erudite parrots that can quote poetry

As we waited for the train at the Estacion de Granada, I felt sad to be leaving Andalusia and Granada.  Of all the places we had stayed in Spain, it was Granada which captured my heart. But what grabbed me about it?

I didn't expect to like it. [but please note that "If I am not with the one I love, I love the one I'm with!"] One of my travel guide books had warned, “You will fall in love with Granada but you won't know why.” I certainly get that!

We went to Granada primarily to see the Alhambra, intending to stay five nights; five nights stretched to eleven in a quiet, spacious apartment at the rear of a cool central courtyard, so typical of the houses here. When you look from the Alhambra over Granada, you have a bird's eye view of the courtyards, which are not apparent from the street. Ours had a water trough, a couple of potted trees and pillars which looked like remnants from Roman ruins.

From our base in Granada, we took day trips to the Sierra Nevada, the Alpujarras and the Costa Tropical. I dipped my toes in the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean while Dave slept on a lounge under a sunshade. We walked the paths between the white villages of the Alpujarras, with the terraced hillsides and fantastic irrigation systems introduced by the Moors. We met a young Australian girl on the bus who had been WWOOFING [Willing Workers On Organic Farms] on an olive farm there with 600 year old olive trees which bore luscious fruit. Granada is in a mountainous area which includes cultivated green valleys, ski slopes and beaches of the  Mediterranean coast, all within easy reach by public bus.

The Alhambra, the “Red One” in Arabic,with it's ruddy walls, sits on the summit at the centre of Granada and is its historical, architectural and tourist centre. Now restored to its former glory, it is a UNESCO World Heritage site. Washington Irving  was an American writer and traveller who stayed for three months in the Alhambra in the early 1800s, when it had been abandoned by the Spanish monarchs and was in a state of decay. Irving's words are so enchanting that they are used in the audio-guide for the Alhambra.
His descriptions of life in Granada in the early 1800s, his love for the people and his retelling of the myths and legends that surround the Alhambra, enriched my experience of contemporary Granada.
So many of his observations are relevant today. The agent for our apartment, Zorahayda, shared the same name as one of the three beautiful daughters of a Moorish king, who were locked in the Tower of 'Las Infantas' at the Alhambra, when they reached marriageable age. I was taken with one of the tales, a love story, where one of the characters was 'an erudite parrot that quotes poetry'. But as Irving said, ''the aroma of the poetry...is lost in translation".

Irving describes the poetic propensities of the people of Granada, who commonly composed couplets at the drop of a hat, and had a talent for singing and improvising.I noticed this many times, including some older men returning on the bus from a hiking expedition, singing along with Spanish pop songs, in full voice.

Although the Alhambra, with its gardens, pools and vistas, is beautiful, Granada is not a place I would describe as pretty, pristine or picturesque. But if you walk the back-streets, go to a gypsy Zambra show in a cave, find the hidden cafes and tapas bars, use public transport, shop with the locals, you will see that Granada “contains multitudes" as Walt Whitman would say. There is an edge to it which can be a bit frightening to two Adelaideans of a certain age, but it is certainly alive.

Like the scruffy moggies of the Alhambra which sleep in the shadows, prowl the walls, ignore the swallows eternally circling the spaces above, mew for food, or lie on their backs in the sun, licking their tummies, Granada is a motley place with an amazing mix of people amicably rubbing shoulders.

Redolent with history, it is a young person's city. The streets are filled with gorgeous girls in short shorts, young black eyed men with guitars strung over their shoulders, short elderly Senors and Senoras, supported by walking sticks, sharing the pavement with hippies with dreadlocks. Here you still find gypsies dancing the Zambra in their caves, world renowned luthiers in the tiny workshops of Cuesta Gomerez,named after a Moorish family famous for stories and song, almost unchanged Arabic and Jewish quarters, young English hairdressers, Irish waiters, patient Asians in corner stores which stay open while the rest of Granada closes for siesta. Renaissance buildings side by side with the most graffiti I have ever seen. Political slogans on the walls of convents, rotund nuns in cake shops, tourists crowding the outdoor tables in the Plaza Nueva or the Arabian baths, the airy lightness of the palace, the Gothic grey solidity of the cathedral, Spanish drivers winding down their windows and yelling at each other until one or the other backs off in streets too narrow for two vehicles, or sometimes passing within centimetres of each other.

We saw an old woman put food out on one of the old stone bridges over the River Darro. Many cats with coats of different colours emerged from the woods below the Alhambra and leapt onto the stone wall, while above I am sure I heard an erudite parrot.

I had enjoyed the passion of Madrid, the exotic orientalism of Cordoba, the 'duende', the flamenco spirit of Sevilla, the romance and rural ambience of Ronda. But I loved the people and the poetry of Granada.

"How often does a casual word from a poet confer immortality!" Washington Irving's words invoke the luxurious lifestyles of the sultans of the Alhambra with their ravishing harems, their music, poetry, harmonious architecture, and Islamic faith.

extreme sport for over sixties

 When we visited the Alhambra on a hot day last week, we saw patches of snow on the mountains in the distance. So we decided to go there.

I love hot weather. Mid-thirties is just perfect for me. I feel energised and alive. But Dave is as uncomfortable in the heat as I am in the cold. He was looking puffy and lethargic, struggling to cope and preferring to stay in our air-conditioned apartment when I ventured out.

We thought it would be cooler up in the mountains. A dose of fresh mountain air, peace and space would be a welcome break from busy Granada.

At 9am on Monday, we caught a bus from Granada estacion de autobuses to Sierra Nevada. It took about an hour to ascend a steep winding road which happens to be the highest road in Europe!

Apart from two French girls in shorts, giggling on the back seat, we were the only passengers.

We were deposited on the barren mountain above the ski resort outside the the only open cafe/bar, with a promise from the driver that we would be picked up at 5pm aqui [here] as he pointed to the spot where he had stopped. The place was deserted, but I was sure that all the tourists would be up in their cars or coaches for lunch.

We fortified ourselves with strong coffee, toast and marmalade, then wondered how we would spend the next 7 hours. There was a cold wind blowing so I put on my woollen jumper which I had brought in case it was cool. I also had a singlet top under my shirt and my trench coat stuffed in my back pack as I am terrified of the cold. Dave had dismissed my suggestion that he pack a light rain jacket.

He was exhilarated by the crisp mountain air.

We saw the French girls ambling on the slopes so decided to walk to keep warm. The mountain, which is a ski slope until late May, was bleak, rocky and devoid of vegetation. The scree path was steep and slippery. The wind was freezing, whipping my face and hair and giving me ear ache. At times it was so strong that it nearly pushed me over. I covered my ears with my hands as I walked.

We had ignored a sign which I had roughly translated as "Conditions can change rapidly. Do not proceed without walking poles, boots, coats and supplies." [If any of my bush walking friends are reading this they will be shaking their heads in disbelief!]

But we looked at the light sky and the mountain peak visible in the distance, and continued along the track.

After a while, we passed the French girls, who had donned cardigans, sheltering from the wind behind a rocky outcrop. Some horses galloped with us at the start of the walk, but had circled back. The French girls didn't continue either, and we were the only hikers for the next three hours, struggling up towards the peak.

Occasionally we glimpsed lycra-clad cyclists, arduously making their way up a bitumen road which we crossed from time to time. There were no cars.

The panoramic views back to Granada were hazy. It would be stunning up there on a still, clear day, when sometimes you can make out the coast of Africa.

After a while, I saw Dave bent over, close to the ground. He had noticed tiny alpine wild-flowers, nestled like jewels in the crown of the shiny mica rocks. He was in his element with his camera in the cold.

I was gasping for air like a floundering old fish. Was it the altitude I wondered, or merely too much of the good food and wine of Andalusia?

After a while it reminded me of that children's song, "the bear went over the mountain", because as we topped each peak, a higher one was revealed. 

Eventually, we came to patches of glistening snow... we seemed to be following animal tracks rather than any clear trail. 

The wind was relentless and now the sun was disappearing behind clouds which rapidly rose over the ridge of the ranges. We were so close to the highest peak, Pico Veleta, at an altitude of 3,398 metres, but I saw a black cloud rolling over the ridge and sensed a sudden change in the atmosphere. "We are going back", I shouted against the wind. I grabbed Dave's hand which felt very cold.

"No. I want a picture from up there. I am staying," Nature Boy replied.

"Come now! Hurry!" I insisted as I clambered down. He followed. The rain started within seconds.

We scrambled down until we found the road. I had my trench coat on, but it had no hood.

Dave was in a cotton shirt and trousers. The rain turned to sleet, and as we got wetter, the wind chilled us even more.

I started running [something I have avoided for most of my 60+ years] and Dave strode vigorously.

 He was very wet. I hoped a car would miraculously appear and pick us up, but there was no-one on the mountain except a cyclist sitting on the side of the road. He stared blankly at us.

I was panicking. It could take another hour to get down the mountain. Hypothermia was the word on my mind. If only I had insisted Dave pack the rain jacket.

Luckily, after about 20 minutes, the rain stopped, the clouds blown away by the ferocious wind, and the sun shone.

By the time we reached the Aubergue, we had dried out completely, and a long lunch in the restaurant seemed like the only sensible proposition.

Carol and Old Dog

We were the only customers in a dining room which looked as if it hadn't changed for decades. It even had the same elderly chef, in checked pants and apron, hobbling with a pronounced limp. He took our order although he either couldn't hear or understand a word we said. The ensalada mixta didn't arrive, but we both had lasagna, which we recognised as the frozen lasagna I bought at the supermarket last week.

But the Rioja [the regional red wine made from the high altitude tempranillo grapes] was excellent. We stayed in the warmth as long as we could, but the chef hovered as if he wanted to close, so we decided it was time for a siesta for him and for us.

The problem was, we had nowhere to go. We walked further down the mountain, rounded a craggy peak where it was more sheltered and where the views over mountains and valleys were magnificent. We heard the tinkling of sheep bells, and saw a flock huddling under a rocky ledge.

It was while we were sitting there on a large warm flat rock, gazing at the breathtaking view, that we had our idea for a new business venture; a new 'extreme sport' for the over sixties, 'Rock Sitting'.

We could take people in minibuses to places where there were suitable rocks to sit on and stunning views to admire. Too often older people see the views fleetingly from a coach window or when they file out to take "the" photograph from a lookout point.

Our venture will offer a way for the older traveller to participate in a new extreme sport which involves little more than sitting, albeit in a peaceful, remote setting.

We would charge an extra three euros for a cushion and an extra two for a parasol.

For the exhausted or infirm, we have invented 'Rock Lying'. I tried this out, but found I had to use my trench coat as a sort of tent to keep off the sun and shelter me from the wind. The downside of this was that I couldn't see the view. 

So 'Rock Lying' is still in its research and development phase.

corpus christi

On Sunday, we visited the cathedral in Granada, while a well attended service was in progress. We spent  most of the time admiring the ornate dome of the ceiling, as a Catholic service in Spanish was incomprehensible to us.

Spain, as you know, is a Catholic country, with over 90% of Spaniards professed Catholics, and the rest mainly Muslims.

This cathedral was built during the hey day of the Catholic Monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabel, who united the Iberian peninsular in the 1400's and drove out the Jews and the Moors, unless they converted to Christianity and stopped speaking in Arabic. The matrimonial couple, who are buried in the cathedral here, revived the cruel Spanish inquisition. Every place we have visited reminds us of the sites of  this brutality in the name of Christianity. Of course the political motives for a unified Spain, as well as the religious fervour, were powerful drivers for Ferdie and Issie.

Let me take you back to Sevilla. 

It was Thursday June 7th. We planned to visit the cathedral, but after two abortive attempts when it was closed for various reasons, I asked the hotel receptionist to check on the opening hours.

"It is closed today," she said, "for Corpus Christi. It is a public holiday. There is a procession."

"Where?" I asked.  She shrugged, "In the street. You have to find it."

"When is it?"

"It finishes at 1pm. It is too hot to be out after that."

We had noticed the heat!

As we walked down the labyrinthine shopping streets, we noticed religious displays in shop windows and heard a cacophony of bells ringing-out across the city. We turned a corner and there it was; the procession.

Most of Sevilla, in its Sunday best, seemed to be crammed into the narrow streets, craning for a glimpse of the procession as it passed ornate altars which had miraculously appeared in the streets overnight.

I stood on tip toes in the midday sun: there were highly decorated floats with religious icons, sleek Spanish men in black suits, young men in white robes and religiosi in purple, all with expressions of great gravitas. Men in military uniforms, contingents with khaki, emerald green and royal blue berets, stepped slowly along the narrow streets, synchronised with the beat of the kettle drums and the funereal sounding music of the brass bands.

People held sprigs of rosemary which infused the air with a distinct aroma. It was a very slow and solemn procession, but the devout crowds stood silently in that heat as if mesmerised. Some watched from balconies, which were draped with red velvet, and crossed themselves as the iconic figures floated past.

It was too hot and we couldn't see much over the heads of the crowds, so we rushed off along a different route towards the cathedral, which I guessed would be the ultimate destination. It was. But the areas around the cathedral were already stuffed with people so we sheltered on a shady stone step to a big wooden doorway, as Dave photographed the crowd. The cathedral bells tumbled and clanged in the Giralda tower.

Soon, to our surprise, we heard the sounds of the procession advancing and saw the first float edging its way into this narrowest of streets with the cool whitewashed walls.

On its way...

The other onlookers were ushered away, but amazingly, because we were on the doorstep, we were permitted to stay, so had the most privileged and unique, larger than life view of the entire procession.

Trapped on the doorstep as the major float passed within centimetres of my nose, with the suffocating smells of incense and rosemary, I realised that there must be a group of men underneath, supporting the float, in these unbearably hot conditions. A man at the front and one at the back yelled out directions.
[Later, I read that thirty or forty men bear the weight of the float, sacks filled with sawdust and dirt on their heads for padding.]

A pause for instructions.                  Oh so tight!

I flattened myself against the door and fought the rising feelings of claustrophobia. But the swaying float passed without getting wedged between the walls. Getting floats, cars and buses through impossibly narrow apertures is something the Spanish excel at. 

Next came the trumpets. I do not recommend listening to trumpets at these close quarters.

At the risk of offending the earnest musicians, I covered my ears with my hands, as  they passed.

If you are ever in Sevilla for Corpus Christi, get a balcony seat, not one in the orchestra pit!

In the spirit of Corpus Christi [the body of Christ] we stopped at a nearby bar for bread [a jamon y queso bocadillo] and wine.

Although I am not a Christian, it was humbling to see the power of a strong single faith on a community.

Yes, I know it was drummed into them, but they see beyond the symbols something profound, I am sure.

a saturday morning conversation in Granada

Viewing Granada from the Alhambra.

It is Saturday morning. We have been away from home for four weeks. Because we were up late last night at an exciting gypsy flamenco show, we slept in and are having a slow morning.

Our first stop is "our local", DamasQueros, the bar around the corner, a few metres up the hill, for un café solo [the short black] and café con leche [with milk]. We get the last outside table as the Saturday morning crowd is here with their papers for a leisurely desayuno [breakfast]. The coffee here is muy bien [very good], the air temperature is perfecto, the sky is clear and blue [again] and there is the gentlest movement of air, too slight to stir the leaves of the trees across the road.

I love being surrounded by the Spanish language [this month, Singapore has introduced it into schools as their third language]. The musical "hola" rings out everywhere, a happy sound. My eyes scan any signs in written Spanish, trying to decode them. We are away with words, most of which we don't understand. Dave says it is like only knowing the letters p, r and d from the alphabet and trying to make sense of the written word.

I don't find it as bad as that!

After our coffee, we will ask for "la cuenta por favor", pay the three euros, say "gracias" and the waitress will say "de nada", one of those little ritualised social exchanges which everyone understands. Next we are going food shopping as we have an apartamento in a quiet residential street. There are little local shops tucked away in the next street, Calle Molinos. No souvenir shops here, but still close enough to walk to the Alhambra, the catedral, the Plaza Nueva and the centro comercial.

café

Today we will be surrounded by all those delicious words español for food shops. We have a small supermercado, pescaderias, fruteria, charcuteria, panaderia, carnicería. The street has a florista, farmacia, peluqueria and libreria as well, if you need flowers, medicines, hairdressing and papers or magazines.

Unfortunately my Spanish language skills are quite inadequate for food shopping. It's fine in the supermercado where I can study labels and look for clues. But when I point to the chicken breasts and ask for dos piezas [two pieces], the butcher smiles in agreement, then proceeds to cut one breast in half. I realise she thinks I want it sliced into two pieces. "No" I say and point again to the breasts. "Dos". "Ah!" she exclaims and expertly cuts the two pieces again into wafer thin slices. She looks puzzled at my dismayed expression. I try again by asking for another, "tambien". She nods, selects another breast and cuts it up the same way. I leave with a bag of four chicken breasts cut into paper thin slices. 

It was going to be chicken cacciatore. Now I have no idea what to do with it.

Misunderstandings are easy. A word's meaning changes according to the context.

I had an example of this in Ronda when I asked the receptionist for a hair-dryer, explaining that my hair was a mess. "It is complicated by the wind," he replied in good English.

It took a few seconds for me to realise that he was using the word 'complicated' in the sense of messed up!

I successfully purchase a wholemeal baguette from the panaderia and then brave the little fruteria, crammed with customers. There are no signs on the cartons of fruit and vegetables to remind me of their names, just a price per kilogram. 

Eventually I find myself in the front row at the counter. The greengrocer calls out "Aquí?" I assume it means who is next in this context, raise my hand and say "Si."

"Lo siento, No hablo Español" I apologise. He smiles and shrugs. I like the twinkle in this old man's eyes. I start with "patatas, dos por favor," I hope he doesn't think I mean two kilograms, but he holds up two large potatoes. We go through a similar process with onions, carrots, small green peppers.

"¿Es eso todo?" [Is that all?] "Sí. Todo." He starts to calculate the bill. "No. Lo siento. quiero [I want]" then relapse into English "parsley".

A young dark haired Spanish man in a red T-shirt, which shows off his physique, interjects critically and says the word for parsley in Spanish, perejil. I try to repeat it but my ear for languages is poor. He breaks it into syllables for me to repeat. I try but it has the "j"  sound, which is unlike any sound in English except perhaps an "h" sound with a slight cough from deep in the back of the throat at the same time.

Suddenly my instructor says in perfect English, free from any accent, "Words with the "j' sound are from the Arabic".

"I know," I say, "like naranja" which is the word for orange. [Dave often orders zumo de naranja when we are out at cafes.]

I wonder if my new friend is a university student, as there are thousands in Granada, giving it the vibe of a young person's city, except in these inner-city residential areas where older Granadians still live in their apartments.

"You're not Australian are you?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Where are you from?" he asks with the slightest Spanish accent.

"Adelaide."

"Does Adelaide really exist?" I detect the slight edge of sarcasm.

"Yes it does. But no-one ever visits," I smile.

"I grew up in Sydney," he says.

"How long have you been here?" I ask. 

"In Granada three years. In Spain twenty."

He looks about the same age as my son, Ben [late thirties]. Probably came over as a backpacker or a student and stayed, I surmise.

"Are you here on a holiday or living here?" he asks.

"On holidays," I reply. "That's why I can't speak Spanish. As you know we don't learn languages in Adelaide."

"Oh, I know people who have lived here for years and don't speak any Spanish," he says.

"Spain is great, isn't it?" I enthuse.

"Oh, I am sick of Spain," he says. "Since the current president, Mariano Rajoy Brey, took over, we are going backwards. The first thing he did was make abortion illegal. It is heading back to the 'Franco' period.

The government is dealing with the worst financial crisis by removing workers' rights. How stupid is that?"

"I know" I say. "We have seen the demonstrations everywhere, from the time we arrived in Madrid".

"Yes. Madrid." 

He pauses, "But they won't listen," he says angrily.

Suddenly I notice the old man holding the print-out from the computer, waiting patiently for me to pay.

The entire shop is watching us. One of the women serving [the old man's wife?] is throwing her hands in the air and saying something to the audience of customers.

The young man explains, "She is saying she doesn't understand us. We speak too quickly. She is saying that Spanish is easy but English is difficult."

I smile as I bid "adios". 

Any language we don't speak is difficult.

The Alhambra at sunset.

rendezvous with Ronda

I was woken by  the clanging of a bell at 7am in Ronda, the Andalusian city romanticised in the 19th century by travellers on their Grand Tours of Europe. After the industrial revolution, which mucked up so much of the country side in England, travellers were searching for beauty. 

Later, writers like Hemingway and Rainier Maria Rilke really put this place on the tourist map. Hemingway loved hunting and all that macho bull fighting stuff. Ronda's bullring, Plaza de Toros, is one of the oldest in Spain and the famous Romero family of matadors apparently spearheaded modern bullfighting as entertainment, rather than just as military training for men on horseback. One of them introduced the emblematic scarlet cape.

 Frankly, I don't mind a nice piece of steak, but the idea of killing bulls for sport is a real turn off.

As we passed the hunting museo with its stuffed animal trophy heads on the wall, Dave quipped "You would have to be game to go in there".  But I digress.

Oft quoted, Rilke described Ronda as "the town of your dreams" and Hemingway said it was the perfect place to go "if you ever bolt with anyone."

Words, from the right pen, can capture the collective imagination. Those of us lucky enough to have the leisure and the resources, pack our bags and endure all the tiresome bits of travelling in the hope that we too will experience the magic of another place. Many of us are still romantics, looking for the cute little villages, the grand cathedrals and the unspoilt countryside.

Ronda is beautiful but in summer is busy with tourists who join the locals in the shopping street in the  newer part of town, during the early evening stroll known as the paseo. 

I am reading "Driving Over Lemons: An Optimist In Andalucia", a book by Chris Stewart, an English shearer, busker and travel guide writer, who bought a farm in Andalusia. It is a bit like "A Year in Provence" or "Under the Tuscan Sun", books which encourage even more tourists to flock to certain regions to feed their fantasies of escaping from the boring, the ugly, or the tedious aspects of  everyday life. Sometimes we travel in search of happiness.

  

Apart from the sound of the bell [for whom does it toll?....groan], and Dave softly snoring, it was very quiet at this time of the morning in Ronda. We had one long sausage of a pillow, so I couldn't prop it up behind me and read, or turn it over during the night, with Dave's head on the other end. So I lay in bed and thought about how little things assume importance when we travel. How thick is the toilet paper? Are there enough coat-hangers? Can you hear the plumbing from other rooms? What IS that smell?

After our breakfast of coffee and tosteda [the lightly toasted small baguettes] with oil, Iberian ham, or butter and strawberry jam, we explored Ronda on foot. What an amazing setting for a town, perched on sheer cliffs with astounding views over valleys and hills. The  town is split by a dramatic100 metre gorge, El Toro, cut out by the river in prehistoric times.I was horrified to learn about the cruel practice of throwing people alive into this deep gorge during the Spanish Civil War.

 The best place to stay here would be the luxurious Parador, perched precariously on top of the cliff. We stayed at the Hotel Royal; cheap, basic and centrally located, but noisy on Saturday night when the night clubs below were in full swing.

In La Ciudad, the old Moorish quarter, we followed one of those enticing little roads between white houses with wrought iron balconies and came to a small square. Noticing a path winding down the steep hillside towards the river at the bottom of the gorge, I said "Let's go". Within minutes we were out of the town. I was overwhelmed by the beauty and silence of the broad green and gold valley below, encircled by pale limestone hills. As we descended, the path narrowed and became more hazardous, with large stones and deep crevices. 

We trod carefully. Almond, olive and fig trees grew wild on the hillside. Brilliant orange poppies and tiny azure blue flowers flourished amongst the bleached grasses. "It is so quiet", I commented unnecessarily.

After a while the silence revealed itself as a symphony of the subtlest sounds, unlike the roar of traffic, the metallic clattering of shoes on cobblestones and the clanging of bells in the town.

Firstly, I heard the bees humming around the poppies. Then a constant high pitched twittering of birds, as soft as static, formed the background vibration. In a distant field, a horse whinnied. A little bird, hidden in in a bush, made a clacking sound like castinets and I  heard a distant clucking of chooks.

Dave and I sat on a stone arch, once part of the fortifications, and soaked up the sounds of silence, the sun, flawless blue sky and the splendid scene.Returning by a circuitous route to the old Moorish part of the town, we saw the old people sitting on stone benches in the square, until the restaurateurs put out their tables and chairs and the first tour group in shorts and hats, like overgrown schoolchildren, followed their leader into the Cafe Bar San Francisco.The old men left their shady benches and disappeared, like cats melting into the shadows. The plaza was no longer theirs.

As the locals disappeared, we were surprised to see a horse sharing a drink with a man at the water trough on the edge of the square. These are special times, when as a traveller you suddenly almost see the past reincarnated in a private moment.

I am glad we visited Ronda, one of the stunning Pueblo Blanco towns of Andalusia, with its fantastic setting and panoramas, its harsh yet romantic history, its architecture, its legends and longings, superb cuisine [I loved the rabbit stew and Dave raved about his thin slices of baked beef in basil infused oil], and the glimpses of life in the bars and plazas and tiled porches of the white houses. 
We arrived here on a bus from Sevilla and next it is west to Granada by train.

Bodega El Socorro - our favourite eating place

sevilla - flamenco in parentheses

OldDogs... meet and greet

By midweek we are sweltering in Sevilla. Like a mad dog [and her Englishman] we go out walking in 42 degrees. The streets are almost deserted as the locals sensibly stay indoors for siesta. 

We hit on the plan of buying a multi-trip bus ticket and exploring the city by air-conditioned bus, the coolest place to be, so we jump on the first bus that comes along.

Outside of the old city, we pass endless blocks of shabby high-rise apartments. I see broken wooden blinds and a sheet strung between windows to dry. This is seedy Sevilla.

It reminds me of my first view of people living in relative poverty in Hong Kong in the late seventies.

  I feel sad to see about fifty infant children playing in a concrete school yard in the heat. Not a tree or a bush or a piece of play equipment to be seen.

The children look happy and squeal with delight  as they chase a plastic ball around the yard, but it is such a contrast to our well equipped kindergartens in Australia.

Back in the city centre, Sevilla shares her secrets.

I find her in the streets, the markets and bars, the shops and cultural centres in the residential areas. She is melancholy at her core, but also a woman of many moods.
 

In the Plaza Nueva a group of firemen congregate and their spokesperson, a woman, shouts stridently for more pay, while in Plaza Major a group of university students protest that education is a right not a privilege. Sevilla stamps her feet and tosses her head in anger at the state of the economy.
 

She is proud and haughty too. At a local restaurant where an arty looking crowd of students are eating and drinking, we place an order for food and wine. The food doesn't arrive for over two hours, although other patrons who arrive after us are served, and the young waiter ignores us. I realise it is because we are foreigners. There is a growing dislike of us as Sevilla becomes increasingly dependent on tourism.
 

Usually we experience warmth and generosity from Sevilla. The beautician with the tiniest hands who does my nails with such care and gives me a wonderful hand and arm massage, her only English word being "beautiful" when she surveys her handiwork. The waiter who says "Now I am speaking the English" and tries so hard to communicate with us; the family who gesture for me to sit with them at their table at another outdoor concert.

Often she is in a joyous party mood, looking for a fiesta, a jug of sangria and a reason to dance or sing the night away.  A group of mature women get out their flamenco dresses and sing spanish folk songs; what they lack in ability they make up for in enthusiasm.  Young and old get up and dance the Sevilla to a younger group of singers. A Spanish Beatles cover band sings "Shake it up baby" and I find myself doing just that!

 To Sevilla family is sacred. All those "Virgin Mary with child" images!  Bridal shops abound and on Saturdays there are weddings everywhere. People throw rice as the newly weds and their brilliantly coloured entourage emerge from the ceremony. 
 

There are babies and young children everywhere, often three generations out together, sometimes until midnight. Little girls wear pretty dresses and their hair ribbons match the colour of their shoes...red, blue or yellow. I don't hear anyone scold a child. People struggle with pushers on footpaths that are way too narrow, so they try to balance them on two wheels. And I have never seen so many twins. Is it something in the water or the wine?

Because people live in apartments and it is so warm, life is lived out of doors, particularly at night, and it is such a social and communal way of life, so different from Australia suburbia where you are lucky to know your neighbours. I will miss Sevilla's laughter and the buzz of conversation.

We attend a Charo Martin flamenco fusion concert at the local cultural centre and see another side of Sevilla. We seem to be the only tourists there.

Not only is the performance a modern fusion of flamenco, jazz, bossa nova and old Spanish music styles, but it is a serious and satirical self examination. The female dancer comes out in a short black dress and dances in an almost grotesque overtly sexual way and the male dancer follows lifting his coat  and wriggling his bottom, a dramatic expose of what is happening to flamenco and Sevilla. The female dancer comes back, dressed in the white suit and panama hat of the chorro, a reminder of Spain's imperialist past. The singing and playing is wonderful. This is intelligent, self critical Sevilla.

Night and day... waiting

sevilla struts her stuff

We have come to Sevilla to find flamenco guitar, dancing and singing. So we go to see a performance at the Museo de Baile Flamenco, the world's only flamenco museum, where the flamenco is advertised as "pure", more traditional than the lavish ensemble shows which attract so many tourists.

 














We are not disappointed. The virtuosic performers; a female singer whose voice is so powerful and full of loss and longing that it sends shivers up my spine; a brilliant guitarist at one with his instrument and the music; a  wiry male dancer with  haughty, almost evil  expression on his face as he stamps his feet and uses his whole body so vigorously that he shakes sweat over the audience in the front row; and a beautiful female dancer whose facial expressions and hand and arm movements communicate the entire range and intensity of human emotions. 

 

I love this passionate music and dance, which has such sadness at its core. 

It has such an interesting history, the product of so many influences, starting perhaps with the Indians who roamed into Europe, the gypsies, the Moors and the Jews.

Like the blues, it has its roots in oppressed rather than ruling classes. 

Like jazz it includes improvisation. 

Most importantly it is fuelled by the rapport which develops between the performers and between them and the audience.Ole!

You can't wander the wriggling streets of Sevilla without coming across the cathedral, its major monument. From the tower, which was once a minaret, there is a good overview of the city. You climb a ramp which was originally for a man on horseback to ascend to call the muslims to prayer. Much easier than walking it as we do.

Horses and carriages line up outside the cathedral, hoping for tourists who want a ride. A pungent smell of horse manure intensifies with the heat of the day.

After a  couple of days, I am frustrated with Seville. She has flamenco and a cathedral and a bullring and hundreds of tapas bars and many plazas and churches and the same river which flowed through Cordoba.

Egyptillogical levitation.

But she is playing to the tourists.  I can't find the essence of Sevilla. There was a hint of it in the flamenco performance, but even there the tourists were packed in to the "intimate " venue and were more interested in capturing the visuals with their digitals than in deeply entering in to the experience. [Poor Dave. I gave him strict instructions to keep the photography to a minimum.]

So, over the next few days we avoid Sevilla's 'attractions ' and set off in search of her "duende", her true spirit.