Exhumed and Expelled from the Valley of the Fallen

By XL3aMS1x, https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0

Today the remains of former dictator Francisco Franco were evicted from a monumental complex known as the Valley of the Fallen and reentered in the family plot in the unincorporated village of Mingorrubio. Well, like Franco, I, too, was once kicked out of there—albeit living and breathing.

First a little background: the Valley of the Fallen is a national park about 50 kilometers outside Madrid, in the Sierra de Guadarrama mountains. The valley itself is a lovely place of woods and greenery. However, rising out of this natural beauty is the cold, gray Basilica of the Holy Cross of the Valley of the Fallen (Basílica de la Santa Cruz del Valle de los Caídos), which was carved out of a giant granite ridge as an ominous looking monument to the Fascists who won the Spanish Civil War. Construction began in 1941 and ended in 1959. Thousands of prisoners, including political prisoners, were forced to work on the site. At least fourteen of these were killed during construction and many others suffered injuries.

I visited the Valley of the Fallen with friends some years ago, on a sunny, spring-like February afternoon. There were hardly any other visitors that day, so we parked in the near-empty lot just beneath the basilica. One of the first sites to greet us as we got out of the car was an abandoned and tattered looking series of shops -- a souvenir shop, a post office and a cafeteria -- shuttered up with rotted wood, rusted metal and water-stained paper.

Undaunted by this dreary sight, we walked up the stairs to the giant esplanade lying in front of the basilica. As we did this, we received a brief respite from the gloom, as the views of the valley and towns in the distance were fantastic. But then we entered the basilica itself, first going through security checkpoints that just about rivaled anything in international airports.

Once inside the hall of the basilica, I felt a little overwhelmed by the literal and atmospheric darkness of the place. We walked down a lengthy corridor, which in reality is a tunnel, past foreboding sculptures and grandiloquent tapestries. At the end of it all, was an altar, and as we approached it, I separated from the others to walk on my own.

Unlike most churches, in this one visitors are allowed to walk up to and around the altar. As I circled it, towards the back I noticed flowers and candles sitting on top of a marker embedded in the ground. I leaned in closer to read the words written on it, and was surprised to see "Francisco Franco," and to realize that this was in fact the dictator's tomb. Indeed, so shocked was I by the location of respect that the grave had that without thinking I grimaced, let out a "Yuk!" and stomped one of my feet on it, as one would do to chase off a rodent.

Next thing I knew, two furiously gesticulating guards were running up to me, exclaiming, "¡Fuera! ¡Fuera! ¡Si no te gusta Franco, fuera!" ("Get out! Get out! If you don't like Franco, get out!") Two of my friends (including a Spaniard whose grandfather had been forced to work on the monument's construction) started arguing with the guards, but I had had enough and just wanted to get out of that dark hole. I agreed to leave, and my friends gladly joined me. It was with more than a little relief that I headed away from the dinginess surrounding the despot's tomb towards the bright sunshine and fresh air outside.

Although I have never had a desire to go there again, perhaps I will return once it is converted from an ostentatious tribute to one of Mussolini's and Hitler's cohorts into a true memorial to the Spanish Civil War.

A Holy Week Confession / Una Confesión de Semana Santa

What's the confession? Simply that I find Spain's Semana Santa observances really boring.

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Well, having the week off I find interesting, but the Semana Santa celebrations held throughout Spain are sooooooooooo boring. The first time I saw one of the traditional processions, I initially found the phenomenon rather interesting. After the first hour or so, however, my mind started wandering -- and wondering what the big deal was about. I ended up feeling like I was at a slow motion, humorless Mardi Gras parade on downers.

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Despite the history, the color, the pageantry, the crowds, and the obvious effort put into the events by the organizing groups (called brotherhoods and fraternities / hermandades y cofradías), these are simply people traipsing about in somewhat frightening looking “penitential robes” (think KKK), carrying enormous religious tableaus (similar to those that can be seen in many Roman Catholic churches) and marching methodically to mind-numbing dirges. You almost expect to see self-flagellating footsloggers somwhere in all the fanfare. What fun!

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Maybe "ominously boring" would be a good way of describing such depressing extravaganzas. To me it's sort of like a bad dream that keeps repeating -- here comes another group of hooded men laboring under another massive platform that holds another brightly painted Sacred Heart / Virgin Mary / Crucifixion / Martyred Saint sculpture, followed by another group of robed acolytes, followed by another group of candle-carrying women in black, followed by another group of hooded men laboring under another massive platform that holds another brightly painted Sacred Heart / Virgin Mary / Crucifixion / Martyred Saint sculpture, followed by another group of robed acolytes, followed by another group of candle-carrying women in black, followed by another group of hooded men... All to the accompaniment of incessant drumming, mournful wailing, and/or brass instruments slowly blaring funereal hymns.

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I find Barcelona a good place to spend this holiday week because there are not very many Semana Santa spectacles, and, therefore they are easy to avoid. In many other cities, especially in Andalusia, they seem to almost completely take over the streets. I speak from some experience, because despite my negative reaction to that first Semana Santa scene, I have given it a try in various Spanish cities, including Alicante, Granada, Malaga and Palma de Majorca.

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Being in Palma was similar to being in Barcelona (i.e., no problems skipping the realtively few parades), so I enjoyed every bit of my time there. While I loved the cities of Alicante and Malaga, I did so despite visiting during Semana Santa. Alicante didn't have as many parades as Malaga and in both places I could at least head to the beach for a little respite when there were "festivities" droning on. In landlocked Granada, however, I was more or less trapped. Indeed, I remember feeling almost hounded by the city's seemingly non-stop processions!
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Instead of the memory of that experience fading, it has actually expanded to include fantastic images of myself being pursued by penitents down Granada's ancient streets, which in my mind seem to wind around in an Escher-like labyrinth. I try to get away from them and turn one corner after another only to keep stumbling upon more giant icons looming above throngs of mesmerized people wearing tunics, hoods and masks. As I am pushed and shoved around I sense that the participants are all trying to absorb me into the crowd so that I will be converted into one of the hordes of zombies condemned to an eternity of watching the monotonous marches go...by...so...very...very...slowly.

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(George A. Romero could have a field day with this “false memory” of mine – not to mention Freud!)
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So, having experienced traditional Semana Santa events in the past, when this time of year rolls around I flatly refuse to go to places like Seville and Cadiz, which are supposed to have some of the "best" celebrations. No, I prefer to be on a beach somewhere in Catalonia.
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Hasta siempre amig@s,
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Carloz

Kicked out of the Valley of the Fallen! / ¡Expulsado del Valle de los Caidos!

By Godot13 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0

I was in Madrid last weekend. The weather was wonderful! I visited with friends, went to see the newly enlarged Prado, had a great night of dancing at Joy and ate some delicious local food, as well as Asturian and Galician cuisine -- oh, and an excellent lunch at a restaurant called Felipe in the pretty little ski town of  Navacerrada.  However, one of the most memorable things about the weekend was getting kicked out of the Valley of the Fallen. (El Valle de Los Caidos.).
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The Valley of the Fallen is a national park about 50 kilometers outside of Madrid in the Sierra de Guadarrama mountains. The valley itself is a lovely place of woods and greenery. However, rising out of this natural beauty is the cold and gray Basilica of the Holy Cross of the Valley of the Fallen (Basílica de la Santa Cruz del Valle de los Caídos), which was carved out of a giant granite ridge as an ominous looking monument to the Fascists who won the Spanish Civil War. Construction began in 1941 and was completed in 1959.
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Thousands of prisoners, including political prisoners, were forced to work on the site. At least fourteen of these were killed during construction and many others suffered injuries.
.
We visited on Friday the 25th, which was a sunny spring-like day. There were hardly any other visitors, so we parked in the near empty lot just beneath the basilica.
.
One of the first sites to greet us was an abandoned and tattered looking series of shops -- a souvenir shop, a post office and a cafeteria -- shuttered up with rotted wood, rusted metal and water stained paper.
.
Undaunted by this, we walked up the stairs to the giant esplanade that sits in front of the basilica. From here the views of the valley and towns in the distance were fantastic.
.
Next we entered the basilica itself, after going through security checkpoints that rivaled anything in international airports. Once inside the hall of the basilica, I felt a little overwhelmed by the literal and atmospheric darkness of the place.
.
We walked down the lengthy corridor, which in reality is a tunnel, past foreboding sculptures and grandiloquent tapestries, towards the altar. Once at the front, I separated from the others to walk around.
.
In front of the altar I noticed flowers and candles sitting atop a marker that was embedded in the ground. I walked closer and read the name Francisco Franco. So surprised was I by the location of respect that the grave had that without thinking I grimaced, let out a "Yuk!" and stomped one of my feet on the grave.
.
Next thing I knew, two furiously gesticulating guards approached saying, "¡Fuera! ¡Fuera! ¡Si no te gusta Franco, fuera!" ("Get out! Get out! If you don't like Franco, get out!") Two of my friends started arguing with the guards, but I had had enough and just wanted to exit that dark hole. So, I convinced them to leave and we walked away from the dinginess surrounding the dictator's tomb towards the sunshine and fresh air.
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Although I have no desire to go there again, perhaps I would if it were converted from merely an ostentatious tribute to one of Mussolini's and Hitler's cohorts into a true memorial about the Spanish Civil War.

Un poco morboso, ¿no? (A little morbid, isn’t it?)

Originally posted by Carloz on June, 2007 at http://myspainblog.wordpress.com/

Like all ancient cities, Barcelona has a colorful, exciting, and gory past. For example, have you ever wondered where the victims of the inquisition, the “autos de fe” and even the more run-of-the-mill death penalties took their last breaths during the times executions were public events in Spain? Well, the next time you’re shopping in La Boqueria public market or enjoying an evening out in El Born or taking a stroll through Ciutadella Park, stop to think that a little more than a hundred years ago you might have run into a hanging, a garroting or a firing squad in the same location.

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The death penalty was legal in Spain until the 1970s. However, until the end of the 19th century it was actually an outdoor event in most of the country, including Barcelona. The official reasoning for public execution was that it not only carried out the proscribed punishment, but did so in a way that was an example for everyone to see what end wrongdoing led to. In reality, however, the great popularity of the spectacles might have made them look more like public entertainment and a distraction than anything else. Apparently as late as the last public execution in 1897 revelry surrounded the event. While police held back the throngs, hawkers walked through the crowd selling nuts.

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Catalan writer Joan de Déu Domènech, who has just published a book on the subject, called The Spectacle of the Death Penalty (In Spanish, El Espectáculo de la Pena de Muerte; In Catalan, L’espectacle de la Pena Mort), pointed recently out that perhaps it was not mere coincidence that public executions came to an end at the same time that other events such as soccer, bullfighting and boxing were becoming popular.

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The book, which reportedly recounts the rather long, sad history of public executions in Barcelona, is published by La Campana. El Periodico de Catalunya ran a great article on it in their June 27, 2007 issue, along with a map of Barcelona highlighting places where public executions were held and with little illustrations of the preferred methods of killing in each location — burning, hanging, garrotting, firing squad, etc.

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Have a look for yourself at http://www.elperiodico.com/EDICION/ED070627/CAS/CARP01/PDF/g041mR07.PDF

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Here you can see that Plaza de la Boqueria held burnings at the stake, in addition to hanging and firing squad spectacles. The Born was a little tamer, with only the occasional hanging. But just a few steps away one could find not only hangings and firing squads, but also public garroting.

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As you can see from one of the illustrations on this map, the Catalans were not content with the plain old Spanish “garrote vil” (vile garrote) but added a sharp boring point to it. That way it not only choked the victim, but pierced the neck to break the cervical vertebrae and destroy the medulla.

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Look closer at the map and you can find other locations that will send a chill down your spine, according to Domènech:

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Plaza del Pi: underneath this little plaza adorned by the lovely little Church of Pi was the ossuary were the bodies of those who were hung at Creu Coberta were buried.

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The corner of Taulat and Llacuna streets: Where today modern apartment buildings are rising, a charnel-house (carnero in Spanish; canyet in Catalan) held the rotting bodies of heretics who were not “deserving” of burial.

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Cross-check with a modern street map of Barcelona to find Llibreteria Street and Bòria Street

http://www.tmb.net/onsoc/en_US/resultatcerca.jsp?origenx=31419.62&origeny=81968.20&descripcioorigen=C.+de+la+B%F2ria%2C+0001

where, according to Domènech, the processions of the condemned began; some who, because they had already had hands, ears or a nose amputated, did not even make it alive to the scaffolds of the Boqueria or Pla de Palau.

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Or what about the Milà i Fontanals Institute located at number 15 Egipcíaque Street? http://www.imf.csic.es/plano.htm Perhaps it is symbolic that where this institution of research and learning dedicated to the humanities now stands was where Barcelona saw its last public execution, by garrote, on June 15, 1897.