Two and a half days in Jaen and my research is done.
The last stop in my research on the life of the Spanish Civil War poet Miguel Hernandez was Jaen in Andalucia, a three-hour car ride from Orihuela.
Andalucia sounds like the home of the Andals of Westeros (e.g. Jorah the Andal); the name is believed to have been derived from Vandals, some of the Goths who took over the Roman Empire (I imagine them doing this to the music of Siouxsie and the Banshees or Sisters of Mercy).
In 90s Filipino gayspeak, Andalucia—anda for short—means money. (“Wala akong anda.”) Must find out how that happened. I associate Andalucia with Un Chien Andalou, the film by Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dali, with the memorable razor blade in eyeball scene.
The papers and personal effects of Miguel Hernandez are kept in a vault at the Diputacion de Jaen. The architecture of this public building recalls the area’s Moorish past.
This is the Spain I had expected from Bunuel movies: arid, rocky, desert-like. Everyone I met gleefully informed me that there are 69 million olive trees in Jaen. The temperature is in the low 20s Celsius, but when I step into the blazing noonday sunshine I feel like I’m being photocopied.
My research is done. On to Madrid! Never thought I’d miss being in a big, noisy city.
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