As we鈥檝e had to postpone our travels because of the pandemic, I believe a weekly dose of travel dreaming can be good medicine. Here鈥檚 a reminder of the fun that awaits us in Europe at the other end of this crisis.
Wandering the Art Deco streets of C贸rdoba in southern Spain, I鈥檓 drawn to a commotion on a square. It鈥檚 almost midnight and everyone鈥檚 out, savouring a cool evening. The short men around me all seem to have raspy tobacco voices and big bellies they call curvas de felicidad (happiness curves). As the men jostle and bark, parents gather, nodding with approval, as a dozen little schoolgirls rattle a makeshift stage鈥orking on their sultry. Even with a very modern young generation, flamenco culture thrives.
C贸rdoba is known mostly for its Mezquita, a vast mosque with a cathedral built into its middle. The Mezquita, one of the glories of Moorish Spain, is surrounded by a zone of shops and restaurants that seems designed for big tour groups. Beyond that, there are almost no crowds. And late at night there are even fewer tourists.
Avoiding tourist crowds is important these days 鈥� especially when traveling in peak season. Because I eat late and don鈥檛 mind the smoke, I鈥檓 surrounded only by happy locals. I鈥檝e noticed that in Spain, a restaurant recommended in all the guidebooks is filled with Americans at eight or nine o鈥檆lock, but by 10 p.m., the tourists head for their hotels and the locals retake their turf. Suddenly, 鈥渢ouristy鈥� restaurants are filled with eager local diners. I鈥檝e also noticed that some restaurateurs are pleased to have their best eating zone be the smoking zone. The intended result: a hardy local following鈥ith very few tourists.
Just wandering the back streets leaves me all alone with the town. Exploring the residential back lanes of old C贸rdoba, I catch an evocative whiff of the old town before the recent affluence hit.
Streets are narrow 鈥� designed to provide much-appreciated shade. To keep things even cooler, walls are whitewashed and thick, providing a kind of natural air-conditioning. To counter the boring whitewash, doors and windows are colourful. Iron grilles providing security cover the windows 鈥� a reminder of the persistent gap through the ages between rich and poor. Stone bumpers on corners protect buildings from crazy drivers. As elsewhere in Andaluc铆a, they鈥檙e made from scavenged ancient Roman pillars. Lanes are made of river-stone cobbles: cheap and local. In the middle of lanes are drains, flanked by smooth stones that stay dry for pedestrians. Remnants of old towers 鈥� the stubs of lopped-off minarets 鈥� survive, built into today鈥檚 structures. Muslim C贸rdoba peaked in the 10th century with an estimated 400,000 people鈥nd lots of now-mostly-gone neighbourhood mosques.
In C贸rdoba, patios are taken very seriously. That鈥檚 especially clear each May, when a fiercely competitive contest is held to pick the city鈥檚 most picturesque. Patios, a common feature of houses throughout Andaluc铆a, have a long history here. The Romans used them to cool off and the Moors added lush, decorative touches. The patio functioned as a quiet outdoor living room, an oasis from the heat. Inside elaborate ironwork gates, roses, geraniums, and jasmine spill down whitewashed walls, while fountains gargle and caged birds sing. Some patios are owned by individuals, some are communal courtyards for several homes, and some grace public buildings like museums or convents.
Today, homeowners take pride in these mini paradises, and they have no problem sharing them. As I stroll C贸rdoba鈥檚 back streets, I pop my head through any wooden door that鈥檚 open. The owners (who keep their inner black iron gates locked) enjoy showing off their picture-perfect patios.
Well after midnight, my cultural scavenger hunt is over and the city finally seems quiet. I climb into my bed. Just as I doze off, a noisy and multigenerational parade rumbles down the cobbled lane that I thought promised a good night鈥檚 sleep. Standing in my underwear and wrapped in the drapes, I peer secretively out my window. Below, a band of guitars and castanets with a choir of those raspy tobacco voices funnels down my narrow alley. Grandmothers 鈥� guardians of a persistent culture 鈥� make sure the children pick up their Andalusian traditions. I feel like a Peeping Tom鈥ntil one woman looks up at me, catches my eye, and seems to nod, as if satisfied that I am witnessing the persevering richness of their traditional culture.
鈥� This article was adapted from Rick鈥檚 new book, For the Love of Europe.
Rick Steves () writes European guidebooks, hosts travel shows on public TV and radio, and organizes European tours. You can email Rick at [email protected] and follow his blog on Facebook.
