Free A Year in the World by Frances Mayes

Iberia, was settled for Scipio’s wounded Italian soldiers. There must have been mosaicists among them who fought in the African campaigns. Almost cartoonish squat black warriors with big lips climb palms, ride astride alligators, stand behind shields, and arch, poised to throw arrows. Exotic cranes and ibises intermingle with the border design. In the inside field, fish, seahorses, and mythological sea creatures cavort. The overall effect is muscular, ribald—a pygmy is poked in the rear by a heron, another opens a crocodile’s mouth. Perhaps an oral epic was translated into mosaic, if only we could read it.
    A workman mops the mosaic floor of one house open to the four winds. He swishes soapy water, then throws down a bucket of clear water. How many thousands of times has someone mopped these sturdy floors! Their makers set each marble chip on a layer of plaster, on top of a layer of lime and earthenware fragments, on top of a layer of lime and stone, on top of a pebble layer. The word
mosaic
comes from the Greek meaning “a patient work worthy of the muses.” The first mosaics must have been bits of stone stuck into clay walls to keep them up, to keep them from dripping, to provide a bit of sparkle to a drab room. Then came the incorporation of pieces of lapis lazuli, jasper, onyx, marble, travertine, malachite—pretty colors for making designs and displaying the prosperity of a family. Who can know which is older, rug weaving or mosaics? The designs in mosaics often recall rug patterns and vice versa. As the workman washes, the colors of the stones shine. We take in the blue—fresh as when it was set. So it was always thus; after rain in the uncovered atrium, the family observed how gorgeous their courtyard floor looked when wet.
     
    We have spent the past few hacienda days driving around to small towns where donkeys prove useful. We ate in workers’ cafés, searched out Arab doorways on Christian church grounds, walked in back streets where flowered sheets and orange towels flapped in the breeze and dogs didn’t open an eye when we passed. The street life in Carmona reminded me of Cortona’s. Babies were admired in the plaza, where boys played ball and clumps of people stood visiting in the sun. A large passing truck stopped, and the driver leaned out to pick a few oranges, then drove on. Like Cortona and all other Tuscan towns, these Andalucían towns have their masterpieces and mysteries. Carmona has many. Sitting in the winter sun, we ordered
tortillitas de bacalao
, cod fritters, and oven-roasted vegetables, and a plate of cheeses as we watched little girls playing with their dolls on a park bench. The cheeses were addictive. We’d known
manchego
in California, though in Spain the taste is saltier, creamier, with a barnyard overtone. The sides are imprinted with a pattern from the grass mold where they’re aged. I’m a fan of blue cheeses and have ordered
cabrales
several times. A blend of ewe, goat, and cow milk, the strong flavors are mellowed by the accompanying little dish of quince paste.
    The morning seemed to melt seamlessly into an afternoon of exploring the old city. We happened upon the quintessentially Andalucían church of Santa María. Built on the ruins of a mosque, it retains a patio of orange trees, where ritual washing took place. On a column in this peaceful courtyard, we find inscribed a Visigoth calendar of holidays. Again and again these three cultural layers abide, abide.
     
    I'm sure we are not the first to sing “Help, help me Rhonda” as we drive into the fabled white town of Ronda, perched on either side of an impressive abyss. We check into the
parador
, one of the government’s chain of inns, usually in historic buildings. Our room lacks charm, but the location can’t be matched. Right out the balcony door I look down at the bridge over the canyon and all the small streets and white houses of the old town. The inn’s terrace overlooks the gorge and distant mountains.