Canción de Jinete
“Aunque sepa los caminos
Yo nunca llegaré a Córdoba
Por el llano, por el viento,
Jaca negra, luna roja.
La muerte me está mirando
Desde las torres de Córdoba.
Córdoba. Lejana y sola.”
- Federico García Lorca
(Rider’s Song
Although I know the roads
I’ll never arrive at Córdoba
Through the plain, through the wind,
Black pony, red moon.
Death is watching me
From the towers of Córdoba.
Córdoba. Far away and alone.)
After the crowds of tourists in Málaga, I found Córdoba to be a sleepy city. Strange, considering Córdoba is a tourist destination and the historic capital of Islamic Spain. This is because temperatures in Córdoba are beginning to inch past 100 degrees, and the city is abandoned by everyone except the locals and those who are willing to adopt a nocturnal lifestyle.
I met with a local guide in the Plaza del Triunfo, beside the gateway of the city. It was 7pm, and 99 degrees. A grey cloud spattered a few raindrops, which instantly evaporated from the pavement.
‘This is the HOTTEST place in all of Europe,’ the guide told the group, and pounded the tip of his umbrella on the cobblestones for emphasis. It seemed to be a point of pride. He then recommended we head north if we were reasonable and wanted to avoid suffering.
In García Lorca’s poem “Canción de Jinete,” Córdoba is a mysterious location representing danger and isolation. From the turret of Calahorra tower, I gazed out at the plains Lorca describes in his poem, a vast expanse of desolate landscape. Afternoon storm clouds were brewing in the shimmering heat waves on the horizon.
There are no centers of civilization between Córdoba and Granada. Lorca was right, he never made it to Córdoba, he was ambushed and killed somewhere in those plains.
Long before the time of Federico García Lorca, Córdoba was the site of heartbreak for Princess Wallada and Ibn Zaydun, two renowned poets of 10th century Islamic Spain. Near the ruins of the royal palace, there is a statue of two hands reaching for each other, a monument to the tragic romance between them that inspired their poetry. Below the statue are inscriptions in Spanish and Arabic. Translated, it reads something like this:
"Your love has made me famous among men. My heart and my thoughts are only concerned with you. When you are gone, nothing can comfort me, and when you arrive again, it is as if the whole world is by my side."
The sweltering summer nights in Córdoba - the tropical gardens with flowers, palm trees, and fountain spray - set the scene for Ibn Zaydun to compose verses out of loneliness and longing for his lover.
For me, Córdoba is a lonely place as well. On my first night here, I befriended a girl from Germany and we explored the royal gardens of the Alcazar together. She left for Granada in the morning, and then I was alone in the sleepy hostel. The only other people here are older, and most are reluctant to speak any English.
But what a place to be lonely! I visit the historical sites in the mornings, before it gets too hot. At night, I wander the labyrinthine streets for hours. There seems to be someone playing music or clapping a flamenco rhythm on every corner.
On my second night in Córdoba there was a flamenco festival with free performances around the city that lasted all night. The first two performances I saw drew huge crowds. In the heat, the crowds became suffocating and difficult to bear for long. Around midnight, I was tired and headed back in the direction of the hostel. Then, on a quiet street, I heard the sound of rhythmic stomping from inside a small tavern and peered through the door. One of the servers approached me. The atmosphere of the place was so inviting that I found myself asking her in Spanish if I could sit and have a drink.
It was a small, warmly-lit room with a stone mosaic floor. It was difficult to tell who was a performer and who was in the audience because the performance was so spontaneous. Each dancer, singer, and musician would simply step forward and improvise a bit when they felt inspired, and the others would follow their lead. Most of the audience were able to clap flamenco rhythms and joined in, so the whole tavern became a part of the performance.
Once I’d downed half of the tall sangria I’d ordered, I relaxed enough to try clapping along. Quietly though, because I probably wasn't keeping the rhythm very well and I didn’t want to confuse the dancers.
Like everyone else, I had a grin on my face when a flamboyant old man in traditional flamenco garb wiggled his hips with surprising
flair while a female singer belted it out.
The audience members laughed and expressed
their approval with warm murmurs of 'ole' and 'toma!'
It was difficult to feel lonely in a place like that.
Ibn Zaydun and Wallada:
I am loving your experiences Audrey. Aunt Vicki