Domenikos Theotokopoulos

Old Spain in Toledo..


The painter's son in El Greco's

"The Burial of the Count of Orgaz" 1586

I am very thankful to the Honorary Caliph of Moraleja and his Persepolis wife, to the Hunting Crusader and to smiling Otter for the quick progresses I have been making in the sociological study of the Vieja España.

At a recent sea-bass and Pommerol outdoors dinner, hosted by the magnificently yellow ethnic dressed Taj al~Sultan I was honoured to encounter the Iconic Marquis, famous both for his wit and for his grand parties in Aranjuez. Halas! Those parties are no more, but their full impact in the listeners amazed faces could still be discerned. A wholesome representative of that gentlemanly, puertadehierro-only, monarchists' monarchist Spain that keeps a low profile and practices a kind of reversed apartheid ( choosing a self-imposed ghetto policy). Known as Old Spain, a bit to tease the roturiers who dare to show off in the ghastly "heart" press.

Another source of data on Finis Hispaniae (to adopt the apocalyptical viewpoint of those who do not share a particular enthusiasm for the policies of Irak withdrawals, gay marriage and flash divorce...) are the happy guests of the Hunting Crusader, at his delicious multilingual socialite dinner parties.

But most recently, thanks to Otter, I witnessed a full 200 guests-size Old Spain party, in Toledo.

The Host, let us call him Loyolla, has an unpronounceable short name for a non-Spanish vocal apparatus. He is one of six (or is it seven?) brothers, and the family Cigarral in the outskirts of the City of The Greek is a genuine marvel. ( Carmelo in Cordova, Cigarral in Toledo, and Cason God-knows-where, how can one ever learn the intricate taxonomy of Spanish country estates?). With a Gothic-Romantic taste for old archeological stones and for building follies, his father showed a prolific taste. The resulting mix of edenic garden and cultured architectural details was a perfect scenery for a Saturday gathering of Old Madrilenos and Old Bilbainos of the forty-something average generation.

Just like in Old Lisbon, men do not dance. They stand upright with their whiskies or vodka-tonics as their guarding swords while their dames enjoy themselves with rumbas or flamenco-rocks. Only very few, including this modest blogger of yours, dear Honourable Reader, ventured into the almost women-only dancing grounds. At least before the third vodka. Nothing can surpass the eroticism of a rumba, no matter the age of the blood that flows in one's veins. And the green-dressed Colombe mesmerized me with her oscillating hips. Some of the ladies were beautiful, a few extremely so. The crown must lay in the head of the eponymous of the Troy beauty. She had both a heart-slaving melancholic side and a jack-in-the-box mischievous side. Fall for her at your own risk, Honourable Reader!

I managed to make good progress in my linguistic research of Spanish slang, and I'm now almost able to manage the subtleties and inflections of the interjection "joder!". Other words, near unpublishable, I will deal with in a forthcoming blogtext.

Tosca was a very glamorous rubia, who told me that her Grandmother, from Cartagena de Indias, was a great admirer of Puccini and named her daughter after the famous female operatic character. Her mother followed the tradition. Caribe biography, melodramatic opera and Hispanic genealogy make a rather interesting ground for a collector of stories, doesn't it? I ask Tosca if she is aware of the tragic fate of namesake. She nods affirmatively.

Uniformed watchers of alcohol consumption being on the loose in the motorways, the after-party night was spent in Toledo. There was time for getting acquainted with the splendid Medieval City, including the obligatory jaw-dropping view of El Greco's painting of Old Spain's Count of Orgaz.