EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALDecember 30, 1998
Burgos
The rain is Spain falls mostly on the plains. The south-heading road to
Burgos has a winding part when it climbs to 900 metres at Puerto de Orduna. Now
we’re driving on an empty road on this wet Plateau. The brush is a burnt sienna and
the earth is a clumpy raw umber.
Burgos is known as the cradle of Castilla. Founded in 884, it was the
capitol of the United Kingdom of Castilla and Leon in 1037, and remained so until the fall
of Granada in 1492. In the 15th Century the city grew wealthy in the wool trade
and used it’s property to build its extravagant architecture. Burgos is Spain’s
Gothic capitol with its cathedral, the third largest in the country, the Monasterio de
las Huelgas Reales (Royal Convent) and the Cartuja de Miraflores (Carthusian
Monastery). Burgos was also chosen by Franco to be the seat of his government from 1936 to
1938.
It’s 1pm and traffic has completely jammed. Policemen direct
drivers who lean on their horns and get out of their vehicles for intimate conversation.
We manage, by luck, to find the last parking spot in the centre of town and save Alfi the
anxiety of the city’s chaos.
The bar is dim and small. Men gather under smoke clouds. The bartender
garnishes our cafes with chocolate coins. Night Rider dubbed in Spanish is on the
television. Patrons keep an eye on us via the mirrored walls.
There’s a Hostel-Residencia beside the café and looking
over Alfi’s prime parking spot. We ring the bell and the lady buzzes us in and we
stand in a foyer with an open elevator shaft and a stairwell. "Up to the second
floor, please" resonates through the shaft. The lady is stuttering broken words in
English. We mumble our Spanish phrases…room, night, how much, car, bathtub. People
live in this hostel/hotel. She shows us to a cheery room with a large window, noisy
shutter-blinds, a perfect view of Alfi and the Night Rider bar. I smell wet dog,
and there’s no hot water.
The grey, lacy spires of the globby, gargoyle-inhabited cathedral are
shrouded in scaffolding. The construction of this cathedral spans three centuries,
beginning in 1221. Restoration apparently continues to this day. The portico is
golden-white with its recent cleaning. We can’t get in. Massive, heavily carved walls
block the arched entrances. We circumnavigate, trying every door with permeable
scaffolding, but there is no way in to see a showcase of European Gothic sculpture.
Behind the cathedral are a hill and plateau, and the Ruin del
Castillo. Climbing to the top on a precarious stone walkway provides a panorama of
Burgos and the surrounding plains.
At 7:30 we can no longer wait and find a bar/restaurant called Richi’s.
We order drinks and ask the bartender what time we can have dinner. She says 8:40pm. It is
our pact to sit and wait until we see someone order food. The bar is quiet at first, and
then people filter in and drink coffee and wine. Groups form as more people arrive and
meet with existing patrons. The groups get larger and larger and then noisy. The bar fills
up with smoke. There are tapas at the bar, but they sit untouched, forming a skin
since the lunch hour. Rich and I continue to order drinks, and we wait.
By 9 o’clock the room is full. The people kiss each other as they
pass tables. They drink, and smoke, and talk. We scan for signs of chewing.
There is some activity – the staff behind the bar has grown to
more than one bartender, and there is a woman in a white smock and hat. She must be the
chef and on the next drinks round I notice a new assortment of tapas. No one has a menu,
no one has a plate of food. No one has anything resembling a meal. At 9:30 Rich shriveles
in starvation and returns to the table with two small plates. One plate has chunks of
potato smothered with thick alioli (garlic mayonnaise). The other plate has pieces
of potato, fried and decoratively drizzled with chili sauce (bravas) and alioli.
Accompanying the potatoes is a small cup of toothpicks.
Okay, so we get it. If we want to eat, we must gorge ourselves at 2pm
with the Spaniards. In Madrid, they don’t eat dinner until 10pm, and that’s
where we’re going tomorrow.
