To Daniel MacGhie Cory
Hotel Continental,
Vigo, Spain. September 8, 1928
Dear Cory,
Got here unharmed but hot and dirty, two days ago. On the way, spent one day at Oporto—magnificently picturesque place, with the most impure architecture in the world, and the most romantic. Some day I will tell you about the cloisters of the cathedral—a delicious architectural joke: love-sick, over-muscular shepherds and shepherdesses all in white-and-blue tiles covering the walls, and inscribed in the beautiful Latin of the Song of Solomon!
My sister is well and apparently contented, but looks frightfully old and doesn’t say much for herself. She is staying in a fishing village where all the houses look like the cabins of sixteenth century ships. Under her windows is a fountain, where the barefoot village maids come to draw water and carry it off on jars poised on their heads. I don’t think I shall go there to live: there is an electric tram from Vigo that takes one there in an hour and makes a pleasant afternoon drive: in this hotel I have the best room with a fine view of the harbour where there are now seven Spanish war-ships. It is a splendid bay, surrounded by mountains, and the town neat and modern. Too much to eat: but there is a special (new) Spanish meal introduced before lunch, which I like very much: it fills an aching void without preventing it being refilled an hour later. It is called a vermouth, but besides the beverage it includes a dish of small olives and another of cold potatoes, fried—chips—which are much better (eaten with the fingers, as the ancients and all self-respecting Mohammedans should) than you might suppose. I will send you some picture cards another day, with such news as there may be to give.
Yours G.S.
From The Letters of George Santayana: Book Four, 1928-1932. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2003.
Location of manuscript: Butler Library, Columbia University, New York NY.