Look for the tall, flat building with a pale pink facade resting on a heavy stone base, easily recognized by the vertical rows of square, grated windows and the large stone framed oval window right above the doorway.
At first glance, this looks more like a grand bureaucratic office than a religious sanctuary. That is entirely by design, or rather, by accident. This is the Convent of San Pedro de las Justinianas. By 1882, the original facade was dangerously cracked and threatening to collapse into the street. The abbess begged for help, and an architect named Rafael Alfaro came to the rescue. He created this rigidly symmetrical, vertical arrangement of windows. It sparked a bit of outrage at the time because it completely disguised the fact that this was a cloistered convent, a place where nuns lived in absolute, strict separation from the outside world.
But hiding secular realities behind a pious exterior is basically the founding tradition of this particular building.
The current convent was largely built in the mid seventeen hundreds, driven by a man named Canon Lujando. A canon is a senior priest attached to a cathedral, which sounds deeply respectable. But Lujando lived a spectacular double life. While wearing the holy cloth, he was secretly a major moneylender and ruthless financier. And if that was not enough, the official 1752 tax records list him as a breeder of fighting bulls.
It is quite the image. The same man preaching poverty and grace on Sunday was banking on blood, horns, and high interest loans on Monday. His intense drive for legacy mirrored a broader ambition where extreme worldly wealth and financial ruthlessness are carefully laundered into stone and salvation. Lujando used his questionable fortune to hire top architects to build a grand church right behind these pink walls.
He was not the only one buying a heavenly legacy here. A famous royal musician named José de Nebra poured his own fortune into outfitting the interior with magnificent altars and statues. It was a generous act, but it came with perks. His niece, Ignacia, lived in the convent and conveniently kept getting promoted to major roles like choir vicar and master of novices. She even changed her name to perfectly match the specific statues her uncle bought. Money talked, even in a vow of silence.
But earthly survival eventually catches up with divine ambition. When the Civil War broke out in 1936, the convent was totally looted, and much of that incredibly expensive, ego driven artwork was destroyed.
Today, the crisis inside these walls is much quieter. After centuries of history, only one nun remains. Sister Eulalia, a woman in her seventies, now wanders the vast, empty halls of this massive complex. Under recent Vatican rules, a contemplative community needs at least eight nuns to stay open. So, this five hundred year old institution is quietly slipping into the past.
Let us keep moving. We will transition from this austere, cubic exterior to a church that literally blends into the streets. The Iglesia de San Nicolás de Bari is just a two minute walk away.
