Day 24 or The Leo in Leon

Notes on Day 24, March 19, My Day in Leon.

Holy shazam, Batman! What a day. What an incredible day!

This morning the priority numero uno was to find a hotel room, which I had some doubt of being able to procure owing to the Holy Week shenanigans going on around here. But alas there was room at the inn, well, the second inn anyway, and once I was installed in my little haven, I promptly and enthusiastically went back to bed.

But not for long, dear readers, not for long. Unlike the city of Burgos, which I wandered around aimlessly like a happily lost child in a colossal sweet shop, Leon requires a plan.



First, the cathedral. To be sure it is not the beast of a cathedral that Burgos is, but it is a more contemplative, sacred spot in my view. Whereas Burgos felt more like a gargantuan religious museum, Leon feels more like, well, a church. It is a masterpiece of 13th century French Gothic architecture and 125 stained glass windows flood its cavernous stone nave with jewels of colored light.



I found myself wishing I could hop on the Concord, fly to the ATL, wake my friend Sam (who is a stained glass artist) from her sound snooze, grab her and fly her back to Leon with me and say, ¨Will you just look at the insanity of this medieval artistry!¨ I know she would have loved it. The windows are divine, really. Of course there are the usual hues of purest reds, royal blues, emerald greens and cheery golds, but there were also tones of magenta, teal, amber and celadon that added depth and subtlety and happpiness to the light.



Outside the cathedral I noticed a sign that said, ¨Access to the Platform.¨ I figured this was some kind of external balcony, like Notre Dame in Paris or Chartres, so I eagerly paid my 2€ and climbed a wobbly scaffold staircase 70 feet high in the air, only to re-enter the cathedral through a window stone frame (without the window of course), and onto a platform halfway up the nave at the clerestory. And here I learned that the 1800 square meters of medieval stained glass are undergoing restoration and that access to the platform was opened to educate the public about the project. This was the platform where the windows in the clerestory are painstakingly removed, frame by precious frame, meticulously cleaned, exhaustively documented, skillfully repaired and gingerly restored back to their frames with new high tech protections from the elements and human goof ups. It was an obnoxiously cool thing for the cathedral and the Leonese government to do, let the public go up to the platform. I was googly-eyed the entire time, head spinning with fascination.



It takes a lot of energy to spend two hours being amazed, so I was feeling a bit peckish, and saw a chalkboard sign at a restaurant near the Cathedral that dared me: ¨Autentica Morcilla de Leon.¨ I had no idea what morcilla was, and crazed for the authentic Spainish culinary experience, I walked in and ordered it.

Whatever animal this used to resemble I do not know, but it had been cooked down to a dark brown, unidentifiable moosh. It looked a little like some things I had stepped in on the trail. So I wispered a quick plea that it not be horsemeat (apparently they eat that here), and tasted. Hmmm. It was kind of smokey flavored, with spices, although I could not tell you which ones. The texture was a bit legume-y, kind of like hummus. Oniony. I liked it. I really did. And I still have no idea what morcilla is (which is good cause if I find out it is puree of goat brain or something I´ll probably ralph), but at least I can pronounce it now (morTHEEya).



After my strange and tasty nosh I headed for the Plaza Mayor where I was gloriously surprised with the ¨Traditional Leonese Market.¨ Holy jeepers, Batman! The gorgeous fruits, the vibrant veg, the hanging meats (salchichons, chorizos, salamis, jamons, full legs of pork, mystery organs), the cheeses - beautiful creamy wheels with wedges missing to show sexy hints of their pungent yumminess. The pescaderia (fish monger) with the mounds of salt cod and the sound of her cleaver clapping against wood as she chopped the filets for her customers.



It reminded me of the frenetic market scene in a Christmas Carol (the one with George C. Scott). I was so enthralled, my eyes bulging as I surveyed this culinary Nirvana. You´d have thought I´d never seen an open air market before in my life. I watched hunched magenta haired grandmas fill their totes with this bounty and was wildly tempted to turn stalker and follow one of these hobbling old abuelas home and demand that she cook me dinner at pocket-knife point.



But despite the happening scene at the market, I still did not want to miss out on my siesta, so I returned to my hotel. And I had a bath too. Imagine my ecstacy when I saw that my tub had jacuzzi jets. Imagine my not surprise when they didn´t work. But that´s all good, because I still basked for an hour in a tub full of illegally hot water.



One of the most outrageous places in Leon is San Isodoro. Founded in the 11th century, it is one of the few basilicas in Spain permitted to say the Isidoran-Mozarabic rite of Catholic mass instead of the Roman rite. I spent the afternoon at this church-museum with my jaw perpeturally dragging on the stone floors. The kicker was the 11th century stone burial vault where over 40 kings, queens and princes of Leon repose underneath an exquisite frescoed ceiling which earned it the nickname: The Sistine Chapel of Spain. No offence to Michelangelo or anything, who I know was a pretty talented dude and all, but I much prefer San Isidoro, and it´s 400 years older than that one place in Rome. The frescoes are original, barely faded, barely restored. They are haunting and vibrant and captivating. In one grotesque scene, which my wee brain surprisingly recognized as a depiction of the Slaughter of Innocents, Herod´s soldiers ran swords through the bodies of babies. Yeesh. These Romanesque painters didn´t hold back either. I gather there was no MPAA around at the time to give this frescoe an R rating for violence.


(Hey! The picture above is not mine, I found it on Google Images.)

But my tour of San Isidoro, like my tour of the platform at Leon Cathedral, was in Spanish. And unlike Ana at the monastery in Burgos, these guides did not speak slowly and use hand gestures like they were talking to two years olds so I could understand. I stood helpless as gems of knowledge fell on my ears and remained stubbornly uncomprehended. I couldn´t understand what the lady was saying about the stoles woven by Leonora Plantagenet. I missed the explanation of the carved agate chalice from 1056. I was lost during the tale of the silver reliquery of San Isidoro that used to hold his bones.

I wished I had a pocket sized Marcelo (my Ecuadoran friend) to translate for me. (Actually, Marcelo is pocket sized, and I know he´ll forgive me for saying that cause he know´s I adore him, but I didn´t bring him with me). Why doesn´t everyone speak English? Why don´t I speak Spanish?

But instead of being enlightened with facts and figures, I had to be content with mere awe. Which maybe isn´t so bad afterall. There is an element of mystery to that which we can´t fully understand. Since I could not understand the guides, I could only imbibe these places through the raw senses. Feel the cold damp of the burial vault, sense the low light faintly illuminating the chamber from the cloister, gaze at the frescoes and contemplate the patterns, colors, and faces of the 900 year old figures. I suppose I came away with an entirely different experience than I would have if I had known what the guide was explaining.



Gaudi´s architectural masterpiece is in Leon. The Casa de Botines. Inside was a different masterpiece alltogether: a free exhibit of Leonardo da Vinci´s inventions, brought to life in working models. I did not know that da Vinci, in addition to his numerous fanciful flying contraptions, invented an inflatable innertube for floating in water, an underwater breathing mask, a pair of shoes, each like a mini boat, for walking on water. I was incredulous at how many machines and gizmos he dreamed up, and floored to realize just how many were practical failures at the time. But these ¨failures¨ are the seeds of so many of our modern inventions! So just imagine if da Vinci had said, ¨This whoozy whatzit doesn´t work. I suck donkey balls. I´m a failure. I give up,¨ and quit inventing? just quit imagining?

But he didn´t. He kept inventing, kept imagining, because he knew it was the idea that mattered. And today we think of him as a genious ahead of his time, not a failed inventor. And the whole thing got me thinking that I really need to re-adjust my thinking regarding my own fuck-ups.

And mulling over da Vinci and his multitude of brilliant failures, I found a spot on the Ave. Ordoño, the principal street running from the modern city (modern meaning 19th C) to the Cathedral. The atmosphere was like a carnival: vendors selling balloons and sweets, parents fussing over children bundled in scarves and hats with only teeny eyes peeping out, four foot tall old men (Spain has a surplus of people who are exactly four feet tall) jockeying for a spot on the parade route.



I tried to follow the procession, but at one point the sidewalk was so jammed there was no budging, and the choice was either to stand there for twenty minutes and wait for the clog to clear, or duck into the bar, whose door happened to be conveniently situated right in front of me. I´ll give you one guess what I did.

And so it was that I was served my first shitty glass of wine in all of Spain. But that´s ok, because if I learned anything from Leo tonight, it´s that they can´t all be successes, and the important thing is to keep trying, wine that is!