A few years ago, I was at a friend's house in Spain browsing a European issue of Time magazine. The cover story trumpeted 'Spain Rocks!' Shaking off its benighted past, the author bragged, Spain was rising like a phoenix. This vibrant 'new' nation was setting an innovative, dazzling standard for all of Europe. Her chefs were the talk of the world of cuisine; her people were dominating the worlds of fashion, music and the fine arts. Spain was at the vanguard.

Over the last few decades, Spain has exploded with massive social and political changes - discounting traditional values as 'old hat' and in many ways following the values of contemporary Europe. The shift is quite astonishing, and in some ways regrettable. Yet I find comfort knowing that over the ages Spain has been able to absorb many passing influences while remaining anchored in her identity.

Some Spaniards, who are less intoxicated with modernity, are beginning to explore long-ignored cultural sites. By revisiting traditions and rituals, they are seeking to understand their roots. It is this fresh appreciation of the lasting traditions which will continue to anchor and define Spain for the next generation.

The central ritual of Spain are the profound rituals of Semana Santa (Holy Week) leading up to Easter. Throughout this diverse nation, everyone - young and old, believer and skeptic - is drawn into pageantry and communal observance. Each town and city has its own special Semana Santa tradition, where the whole community assembles to witness processions of brotherhoods dressed in striking garb as they carry enormous floats holding images of Mary and Jesus through the streets.

There is one Holy Week ritual that takes place among a cluster of small villages deep in the mountains of Aragon. Once every year, inhabitants gather around their parish churches. Dressed in traditional costumes, they take up their drums, form groups and start drumming. For about twenty-four hours without pause, bands of drummers, largely young men, but also young women and a few children process through the streets of their towns.

On Good Friday as the clock of the parish church in each village strikes at High Noon, an enormous roar resounds throughout the town as all the drums roll simultaneously. There are all kinds - traditional bass drums stretched with skin, modern snare drums, and many other types in between. The drummers dress in blue, violet or black gowns and hoods, the color depending upon the custom of the village. They remain together for two hours, generating among their neighbors an indefinable emotion, which some describe as ecstasy. The drumming makes the ground tremble under their feet. When people put their hands on the wall of their houses they feel the vibration in their bones.

Then the townspeople begin to form a procession, intermingling between the bands of drummers. They leave the Plaza Mayor and weave through their villages, finally returning to where they began. There are so many people who join the procession that the last have not begun before the first reach their goal.

In the procession are men and boys dressed as Roman soldiers, others (including little children) are centurions. There is a Roman general accompanied by men called Longinos, the ones who guarded the sealed tomb of Jesus. The drum rolls have five or six different rhythms. When two groups of drummers with differing rhythms encounter each other at a street corner, they meet frente y frente - face to face - and embark on a duel of rhythms. The contest can go on for an hour or more until finally one group acquiesces and assumes the rhythm of the stronger.

At about 5 o'clock the procession through the village is complete and the faithful pause in silence at the church, mourning the Crucifixion. Then the rolls of the drums sound in unison once more and continue their distinct rhythm until the afternoon of the following day.

All night long the people of the town are engulfed by the prolonged rhythm of the drums. By sunrise, some of the drummers have bleeding hands, but they continue all Saturday morning until they hear the sound of a trumpet as the church bell tolls the appointed hour. At that moment all the drummers silence their drums. They will not play again until the next year. But for weeks after, some say the rhythm of the drums is reflected in the conversational pattern of the villagers.

Romans, Goths, Arians, Moors, Jews, Christians and pagans before them - they have all contributed to the consciousness of these isolated towns. These various civilizations are woven into the rich fabric of Spain - and that fabric is lasting. I am confident that the latest trends of modern life are going to drown out the traditions of Spain. Spain will continue to absorb the contributions of others. Her traditional values are not static, but they will endure.

Your Friend,
Don

The fragrant aroma of rosemary and lavender filled the air as I unwrapped a small treasure, which has just arrived from Spain. It was a bar of olive oil soap made by the hands of Hans and Daida de Roos following a medieval recipe. They prepared it within the walls of their finca, whose foundations were laid in 1034.

What makes the soap even more remarkable is that it is made exclusively of 100% extra virgin olive oil from Hans and Daida's own grove of arbequina olive trees. Soap of this quality, made of olive oil rather than tallow, is what made 'Castile' soap the gold standard in Europe for centuries. Today most olive oil soap contains only a fraction of olive oil and then most likely of 'lampante' quality, which has been discarded for human consumption.

Hans and Daida are a fascinating and generous couple. I was introduced to them by a La Tienda patron who told me of their exquisite Arbequina olive oil made in a medieval finca north of Barcelona. That certainly piqued my imagination, and, since my wife Ruth and I were headed for the Alimentaria -- the historic Spanish Food Fair in Barcelona, and I sent Hans and Daida an e-mail to see if we could meet.

They responded by inviting Ruth and me to be their houseguests, sight unseen! Hans dropped by our hotel on the last day of the Alimentaria and drove us north along the Costa Brava to their home near La Bisbal. As Hans ushered us into their home, Can Solivera, we were met with a big smile by his wife Daida. She had recently come in from the olive groves, which she had been tending with some of the local people from the village.

Who was this generous and expansive couple, and what was their Spanish connection? Over the first couple of days, and now a couple of years Ruth and I have gotten to know them quite well. They have visited us in Virginia, and we have traveled together, visiting Sos del Rey and San Juan de la Peña in the Pyrenees. They have become a significant part of our lives.

Daida's grandfather, Paco Minguell, came from a small village close to Arbeca, the origin of the Arbequina olive tree. During the roaring twenties he opened the first and only shipyard in Barcelona where, as a shipwright, he built sailing ships out of wood also equipped with a small steam engine. In association with his ship-building, Paco also operated a sawmill but found that the best ash wood necessary for strong masts was in scarce supply. It seems that most of the ash trees in Spain were felled to build the ships of the Spanish Armada back in the 15th Century. (Isn't it amazing how one act can have such an impact on our environment?)

Undaunted, Daida's grandfather went to Finland - a land of mighty forests. There, in addition to finding beautiful ash trees, he fell in love with a beautiful blonde. It was love at first sight and soon they were married. The newlyweds returned to Spain to live.

But during the most violent days of the Civil War, Daida's grandparents sought refuge in the Netherlands. While they were still living in Spain their daughter (Daida's mother), met a young Dutch doctor who was touring Spain on a bicycle tour. Soon they married and moved to a small village near Rotterdam. Daida's mother and her father's mother were in the same village and became good friends.

Hans, as you can gather by his name, is pure Dutch - every bone in his body. His father was the pastor of the church in Delftshaven, Holland. This was the same church where the Pilgrims sought refuge from English persecution. As a part of this congregation they made their plans to ultimately sail to America where they founded the Massachusetts Bay Colony near Plymouth Rock.

Hans, the bright and industrious pastor's son, earned a full scholarship to Nijenrode - the finest business school in the Netherlands. There he met and married Daida, who became a close companion through all of his adventures. The couple lived in various parts of South America for 20 years, where Hans fashioned a very successful career in chemical distribution through the sea-lanes.

Upon advancement within the company Hans was called back to Europe. In 1975, while they were stationed in Madrid, Francisco Franco died. Across the nation there was great anxiety as to the country's political fate. Hans and Daida had great faith in the Spanish people and invested in the emerging Spain. They bought this property in Cataluña, Daida's ancestral home.

I sensed that their home, Can Solivera, had been preserved with the same loving attention that Hans and Daida invest in all that they do. It was a labor of love. When they bought the building with the intent of restoring it, they found that upon the original foundations had been built many additions - most of them were in 1068, the latest being in 1624. They set about to retain as much of the flavor of the building as they could.

They retained the original kitchen with a walk-in fireplace and a bread oven imbedded in the wall. They preserved the 12th C wine kitchen, which had a modified funnel for a floor so that during harvest a huge number of grapes would be stowed there. The juice dripping through a hole in the sloping floor used to be gathered in casks in order to ferment into wine.

Hans and Daida's greatest love is olive oil from Spain. When they settled into their new estate, Can Solivera, they planted a grove of arbequina olive trees and personally nurtured their growth. Through their own toil and the blessing of a favorable micro-climate, they produce a sublime extra virgin olive oil, and in addition, an organic wild olive oil produced using the medieval style of pressing the olives. They bring home the fruit of their labor and actually put it into individual bottles.

In the process of conducting research in the area of olive culture (Hans is a very thorough man) he came upon a medieval recipe for making soap in the olive oil museum of Baena near Córdoba. He and Daida wanted to see if it was possible to replicate this pure, healthy product, and turned a part of their home into a laboratory of sorts.

The result is what I hold in my hands - a pure extra virgin Arbequina olive oil soap, combined with the essence of rosemary and other herbs that are native to their property. To this day they make their soap, cutting it and wrapping each bar by hand. We were among the first to enjoy it - now there are a couple of shops in Holland, U.K. and Ireland that carry it! We have brought some over to America to see if our friends at La Tienda will enjoy it too!

What a fascinating story involving medieval Spain, Cataluña, the forests of Finland, the ports of Holland, South America and even Plymouth Rock! It all traces back to Spain and the ingenuity of a warm and generous couple who love working in her soil.

My best wishes to you and those you love,
Don

This year we celebrate the 10th anniversary of La Tienda. As I look back over the past decade I find that one of my greatest satisfactions is the many personal relationships we have formed with the people in Spain with whom we work to provide the best of Spain to America. Almost without exception, the bonds my family and I have formed with each of them reaffirm my respect and love for the traditional Spanish culture. I may wax rhapsodic about the beauty of this venerable culture, but be assured it is based on the fact of our daily contact with our colleagues in Spain.

Over the coming year I will be introducing you to several of our friends in Spain. The first one I would like you to meet is my friend Jorge Ordoñez, whose creative energy is only exceeded by his generosity and warmth. I first heard of Jorge when we were reconfiguring our wine presentation so that it would be easier for you to select an interesting wine. He suggested a couple of dozen high quality, high value wines which we now feature on our site in all price ranges. We were very pleased with his selections.

Last summer Jorge learned that Ruth and I were going to be at Fenway Park to celebrate our 40th anniversary at a Red Sox game (an inspired present from our sons). When he is not in Spain he lives in Greater Boston with his wife and two young children. So he invited us to join his family and close friends for a 4th of July cookout. When we arrived Jorge greeted us with a warm abrazo and a delighted smile as he ushered us into his kitchen, which was filled with the delicious aromas of Spanish cooking. He was in the midst of preparing fish as he would in his home in Andalucía.

His wife Kathy introduced us to her mother and friends who were seated in the back yard at a long table overlooking the Charles River. Amidst lively conversation we enjoyed corn on the cob, Spanish delicacies, wedges of watermelon, superb wine and the company of their delightful young children Monica and Victor, along with a fine young man who had just graduated from high school. I cannot think of having a more enjoyable 4th of July, nor can I ever recall another time where we enjoyed such hospitality.

Jorge is from Málaga, along the Mediterranean coast of Southern Spain. He grew up working in his family wine distribution business, loading trucks, visiting wineries learning first hand all that there is to know about the wine business. When he went to the University of Córdoba he met his future wife Kathy, who was spending her junior year abroad in Spain. Their courtship spread over four years and involved hundreds of phone calls (much to the delight of Telefónica Telephone Company!) Eventually they married and settled in the Boston area where Kathy grew up.

Of course, part of his heart was always in his beloved Spain and so, armed with his considerable knowledge of the wine making tradition and his understanding of the taste of Americans, he set out to visit the small family wineries he most respected. He sought to encourage them to be the pioneers in introducing the wonderful wines of Spain to his adopted country. When he began, Spanish wines were essentially unknown in America. Now, through partnership with these artisan vintners, these wines are recognized as among the best in the world, many earning scores in the 90's from wine connoisseur Robert Parker.

This did not happen overnight, but was the fruit of his tireless dedication and unbounded energy. What became the Jorge Ordoñez Collection was not purely a matter of selecting the best wines with which he was familiar. He improved his selection of wines by earning the trust of traditional wine making families and assisting them as they adjusted to the modern taste - the wines themselves as well as their commercial presentation.

There is a lot that goes into the bottle of wine you have on your table. In October Ruth and I, two novices, visited one of the wineries he recommended in the small town of Haro in La Rioja Alta. The bodega was founded 75 years ago, and the family tradition has continued through the founder's sons, Isaac and Manuel.

Their accommodating assistant, Jesús Viguera, showed us how they make all of their oak barrels on site and told us of the process of rotating the vintage from one barrel to the next. He explained that they consider the shape and weight of the bottle, and even the quality of cork. The Muga family obtains their corks from a Portuguese family whom they have known for years. Some of their corks come from the bark on the branches of the cork tree, other corks are made from the bark of the trunk. Each source has its own qualities. The best are very dense, and exclude most outside atmospheric influences. To my astonishment, I learned that the individual cork for the best Muga wines may cost as much as $1 per bottle!

When we finished our tour we were ushered into the tasting room to sample four or five typical wines. Soon we were served a freshly prepared platter of huevos revueltos con chorizo (scrambled eggs and chorizo sausage) and were warmly greeted by Manu Muga, one of the sons and owners.

While we were walking through the facility, Jesús spoke of Jorge Ordoñez with great respect. He said that Jorge was a man who expected their highly respected winery to meet the highest of standards. His visit was a serious event for which they prepared with great care. Each time he visits they find him a warm and gracious partner who has as much respect for them as they do for him.

During a typical visit Jorge and one or two associates taste wine from many casks. They take careful notes about the subtle characteristics of the wine in each barrel. Finally they blend the wine: for example, he may select 45% of the juice of Tempranillo grapes in barrel #16, another 20% Tempranillo from barrel #26, 10% and 5% respectively of wine from Mazuelo grapes from casks #2 and 8, 10% from the Gracielo grapes in barrel #2. He blends them with the nose of a true oenophile, and finally might adjust the blend by adding a touch of Tempranillo from yet another barrel. The result: a new vintage of a particular wine is born.

This indefatigable and unassuming man visits many bodegas in the course of each winter and spring. His goal is to promote the unique virtues of wine from the country that he loves, as well as to offer the many fine wines of his personal collection. His green monogram appears on every bottle of his collection. He impressed upon me that the future of Spanish wine production is in the grapes native to Spain, produced by artisans, and appreciated for their special qualities - not in high volume products.

What I find most appealing about Jorge is his integrity, his lack of pretension and his joyful approach to life. When he recommends wines to La Tienda he does not list costly bottles of wine which might bring him more income. Instead he includes wines from across the spectrum which are good values for their price. He wants you to enjoy life through the wines of Spain. And, I must say, I find joy in his company.

Tu amigo,
Don

¡Felices Fiestas, mi amigos!

Eight years ago, Ruth and I booked plane tickets for the whole family to celebrate Christmas in a remote part of Spain. We drove directly to Granada, spent the night, and then headed southeast toward the area surrounding the mountain village of Cádiar deep in the Alpujarra region. It is a unique area, a natural link between the Mediterranean coast and Sierra Nevada, towered over by the highest peaks of Spain. It is there that the remnants of the Moors sequestered themselves after the fall of Granada in 1492; and it is not far from the dramatic mountain town of Trevélez where the local people cure a fabulous Jamón Serrano in the shadow of the highest mountain pass in the country.

It was quite a different feeling than the commercial atmosphere of modern times. It seems that each year, about this time, I resolve to celebrate the Christmas season as people did in much simpler times. This year what first prompted these musings was when I heard the notes of 'Little Drummer Boy' wafting over the Musak system at Wal-Mart while people were sorting through Halloween costumes for their children! Then later I saw an advertising insert for a 'Pre-Day-After-Thanksgiving Day Sale' tucked into our local newspaper.

Our trip was not under the most auspicious of circumstances - spontaneous decisions seldom are. 1997 turned out to be the year when much of Spain was experiencing drenching rains and dramatic mudslides of historic proportions. Nevertheless, undaunted by the rain, we navigated the narrow mountain roads in two cars -- each driver experiencing his own challenges as we snaked up the mountain range. The least of our worries were the few roadside guard-rails remaining which had been violently uprooted by the mud. As our other car was approaching its destination, a horse started galloping behind us down the road!

It was dark by the time we reached the end of our journey. But for the brilliant full moon, our destination would have been difficult to spot -- because the road leading to the buildings had been washed out by a mud-slide. We stopped to ask directions from a man alongside the road. He hopped on our hood and guided us down the road. Quite an adventure - but with a happy conclusion: we were greeted by the innkeeper, who, with typical Spanish cordiality served us a simple and wholesome meal.

After a good night's sleep we awakened to a sunny day in the clear mountain air. We were enjoying a respite from the stormy weather by climbing around on the rocks, when our host asked us if we would like him to prepare for us a meal to celebrate 'La Noche Buena' - Christmas Eve, which would be that evening. He noted that because of the weather there were few alternatives for us, so that he and his staff would be delighted to serve us. We gratefully accepted his generous proposal.

So, the seven of us made our way to the village of Cádiar, stopping for some café con leche and churros before stopping at a little shop in town to pick out amusing little gifts for each other. We decided to simplify gift giving by drawing names: each person would buy only one gift, and that gift could not exceed 500 pesetas ($3.00). As we drove back to our settlement we noticed the village parish church - a late medieval structure - perfect for Midnight Mass.

We returned to one of the most memorable meals we have ever shared together as a family. Our host had set up for us a long refectory-type table in his cellar bodega. We were encompassed by barrels of wine and overhead by dozens of serrano hams hanging from the rafters. The wonderful aromas of the wine soaked oak barrels and the still-curing jamones were soon augmented by the sweet smell of platterfuls of roast legs of lamb - it seemed as if there was one for each one of us. The candle-lit table was laden with local vegetables and delicacies accompanied by wine of the region. The feast continued on with Christmas sweets and savories, reaching its conclusion with glasses of brandy. No honey coated spiral ham for us! We felt we were far away from modern America.

After the dinner, as we were opening our little gifts we noticed the wind gusting stronger, until finally we lost our electric power. But that did not stop us from getting ready to go to the ancient church in the village. As we were driving to town, our way illumined by the full moon, I romanticized how the lack of electricity would enhance our worship with the people of the village. It would be easy to imagine ourselves living in simpler times, centuries in the past.

We arrived at the church only a minute or two before Midnight, relieved that we were not too late. But to our dismay we found a darkened church with the door locked! Just about then the local parish priest roared up in his small SEAT sedan (so much for medieval illusions!) He greeted us, unlocked the door, and then bustled about the building lighting several portable butane heaters (with the familiar orange 'butano' canisters) and rolling them to where the congregation would be sitting --saving one heater for himself by the altar.

Without electricity the medieval church did have an added charm - the flickering candles, the shadowy arches, the crèche in the transept, the villagers filtering in throughout the liturgy at their own pace. By the time the Mass was over, and the villagers were filing by the manger scene venerating the Christ child the church was comfortably full.

What a blessed day it had been: our family together, the feast prepared by our inn-keeper and served by young women from the town, opening modest presents and then worshiping together. It had been all that I could hope for - mudslides and lost electricity notwithstanding.

I know we cannot replicate this again. The logistics are more complicated: our family has grown larger, two more sons are married, there are three grandchildren and another on the way. But the commitment to greater simplicity during the holidays can be accomplished, and you do not have to go to Spain to do it. We discovered this truth a couple of years later here in Williamsburg, Virginia. We had a horrendous ice storm during the holidays, which knocked out our electricity and even our water for days. That Christmas Eve we tossed on a couple more logs, and sang some carols by the crackling fire. It was that simple.

For many people this is the favorite holiday of the year. No matter what is our personal faith, the universal icon of Mother and newborn Child reflects hope, and the joy of loving families. This is the season for each of us to renew personal ties and extend ourselves to others, so that the shortest days of the year are filled with light and joy.

Our family, and our 'extended' La Tienda family extend to you best wishes for a joyful time in this holiday season. We hope that, amidst all the distractions, you are able to focus on the purpose of all your preparations, sharing your love with others.

¡Felices Fiestas, Feliz Navidad!
Don & Ruth, Tim & Amy, Jonathan & Stacey, Chris & Rian

I am intrigued by the paradoxes in human behavior -- history is full of them. One of the most delicious of these (in many senses of the word) is that the traditional cakes and confections that Spaniards enjoy each Christmas have their roots in the Moorish culture of Spain. And why not - Christians, Muslims and Jews lived together in Spain for over 700 years.

The Biblical staples of almonds and honey are at the core of the cuisine of the Middle East. To this day honey is a major focus of commerce in that region. The Moors brought the almond tree with them to Spain. Most Christmas confections enjoyed in Spain -- whether it is turron from Alicante, marzipan from Toledo or polvorones and roscos from Cordoba are made of almonds or honey.

The centrality of the almond in daily Spanish life was illustrated to us when several years ago we set out to have the finest mantecados for Christmas. We wanted the best in Spain, and the little town of Estepa, deep in the countryside of Cordoba, was reputed to be the source. At first as North Americans we thought it would be easy. We sent an email order to the producer in July so that they could deliver the products to our shipping container in a timely manner, well in time for the busy holiday season. We believe in planning ahead. Well, we kept waiting and waiting for a reply. After a month passed we decided to telephone them, but to no avail. Finally, in October we established contact - so much for our advanced planning for shipments to the States.

The following spring my wife Ruth and I decided to drop by the town of Estepa, the historic center of polvorones in Spain. We wanted to get a flavor of the place, and to meet the management of the company we contacted, so that we could understand what exactly was going on. We were greeted cordially by the owners of this family company who proudly showed us around their bakery. But to our surprise there was virtually no activity in the plant. In fact, the town of Estepa seemed especially laid back, with a pace of life that we only can envy.

Then we discovered the secret: life in Estepa is directly affected by the almond harvest. Other than preparation and maintenance of the facilities, there is nothing to be done until the trucks full of fresh almonds roll into town in September. At that moment, the whole community springs into action. The men bring the almonds to the processing area. Their wives set aside their normal homemaking tasks and head for the huge bakery. For the next several weeks they work together to produce the famous confections that will grace thousands of homes of their fellow countrymen throughout Spain.

Many of the cookies are very fragile. Polvorones get their name because they may crumble in your hand-turn to a sweet nutty powder. In fact many Spaniards crumble them before eating them. They are a combination of ground almonds, honey and ibérico shortening -- so delicate that they are individually hand wrapped in tissue paper for their protection. The same care is given to the crunchier roscos - little doughnut shaped almond cookies flavored with wine, as well as alfajores a spiced almond shortbread traditionally from Sevilla. As you can see, the almond is king.

If we move east of Cordoba toward the Mediterranean, we will encounter the province of Alicante and the little town of Jijona where tons of almonds are delivered each autumn. For the almond is at the core of the production of turron, which, like the polvorones, is nothing but almonds and sugar, with the addition of honey and a little egg white for the crunchier 'Alicante' version. The softer 'Jijona' turron is like its Middle Eastern cousin, halvah, except it is made from ground almonds rather than ground sesame seeds. In Spain, Christmas is not Christmas without turron!

We learned about a couple of other cherished holiday confections when we visited the medieval walled city of Avila - far from sunny Andalucía. We met the owner of the esteemed Yemas de Santa Teresa. He makes yemas, which are a medieval confection made of egg yolk which is dropped into hot sugar syrup. He also makes what is purported to be the finest membrillo (quince preserve) in Spain. As he was talking to us he apologized because although he still makes his famous membrillo from the traditional recipe, demand has grown so much that he has started to augment his supply of quince with some grown in Chile.

'The quince fruit of Spain have to endure the vicissitudes of winter,' he explained, 'whereas the fruit from Chile matures in a climate of perpetual summer. Therefore,' he said, 'they are not the same - the ripening quinces of Chile have had it too easy.' He looked at me intently and said, 'If you have not suffered, you are silly!' How very Spanish of him, I thought. I do not know about suffering quinces, but he was expressing a truth: that through struggle and testing you become a more mature person. I never expected a philosophical twist to a discussion of membrillo!

At any rate, I asked him about importing his celebrated marzipan, one of the greatest of all Christmas treats. He replied, regretfully, that it was not possible to ship it to America, because authentic marzipan has a shelf life of only a few days. The combination of ingredients is so fragile that with the jostling and temperature changes of shipment would ruin it. We heard the same story from the most famous marzipan producer in Toledo, who adamantly refuses to sell us his product, even when we offer to ship them by air, as we have done with our polvorones, mantecados etc. So, if you are an epicurean, you will have to wait until your next trip to Spain to enjoy the finest expression of marzipan. For those who cannot wait that long we did find some more stable (if less than perfection) marzipan figures for the holidays. They ought to arrive soon.

Returning to my original thought, the paradox of Christians being indebted to Muslims for their Christmas celebrations is a good lesson. The Christmas confections were the result of centuries of living together - often in some sort of harmony or equilibrium after the tumultuous early days of conflict. A little more than 50 years ago Jews, Christians and Muslims lived side by side in Palestine and Lebanon. It can and it will happen again. It is part of the hope expressed in this Holiday Season.

¡Felices Fiestas!
Don

My wife Ruth and I began our serious exploration of Spain thirty-five years ago when Spain was just beginning to stir from a long social and economic slumber. The years of poverty brought on by the Civil War and its aftermath were still a fresh memory. Many of the mothers of Spain were dressed in black. In much of Spain the 'moto' (motor bike) was the only mode of transportation, if one chose not to walk.

I remember driving along a country road in Aragon and seeing a farmer making furrows in the rich soil with his horse-drawn plow while his wife followed just behind stooping over to plant seedlings. When I was stationed in Rota I remember driving around the outskirts of the naval base and seeing a father preparing his field for a crop of sunflowers with his ten year old son by his side. The little boy was learning what soon would be his responsibility as a man. He did not have the modern-day luxury of wondering what kind of career path he would follow.

In those days, Ruth and I would rent a small SEAT 850 - the most basic of cars - and set off into the countryside. We particularly liked heading west beyond Salamanca toward the western border with Portugal where traces of modernity are less apparent. In the midst of this mountainous part of Salamanca, among the craggy landscape of rocks and meadows, is the dehesa, a grassy pastureland dotted with cork and holm oaks.

The dehesa is the favorite grazing area of the free-range black hoofed cerdo ibérico, the rare Iberian pig. During the autumn each one of them gobbles up bellotas (acorns) fallen from the trees at the astonishing rate of over twenty pounds of acorns a day! Like the famous fighting bulls, the lineage of these animals traces back to prehistory. Their presence is central to the Spanish culture.

I think it is fascinating that Spaniards use the term 'sacrifice' when referring to the slaughter of their animals. For me the word 'sacrifice' connotes a closer relationship between man and animal than we normally think of in America. It means that the death of the animal has a sacred dimension in the human's daily living. The Spaniards ritualize and sanctify the loss of life as no other people that I know of - whether it be the profound processions of Semana Santa, the ritual in the bull ring or the traditional late autumn matanza, where all of the town gathers to slaughter (sacrifice) their animals in preparation for the lean winter months ahead.

Hams are omnipresent throughout the land. Black bulls may appear more heroic, but the ham from the pigs is more immediate. You will see plates of sliced jamón everywhere. During the Christmas season whole hams hang by the hundreds from the rafters of the stores. During the year you will find that not a café exists without a ham proudly displayed on a stand (with several more to back it up).

What underscored the importance of the Iberian pig to Spain for me was when I read that Columbus included Iberian pigs among his 'passengers' when he sat sail on his second voyage of discovery. He intended for them to multiply in the New World and thereby nourish the valiant Spanish settlers for years to come.

As curious as it may seem to some of you, pigs and hams reflect an idealized set of values of Spain, much as cowboys rounding up longhorn steer are idealized images of America's past. The free-range Iberian pigs capture a romantic view that the Spanish people treasure: the simple valor of the frontier, a nation with a calling, and a sweeping land that sustained people on their mission of reconquest. When Spaniards savor wafer thin slices of their jamón it evokes images of the forests and the shifting frontier - much as we in America romanticize a big sizzling steak that we prepare with pride on our outdoor grills.

I find that the parallels with the American romance of the Wild West are fascinating. The Spaniards repopulated the land by granting land for families to herd sheep and tend their Iberian boars, much as we Americans populated the expanding Western frontier by establishing homesteads for sheepherders and cattle ranchers.

The more I travel the byways of Spain and meet her generous people, the clearer it becomes to me the affinity we have for one another as Americans and Spaniards. The incidents of history make us appear to be very different, especially since America is such a young country. But we share the core values of valor, an independent spirit and the interdependence of the family.

Tu amigo,
Don

When my wife Ruth and I entered a Spanish restaurant for the first time, we gained a key insight about the Spanish people. As the waiter was seating us, the others in the dining room looked up from their meals and quietly greeted us. Moreover, throughout the time we were eating, people said 'goodbye' to the rest of us in the dining room as they finished their meals and went on their way.

This routine - almost a ritual - of acknowledging one another when dining in a restaurant is an example of the intimacy of interchange that is the defining characteristic of the Spanish people. They seem to be saying to one another, 'We are all in this life together, with our common needs -- why not enjoy each other's company.'

To the Spaniard eating is far more than the process of satisfying hunger ('putting on the feed-bag', as my mother would jokingly say). Spaniards take dining seriously. Several times in the course of a day they pause to eat with their colleagues or family members. Dining in Spain is a shared experience even though individuals are eating at their separate tables.

When I was young and foolish, I was convinced that when touring Spain one needed to be efficient - there were so many wonderful things to see: countryside villages, Roman ruins, pilgrimage churches, and so little time. We would investigate one town in the morning then stop by the local market to buy some fresh bread, cheese and a bottle of wine for a quick picnic by the side of the road. In twenty minutes, we would be on our way to the next destination zipping along byways that were completely devoid of traffic. No more dodging slow and noisy trucks - the drivers were having dinner and a little siesta.

It seemed that everyone in the countryside had stopped what they were doing and were having a leisurely meal together! I thought to myself, 'What an enormous expenditure of time, when there are so many things to see and do.' It was only a while later that I realized that I was missing the essence of Spain. Visigothic churches may be fascinating, brooding castles may be remarkable, but a leisurely dinner among the Spaniards was far more important if we wished to know Spain and her people. In some circumstances, efficiency may be a virtue - but not to the traditional Spaniard if it is going to compromise the quality of his life.

The food normally eaten in the restaurants is nothing flamboyant or pretentious it is just good, fresh food prepared from local recipes. It is a straightforward and honest expression of the region in which it is prepared. With seventeen autonomous regions, there are a seemingly infinite variety of dishes. Celtic Galicia serves wonderful caldos - stews in pots bubbling with leeks, garlic, ham, chunks of beef and pork, kale, collards and potatoes. It is a little reminiscent of other Celtic countries such as Ireland. On the other hand we could just as easily be eating paella or arroz a banda in the Mediterranean port of Valencia, where its long Moorish immersion is reflected in age-old recipes of rice and saffron.

What I find remarkable today is that the New Spain, with all of these venerable region-specific cuisines under her belt, is now in the vanguard of European cuisine. It is as if traditional Spain's various culinary threads have now been woven into a tapestry that the whole world admires!

To celebrate this trend, in our on-line recipe section we have added almost 200 new recipes - some of which are quite exotic -- reflecting the creativity of the new chefs of Spain. The Spanish Institute for Foreign Trade (ICEX) publishes a most impressive English language professional publication called GOURMETOUR which reports on both the old and the new cuisine of Spain. The editor-in-chief Cathy Boirac has generously opened their 'recipe box' for all of us to enjoy.

The next time you grab a bite to eat and hurry on your way, remember that dining is also a time for the refreshment of your spirit in the company of others. That sense of companionship is central to the traditional way of life in Spain. The Spanish culture is richer for it.

Tu amigo,
Don

Three of my most lasting images of Spain involve bridges. One involves the bridge at Ciudad Rodrigo, an active rural center with a long history, in Salamanca province close to the Portuguese border.

My wife Ruth and I stayed in a wonderful restored 14th C castle - part of the national Parador system. As we stood by the open window of our room that day many years ago we could see women washing clothes along the Aguedo river bank as they had been doing for centuries and beyond the women was a beautifully proportioned bridge built by the Romans more than two thousand years ago.

The bridge, the river running through the city, the women by the river bank - it was a timeless image - it could have been from any century except when the scene was disturbed by a random truck heading over the bridge toward Portugal. We returned to Ciudad Rodrigo two years ago to enjoy a local festival. The castle, the Roman bridge, and the vistas were there, but the women washing their clothes on the rocks by the river were not. The timeless touristic scene had been altered.

This is one of the paradoxes of being an American tourist in Spain. On the one hand we like to immerse ourselves in ages past -- largely because our American culture is so new. In this case the city dates back to dolmens in pre-history and extends to Romans, Suevians, Visigoths, Moors, Christians. On the other hand, we surely do not want to sentence the local Rodrigan housewives to hand washing clothes at the river in order to enhance our enjoyment of the past. A washing machine is a good thing!

Another bridge whose image has lodged itself in my memory is a medieval bridge with eight stone arches which spans the Arga River in Aragón. It was built by queen Doña Mayor a little after the beginning of the last millennium in order to help the streams of pilgrims who were on their way to Santiago de Compostela. The bridge was at the juncture of two major pilgrimage routes that stretched back to France and Holland and the town which formed in the vicinity of the bridge was named Puente de la Reina - literally the Bridge of the Queen. It is a fascinating place where you can enjoy many religious monuments contributed by the medieval pilgrims. One of the most moving is a cross in the wayside chapel 'El Crucifijo', carved by a German pilgrim centuries ago.

Today the byway is still crowded with travelers along the Camino de Santiago. Some of them are pilgrims in the old-fashioned sense: penitential Christians making their journey as a spiritual exercise, hoping to draw closer to their Lord. But nowadays you will also see hikers with no particular faith seeing the journey as a challenge, or a walk through nature. You will also see cyclists on thousand dollar bicycles living their own personal fantasies.

So the paradox is evident once more. There is the mental image of the purity of the medieval pilgrims streaming on foot across the bridge seeking solace at the shrine of Santiago. For the most part, that sort of piety belongs to another age, and who are we to question the motivation of latter day pilgrims whose spiritual quest may be another variation of the same form? It is not as if the motivations of the medieval pilgrims were pure as the driven snow (except in our imagination!). Although the externals change, the substance remains the same.

The third bridge is not Roman or medieval. It was neither built to serve the Roman Legions nor the Christian pilgrims. It is one of six new bridges built to improve the traffic flow for the Expo '92 World's Fair in Sevilla. El Alamillo Bridge crosses the Meandro San Jacinto River from central Sevilla, over the La Cartuja monastery complex to the other shore thereby linking two distinct parts of the ancient city of Sevilla - and spanning distinct eras. On one side is the triumphant capitol of the Reconquista with the huge cathedral and Alcázar (built by Pedro the Cruel). In the middle on an island is an expression of Spanish monasticism embodied in the sprawling edifice of La Cartuja, home of the Carthusian monks, and later the site of ceramic tilemaking. On the other shore is the mysterious Triana district steeped in its Moorish past with Moorish tilemaking continuing, gypsy music and dance echoing through the narrow streets.

Out of practical necessity - the growing traffic of a newly vibrant Spanish culture - comes this magnificent work by Spanish engineer and architect Santiago Calatrava. He invented a new kind of cable-stayed bridge - a single pylon inclines away from the river and supports the 600 foot span with thirteen pairs of stay cables.

Some people compare the bridge form to a harp, others to a ship's mast, still others, a swan. In this bridge I see the New Spain, innovative and daring, enhancing people's enjoyment of centuries upon centuries of cultures - adding, not tearing down. The tension is always there between the traditional and the innovative. As Spain emerges from a long dormant period marked by suffering, I enjoy seeing her joyfully stretch her wings.

I am an admirer of Spain's legacy of art, faith and a traditional culture that strongly reinforces their commitment to the family. Yet, I have to rub my eyes as I see some of my favorite images replaced - whether it be a modernized Ciudad Rodrigo, cyclists in their expensive regalia zipping across the ancient pilgrimage bridge in Puente, or international tourists sweeping into gorgeous flower-filled Sevilla. But I have confidence that Spain will digest these cultural innovations and integrate the best of them. The Spanish culture remained unique, even though immersed in the Moorish culture for 700 years. I have few worries about today's Spain.

One of the greatest symbols of the emergence of Spain is about to take place in our country. Santiago Calatrava has been commissioned to design a dramatic skyscraper in Chicago, whose towering and graceful form will reflect on Lake Michigan. When completed, it will be the highest building in the world, outside of Taipei. It will be a dramatic cultural bridge from New Spain to the New World.

Tu amigo,
Don

The day after his 19th birthday a Spanish youth named Rafael Nadal won the French Open tennis tournament. After the young Spaniard scored the winning serve he rushed over to embrace his family -- and then in his youthful exuberance he hugged Juan Carlos I, King of Spain!

Later on during the festivities as he was speaking softly to his parents, he looked up at the press and said: 'I hope all this won't change me. I would like to stay the same as I've always been, and I believe I will pull it off. I want to continue being a 19-year old youngster and play my tennis.'

Even though this young man has already earned well over $1 million, Rafael continues to share an apartment building with his family: his grandparents live on the ground floor, his uncle Toni lives with his wife and three daughters on the second floor, his parents live on the next floor and he shares the top floor with his younger sister Maria Isabel.

Many emerging tennis players leave their homes and families in their teen years to perfect their games in tennis academies and training centers. Nevertheless, Sebastian and Ana María Nadal decided that it was best for their son Rafael to remain home in Manacor, Mallorca, where the family has been since the 14th C. He could train with his uncle and go to a regular secondary school. Their values were clear.

Forty years ago Ruth and I were married and settled into our life together. However, I was a newly commissioned naval officer, and twelve weeks later the Navy had a surprise for us: I was sent to sea for a six-month deployment aboard destroyers, and had to leave my bride behind! However, it is an ill wind that blows no good, for my first port of call was Valencia where I had my first taste of Spain, and it captured my heart.

Here I experienced a warm and personal way of life in which the family is most important, and children are included in all aspects of family life. I remember enjoying tapas at a roadside venta after 10:00 PM and hearing the laughter of little children darting in and out of the tables, where their families were seated!

Over the subsequent years of traveling and living in Spain with my wife Ruth and our family, I have sometimes wondered whether I have over-romanticized traditional Spaniards and the values by which they order their lives, but when I read about Rafael and his family the other day, I knew my assessment was true. The traditional Spanish values produce a remarkable people.

This sentiment was reaffirmed when Ruth and I were invited to celebrate the Fourth of July holiday with Jorge Ordoñez and his family. He has devoted his life to the promotion of artisan Spanish wines in America.

Although we had never met them before, Jorge and his American wife Kathy welcomed us into their kitchen as if we were old friends. Soon we joined their friends and family on the back patio for a feast prepared with obvious delight by Jorge himself! Such warmth and generosity: we were included into their gathering - with no pretensions or formalities.

While everyone enjoyed chipirones - baby squid - and a fresh-caught striped bass in his backyard Jorge told us of his life in Malaga. I sensed deep-felt emotion as he talked of his roots in Andalucía and particularly his local area - probably much as the Nadal family might talk about the island of Mallorca if we were sitting with them. Jorge shared with us his pride in the wines he had found and developed, especially from age-old vines. However, our conversation was not just about wine, it was about life together with our loved ones as we exchanged stories about our families --- with their young children Victor and Monica playing in the background.

In traditional Spain, children maintain an intimate connection with their families well into their adult lives. It is not uncommon for sons and daughters to remain at home until they are married in their late twenties. In the United States we have the understanding that if our children hang around home much beyond eighteen, it is time to nudge them out the door. We want them to become independent and self-sufficient. I wonder if the traditional Spanish viewpoint where love between parents and their children is allowed to mature within the family might not be a healthier path to follow. Apparently that is what the young tennis player believes.

The benchmark of the Spanish culture is this warm and cordial hospitality extended to family members and guests alike. Our family experiences this generosity of spirit whenever we are with them - whether we are dining with jamón ibérico experts from the University of Cáceres, or enjoying a cookout with a Spaniard in Greater Boston.

Best of all, this generous way of life can become contagious!

Tu amigo,
Don

Explore with me one of Spain's signature dishes, paella. In many parts of Spain, this famous rice dish has been a tradition for centuries. Some communities even have paella festivals with giant pans that serve two thousand people at a time!

Creating a delicious paella is well within the reach of a regular cook. If you use authentic ingredients to start with, you do not need to be a master chef to prepare something delightful for your friends and family. I know you will have fun experimenting - it can even be a common project, with everyone pitching in to prepare a perfect feast.

My wife Ruth and I appreciated the versatility of paella when we had to plan the rehearsal dinner party for our son Jonathan and his bride Stacey a few years ago. We were to hold the party in a rented house in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. So, rather than struggling with the logistics needed to stage a sit-down dinner in a strange town, we decided to serve festive pans of paella graced with local seafood.

We were no experts - we just thumbed through Penelope Casas' ¡Paella! cookbook and selected recipes that seemed particularly appealing. I assembled the key ingredients, including fresh seafood from the local fishing boats. Then Ruth cooked seven paellas of various configurations - some with seafood, many without! It was great fun, and it was a big hit with the wedding party, contributing to the celebratory atmosphere.

Where does the name 'paella' come from? Some say that the dish was first prepared by a lover for his fiancée and that the word is a corruption of por ella (meaning 'for her'). Others say that 'paella' is from the Arabic word "Baqiyah", which means 'leftovers' (which were tossed onto the rice.) More likely, though, 'paella' takes its name from the two-handled cooking pan, paella (from the Latin patella, meaning pan), in which the dish is traditionally cooked.

Paella originated in the 8th C when the Moors first brought to El Palmer, Valencia, sacks of a strange white grain called rice. The local Valencians garnished the rice with readily available ingredients - vegetables, snails, and perhaps a rabbit - and the original paella was born. It was everyday food for field workers - not a gourmet item garnished with shellfish and other seafood.

An interesting aside: Due to prevalence of marsh malaria in the Albufera wetlands, Valencians ceased growing any rice there from 1448 until 1860. They believed that the rice was a carrier of the disease! I have often speculated as to why our friends in Calasparra started growing rice in mountain valleys high above sea level. I can see now that the motivation was to raise rice far, far away from the disease-ridden marshlands. They were able to produce rice in a healthy atmosphere because they could channel fresh mountain streams through aqueducts built centuries before by the Romans! (La Tienda imports this same Bomba rice today.)

It was not until over 400 years later that the locals were convinced that it was not the rice, but the mosquitoes in the flatlands, that bred malaria. From this moment onward the Albufera rice fields flourished! It is also from this time that outdoor cooking of paella became popular as a festive family event in Valencia. No longer was it simple workers fare.

As tourists from other parts of Spain vacationed on the coast in the summer, the dish spread throughout other regions of Spain. Variations have evolved to include locally available produce. In Sevilla and Cádiz, they add big prawns and langostinos. Along the Costa del Sol, mussels, prawns, ñora peppers and lemons became favored ingredients.

Remember - paella is a simple rice dish. So keep it simple. Use Spanish short-grained rice, such as Bomba -- it absorbs prodigious amounts of broth with each grain remaining distinct. (Arborio rice is creamy; Asian short grain is sticky; aromatic basmati rice is fragile, and regular long grain is not absorbent). Use real Spanish saffron. In poorer times, Spaniards substituted 'colorante' a yellow artificial coloring - but it is not the same thing. Finally, pay attention to your broth. Make a flavorful broth for the rice with fish or chicken stock (or bouillon cubes).

Paella can come in handy at the most unexpected times. In the aftermath of Hurricane Isabel, we were without electricity for days on end here in Williamsburg, VA. Undaunted, one of our neighbors set up his paellero (propane burner and tripod). With a paella pan and whatever ingredients were at hand he put together a delicious paella to feed the whole neighborhood!

A perfect recipe? Probably not. But for me the authenticity of paella is gauged by the community it builds. What better way to enjoy your friends than to sit around the communal paella and share it together? That is what life is all about.

Best wishes to you and your family,
Don

I could hardly believe my eyes. I saw a couple of brave young men vaulting over bulls in the middle of Ciudad Rodrigo. I turned to my wife Ruth and said, "Isn't that what young men did in the Minoan culture thousands of years ago?"

We were sitting in the makeshift stands which had been erected for the running of the bulls in the plaza mayor of the agricultural town in Extremadura. This was no Hemingway bacchanal a la 'The Sun Also Rises'. I did not catch a glimpse of Ava Gardner! Hardly. Next to us on the rickety stands sat a couple of middle-aged farm wives catching up on the latest gossip. Close by was a family group drinking wine and carving slices of jamón from a leg they had brought with them. It had more the feel of a community picnic.

We were witnessing an elemental rite of passage in which young men showed their valor before their approving neighbors by tangling with the bulls. I am no anthropologist, but it seems to me this was an echo of the distant past. In prehistoric times bulls played an important part in the religious ceremonies of Iberian tribes living in Spain. Thousands of years ago during the time of the Minoan culture in Crete the bull-cultus was central. We see evidence of the influence of bulls throughout the Iberian Peninsula, whether it be the cave paintings of Altamira, or the stone bulls of Las Arenas de San Pedro in Avila.

Another echo of this ancient rite of passage into manhood is La Corrida, the misnamed "bullfight". In this ritual the bull, the essence of animal virility, is confronted and subdued by a sole human being, the matador, protected only by his faith, his valor and a thin sword. The magnificent Toro Bravo he faces is an archaic strain of bulls that today is only preserved in Spain. Their ancestors are the primitive 'urus', which used to be spread out over wide parts of the ancient world.

Whether or not you approve of - or even understand - the corrida, it is a national tradition that many believe is the very essence of Spanish culture: a ritual that binds an historically fragmented collection of regions into one country and that predates Spain itself. The corridas were even held in the midst of the bloody days of the Civil War!

"Our literature, our paintings, all of our artistic expressions are influenced by the world of the bull," one Spaniard observed, " It explains who we are." I think he is right. In what other country would you find huge black silhouettes of fighting bulls looming on the horizon as you wend your way through the rolling hills of the countryside?

Originally it was a brilliant marketing strategy of the Osborne Bodegas, makers of sherry and brandy in my "hometown" of El Puerto de Santa María. Over much of Spain they installed colossal billboards cut in the shape of the bull with the word Osborne emblazoned in red letters across his body.

After the passing of Franco the reforming national legislature, the Cortes, passed sweeping legislation including a ban on all roadside billboards throughout the nation. But the ink had hardly dried on the document before they realized they had unintentionally done an unthinkable thing: the massive bulls would be removed from the landscape! So they went back into session and declared the bull silhouette a national treasure, so long as the brand name was removed!

This year many of Spain's mighty bulls are being confined to the ranch under a quarantine aimed at halting the spread of a disease known as bluetongue. It is only harmful to sheep, not other livestock or humans. Still, it puts the government in the unenviable position of trying to balance the interests of the fighting bulls, which represent a tradition that is nearly sacred in some parts of society, with the venerable sheep industry.

"The current measures would create the gravest crisis we have ever known," Enrique Garza Grau, secretary general of the National Association of Organizers of Bullfighting Spectacles, said in an interview. The gravest crisis? I know Spaniards often speak in hyperbole, but as I think about it, Señor Garza may not be far from the mark.

Tu Amigo,
Don

If you wanted to travel off the beaten track in Spain for a week or two to absorb the essence of the country, where would you go? This is not an easy question to answer, since Spain includes many different peoples: from redheaded men playing bagpipes in Galicia, to dark eyed señoritas in their flamenco dresses, riding sidesaddle at the ferias in Andalucía. It has seventeen autonomous regions, each with its own appeal.

Certainly, anyone's understanding of Spain is bound to be subjective. Since my family and I lived among the warm and gracious people of Andalucía, the region has a special place in my heart. I have images of the Giralda tower in Sevilla; the Alhambra palace and gardens of Granada; La Mesquita -the Mosque of Córdoba. I recall the pungent wine barrels in a sherry bodega next to our house, and the fishing boats bringing fresh seafood into the harbor. Andalucía is a fascinating part of Spain where the Moorish and Christian cultures converged; nevertheless, it is only a piece in the Spanish mosaic.

Before we lived in Cádiz, I would have defined the Spanish experience as walking the streets of Toledo at night on the same cobblestones trod by Visigoths and Moors; Jews and Christians; by El Greco and Alfonso the Wise. Or it is climbing up the fanciful castle of Segovia with my sons, or eating roast suckling pig in the shadow of a Roman aqueduct. But then again, is not Spain also the walled medieval town of Avila, or the broad Ramblas of Barcelona, or the Romanesque churches tucked in the valleys of the Pyrenees?

Where can you capture the essence of Spain? I suggest traveling the pilgrimage route that leads to the holy city of Santiago de Compostela. The Camino is a pathway that people of all sorts have trod for well over a thousand years. It spans northern Spain from the snow-capped Pyrenees to the windswept shores of Celtic Galicia. There in the pilgrim city of Santiago de Compostela lie the bones of St James, the patron saint of Spain. For Spaniards Santiago is the focus of the seven hundred year Reconquista of their land from the Moors.

In medieval times, as today, the pilgrims had many reasons for walking along the Road. From the furthest corners of Spain came penitents seeking to cleanse their sins at the Door of Pardon at the cathedral. Others made the long and arduous trip as a means of personal renewal, exclusive of any miraculous claims. Artists and artisans offered their handiwork along the route and employed their skills as architects and stonemasons --adorning buildings, building bridges or constructing churches and monasteries. /pantry-staples/preserves

Many others joined this stream of humanity that converged from all over Europe -- people of many lands, languages and cultures. Charlemagne traversed the Camino, as did some of the people written about in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. The travelers must have enjoyed many of the traditional products still around today, such as arrop, membrillo, various chorizos, jamón and fig cakes.

While many consider walking to be the most authentic method to follow the Camino, you can still catch the flavor of the Camino by bicycle or car. Over the years, Ruth and I have wended our way by automobile through the many little towns and cities that sprung up along the path to serve the pilgrims.

We stayed in Santo Domingo de Calzada in the same inn that St Francis of Assisi visited. In León, we marveled at the thousand-year-old frescos in the royal pantheon of the Collegiate church of San Isidoro and we were bathed in the pure light of the stained glass of the classic gothic cathedral. We detoured from the main route to visit the Camera Santa in the cathedral in Oviedo deep in Asturias - for me it is one of the most evocative and holy places of all.

Our son Jonathan walked the 400 miles across Spain twelve years ago. Along the way, he met many Spaniards from Aragon, Navarra, Leon, and El Bierzo -- all the way to Santiago and the far shores of Galicia. One man he befriended was a young itinerant Brazilian who had been in many parts of the globe on his personal pilgrimage. Years later Jonathan returned to the Camino for his honeymoon.

Our family wanted to reflect this unifying event of the Spanish tradition so we chose the shell of Santiago as our La Tienda trademark. For the same reason we selected the Peregrino brand for our private label with its shell and crossed walking staffs.

In America there is an association named American Pilgrims on the Camino, which brings together people who have gained from the Santiago experience, or who are considering making the journey. They are about to publish a beautiful new magazine, Pilgrimage, concerning all aspects of pilgrimages, and are meeting for a week in Toronto beginning 10 May. Some of you might enjoy contacting them at their website. It is full of information about their gathering including aspects of spiritual retreat, and even training for those who want to return to the Camino to help other travelers on the Way.

The essence of Spain? Perhaps the Pilgrimage is an apt metaphor, and not only for Spain and its long struggle for unity, but also for each one of us as we travel through life. Should you choose to mix with the townspeople along the Camino you will experience the flavor of the centuries old traditions of the Spanish people.

Buen viaje,
Don