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Published: September 1st 2007
Into the Horizon
A very common scene while traveling in the Spanish countryside.The last thing Gina or I wanted to contend with after a rough night’s sleep was the winding 4-hour bus ride to Seville. To make matters worse, a fireworks
grand finale had started brewing in my stomach by the time we reached the Algeciras bus station that morning, and it wasn’t long after procuring our tickets that I found myself frantically scanning for the closest baño. The seatless toilets that greeted me as I pushed open one stall after another were anything but welcoming; I had no choice. Finding Gina curled in the fetal position when I returned to the terminal a short while later, I could only envision the two of us fighting for the bathroom as our bus wound its way to Seville.
At 10AM, our bus pulled into spot number 4 and we loaded our luggage under the carriage with the handful of others destined for the heart of Andalucía. The resurgent churning of my stomach coincided with the realization that the bus lacked any receptacle to receive its contents.
This is going to be a long ride. Gina and I started giggling like two small children as we hashed out worst case scenarios involving various
Caballero
I know it's not a bull, but you get the idea bodily functions. The tomfoolery lasted only a few minutes as we returned focus to numbing our senses to the diesel fumes, zigzagging roads and uneven pavement. Somehow, Gina managed to force herself asleep as I stewed with my eyes closed, fighting waves of nausea. I fumbled for a Dramamine pill that had been floating in my bag since Fiji and hoped it would calm my stomach and knock me out. Unfortunately, the pill’s soothing effects never came and, instead, forced me into a groggy, semiconscious state for the next few hours.
When I finally came to and stared out the window, fields of sunflowers dotted with bull-shaped black billboards stretched into the horizon. I jabbed Gina, but she didn’t stir for another forty minutes, while I sat and contemplated life while watching the scenery roll by.
Sleepy head finally roared to life a few minutes before our bus stopped at a sizeable, but unmarked depot in what appeared a thriving metropolis. I had lost track of the mileage marker signs for Seville half an hour earlier, but knew we should have been close. Neither of us saw a city name on the depot, but assumed that the large percentage
Charming Seville
View from my throne of fellow passengers disembarking meant that we’d arrived in Seville.
Gina grabbed her backpack, headed for the door and began unloading our larger bags from the undercarriage. Before I could follow in her tracks, an uneasy feeling hit me and I decided to consult the driver on our whereabouts. Determined to stay on schedule, he babbled off something in Spanish and restarted the engine. I changed my query to a simple, “Seville?” hoping to receive an equally simple answer.
In chorus, the driver snapped, “No,” and closed the bus door.
Oblivious to why I hadn’t joined her curbside to retrieve my luggage, Gina’s facial expression morphed from annoyed to helpless as the door swung close. At this point, I really regretted the decision to take German instead of Spanish in high school. Unable to convey the situation to the driver, who had just locked my wife outside and me inside, I simply relied on my instincts. “STOP! STOP! STOP!,” I yelled while pounding on the secured door. Confused and aggravated by my attempt to derail his timeliness, the driver abandoned his effort to pull away from the depot only so that he could berate me in Spanish.
Blissfully unaware of his derogatory comments about my manhood, mother or foreign origin, I pantomimed the door opening. Once he finished yelling himself red, the driver proceeded to open the door, likely hoping that I was getting my American ass off his chariot. Instead, I yelled to Gina, “This isn’t Seville!”
Without hesitation, she swung our bags into the hold and climbed back aboard the bus. The driver shook his head in contempt as we reassumed our position near the back for the remainder of the journey. Another thirty minutes passed before we parked at the Seville depot and disembarked with the remaining passengers. Touching pavement was some sort of catalyst for the cramp in my stomach, which suddenly resurfaced and forced me into the nearest men’s room. My dream of relief rapidly disintegrated, however, when I found a room full of urinals and no stalls.
You can’t be serious. I squeezed my cheeks and danced my way back to find Gina outside. “Everything OK?” she consolingly asked.
“Does everything look OK?!?” I retorted, as I waddled in her direction. “There aren’t any stalls!”
Gina grinned, trying not to laugh at my predicament.
Originally supposed to rendezvous with friends from California, we’d booked into the hotel they’d chosen in the Seville city center. Naturally, it was nowhere near the bus depot and required a taxi to reach - which only made my situation more dire. To top it off, even though the driver answered in the affirmative when asked if he knew the location of our hotel, we watched as he rolled down the passenger-side window at every red light to ask directions from fellow cabbies. He didn’t realize that his fib brought him dangerously close to a gratuity that he’d never forget.
It took every ounce of concentration to listen to the receptionist and properly fill out the registration forms at the hotel. I climbed three flights of stairs in World Record pace, completely losing track of Gina’s whereabouts. When she caught up with me, I was already locked in the bathroom, doubled over with pain. In a sense, it was sweet revenge for my less than sympathetic attitude the night before.
I finally felt human again after an hour of recuperation and suggested we stroll around the neighborhood near our hotel. Due to my
dilemma on the way to the hotel, I had more or less mentally blocked out all stimuli, including what Seville looked like. Thankfully, the deficiency was fleeting.
As we exited the hotel into Seville’s historic quarter, the charm of the Andalucían city was omnipresent. Renowned for flamenco and bullfighting, Seville is everything I envisioned of Spain. Narrow, winding alleys led us into romantic plazas littered with cafes and shops, the temperature was ideal and church bells rang in the distance every so often. People we passed all seemed to have smiles on their faces and few cares in the World. Even the two homeless men wielding signs for beer, whiskey and marijuana appeared happy as one poked away at his laptop…
Wait a minute - why does the homeless guy have a laptop? Gina and I stood on Avenida de la Constitucion, a busy shopping street, and gawked at the scruffy looking pair. Rereading the signs, I saw
beer,
whiskey,
marijuana and
www.thelazybeggars.com. Having gone to Berkeley, I assumed that I had seen it all, but it wasn’t until a few days later that I ran across a newspaper article on the pair and I realized how mad of a World we live in. Apparently, both men had decently successful jobs that they had quit to travel around the World and beg?!?
Continuing on from our bit of cheap voyeurism, we continued our stroll along the shopping thoroughfare and popped into various shoe and clothing stores to indulge Gina’s lust for competition with the European women. With her luggage capacity near 110%!,(MISSING) I envisioned Scotty belting out
I’m giving her all she’s got, Captain, as I cautioned her not to buy more than she could pack. She wanted 118%!o(MISSING)ut of the engines.
Suddenly, I was blindsided by
the urge. “Babe, I need to find a bathroom,” I advised Gina, who was at that moment consumed by a rack of clothes in front of her. I darted out of the store before she could even acknowledge me and scurried back toward the sandwich shop we’d eaten lunch at. Feeling guilty about a return visit, I politely purchased a bottle of water before racing to the toilet. I think it whimpered when I flushed.
The next few hours were a nightmarish déjà vu of shopping and toilet tourism. I could have likely bought a port-a-potty for the amount of unnecessary purchases I made that day to sneak bathroom breaks. In desperate need of a siesta, Gina and I returned to the room a little after 5PM with ambitious plans to participate in Seville’s thriving nightlife. The idea was short-lived, however, due to my unnatural attraction to the bathroom that day.
Accepting that we would have to postpone festivities until the next evening, we instead opted for a quiet dinner at a nearby restaurant that featured Spanish fare. Unfortunately, our first foray into local cuisine was anything but pleasant, as Gina attempted to stomach her soggy, canned white asparagus and tasteless soup, while I doused my bland pasta in pepper and olive oil.
By the time we hit the sheets at 10 PM, most Spaniards were just starting their evening - we hoped the next day wouldn’t be so poopy.
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Tamisha
non-member comment
Diesel + Nausea = Disaster
Gene, I so feel your pain. I had a similar situation when we took the longest, smelliest and jerkiest bus ride ever from Milan proper to the airport on our honeymoon. Let's just say you fared much better than I did. UGH. I hope the illness passed shortly after your arrival to Spain. We miss you guys!!!