Friends, Romans, countrymen, once again I come to bore you with tales from the other side of the world.  Just wait until you hear what happened last night, though.

--

18 Mar 2008.  7:04pm.

The aqueduct.

aq·ue·duct (āk'wĭ-dŭkt')

1.  A pipe or channel designed to transport water from a remote source, usually by gravity.

It doesn't matter how many pictures I saw, how many descriptions I read, nothing could have prepared me for the aqueduct.

2.  A bridgelike structure supporting a conduit or canal passing over a river or low ground.

The huge, cumbersome arches belie their own age.  The thing is 2.000 years old and refuses to budge an inch.  Once part of a kilometers-long maze to get water into Tarraco, this massive chunk is all that remains.

But what a chunk it is.

A frozen wind blows past as I climb up into the actual channel that still remains along the top of the layers of arches.  It's more shallow than I would have imagined in order to bring an entire river's worth of water into the city.

I can imagine the stream flooding through the channel, rushing down to ferry the needed fluid to the crowded, overpopulated city.

This was 2.000 years ago.  And then, with the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, what did middle-ages Iberia do with their legacy?

Nothing.

They let a kilometers-long piece of amazing architecture and spectacular ahead-of-their-time thinking fall into disuse and disrepair until all that is left is this (albeit gorgeous and impressive) 217 meters of tan-pink arches.

Please let us treat our past with more respect than they gave the aqueduct.

19 Mar 2008.  10:32pm.

I stand in solemn silence as I feel the deep thump of the huge bass drums resonate through my chest.  The Roman soldiers before me march in unison, and though their 'armor' is largely shiny painted plastic, it's still astonishing.

They scrape their feet inexplicably as they walk.  Their faces are stern, determined.  Following them is a slew of young children, wearing red and purple cloaks and carrying oil torches, flickering in the biting wind of the cold evening.

The first paso arrives, a large representation of Christ praying in Gethsemane, with the angel coming down from heaven to comfort the Son of God.  The attention to detail is amazing, even down to the budding olives on the branches of the tree.

Following the paso, another set of drummers, beating out a slow, funerary dirge.  They wear purple masks, with only small eye holes betraying the fact that there's a person inside the suit.

The second procession arrives, this time led by children in white with a thin sash of blue.  Their high collars help protect them from the chilly night as they make their somber sojourn across the dank night.

The second paso comes, Christ being tortured and whipped.  The agony on his face is palpable, and the looks on the faces of his tormentors are full of disdain and pleasure at their gruesome task.

After another set of slow, deep drums, the third procession begins, led by young girls in white dresses, covered by a heavy maroon cloak.  In their midst is another paso, Pilate asking whether Jesus or Barabbas should be released.  The Lord has a look of humility and resignation on his bloodied face.

More drums, joined by a form of bagpipe traditional to the Iberian peninsula.  Their song is mournful, pained, as if trying to convey the suffering of the Savior.

The fourth paso comes, Simon helping Christ carry the cross, the latter unable to rise from the ground.

The fifth procession appears, white-and-gray cloaked, accompanied by the paso of Jesus once again trying to carry the cross, his arm extended as though trying to console the believe that, while horrible, this is only the dark Friday, and the glorious Sunday (though it may appear so distant) is sure to come.

Another procession, the last one, in crimson robes and with eerie white hoods, brings the arrival of the cross - a typical Spanish Christ, emaciated skin-and-bones, hanging like a limp fish nailed to a stick.

(I'm reminded of Unamuno's conversation with the unnamed South American - probably Darío - where the latter called the average sickly, blood-covered Christ barbaric.  The former, the Man, however, defended it, and likened it to Spain's own travails, saying that there is a serene, calm Christ - that of the Transfiguration and the Ascension - that his country has yet to earn the right to worship.  If he has seen what would become of his beloved country after his death, he would have cried and maintained the supremacy of this agonized, bloodied Savior.)

I walk home, sobered by what I see, unable to find the words to express my emotion.