one another. Following the Moorish invasion of the Iberian peninsula in 711 AD a period of unprecedented religious tolerance and harmony existed for centuries. True to the adage, the world moved on, strife ensued, the Moors fled south, the Jews were expulsed, and even Christians trembled at the feet of Spanish Inquisitors. In their wake, the Moors left a glittering architectual moraine across the rolling hills of Andalusia. Praise Allah.

Nowhere do the remnants of Spain's ancient Islamic, Jewish, and Catholic heritage so visibly intermingle as in Cordoba. The Mezquita (the world's largest mosque a thousand years ago) houses a cathedral and is found in the Juderia (the Jewish quarter). Nice mix. Somewhat somnambulant now, its cobbled streets once felt the sandaled trod of Seneca, Maimonides, and Averroés. The latter was a great physicist-mathematician-philosopher who reintroduced Aristotle to the Western Christian world. The history of how the Arabs preserved and enhanced Greek thought, eventually sparking the Renaissance, is quite fascinating.

While Cordoba has some impressive ghosts lingering from medieval times, Ronda's spectres range from Pliny and Ptolemy (who named it 'Arunda' - surrounded by mountains) to such modern luminaries as Rainer Maria Rilke ('Spanish Elegies' was written here), Hemingway, and Orson Welles (buried outside town). The small village is GORGEous. Built along El Tajo, a gapingly precipitous 300-400 foot river ravine, the views over the buttered hills are majestic. Unable to channel any of the more interesting residents, I sallied forth.

"Let us build a cathedral so grand that those who see it will take us for madmen" - the cathedral chapter of Seville in 1401. Damn straight. One day when I ask Troy to design the Charbonneau estate we'll seek a similar effect. The cathedral is bewildering. The largest Gothic structure in the world it evokes comparison in style to Notre Dame (resembling her freakish big brother). Butresses fly, arches soar, gargoyles leap, and innumerable stalagmites drip skyward. Jean Cocteau included Seville with Venice and Beijing in his trio of magical cities. My list would differ but I see his point. The tiled murals of the Plaza de España, 9th-century walls of the Alcázar, and winding alleys and fountained courtyards of the barrio Santa Cruz cast a subtle spell. As the 16th-century maxim states: "Qui non ha Sevilla non ha visto maravilla" or 'One who has not seen Seville has not seen a marvel.'

A notable church in Seville honors the city's venerated virgin - LA MACARENA. I'd just like to point out that I have NEVER learned or attempted this dance. At North Branch Middle School we learned a few dance steps during physical education classes ... the square dance and a few snazzy disco moves. I've seen no need to update my repertoire. This may explain why I remain single.

As yet another Spanish saying goes, "If you have died without seeing the Alhambra, you have not lived." Perhaps we need more maxims, adages, and sayings to tout our sights and strengthen our national pride. "If you haven't experienced a Minnesoata winter you are probably a pathetic wuss." or "Once you've live in Hawaii, everywhere else basically sucks." That aside, Granada is Spain's most intriguing city. The last Arab stronghold (Fernando and Isabel gave 'em the boot in 1492 when Columbus sailed the ocean blue), it has the best preserved Moorish architecture, neighborhoods, and funky-smoky-pillowed tea shops. The mighty Alhambra occupies one of the city's three hills and lies beneath the towering Sierra Nevada mountain range. From below, it appears to be an immense but simple red castle. Once inside, perspectives change. The Alhambra is described in a brochure as "the most remarkable fortress ever conceived by man ... it is the most exciting, sensual, and romantic of all European monuments." A dose of truth and a dash of hyperbole. It certainly impresses. The emirs were skilled aesthetes.

I am a rock, I am an island ... I am Gibralter. I can see why the Brits haven't released their grip on this vestigal remnant of their once great empire. Military considerations notwithstanding, it has spectacular views, pristine beaches, and MONKEYS! Odd to see bobbies in the tropics and hear English accents mixing with Castilian. A nice day trip to stockpile some books, quaff a pint at the pub, and introduce myself to the Barbery Apes.

Spain caressed me like a succubi. She drew me in coyly seductive and, once I prepared to leave, spuriosly put a wicked hex on me. On the train to the southern port of Algeciras I became hardcore voodoo sick. No explanation, happens every few years. If one is going to forcefully empty their stomach and lungs, the metal toilet aboard the Anndalusian Express makes a unique alter in comparison to the standard porcelain god we've all worshipped in the past. Bonus: you get to see the rails whirl beneath you which adds a nice dizzying touch to the delerium. Staggering off the coach ten pounds lighter, I was fortunate to find a pension nearby with a private room/toilet. Thirty hours of chills-sweats-coughing-general unpleasantness ensued. Although quite disorienting and physically tortuous, no complaints ... I didn't have to phone work (ha) and nobody was counting on me for anything. Hell, the closest person I know lives a thousand miles away. Gypsy curse be damned, my father is a great and powerful shaman. A wizened son of this venerated witch doctor, I left my stinky room to roam the streets of Algeciras in search of my potion. As Joseph Campbell tells it, when one is questing and beyond the threshhold, divine assistance often materializes at such opportune times. Staggering about a white-washed corner sat my little Spanish goddesses. Nestled between them lay a treasure-laden basket brimming with magic - cloves of garlic! Giggling at my impromptu jig of glee they kindly gave me a handful for free (which either confirms their status as divinity or demonstrates good judgement in getting rid of me so efficiently). Do your worst throat demons cuz you're gonna get your ass kicked. Garlic is mean medicine if you can choke it down. Gobble, swallow, resist urge to retch ... vitality and health triumph. Praise Buddha (and a dad who religiously reads Mother Earth News).

A funny thing happened on my visit to Europe ... I ended up in Africa. Never could read a map (... don't you dare believe such cartographic blasphemy). Only a few hours across the Straits of Gibralter lies Morocco (known to Arabs as AL-MAGHREB AL-AQSA or 'farthest land of the setting sun'). So close, too tempting. Although filmed entirely in Hollywood, the image of Ric watching Ilsa's plane take off in black-and-white was too much for my romantic soul. Replacing Sam's rendition of As Time Goes By with the Clash's anthem Rockin the Kasbah, I loaded my rucksack and went to Tangier (which gave its name to the citrus fruit tangerine). While no longer the infamous 'international zone' of smugglers, gun runners, and William Burroughs, Tangier (often miscalled Tangiers) has retained her share of riff-raff from the inter-zone days. Enough pick pockets, touts, hustlers, and hastlers to make even India proud. My garlic breath kept them at bay. Lacking any books on the country I choose to visit Tangier, Casablanca, Fès, and Marrakesh. My time in the first two cities was quite brief as they proved to be bustling but bland ports that evoke exotic splendour in name only. Casablanca's Hassan II mosque was the exception.

The word on the cobbled streets is that the finest medinas to be found in the Arab world exist in Baghdad, Fès, and Marrakesh. Since the sultan of Baghdad from our earlier tale overlooked my invite in his 'meeting of the minds'(thus proving his wisdom), I opted for the Imperial Cities of Morocco. The ancient medinas of Fès el-Bali (Fès) and Djemaa el-Fna (Marrakesh) are flights of fantastical fancy straight from the tongue of Scherazade. An aromatic melange of spice traders, burning incense, goat herds, veiled faithful, carpet dealers, souq crafsmen, storytellers, shysters, faquirs, and fakers. Sipping the ubiquitous mint tea while inhaling the chaotic effluvium was a potent intoxicant. Absolute madness. I was perpetually lost; the old quarter of Fès el-Bali alone contains over 9400 streets in a jumbled pattern of collision and collusion. Urban planners would shudder.

In Marrakesh I found beauty, tranquility, and release in my harem. Pull your minds out of the gutter ... Western connotations aside, a harem/haram in Arabic denotes one's living quarters and translates literally as 'sacred area.' Passing under a stone arch the hidden courtyard astounded. Framed by brilliant tiled mosaics, a fountain gushed beneath three lemon trees and the cloudless sky. Three dollars a night for a room with balcony. Sweet like Moroccan figs baby. The highlight of the trip south was an excursion to the Cascades d'Ouzoud (waterfalls of the olives) in the High Atlas mountains. Berber/Tuareg villages, thundering falls, and swimming in freshwater near the Sahara. Cool moe dee.

Horace Greeley advised to "Go West young man." A pregnant pause and nine months later I've run out of land. Continental Europe ends in the Algarve region of Portugal (from the Arabic 'El-Gharb' meaning WEST). The desrt plateau city of Sagres and its windswept cape were for centuries considered the end of the world. Beyond here there be dragons. From this point Prince Henry scanned the Atlantic horizon, established his famous school of navigation, and decided to map the world. Tingles the spine doesn't it? So does Lagos. The old fortress, town walls, and narrow lanes attract one but it's the spectacular coastline that binds and enslaves. Beaches for all discriminations and inclinations. To the east of the river/harbor/lighthouse stretch miles of uninterrupted sand, bars, and decent surf. The west is ornamented with rugged red cliffs, sea caves, tranquil grotto beaches, and lots o' nakedness. As Michaelangelo said, "Beauty is the purgation of superfluities." Amen.

After mentioning Herman Hesse in my last letter I was fortunate to come across a collection of essays, watercolors, and poems he completed while traipsing about Switzerland. It is titled WANDERING. It is exceptional. He echoes my sentiments on the trials and triumphs of life with a prose and clarity I can only marvel at. If interested, please find a copy and taste it.

This is probably as close as I'll come to the U.S. in the next year or so. If able to pry myself from the waves, I'll be going to Lisbon, Sintra, and Èvora before heading back east. AS-SAALAM ÁLAYKUM ... traditionally used as a greeting, it makes a nice Arab aloha ... it translates literally as "peace upon you."

- unbettered, unlettered, but happily unfettered ... Kevin