I must have seen this picture in a math book or something, but ever since I’ve wanted to go there. Actually, I thought it was the Alhambra until about halfway through my visit I suddenly remembered we hadn’t seen that memorable geometric pattern.
“Where are the red arch things?”
“The wha—? Oh, that’s the Mesquita. In Cordoba.” Ten minutes later, I informed my novio, who has spent the last three weeks traveling here and there and everywhere with me, that we had to go to Cordoba.
And—despite an expensive train ride, expensive entry tickets into the mosque, and only three hours total in the city—it was worth it. There is something about mosques—and the Mesquita in particular—that I find calming. Cathedrals make me want to twirl, be respectful, and maybe sing a Disney song or two. But mosques leave me steeped in a quiet peace, begging for solitude and a quiet chat with God.
I’ve always thought of Christianity as a humble, muddy sort of religion. All have sinned and the leader of our faith was a Jewish carpenter who washed feet and spoke with prostitutes. And while I’ll be the first to admit Protestants are strangely slow to fear and respect God, I identify more with a personal relationship than a vaulted-ceiling sort of faith.