 This weekend in Córdoba I don’t know why I bothered with the twelve grapes and red underwear on New Year’s Eve, because it has now become clear to me that the real luck around here is to be acquired in Córdoba. I’m just back from a long weekend in that city — a mere 75 miles from my Home 2.0 in Seville but light-years ahead of us in terms of opportunities to entice good fortune into our lives. And couldn’t we all use some of that right now? Naturally, I visited every luck-luring locale mentioned in the old legends. And although it wasn’t even on my wish list, right away I got a delightful little gift from the Universe. As my regular readers know, I love discovering offbeat words I can play with, words like gobsmacked and cattywampus (so emblematic of our times!) and recombobulated (a state I hope we’ll someday experience collectively). This weekend’s delectable new word is snicket. Of course I’m familiar with Lemony Snicket, author of A Series of Unfortunate Events, but I always assumed it was a made-up word blending snicker and snippet.  But this weekend, when the term cropped up in the novel Out of Time, I learned snicket means a narrow passageway between walls or fences. One online dictionary added helpfully that synonyms include ginnel, vennel, wynd, and twitten. My cup ranneth over, indeed. I wasted no time putting my new word to use. “Rich, Córdoba has a snicket I’d like to visit. It’s called the Calleja Pañuelo — Handkerchief Alley. That’s how narrow it is.” We found it and discovered the skinniest part was just 20 inches, the width of the traditional cravat that adorned the necks of horseback-riding gentlemen of yesteryear.  Today's gentlemen favor somewhat more casual attire. Sadly, the oldest good luck source in town vanished millennia ago: Lake of the Tendillas, home of a wish-granting nymph. She was generous to a fault, oldtimers said, but selfish supplicants wanting wickedness would disappear into her waters forever. Today the spot is marked by a fountain, and I like to think she simply retired and downsized to more compact urban lodgings. On the off chance she was still listening, I went to pay my respects and mention a few requests. The town’s most famous wishing spot is on the outer wall of its most illustrious building, the Mezquita. This was the Great Mosque built in 785 when Abd al-Rahman I founded the Islamic Emirate of Córdoba and wanted to create a mosque so magnificent people would talk about it until the end of time. And he succeeded. The interior was simple perfection, a vast forest of columns that were ancient even then, stretching as far as the eye could see, enlivened with striped arches that were almost playful. Everyone who saw it gasped in wonder.  Repurposed Visigoth and Roman pillars, somewhere between 850 and 1250 of them, created a vast, non-hierarchical space for prayer. When the city fell to the Christians in 1236, a chapel was installed but the mosque remained more or less intact. Then in 1528, despite the furious opposition of everyone in Cordoba except the scheming local bishop, King Charles V ordered the center of the Mezquita to be hollowed out and turned into a massive Catholic cathedral. It’s horrifying what treasures some of those ignorant old despots would tear down in order to build a monument to their own ego. (Thank heavens we are far too enlightened to indulge in that kind of barbaric foolishness today.) Spanish amigos told me when Charles V finally saw the cathedral and realized what had been lost, he wept, saying, “They have taken something unique in all the world and destroyed it to build something you can find in any city.”  You can see where the cathedral was stuck into the center of the mosque. In our era, a further attempt was made to erase even more of the mosque. Church officials began quietly deleting references to the Moorish past from the site’s literature and signage. When Google Maps changed its designation from Cordoba Mosque to Cordoba Cathedral, that was the last straw. Irate citizens and local authorities raised such a ruckus that Google Maps quickly re-labeled it Cordoba Mosque. When I visited, the Moorish origins featured prominently in all the signage and materials I saw. Meanwhile, on one of the Mezquita's outside walls, a section of limestone has crumbled away, revealing the star-shaped fossil of a sea urchin. Naturally (or possibly launched by wily marketing people centuries ago) legends sprang up about this curiosity. Now viewed as an amulet, the Estrella de los Deseos or Star of Wishes, is supposed to make your dreams come true; all you have to do is touch it. As a modern, rational woman I know just how much faith to put in such allegedly lucky charms, but hey, I figured it couldn’t hurt. I couldn’t find any record of actual results produced by the Star of Wishes, but nearby, halfway across the old Roman bridge, stands one emblem of good luck with a solid track record: San Rafael. He’s the city’s Guardian Angel, credited with saving the populace from the plague in 1650, and his images, known as “triumphs,” are scattered all over town.  The Archangel San Rafael, 1651, watches over pedestrians on the old Roman bridge in Córdoba. Photo: Mariajo V. on TripAdvisor San Rafael is the perfect emblem for Córdoba, because he is honored across Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, religions that famously managed to co-exist peacefully for centuries in “the City of Three Cultures.” Yes, my friends, it is possible. During the city’s Islamic era (711 to 1031) Córdoba prided itself on being a center of enlightenment and learning, attracting scholars, scientists, philosophers, artists, and architects of every nation and creed. They had this wacky idea that studying the universe, learning how to think logically, and applying human intelligence to solving our most persistent problems might save our bacon someday. And who knows, maybe it will. Of course, human nature being what it is, there were plenty of egos, biases, and injustices at work, and not everyone flourished in Córdoba. For instance, in the 11th century residents were pressured to convert, causing the Jewish family of ten-year-old Maimonides to leave the city. Living in Morocco, Jerusalem, and Egypt, he picked up a wealth of esoteric knowledge. Maimonides became a rabbi, the most influential Torah scholar of the era, and author of many books including the marvelously titled Guide for the Perplexed that seeks common ground for scientific and spiritual principles.  Notice how shiny the tip of his beard is; people love to visit this statue, which stands in downtown Córdoba, and rub it for luck. When Córdoba put up a statue to him, it soon became another good-fortune charm, which according to scholars who know such things, would have appalled the ultra-rational Maimonides. Yep, I visited him too. And what was I asking for, at all these magical places? Well, I don’t want to risk jinxing things by revealing full details, so I will just say that if you have been at all worried about the state of the world lately, I’ve enlisted the most powerful thinker, angel, nymph, and fossilized sea urchin available, and they’re now working on the case. You’re welcome.  HOME 2.0 This is the latest in my series of blog posts exploring what it takes to create a better life for yourself abroad — or at home, for that matter. See all posts in this series. WANT MORE? To subscribe, send me an email. [email protected] SUBSCRIBED BUT NOT GETTING POST ANNOUNCEMENTS? Check your spam folder. If you still can't find it, please let me know. GOING SOMEWHERE? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.
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 Merrymakers pose for pictures in front of the Cathedral of the Holy Cross over the Waters in Cádiz, Spain, during the final days of 2025. “I’ve met someone,” confided my friend, a widower in his 80s with a twinkle in his eye. “What’s she like?” I asked, hoping she wasn’t 20-something with expensive tastes. “How old is she?” “My age. And one of the things I like about her? She eats dessert first.” “Sounds like a keeper.” She was. They had a lovely late-life romance, made all the more fun because they decided not to marry; they didn’t want to give up the wicked pleasure of scandalizing their kids and grandkids. I admired her attitude toward life, embodying Erma Bombeck’s famous advice: “Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the Titanic who waved off the dessert cart.” This week, nearly half of all Americans made resolutions to seize the moment and become healthier, happier, thinner, richer, and blessed with a more thrilling love life. Yep, another stunning triumph of hope over experience. Studies show that 60% to 80% of all resolutions will be in the dumpster by the end of this month.  As for me, I’m not making any resolutions, I’m just wallowing in a brief moment of gratitude that I somehow survived the perfect storm known as 2025. “Life is a hurricane, and we board up to save what we can and bow low to the earth to crouch in that small space above the dirt where the wind will not reach,” wrote novelist Jesmyn Ward. “We love each other fiercely, while we live and after we die. We survive.” Yes, 2025 was a Category Five hurricane, and hunkering down until it passed qualifies as a triumph. “When you come out of the storm,” says author Haruki Murakami, “you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” Like 2020, this year has marked us all. But hey, any year you can walk away from…  "So much for 2025. What do you think 2026 is going to be like?" If I sound cynical, I’m right on trend. “Cynicism is vastly on the rise,” says Jamil Zaki, the director of the Stanford Social Neuroscience Lab, in a NY Times article about finding hope in 2026. Studies show hope really helps; it’s is a major predictor of well-being, affecting our health, longevity, even how tall we grow. So how can we get ahold of more of this hope stuff? One of Zaki’s top tips: “Replace cynicism with skepticism.” He suggests that instead of automatically assuming 2026 will turn out to be a disaster of biblical proportions, we should try to believe that it only might turn out to be a disaster of biblical proportions. Really? This is our ray of light in the darkness? We only might be doomed?  Graffiti I spotted in Cådiz says, "Health and luck." Followed by a little "OK?" that to me suggests, "But only if it's not too much trouble for you, God!" Just how inauspicious is this year? “Nostradamus’ predictions for 2026 include rivers of blood, plague of bees, and death by lightning,” says a NY Post headline. When I read this aloud to Rich, he just laughed. His attitude is more like author Nancy Mitford, who said, “Life is sometimes sad and often dull, but there are currents in the cake, and here is one of them.” Rich and I have lots of currents in our cake these days, including a promise to ourselves (NOT a resolution) to do a bit more traveling. Over several long Sunday lunches, we discussed how great it feels to be part of our beloved Home 2.0 in Seville but agreed we shouldn’t get so comfortable that we stop exploring the wider world. So we hopped a train south to Cádiz, one of Europe’s oldest continuously inhabited cities. To be in its streets felt like walking through history. Pre-history, even. At the Cádiz Museum, I gazed in awe at 100,000-year-old arrowheads and 250,000-year-old bashing stones. But those were new tech compared to the Acheulean hand axes.  600,000-year-old Acheulean hand axes found in Cadiz They look like they’d be perfect for cutting, chopping, and mashing, but archaeologist have learned you can’t really grip one without endangering your fingers. Despite this pesky drawback, untold millions were painstakingly crafted and carried all over the planet for 1.5 million years. They are the most enduring tool in human history and nobody can figure out why. The ones found in Cádiz were fashioned 600,000 years ago, when our ancestors were just developing cumulative culture, the uniquely human ability to build on past innovations. One theory suggests the hand axes were created by men solely to show off prowess and attract mates, a skill that is still a work in progress today. The museum was founded to house a Phoenician fellow’s sarcophagus unearthed in Cádiz in 1887. A century later a female sarcophagus turned up and everyone got misty-eyed over reuniting the couple. But then they learned the female’s coffin was 70 years older than the male’s and that the body inside it was, in fact, a robust middle-aged guy. A romance? A bromance? Who knows?  Mystery surrounds these 2500-year-old Phoenician sarcophagi in the Cádiz Museum. Cádiz is famously the friendliest city in Spain, and we were welcomed everywhere. In the medieval quarter, we came upon a crowd gathered around a fire, dancing and singing to the beat of a cajón (box drum). Mostly it was flamenco, popular there since the 15th century, but as a nod to the season, there were villancicos (carols), too. People made room for me in the circle and I joined in on Los Peces en el Río (The Fish in the River). Years ago I asked amigos about this villancico; did people think fish were present at the nativity of Jesus? They explained the song’s popularity rests on the line, “Beben y beben and vuelven a beber,” (“They drink and drink and go back and drink some more”) which listeners often take as an invitation to open another bottle.  People from the crowd jumped into the middle of the circle to dance flamenco by the fire. The Spanish are not shy about enjoying themselves. In 1912, when the lavish Café Royalty opened, it became the city’s hallmark of splendid excess. The moment I stepped inside, I realized it was the closest I’d ever get to eating in the Titanic dining room, lost at sea that very same year. Rich and I dined at Café Royalty with friends who agreed it would be a crime to wave away the dessert cart. We ordered picatostes, literally “croutons,” but in this case meaning thick, sweet bread toasted to golden crunchiness with an interior almost as soft as custard. Are you drooling yet? That was hands-down the best dessert, but my favorite meal of the trip was in La Isleta de la Viña, a cozy restaurant filled with families and bullía (joyful noise). Someone had written on the wall “Compartir es vivir” (“To share is to live”). In Cádiz, you’re all in this together. “Cádiz is a city of magic, like Cracow or Dublin, to set the mind on fire at a turn of a corner,” wrote British travel writer Honor Tracy. “The eye is continually fed, the imagination stirred, by a train of spectacles as charming as if they had been contrived.” Cádiz does more than dazzle; it embraces visitors. Let’s hope Nostradamus is wrong about 2026 being full of bees, blood, and bolts of lightning. But just in case, I’m keeping these warm memories close to give me comfort until the next storm passes.  One of my favorite memories of Cádiz is Rich saying, "Look! This is it! The arc of human achievement. From the hand axes to my cell phone." HOME 2.0 This is the latest in my series of blog posts exploring what it takes to create a better life for yourself abroad — or at home, for that matter. See all posts in this series. WANT MORE? To subscribe, send me an email. [email protected] SUBSCRIBED BUT NOT GETTING POST ANNOUNCEMENTS? Check your spam folder. If you still can't find it, please let me know. GOING SOMEWHERE? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it. |
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