Postcard from the Andalusian Empire
Eight percent of all Spanish words come from Arabic. I don’t know who comes up with these numbers but let’s just say it’s true.
Aceite, hasta, jirafa, almuerzo, alcántara—the “al” is usually a giveaway. Ojalá, or “I hope,” comes from inshallah. Another one is naranja, which means “orange.” I checked the etymological history of the word to be sure, but I didn’t need to—there’s orange trees everywhere you look in the former Andalusian Empire.
The first city our study abroad program visited was Cordoba, whose most famous site is the Mezquita-Catedral de Córdoba. That means “Mosque-Cathedral.” Officially speaking, the place is defined as a Catholic Cathedral, and Muslims are not allowed to pray there.
So I was in Spain, standing over the Arabic-named Guadalquivir River, as our professor showed us a bridge built by the Romans.
*******
When we visited Sevilla, the January sky was summer blue. Complimenting that sky, as if by design, were sand-colored buildings, lush greenery, and more orange trees. I’m telling you, the colors just seem brighter, especially in the Palace Gardens. Palm trees, a cloudless sky, green labyrinths, and walls like sweet potatoes. Turns out the palm trees came from Arabia, too.
A couple students got lost in the maze of hedges—you’d think that was me, but not this time. I envy them; that must be the place to get lost in. In this world there are castles, fortresses, cathedrals, but none of them feel as royal as that garden. A year and half later, I watched Game of Thrones and realized I’d been to Dorne.
We walked through the Plaza de España. Horse-drawn carriages strolled along the vast tiled floor. Small boats rowed along the circular moat while others crossed the patterned blue bridges. The fountain in the center seemed made for giants. The professor of our history seminar had to hurry us along, though. The great part about visiting places like Sevilla is that there is so much to see. The bad part is that there is so much to see.
During the day, we climbed to the top of La Giralda and looked over the city of Christian spires and Muslim domes. During the night, a friend and I went to the old quarter of Sevilla and to the top of Las Setas, which translates to “the mushrooms” in English; it only makes sense from below. It’s a mesmerizing piece of architecture and the largest wooden structure in the world. Held up by large pillars is a wavy grid of glowing blue lights that you can wander under or walk across from above. Along the steps, we found a terminal that allows you to control which area lights up at the wave of a hand, like commanding the sea. Interactive architecture. This friend of mine was even more introverted than I was then, but even his stoic eyes were lit up by the magic of Las Setas.
Something I noticed about Sevilla—and all of Europe, really—is that the main attractions are lit up at night. The sandstone hues glow gold at night. There is a deliberate harmony I was not previously accustomed to seeing; how it facilitates appreciation. And not a billboard in sight.
Earlier that night, we went to a flamenco show, and then to another as a class. They told us not to record any of it. I snagged more than a couple videos, but the performances made me forget I had a phone. Similar to jazz, there is a large element of flamenco that is improvised—but these people are so talented it all looks planned. They were a team of show-stealers. I couldn’t decide who had the most talent: the guitarist, alternating between strumming strings and patting it like a drum; the dancers, whose fast-paced, flamboyant style hid a chemistry; or the singers, whose wavering vocals might disturb foreign ears. I researched the term for the style of singing; maqam is the closest match, but what you need to know is that it, too, is Arabic.
Although it has an Arabic influence and is emblematic of Spain, flamenco comes from the culture of the Roma; flamenco was actually meant to describe them at one point. Our professor told us to be careful not to buy anything from the gypsies, to watch our pockets, and not to let them read our palms.
I watched the sunset from atop the hill of Albacin and bought a green and blue bracelet for five euros. It fell apart after a day. I sat on the cobblestone steps, soda in hand, and looking at a wall with green tiles separated by white lines. Up ahead, folks walked down the hill and into a bright alleyway with shops wall to wall, appearing oblivious to the beauty of their normal, everyday lives. I took it all in. I was on one big adventure, alone.
The Alhambra palace in Granada was home to the Arabic rulers from the Umayyad dynasty. I have been to a few palaces in Europe and that was the largest by far. Shingled rooftops, arched hallways, reflecting pools of water, a coliseum, perfectly trimmed trees, it makes one wonder just how filthy rich these rulers were.
What impressed me the most were the ceilings. Those guys knew how to make a ceiling. The architecture of these ceilings is a mathematician’s dream. In Islam, living beings cannot be depicted out of respect to God, the true artist. Instead, the patterned designs are based on geometrical shapes found in nature. One of these ceilings is impossibly intricate; the pattern appears coarse yet delicately constructed. What seems incredibly complicated from afar makes sense up close: it’s a series of tiny triangles. It looks like the world’s largest beehive—hence its nickname “the honeycomb dome.”
Later on, our professor showed us one of the rulers’ personal quarters. The ceiling in the sultan’s quarters depicts Kings on horseback which breaks that law. He told us that even Islamic princes from medieval times were rebellious and had posters in their room.
*******
Half a year later, I returned to the University of San Diego campus and thought it a cheap copy. The patterned tiles, the palm trees, the architecture they describe as “Spanish Colonial” was Arabic before. So the Arabs had everything stolen from them? No. The Arabs took the land from the Visigoths, and the Visigoths took it from the Romans. History is built on theft. Art, architecture, literature, it’s all stealing. What fascinates me is how many of these burglars, pillagers, and warlords found these sites and preserved them. They said, in contemporary terms, “that’s cool as hell” and decided to keep some. In all thievery, there is a degree of admiration.