SEVILLE - CITY OF GARDENS

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DAY 2 MONDAY 2ND MAY 2005

Today is a public holiday. (Labour Day). I leave Acacias Hotel at 8:30 am in time to catch the 9:am bus
to the Malaga bus terminal, heading for SEVILLE. The #11 bus arrives on time, but the door is stuck. Driver spends five minutes fighting with the door lever. Finally he waves me to the back door. Only 3 other passengers. The streets are wet and steaming after an early rainfall. The air is humid and tropical. The sweet smell of oranges hangs heavily in the air. At Alameda Principal I disembark and try to find the #19 bus stop. Among all the other bus stops along this parade of bus stops, I couldn't find the #19. Finally after asking someone I sprint to the correct stop, just as the bus arrives. I pull out a 20 euro bill. The driver shakes his head ,"Exacto cambiar" meaning "Exact change." I attempt to explain I only have the bill, but he refuses, and points to a nearby cafe, so I step off the bus. I have fifteen minutes before my Seville connection leaves the terminal. I run across to the cafe and trade my 20 for a pile of coins. I return to the bus stop and wait a further 10 minutes. The bus is a "no-show". I hail a taxi, and say " Autobus estacian - nuevo por favor." Five euros and less than 5 minutes later, I am walking into the terminal. The familiar green buses of the ASINA line take passengers as far north as Barcelona. The buses are of a similar style as the Greyhounds, but very clean, equipped with tinted windows, air conditioning, airline style seating, and arm rests. (Cost from Malaga - Seville = 13 euro) My bus driver starts to supervise the loading of the luggage which passengers must do themselves. He is dressed in an immaculately ironed white cotton shirt and black dress pants. His manner seems to convey personal pride and professionalism in his work. The bus is only half full, so I am able to pick a seat by the window. Just as the driver starts backing out of the parking lot, a grey haired lady screams. Then she jumps out of her seat and exits the bus crying, "My sister!" in Spanish. The driver is clearly annoyed, and we wait several minutes until the woman returns with her sister who was in the restroom. We leave 10 minutes later than scheduled.

We wind our way westward through the hills heading for the autostrada. The black ribbon of highway
is bordered on both sides by rows of stunted trees which I think are olive groves. In the far distance,
a line of brindled hills remind me of loaves of bread, rolling across the horizon. In the fields, the dirt is the colour of arterial blood. the same as the soil on Prince Edward Island.

On a hill directly above the roadway stands "El Toro" , a twenty foot sculpture of the famous spanish bull. You will see these familiar Spanish sentinels located all over Spain. They call them "bullboards". We are travelling along a four lane highway. Its a toll road. We could have taken an alternate route toll free, but it would have been longer. The autostrada cuts the distance down, and allows the bus to travel along a well built smooth highway.

The driver taps his fingers against the steering wheel. The radio is on and we are listening to a variety of music including, Mark Knopfler, Tina Turner, and Laura Brannigan. Meanwhile, the passengers are chatting away. Up until now we have driven through landscapes under grey clouds. But as we approach the outskirts of Seville, the clouds disappear and the sun bursts through. The driver turns on the air conditioning. As we approach the industrial estates of Seville, I catch a glimpse of graffitti painted on a wall. "American Criminal" "English Criminal" in large red letters. A reference to the recent controversy involving Britain and USA's participation in the invasioin of Iraq.

Twenty minutes later we pull into the Prado San Sebastian bus station. I start walking up
to Carlos IV Avenida de Constitution. En route I am blocked by a gypsy woman. She smiles and hands me a sprig of herbs. In a flash she grabs my wrist and starts reading my palm. In broken english she says" "Happy family" and "big children" . Then she seizes my left hand and makes other insightful observations which were not nearly as optimistic. Then she demands "Dinero - in bills".
I give her 20 cents. This annoys her. She maintains this vice grip on my wrist. I say, "Cambiar"
and shrug. She reluctanly releases me and I quickly escape with my sprig of herbs, and my balls still intact.

I had booked Hotel Simon on the internet with no problems. Its only around the corner from the Giralda cathedral, centrally located and I find it without any problems. The receptionist takes my information and gives me the key to my room on the second floor. The room is half the size of the Acacias hotel. Furnished with a single bed, a bedside table, a shower, no TV and a window overlooking a postage stamp sized courtyard. But it is clean and cheap. (52 Euro per night) I quickly take shower, get changed and head for the door, on a mission to find a hot spanish meal.

Dusk falls quickly as I walk briskly east along the deserted corridor of Calle Garcia de Vinuesa. Then as I turn north along Avenida de la constitucion, I meet a wall of people. The smell of stale heat from a days rays, and particularly from the collective assembly of so many sweaty tourists, (including myself) almost suffocates me. That combined with a fleet of city diesel buses,
and a few dozen waspy sounding motor cycles leaves me choking, blind and dazed. But I should have known that this end of the Avenida de Consititucion was "tourist central" due to the proximity of Seville cathedral and the palace gardens of the Alcazar. However, as I approach Plaza Neuva, and the pedestrian-only shopping district called "Santa Cruz", the crowds evaporate and soon I found myself lost within a cool, quiet, shaded warren of narrow alleys; their names emblazoned on the walls in ceramic tile; Calle Villagos, Calle Sierpes, Calle Lineros. In one of these corridors, stand several dozen shopfronts ranked shoulder to shoulder, reminding me of a row of tightly wedged books. Their owners, in many cases linger outside, chatting with customers, and inviting others in. I pass street musicians, not buskers, but students of the University of Seville, making some extra money by playing the violin, or the double bass, or the classical guitar.

But all these distractions can cause you to lose your way. The maze of the Barrio is a laboratory rats nightmare, unless of course it has a "plano de ciudad" (city map). Fortunately this guinea pig has the sense to bring one. I wind my way up Calle Villagos to Plaza Jesu de La Pasion where I find a nice little
restaurant simply named the "Bistro". I am greeted by a charming and attractive young woman
dressed in as North American duds as you can get, black jeans and T shirt. I take a seat on the bar stool and ask for a menu. I say to the server, "Quiero un platos sin carne (Iwould like a dish without meat).
She points to a dish with pescado (fish). I order salmon raciones and uno cerveza (one beer) The favourite local beer is "Campcuzo." My server returns a short while later with a silver platter of three salmon steaks framed in a bed of salad. Although raciones is considered a large tapas, and is always cheaper than a restaurant meal, I definitely considered this to be fine dining. At 10 euro I paid a budget price, not enough to reflect the high quality of the food, and the friendly efficient service of the staff. I took the opportunity of practising my pigeon spanish by asking the two ladies in the attached photo where the flamenco bars were. After struggling with my accent, one of them said, "I speak English".
Delighted, I replied, "Where can I find a flamenco show tonight?" She told me that most authentic Flamenco shows don't start before 11:pm. She separated the "authentic" flamenco performance from the
ones put on exclusively for tourists. The other difference is the price. Free versus Dinero! She recommended a popular local bar called, "Le Carboneria". She gave me directions on my map,
and said, "I have never been there, but my friends have told me they have "live" flamenco shows
at no charge." I thanked her for her assistance and asked if I could take a photo of her and her
colleague for my journal to which she readily agreed. I bid them "Adios!" and set out to find this flamenco bar.

Fortunately it was only a 5 minute hike from Le Bistro. What I discovered was a plain white stucco building with a massive green-painted wooden door and a brass handle. But there were no signs to even indicate it was Le Carboneria. I asked a local resident to confirm it. She told me it wouldn't open until 11:pm. Since it was 10:pm now I decided to look for another bar and buy a beer. Nearby I found a hole-in-the-wall with a half a dozen bar stools and a TV. While sipping away, I practised my Spanish on an unsuspecting barman who politely corrected the pronunciation of every other word, to the point I had forgotten what I was saying. Finally the young woman beside me said, "Are you American?" I said, "Canadian". She introduced herself and to my surprise I learned she lived in my home town of Vancouver. She had recently graduated from the University of British Columbia, and was spending a sabbatical with her friend before embarking on
her career. I told her I was waiting for Le Carboneria to open, and she laughed and pointed to our barman. "You'll see Carlos dancing there. He is leaving soon to prepare."

When I returned to Le Carboneria a miniature door hinged into the big doors flew open and a wizened old man peered out. He seemed shocked to see me, but eagerly ushered me in. Once inside I encountered a strange candlelit cavernous landscape. Lofty walls, whitewashed and uneven, surrounded a dozen benches and tables. The bar was hidden in an alcove, but there were no customers.
Seated beneath a flamenco poster against the furthest wall, was a solitary musician strumming a guitar, singing a Simon and Garfunkel tune. I sat at the bar and ordered a Campcuzo. Gradually more customers drifted in. By 11:30 the bar stools were all occupied. People were chatting with each other but no one seemed to be waiting for a flamenco show to start. The musician had suddenley disappeared too.
Just as I was about to give up, I heard the sound of applause. I moved further into the back of the
room and found another hidden doorway, behind which I encountered a hall full of flamenco fans perched on a 3 tiered bleacher and applauding three flamenco performers; a guitarist, a dancer, and a singer.
The stage of Le Carboneria flamenco bar was very narrow and only slightly elevated . It would be an intimate experience with the audience sitting a guitars length away from the performers . Between the bleachers and the stage stood several long wooden benches and tables occupied by a diverse group of tourists, students, and die hard flamenco fans. I squeezed into a space in the second row just as the show started. The guitarist began the gig by introducing each of the performers. The dancer, tall and dark skinned, wore an imposing scarlet and black taffeta dress. Her crop of jet black hair, swept into a lofty hive, accentuated her height. The singer sat quietly on a chair, his hands cupped loosely on his lap, head bowed, waiting for the first few bars of music before beginning his accompaniment. As the steady repeditive rhythm of the "bulerias" picked up tempo, he raised his hands dramatically to shoulder height, as if offering the audience his blessing. Then he voiced the first notes of the song in a sudden warbling wail and in this small room the sound struck the hard adobe wall and bounced into the audience like a thunder clap. We were all surprised and delighted. I heard someone shout "Ole!" Then the flamenco dancer glided to the centre of the stage, her hands grasping the hem of her skirt. She raised a tanned muscular leg, suspending it in mid air for several seconds, while remaining perfectly still as she waited for her cue. Suddenley she drove the wide heel of her shoe hard into the wooden boards, startling someone in the audience as a whip crack sound bounced across the tiled floor and reverberated against our skin. Behind me a woman loudly cried, "ole!" "Ariba!"

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Photos

HOLA! WELCOME TO SEVILLE!
My hosts at the Bistro cafe near the pedestrian street of Villagos. The lady on the right spoke fluent Spanish although she's from San francisco! I ordered Salmon raciones, with salad. Delicious.

Horse Taxis
Several horse drawn coaches prepare
to take visitors for a tour of Seville

SENTINELS OF SPAIN
These "bullboards" dominate the landscape in Southern Spain. Thanks to Gordo(see Gordo's Blog) for lending me this one.

MOTOR CYCLE MADNESS
In Seville even grandmothers, ride motor cycles. You can hear Seville before you actually get there.

FOYER OF HOTEL SIMON
Budget cost rooms are small but clean and sparsely furnished.

CALLE SANTA CRUZ
Students demonstrate their talent by
giving shoppers a beautiful recital.
Click on the photo to see a close-up
of the mural.

A CITY OF ORANGE TREES
If you visit Seville in May you will
be in time to see, and smell, and pick the oranges!

Seville Cathedral
Located on the Avenida de la Constitucion, the cathedral is the second largest in Europe.

Le Carboneria
The authentic flamenco club of Seville

FLAMENCO DRESSES
A shop in Seville's Barrio district.