Destination: Spain

Five centuries of scholars have puzzled, pondered, and pontificated over the meaning of this cryptic triptych. Whatever it ultimately means, the large three-panel painting, with its wonderland of eye-pleasing details, is a garden of artistic delights.

As America continues to suffer crisis upon crisis, it has never been more important to broaden our perspectives and learn about the people and places that shape our world. And for me, one of the great joys of travel is seeing art masterpieces in person. Learning the stories behind great art can shed new light on our lives today. Here’s one of my favorites.

Today, the triptych is a highlight of Madrid’s famous art gallery, El Prado. The basics are pretty similar to other more traditional altarpieces. Hieronymus Bosch painted the story of mankind, from the innocence of creation (left panel), to the sensual pleasures of life on Earth (center), to the fate of sinners in hell after the Last Judgment (right panel).

The left panel is a fantasy Garden of Eden. The world is fresh, everything is in its place, the animals behave virtuously, and even God looks young. Adam and Eve — naked and innocent — get married, with God himself performing the ceremony.

The central panel depicts the Garden of Earthly Delights (that gives the whole work its name). It’s a riot of naked men and women, black and white, on a perpetual spring break — eating exotic fruits, dancing, kissing, cavorting with strange animals, and contorting themselves into a Kama Sutra of sensual positions. In the background rise the fantastical towers of a medieval Disneyland. It’s seemingly a fantasy land of pleasures and earthly delights. But where does it all lead? Men on horseback ride round and round, searching for but never reaching the elusive Fountain of Youth. People frolic in earth’s “Garden,” seemingly oblivious to where they came from (left) and where they may end up…

Now, go to hell. It’s a burning Dante’s Inferno-inspired wasteland where genetic-mutant demons torture sinners. Everyone gets their just desserts, like the glutton who is eaten and excreted into the bowels of hell, the musician strung up on his own harp (a symbol of lust), the gamblers with their table forever overturned, and the sexual harasser hit on by a pig-faced nun. In the center, hell is literally frozen over. Dominating it all, a creature with a broken eggshell body and tree-trunk legs stares out — it’s the face of Bosch himself.

So what does it all mean? So little is known about the Flemish painter Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1450–1516) that it’s hard to guess his intent. The basic message is that the pleasures of earthly life are fleeting. But if so, is it a condemnation of those “earthly delights” (which lead to hell) or a celebration (to enjoy them while you can)? The frolicking figures of the central panel sure look like they’re having a great time, like innocent kids at play, exploring their bodies and the wonders of the world with no sense of shame. Even the gruesome imagery of hell has a certain black humor to it. It could be that Bosch, who painted numerous standard altarpieces, made this as a kind of secular altarpiece for his sophisticated Burgundian patrons. Or, with its infinitely imaginative innovations, it could be nothing less than an 85-square-foot window into the strange mind of Hieronymus Bosch.

This art moment — a sampling of how we share our love of art in our tours — is an excerpt from the new, full-color coffee-table book Europe’s Top 100 Masterpieces by Rick Steves and Gene Openshaw. Please support local businesses in your community by picking up a copy from your favorite bookstore, or you can find it at my online Travel Store. To enhance your art experience, you can find a clip related to this artwork at Rick Steves Classroom Europe; just search for Prado.

If there’s any European travel experience that might actually be safe in the age of coronavirus, it’s walking the Camino de Santiago…which was always all about solitude, well before anyone heard the phrase “social distancing.”

Even if we’ve had to postpone trips to Europe, I believe a daily dose of travel dreaming can actually be good medicine. Here’s another one of my favorite travel memories — a reminder of what’s waiting for you in Europe at the other end of this crisis.

Standing on the main square of Santiago de Compostela, in front of the towering and gleaming granite facade of its cathedral, a giddy old man whose cuffs are as frayed as his walking stick lays down on the stony pavement and waves his arms and legs — as if making a snow angel. And I’m right there, sharing the joy of pilgrims who’ve completed the Camino de Santiago (Spanish for “Way of St. James”). With sunburned faces and tattered walking sticks, they triumphantly end their long trek by stepping on a scallop shell carved into the pavement in front of the city’s magnificent cathedral.

For over a thousand years, this cathedral in the far northwest corner of Spain has been the ritualistic last stop for pilgrims who’ve hiked here from churches in Paris and all over Europe. And for a thousand years, pilgrims — standing before this towering cathedral — have been overcome with joy and jubilation.

St. James, Santiago’s namesake and symbol, was a Christian evangelist — one of Jesus’ original “fishers of men.” But judging from the way he’s portrayed here, his main activity was beheading Muslims with his busy sword. Propagandistic statues of James are all over town — riding in from heaven to help the Spaniards defeat the Muslim Moors.

Considering how St. James is depicted taking such joy in butchering Muslims and the importance of Santiago for Christians, it’s no wonder police guard the square. Security here has been tight ever since 9/11.

Historians figure the “discovery” of the remains of St. James in Spain was a medieval hoax. It was designed to rally Europe against the Muslim Moors, who had invaded Spain and were threatening to continue deeper into Europe. With St. James — a.k.a. “the Moor Slayer” — buried in Iberia and that beloved tomb now in Muslim hands, all of Europe would rise up to push the Moors back into Africa…which, after a centuries-long “Reconquista,” they finally did in 1492.

All this commotion dates back about 1,200 years to a monk who followed a field of stars (probably the Milky Way) to this distant corner of Europe and discovered what appeared to be the long-lost tomb of St. James. Church leaders declared that St. James’ relics had been found, built a church, and named the place Santiago (St. James) de Compostela (campo de estrellas, or “field of stars”).

Walking the Way of St. James has changed little over the centuries. The gear still includes a cloak, a floppy hat, a walking stick, a gourd (for drinking from wells), and a scallop shell (symbolizing where you’re going).

In recent years, the route has enjoyed a huge renaissance of interest, with nearly 100,000 pilgrims trekking to Santiago last year. Today, most take a month to walk the 450 miles from the French border town of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. The walk itself is a kind of hut-hopping. At regular intervals along the route, humble government-subsidized hostels called albergues provide pilgrims a place to rest for the night (bunks are generally free, though a small donation is requested).

In the midst of the Camino, out on a dusty trail pilgrims have trod for a thousand years, I meet pilgrims of all types. Prepackaged groups have clean, matching T-shirts. Each hiker is issued a mass-produced walking stick with a decorative gourd tied to the top and the requisite dangling scallop shell with a brightly painted cross of St. James.

Other pilgrims are part of humbler, ragtag church groups from distant Catholic lands. Resting on a bluff, I’m passed by an otherworldly group that has shuffled all the way from Lithuania to the rhythm of its raspy, amplified chant-leader. Along with their rucksacks, the group carries an old boom box, various statues, and a 10-foot-tall cross. With their intentionally monotonous chant, they trudge slowly out of sight and then out of earshot.

Later, I stop in a medieval village — like so many ghostly quiet villages pilgrims pass all along the route. Its only “shop” is a vending machine cut into a stone wall. An old woman scrubs her laundry, bent over a convenient creek-side spot as her ancestors have for centuries. She ignores a shepherd herding his gangly flock over a narrow bridge.

In this idyllic corner, pilgrims are eager to share their experiences. I meet a New Yorker who has just hiked for days across the vast Spanish plain and learned nothing about life or himself. He is, in his words, “a little pissed off with it all.” Then comes a bouncy flower child from Berlin — a 20-year-old girl hiking alone, singing to herself, and radiant with appreciation for this personal journey. She speaks to me as if she were a real saint come to Earth. Talking with her, I feel I’ve entered a Botticelli painting (and don’t want to leave).

An Englishman I meet is doing the trail in three successive years because he can’t get enough time away from his 9-to-5 job to do it in one 30-day stretch. While he walks, he reflects on simplicity. Everyone I meet (except for the one pissed-off guy) is having a richly rewarding time. I keep thinking how a standard RV vacation — with its clever abundance of comforts — couldn’t be more different than this chance to be away from the modern world with all that it entails.

Because the last overnight stop on the Camino is just two miles away from the city of Santiago, most pilgrims arrive at the cathedral late in the morning, in time for the midday Mass.

Like a kid follows a parade, I follow the pilgrims as they approach the cathedral. I try to imagine the mindset of a medieval pilgrim, so exhausted yet so triumphant. You’ve just walked from Paris — about a thousand miles — to reach this holy spot. Your goal: to request the help of St. James in recovering from an illness. Or maybe you’ve come to honor the wish of a dying relative…or to be forgiven for your sins. Whatever the reason, you know the pope promised that any person who walked to Santiago in a Holy Year, confessed their sins, and took communion here would be forgiven.

After weeks of hiking, the spires of the cathedral come into view and jubilation quickens your tired pace. Finally, you stand upon that shell in the pavement to gaze up at the awe-inspiring cathedral. Stepping inside, you squint down the nave and see the statue of St. James that marks his tomb.

Kneeling at the silver tomb, you pray and make your request. Then you climb the stairs behind the altar up to the saint’s much-venerated statue — gilded and caked with precious gems. Embracing him from behind while gazing thankfully out over the cathedral, you have completed the Camino de Santiago.

Whether you hike the entire route or just the last stretch, it’s an experience that will stay with you forever. And, if you need an excuse to be thankful, consider that — unlike your medieval counterpart — you don’t need to hike back to Paris.

(This story is excerpted from my upcoming book, For the Love of Europe — collecting 100 of my favorite memories from a lifetime of European travel. It’s coming out in July, and available for pre-order. And you can also watch a video clip related to this story: Just visit  Rick Steves Classroom Europe  and search for Camino.)