Seville

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My last day in Spain, as I am now in Tarifa, the southernmost point of continental Europe. This is a nice, laid back town at the conflux of the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea. The weather is much cooler here, maybe 10-15 degrees cooler than Seville, and much windier too.

Back to my journey out of Granada, and almost missing my ride. Because I had not a minute to spare for the 4:30 departure, I had no time to grab something to eat. I had expected to get something on the coach like the other journeys. However, this was a small regional train with nothing more than a candy machine. I ate up my emergency rations of peanuts and a Coke during the 3 hour journey. In fact, maybe I felt like the last Sultan Boabdil who was driven out of Granada, the last Moorish outpost in Spain on January 1, 1492, by the Christians in the Reconquest. When he looked back at the city he had just abandoned with a heavy heart, his mother berated him thus, "You do well to weep as a woman for what you could not defend as a man." Granada celebrates this event annually on January 2.

One word to describe Seville...hot, and the thermometer on the street showed a scorching 39 degrees! Much further inland so it doesn´t receive the cooling breezes of the coast. Another comedy of miscommunication ensued upon arrival in Seville, Saturday night, September 13. I had assistance at the train station to book a hostal, and given the card and directions to get there. Upon arrival, the manager stated ´Completo´, meaning all full up. I tried to explain we had just made a reservation, but he finally suggested I go to Hostal Macarena down the street, which was really where the booking was, and they were waiting for me! The girl at the train station had given me the wrong card. Oh well, all´s well that ends well.

Sunday routine in Seville is quite slow as I witnessed the locals filtering into the cafe next door for a quick fix, a little hair of the dog so to speak, with either a beer or a shot of sherry, first thing in the morning! I hopped onto the Tour por Seville bus to get orientated to the city. We drove by the site of the 1992 World´s Fair and Expo. The Seville Cathedral, is reportedly the largest in the world when measured by volume. It´s not difficult to believe that when wandering around inside this cavernous ediface with support columns and arches the size of 800 year old Sitka Spruce trees on Vancouver Island! Construction began on top of the 12th century mosque in gothic, baroque, and renaissance styles over the centuries. La Giralda Minaret, built in 1198, is the oldest surviving example in the world. There are 35 internal ramps that replaced the stairway inside the now bell tower, to allow for a disabled muezzin to ride his horse to the top for prayer call during Moorish times. Also, on this Sunday, I saw the Cardinal of Andulusia, ordain many priests.

Also, went on a walking tour of the old city from our Polish born guide, Emellia,in Seville to learn Spanish herself. She described the Torre del Oro as once a storehouse for treasures garnered from the New World. After the tour through the scorching streets, I invited Emellia for a refreshing Sangria at a streetside cafe, while I had a tinto de verano, a wine-soda mix.

Then, continuing my ambling through the streets, I stumbled upon a bull fighting card, as I could hear the trumpets at the Plaza de Toros, which seats 13,800 fans, one of Spain´s most beautiful stadiums. At first the bull is let into the ring full of aggression, snorting and bellowing with rage, looking for something to attack. The banderillos, tease the animal from many directions waving their pink capes, which provokes a charge. Next to arrive on the scene to the trumpet call, are the picadorres, lancers on horseback, whose job is to pierce the bull´s neck muscles, so the beast is forced to lower it´s head for the kill later. The horse is protected with padding from bull charges and blindfolded so it doesn´t get spooked. One of the bulls almost knocked the picadorre´s horse to the ground, as the crowd gasped. Then, the banderillos return to stick decorated darts into the bull´s back, while on foot, sometimes escaping over the boards with the bull on their heels. Next trumpet call is for the matador, the star of the show, in sequined tights, brandishing a red cape. The matador has 10 minutes to make the kill, or the bull will go free, and the matador will be disgraced. After a few minutes, the matador changes his sword to deliver the coup de grace, and buried the sword into the bull´s back, right to the hilt! Quite a gruesome spectacle, but the crowd seemed to like the performance. One popular matador displayed special skill and daring, which caused the crowd to wave white handerchiefs over their heads, as a sign for the president to allow the matador to hack the bull´s ear off as a trophy. Once dead, the beast is tied to 3 horses, pulled around the ring and out the gate to the crowd´s applause. The blood is scooped out of the sands before the next arrival. I watched as 5 bull´s were slaughtered this night, and made me feel more than a little queasy.

On a lighter note, the Italian lady beside me, was waving her red cap at the bull, as the action was a little slow. I said "No bueno", and that it made me nervous! She laughed and continued to wave. There was almost as many calls by the crowd for "Musica" as there was "Ole" during the night!

After this, I ended up in Flaherty´s Irish Bar for a pint to process what I had just witnessed. Among others I chatted with, was Colin and his wife Mary, from Dublin. We had a good chin wag about Irish politics and the current poor state of the Irish economy. Always difficult to get orientated on my way home. You´d think that if you made four right turns, you would arrive back at the point where you started. Not so. Street names also change with every corner to add to the confusion!

On Monday, the 15th, after taking care of my laundry, which had me humping clear across town in search of a laundrymat, and having my camera battery recharged at a Kodak shop, I was ready for some evening entertainment. I read in the paper that La Taberna de la Carbonaria was having a flamenco performance, so I showed up just after 11:00 pm. A very rustic building, internally reconstructed many times, with the medieval, uneven, cobblestone floor. Flamenco, has a rythm and beat like the Gypsy Kings, for those not versed, full of emotion and intensity, which you can see in the eyes of the performers in their song and stomping dance moves.

I finished reading The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho, which is quite apropo. It is the story of a simple shepard boy from Andulusia, Spain, who sells his flock, and crosses The Straits of Gibraltor to Tangiers, on his way to the Pyramids of Egypt, in search of his Personal Legend, or treasure. Maybe I´ll find my treasure in Morocco!

So, I departed Seville on Tuesday by bus, and at the rest stop, Vento Pinto Meson Rustico, the bar was festooned with dozens of hanging ham legs! I asked if it was for decoration or what. Actually, all for sale at something like 400-500 Euros/leg depending upon weight. Nearer to the coast, you see many tall wind turbines like that to be found in the Crowsnest Pass.

I am now staying in the very comfortable Hostal Villanueva, built into the old city walls of Tarifa, with top floor views of the harbour and Africa, which isn´t more than a 35 minute ferry ride away!

Yesterday, I took a local bus to the Rock of Gibralter, and met up with two, very friendly and outgoing, young couples. David and Mi Mi Vi are from France; Hannes and Kathrina are from Germany. We took the cable car lift up to the top of the Rock, at over 400 metres, for delightful views of the Iberian Peninsula, and Africa to the south. But what was most funny, were the hoards of Barbary Apes (tail less monkeys), greeting all visitors that arrive! They are funny creatures with a pleasant enough tempermant, but will shamelessly grab at anything that looks like food from unsuspecting tourists. We also saw one of the cheeky creatures hitching a lift on a car, hanging onto the car door, reaching through an open window to get some food! Gibraltor is a bit of an anomoly, a British territory in such a strategic location at the entrance to the Meditteranean Sea. I made sure that I had typical english pub grub, fish and chips with a pint of John Smith Bitter, before returning to Spain. The currency is in pounds, but Euros are accepted, and they drive on the right side of the road.

Back in town that night, we 5 picked up some tapas type snacks at the local mercado, and went up to the terrace of David and Mi Mi´s Hostal Dori, for some food and drink. We finished off a 40 ounce bottle of 7 year old Havana Club, bought duty free in Gibralter, which went down very smoothly. Finally, at 0230 hours we had to break it up.

And tomorrow, I am off on the ferry to Tangiers for another cultural experience, far different from the European flavour of Spain. I understand French is used, as well as Arabic, so I´ll have to dust off the high school French to get around.

Until next time, Hasta Luego!

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Photos

Cheeky Devil
Main Street, Gibralter

View From Roof
Hostal Villanueva, Tarifa

Hostal Dori Party!
Me, Kathrina, Hannes, Mi Mi Vi, David

Playa Chica
Tarifa, Spain