The stone is a smooth, creamy pale yellow; somewhere between vanilla custard and the coat of the Andrex puppy. Short curving alleys are glued together by dozens of tiny triangular piazzettas, many of which serve as car parks. Every street corner has a small shrine, every third corner a baroque church; weather-beaten statues of saints perch on top, posed against the blue sky. Pillars are draped in carvings; details of leaves, animals, pieces of fruit, and -without fail- hundreds of cherubs playing together or propping up a set of columns. As hipsters are to gentrification, cherubs were to the Counter-Reformation. The decoration is furious in its intensity and concentration. It’s surprising how many of these lavish churches remain unfinished; half a dozen niches on the facade stand empty, waiting for saints that couldn’t make it. Sometimes it abruptly stops three-quarters of the way up, giving way to an empty rectangle where one would expect a crowning gable. Inside, the Spanish influence is strong. The many side chapels house painted statues of weeping virgins and bleeding, mutilated martyrs. Their altars are full-on rococo; sometimes the stone is left bare, sometimes painted gold, always housing scores of smiling cherubim.
The Baedeker Raids 