The whitewashed city of Ronda.
Mark and our friend Kelly "bullfighting" in Ronda--in the oldest bullring in Spain.
Ronda's landmark, the "New Bridge."
Spanish cuisine is a delicious work of art!
Mark and Vicki celebrating the moment.
Travel Book
Where I've Been
November 2007
RONDA, SPAIN
It was my husband’s folded umbrella—launched straight up into the sky like an emergency flare—that first caught my attention. I only noticed Mark was no longer vertical when the umbrella plummeted back to earth and clattered to a landing near my husband’s right knee. That’s when I forgot how to breathe.
My husband lay in a contorted heap on the ground, his arm wedged beneath a grated metal platform. Mark’s neck was craned forward, undoubtedly trying to stave off an impact between his skull and the unforgiving surface of the carved rock steps. In that respect, I guess I could call Mark’s “trip” a success.
“I’m okay, I’m okay…” Mark reassured me over and over again. But my frenetic punk rock heartbeat refused to slow down. One broken step on an uneven stone staircase, covered with something that resembled Nickelodeon-esque green slime, was all it took to transform my vacation bliss to stark reality. Our bodies are so fragile—and our lives so brief.
There’s a local adage in this part of Spain that warns, “In Ronda, you will die of climbing steps.” My initial interpretation had leaned toward heart attack, not head trauma. After all, Ronda is perched on two rocky outcroppings, linked by a vertigo-inducing arched bridge towering almost 300 feet over a river gorge. On the south side, the skinny streets of the Moorish-influenced old town wind up and down and around, linked by a confusing maze of cobbled steps. If mountain goats had Visa cards, this is where they’d choose to vacation.
But at the moment, I stood far below the landmark Puente Nuevo, the so-called New Bridge. Completed in 1793, after a rather accident-prone construction history spanning over 50 years, the bridge reminded me of a super-model, poised to hit the runway: rakishly tall and waifishly thin. Luckily, at this moment she didn’t seem inclined to sashay in the breeze.
I glanced back at Mark. All things considered, he seemed just fine. A little algae-coated around the edges, but fine. I peered back up at the bridge, watching the sparrows dart in and out of the limestone precipices that flanked both sides of the murky, tea green river. A tiny eye of blue sky peered back at me, making me feel small and quiet, sending me adrift in prayer. I considered those who’d looked up at these same cliffs. Those who’d responded in worship. Those who’d worn chains.
In the 14th century, Ronda was a much fought over prize in the tug-a-war between the Moors of Granada and the Christians of Seville. When the city was under attack, Christian slaves were sent to the same spot where I now stood to transport water from the River Guadalevín to the citizens of the besieged city above.
The slaves took the same route to the bottom of the gorge as I had, descending through the “water mine.” Supported architecturally by stone arches and barrel vaults, the dark, damp staircase, hand-hewn inside the south wall of the gorge, is almost the height of a twenty-story building. Bound in chains, and carrying animal skin bags filled with water, the Christian slaves were the first to coin the “original” adage later adapted by Ronda’s modern-day citizens. They warned newcomers, “In Ronda, you will die of carrying waterskins.” The phrase “...up neverending steps” was undoubtedly implied.
Today, my view of canyon walls pointing up to the sky was an invitation to reverie. If I’d been wearing chains and carrying waterskins, that same glimpse of God-crafted beauty would have made my heart ache for freedom.
As Mark and I turned our backs on the view and began the long ascent back up to the main street, I found myself unexpectedly choking back tears. Tears of relief that my husband was unhurt. Tears of joy for the gift of being able to spend more time on this earth with the man I love. Tears of gratitude for our freedom to climb these steps unhindered by chains.
In the hands of a mighty God, just the hint of loss can be a powerful teacher. And loss seemed to be a lesson God wanted to engrain in my memory as I traveled through Spain. After losing our luggage for five days, both Mark and I realized how little we really needed to enjoy the beauty of Seville. After losing our way during a downpour of biblical proportions one night in Ronda, I realized the fear of getting wet is a ridiculous reason to run aimlessly through unfamiliar streets like the bulls at Pamplona. And after losing a necklace my husband had given me for my 50th birthday (when I absentmindedly left it on a hanger in a hotel), I realized that my relationship with my husband was what gave the necklace value. I still had Mark. His presence remains my favorite accessory.
Life, love, freedom, faith…why does it seem the gifts that matter most are the same gifts we most often take for granted? But not today. Today, I will plant this moment in the fertile ground of gratitude. With God’s help, it will blossom into a perennial touchstone, a recurring reminder to look up and celebrate the daily blessings that fall like manna onto my hungry heart.
Psalm 118:24 niv