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Cuenca is an ancient city with a 12th-century core. In 1177, Alfonso VIII "liberated" it from the Moors, and the
construction of a central cathedral began.
While quaint and, occasionally, exquisite, it is like many of the ancient
parador locations: a bit far from everything. (Elsewhere in Spain, if you call someone "from Cuenca" it’s akin to
saying from "the sticks.")
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The two-and-a-half-hour trip from Madrid in an overcrowded, over-air-conditioned bus passes through a blurry landscape of
olive trees and uninhabited stretches of land, punctuated by one-street towns and crumbling ruins.
Cuenca is known for the
casas colgadas, or hanging houses, cut improbably into the cliffs and dangling dangerously over the ravine, as well as its
Moorish history, a quirky cathedral built in fits and starts over the course of several centuries, and an unexpectedly
excellent selection of (mostly Spanish) modern art.
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Cuenca’s parador lies
just across a narrow, nerve-racking wood-and-iron bridge spanning the Huécar gorge from the base of the old city. The
building seems to grow from the rock rather than cling to it — especially seen from the far side of the gorge, out the
window of the Fundación Antonio Pérez, another former convent and one of two major stops for
modern art — the other is the
well-edited Museo de Arte Abstracto Español, housed in one of the casas colgadas.
Ms. García points out that like many paradores built in former monasteries and convents, this one is known for its
breathtaking entrance and foyer. In them, impossibly high ceilings, with 18-foot arched windows recently swathed in
mustard yellow Thai silk that look out onto an internal courtyard are set into thick and cool stone walls that once gave
respite during pre-air-conditioned Spanish summers.
These dramatic hallways feel more palatial than religious: the updated décor recalls Camelot — high-backed velvet print
couches and vaguely royal-court-looking chairs that make tall people look tiny, and force all to sit up straight;
pointed archways, once confessionals, now hide phone booths; religious art adorns the walls.
The theme continues in the bedrooms, where the high carved-back beds are hung with elaborate half-canopies, and the dining
hall, which has a carved period ceiling and newly lilac-colored walls. A white marble pulpit hovers above the heads of
diners.
DINING is a major draw in parador culture: the menus reflect the food eaten in this countryside for centuries. Meals are
relaxed affairs with multiple bottles of reasonably priced Spanish red wines presented first alongside an amuse-bouche of
migas (literally, crumbs), which is day-old bread that has been seasoned and fried in local spices and surrounded on a
plate by the textures and tastes of the area. Here they include grapes, eggplant, bacon and onions, each sautéed and meant
to be dipped and rolled in the crumbs.
The emphasis is on hearty (read: very heavy) country fare and game: loin of deer in red wine, roast suckling pig, thick
garlic soup with a dollop of poached egg and ham. Mortuelo is a simmered carnivorous mix of all the meats in season you
can think of — from ham to partridge to hen to pork loin mixed (again) with bread crumbs. But there is also a vegetarian
menu, with, for example, fried eggs on a bed of spiced eggplant, tomato, peppers and onions (what anywhere else would be
called ratatouille), a local delicacy eaten any time of day.
But though the menu and wine list are extensive and the room austere, the feeling is more family than formal: this is
Spain after all, and kids eat with their parents until well into the night. No one has dressed for the occasion save the
waitresses, who wear uniforms of blue taffeta and a white apron embroidered with vaguely Swiss flowers, a native dress
worn during regional festivals.
They can’t be terribly comfortable, but they look the part and are happy to recommend local sweets — like the lyrically
named suspiros de monja, (nun’s sighs), a type of meringue. On our second night, a large local wedding closed the dining
room to regular hotel guests, and well-to-do Conquenses, as residents are called, ate course after course of their local
specialties.
In a nod to changing times, there are modern areas of the
parador as well,
relaxing spots not quite so heavy with history.
A second-floor solarium lounge has bridge tables and striped modern couches, comfy armchairs and plush rugs. A pool lies
just beyond a tennis court beneath the cliffs. These are not indigenous elements.
But then neither is the art-space Espacio Torner, housed since December in the Iglesia de San Pablo, once the private
chapel, and attached to the parador. Inside, abstract paintings and sculptures of a Cuenca native, Gustavo Torner, are
displayed with stark restraint and focus. The combination of space and light — the soaring vaulted ceiling juxtaposed
against the temporary white space allotted to show the works — is unexpectedly powerful.
"This is a special place," says Dr. Elena Oliete, a family physician from Valencia who worked at Cuenca’s
hospital for three years, about the
parador. "When I lived here, I lived in the old part of the city. I would take
people who came from Madrid or Barcelona for a coffee here."
At the parador, she explains, both Spaniard and foreigner — in awe together of the 600-year-old space — are both tourist
and time traveler.
(Cuenca images by Matias Costa for the New York Times)
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