SPAIN: Madrid-El Escorial-Avila-Segovia-Madrid

SPAIN: Madrid
Once in Madrid, I bought a 10-trip metro ticket (cheap!) and easily navigated the convenient, fast and clean system to the stop nearest the hostel where I’d made a reservation. It turned out to be a pretty big but very well-run place (Los Amigos) and I joined up with some people who were going out for tapas and beers. I should have stayed in, however, as it turned out to be a scene of too many people not making decisions and not doing much of anything but trying to think of what to do. Duh. I got to see Plaza Mayor at night, though, which was neato.

I got up on Sunday and got info on upcoming bullfights and tickets (cheaper to buy at the ring), then went to El Rastro, the Sunday flea market that takes up a big stretch of street in the center of the city. I bought a few accessory-type items and marveled at the crowd, then walked to Museo Del Prado, one of the big three museums in Madrid, with tons of European and Spanish art. Lots. Oodles, even. I spent three or four hours there (which is a quick trip), then took the metro to Plaza de Toros, where I followed the stream of spectators to the fights. I got a cheap ticket in the sun (warmer at this time of year is fine), and took in the evening of six slaughters.

Yes, bullfights will bring up the mixed bag of emotions. Of course it’s terrible to watch the animals killed, and pretty much tortured on the way, in what is hardly a fair fight. On the other hand, I eat meat, and were I to be given the choice of being a bull destined for the ring (about 4 years of a totally cushy life, then a really crappy half an hour) or for the standard meat market (about 2 years of a generally crappy life), well, I’d take choice A. So who am I to be morally indignant? In the face of art, sport, culture (granted the first two are arguable)? There was definitely a theatrical element to the matadors’ performances, including a sense of dramatic timing and gauging the audience’s reactions. One guy just didn’t know when to quit, like an actor indulging himself in ‘moments’ for his own emotional wallowing. Others knew exactly when an exciting move was needed, or when to milk a pass. Regardless, I had my own internal monologue going, from the bull’s point of view: “Hey, guys! Guys? Hey…what the… Did I do something? What’s the deal? What’s with those pink things? And the poking?!?! Dude, that HURTS! Everything was going so good…” and on the bull’s behalf: “Get him! Get that cowardly @#*&^%er!”

I asked a Spanish woman near me (our section wasn’t nearly full) what was going on at one point (a bunch of white/brown bulls were brought out, and they essentially cornered the bull that was going to be fought until he bolted via the empty gate; apparently he was deemed unworthy of the fight), and she asked me what I thought of it. I told her that I didn’t like to see the animals killed but that I appreciated the cultural/traditional aspect and had seen a fight 20 years before in Mexico. She said she’d last seen one in Madrid, also 20 years ago, and that she didn’t like it at all. Later an older guy—old school--chatted us up on all the things we should appreciate about it, but understanding why we had difficulty enjoying it all. I’m glad I went, but once every 20 years is plenty!

By the time I left, I was starving, as I’d not eaten much at all that day, and got a quick snack of dried fruit and nuts for the walk back, on which I tried to investigate zarzuela performances (no luck) and a LP restaurant (no luck). Instead, however, I found exactly what I needed: a salad bar/buffet place, loaded with veggies. Hooray! I ate and ate and ate. And ate. Mmmmmmmm.

I found an internet place on the way home and dealt with my photos for the last time and checked my email, then finally got back to the hostel and collapsed. (“Where did you GO all day???”)

Got up and partook of the included breakfast (bread, cereal and hot beverages) before running around Parque Del Buen Retiro, which is big and beautiful. I also passed the famous Plaza de las Cibeles en route—the glorious Palacio de Comunicaciones (post office) and statue of Cybele and her chariot. These people do not mess around with their public spaces.

I got back to the hostel via the tourist office in Plaza Mayor, showered, and went out on a walking tour of “historic” Madrid. Unfortunately, it being Monday, lots of sites were closed or had weird hours. I started at Puerta del Sol (de obras), then Iglesia de San Gines (de obras), then Plaza Mayor (beautiful and enormous and happenin’!), Plaza de la Villa (with the Ayuntamiento, or City Hall, Casa de Cisneros and Torre de los Lujanes), the tower of Iglesia de San Pedro el Viejo, Iglesia de San Andres, Basilica de San Francisco el Grande (closed-bummer!), the view from Las Vistillas en route to Catedral de Nuestra Senora de la Almudena, which is next door to the very grand Palacio Real. I spent plenty of time there in the main complex, the armory and the pharmacy, and overlooking the surrounding gardens. Beyond that was Plaza de Oriente which contains Teatro Real (closed), and then Plaza de Espana, with the famous statue of Don Quixote and Sancho. At the far end of my tour was the Templo de Debod, a 4th-century BC Egyptian temple in the Parque de la Montaña. Huh!

Knowing that the last stop on this tour, the Monasterio delas Descalzas Reales, was closed, I walked back through a trendy shopping district, then through the Plaza de Canalejas (cool buildings on every corner!) on the way to the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia—the impressive modern art museum, where I spent 2 or 3 hours until they kicked me out.

I followed my stomach and ate dinner at La Musa de La Latina in the little Plaza de la Paja—a chicken salad, bread, and fabulous albariño wine. I detoured by Calle de los Cuchilleros in order to check out the restaurant mom had frequented 40 years ago, which she described as “a marvelous dump with great food.” It is now a very expensive restaurant with great food… The staff got a kick out of my checking the place out, though, and invited me to take a tour, despite it being crowded and not easily navigated with extra people milling about (fabulous cavy-brick-arches-passages-lots of rooms). I took the menu they gave me and said I’d make a reservation when I figured out which night I’d be able to return (this was going to be my splurge meal!).

Upon return to the hostel, I packed up my stuff and made arrangements to lock it up for the next 2 days, as I’d planned daytrips outside of the city and would spend a night elsewhere. (at this point, my sandals are still unbelievably comfortable, but they stink, and I mean STINK, to high heaven. Remember TEVA stink? This is SO much worse. I tried leaving them outside the room, and then realized that they had to be out the WINDOW so as not to stink up any enclosed environment. This continued for the rest of the trip. In Avila, I even saw a TV commercial for the brand as “the shoe that breathes,” which had me howling in disbelief)

SPAIN: El Escorial / Avila
I took a bus west to the huge monastic complex of San Lorenzo de El Escorial, where the temperature was MUCH colder. I walked to the site amidst pretty autumnal foliage, and toured the Museos de Arquitectura and Pintura, the Palacios de Felipe II/los Austrias, la basilica, and mausoleums. All kinds of art was displayed throughout, from tapestries and sculptures to frescos and oil paintings, plus lots of intricate woodwork.

After much planning and strategizing, I decided not to go to Valle de los Caidos, a memorial to the fallen of Spain’s civil war, as there was only one bus to and from and would severely limit my time anywhere else. Given the bus and train schedules, my best bet seemed to be to go to Avila first and then Segovia the next day, so I caught the next train to Avila (had a terrible burger while waiting)(I sat on the upper level and had a great view of the pretty scenery with lots of dirt roads through mountains that had me itching for a run), where, because we arrived ten minutes late, the tourism office was closed. I FINALLY found the main one in town, in spite of lots of bad signage and lots of people pointing me in wrong directions. I just missed getting into places that closed at 6, but got to walk the city wall (the highlight of a trip to Avila) and take lots of photos, then walk around the old city.

An interesting recent addition to the city is a terrorism statue by the Alcazar gate in the Plaza de Santa Teresa with the Iglesia de San Pedro. The statue is an enormous human being sitting with his arms pulling his knees into his body and his head tucked in. It’s quite impressive and daunting and moving.

I saw the outsides of many places of note, such as the cathedral, which is built into the city wall, the Basilica de San Vicente, the Convento de Santa Teresa, and the Iglesia de Santiago. I was experiencing my first Spanish rain (and I wasn’t even on the plain!), so I busted out the little poncho I’d bought in Asia, which served me perfectly. Having seen many, many signs for “Yema de Avila,” I finally went into a store and asked what it was—a bite-sized pastry of a little crust, a cooked egg yolk, and a chocolate or other sweet shell on top. A mini heart attack! I bought four, not yet knowing exactly what I was in for…

Not having wasted any daylight on finding a pension, I came to that task in the evening and got lucky with a place I’d noticed on my walk in from the train station. I got a cheap room (with a TV, no less!) with a shared bath, and my hostess was a lovely woman with whom I had an extended chat about our backgrounds. She pointed me to a great little cafeteria, where I over-ordered (tapas came with the wine, and I asked for two what-I-thought-were side dishes…turned out to be huge orders of grilled veggies and tuna empanada) but had fun with the guy behind the counter, whose cousin was getting married in New York later in the year. I had lots of leftovers, but it was cold enough (altitude!) that my window ledge was an adequate refrigerator. The bus station was nearby, so I checked on departure times to Segovia for the next day—and they were all about 15 minutes earlier than what the tourism office had told me. Eeek!

I had a good long stretch in my hotel room, with “House” in Spanish on TV, then slept, slept, slept. I got up and out on Wednesday to see three of the sights I’d not been able to see the day before, carefully ordering them according to their opening times so that I could fit them all in before catching my 12:45 bus (nothing opened before 10). Unfortunately, the Monasterio de San Tomas wasn’t open as listed, and I didn’t have the 45 minutes to wait for it to open—and it was out of the way, so I’d not be able to return. I saw the catedral, but the basilica was closed until 12:15 for a private ceremony (which no one could post or tell me about the day before, of course), so I had a 5-minute peek there. ARGH! It was raining again, too—until I got on the bus. Ah, well…at least Avila’s walls were worth the trip…

SPAIN: Segovia
Also cool, and now windy, Segovia was at least sunny, and I had just enough clothing to be comfortable—as long as I kept walking! The tourism office was MUCH better organized than in Avila, and was huge and helpful and easily found. On the walk into town, stunning churches appeared around every corner, until I caught my first glimpse of the Acueducto—astounding! It’s absolutely gigantic and dominates the landscape and seems otherworldly—probably because it is! I need to read up on exactly how those work, because I have no idea. But I dutifully sang “Aquedu-u-u-u-u-uct” a la Jethro Tull for my running pals back home (we run along an aqueduct on the Rockefeller trails).

I toured the gorgeous catedral, Plaza Mayor, and the Alcazar (fairyland castle), then went off the beaten path down from the wall to the outlying areas. I found the Casa de la Moneda (Mint--oldest industrial building) and the Monasterio de Santa Maria del Parral, then walked along the Paseo de la Alameda del Rio Eresma back to town and some of the puertas in the wall. I took a different, winding route back through town for another gape at the acueducto before heading back to the bus station (I picked up a sandwich and beer on the way), then waved adios to Segovia.

SPAIN: More Madrid
(side notes: if you want red wine, order vino “tinto,” not “rojo.” The word “vale” gets a lot of use, as in “sure, right, okay” and also “que vale?” as in “cuanto cuesta?” Only the tourists asked the latter. Hmmmm. Not sure if I mentioned that daylight lasts from about 7:30am-8:30pm)

Our bus stopped on some random alley of some random station, and it took me a while to figure out where on earth I was, but it turned out I was relatively close to home. I checked back into the hostel, into a new (nearer the entrance and much noisier, alas) room, and set myself up before going to a flamenco performance at Las Tablas. Another crappy seat!!! I was way off to the side of the stage, and everything was directed to the front (I think those people also had dinner reservations, and the mere spectators-with-included-beverage get shoved to the side). Some lovely Kiwis in front of me saved me from the awful Americans behind me, and I enjoyed my laterally- experienced performance. This brand of flamenco was classicalish with a moderny dance flavor mixed in. The performers changed into various modernly styled but clearly flamenco costumes throughout. One of the singers was great, the other was producing sound only from his throat and not resonating anywhere, and it was painful to listen to, ‘cause it wasn’t healthy.

Thursday: it took a while to get organized, but I went to the Monasterio de las Descalzas Reales and had to wait in line for an HOUR to get in. It was a good tour (only in Spanish, but our guide was excellent and spoke very clearly), but I missed seeing El Teatro Real and the Basilica because of it. Bummer. I met two great Americans from Pasadena in line, though, and we had fun both in line and quipping during the tour—they even paid for my ticket (“we always wanted a daughter”)!

After the tour, I investigated theater options for the night, then made a dinner reservation at Sobrino de Botin (10pm was the earliest available…ouch!—but not that late for Spain) before taking the metro to mom’s old neighborhood. I went in search of her former home, but the address number was only a hardware store and didn’t have enough floors for her 6th floor apartment. So…I took a lot of photos of nearby buildings with enough floors and shots of things that looked like they might have been there 40 years ago.

I hopped back on the metro to Plaza de Cibeles for photos (I’d seen it while running) and to mail postcards, then to Plaza de Neptune, next to the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza, which I also enjoyed—a huge collection of art from medieval to present times, in all styles. (O’Keefe, Freud, Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Matisse, Kandinsky, Lichtenstein, Rauchenberg, Rothko, Miro, Magritte…) Whew! 3 major museums!

I bought a ticket at Teatro Español for that night’s performance of “Mujeres de Lorca,” a flamenco performance based on Lorca’s plays. I went back to the hostel quickly to pack up all my stuff and to change, as I’d have a late night and an early morning to get to the airport, then back to the theater. The show was wonderful, and I was able to follow most of the stories because I’m familiar with enough of his work. It was fascinating to see flamenco as storytelling theatre beyond the one-song-at-a-time form, especially having seen the other performances. This was a company that clearly had strong classical training, with a lot of balletic and very controlled choreography, but also allowing for the big emotions of the characters through much wilder dancing—closer to what I’d seen in Granada. At times it also brought Irish step dancing to mind. The whole production was very theatrically creative, and of course the dance was outstanding. It was a real highlight of my trip, and I wish I could get a copy of the lyrics from the songs… (3 guitars, percussion, 4-5 singers, 8 dancers, featuring Carmen Cortes. They got the very extended applause they deserved!

At this point, I was quite ready for a big meal, and I went to the Botin, where people were now being told that 11:30 pm was the next available opening. On the way, I realized I’d need more cash, then decided to use my credit card, then remembered that I had, for emergencies, MOM’S credit card! Heh, heh—that’ll teach her to send me to dumps! I was seated and well-attended by the waiters who seemed enjoy my reason for being there, especially the guy who’d met me the first night—I think he was a little disappointed not to be assigned to my table! He checked on me regularly and brought me souvenir wooden spoons (one for me and one for my madre).

I had an enormous meal: gazpacho, served with a platter of fresh ingredients for me to spoon in as desired, a half bottle of wine, bread (even here they charged me for it!), roast lamb, and cheesecake (I wasn’t going to have dessert but the waiter and I concluded that mom would want me to). Ooooooof! I done the Eaters’ Club proud.

I had a long chat with a couple from Puerto Rico at the table next to me, which kept us there late enough to hear the university students who came by with their traditional stringed instruments and costumes and big voices. They were really good, and added to the fun of the whole experience. (Before and during my meal, I was browsing through some arts info, and saw that the “Tiger Lilies” would be performing their version of “The Match Stick Girl,” and that it was a musical theatre band. Now, I happen to know a musical theatre-type band called “Groovelily” with a show called “Striking 12,” which is based on the same “Match Stick Girl,” and they do tour, and I’d been out of the loop…so I thought it was entirely possible that there had been some confusion in back-and-forth translatings and that they’d be in Madrid that coming week. And after a half bottle of wine, it seemed even more possible and freaky… Turns out it isn’t the same group, and that I’d almost seen a show that the first group was in in NYC last year).

I took my stomach back to the hostel and tried to be quiet getting to bed (about 1am), then up at 7. It took much longer to get to the airport than I’d been told, and THEN you have to wait for and take a bus to the terminal, which was extremely FAR AWAY—as in 15 minutes at about 40mph. By the time I got to check-in I only had an hour and the line was HUGE, so the woman at the Iberian info desk said to take both bags as carryons, which was no problem except for my Swiss Army knife. Unfortunately, they don’t do what they do in Asia, which is to just stick it in an envelope and send it off to the checked luggage pile--they confiscate it, supposedly for destruction. I was bummed, since I’d bought it in Switzerland in ’98. Boohooo!

I deplaned in Dusseldorf for my connecting flights, and had totally forgotten that I’d be in a German-speaking world and would have to contend with another language, even if only briefly. I was completely unprepared, mentally, to switch gears again. I got my bag, transferred any liquids and other stuff deemed inappropriate by G.W. to my big bag, walked around a lot and bought a nasty breakfast pastry, and finally went to my gate. Those guys who go through every last thing in all carryon luggage must see some pretty weird stuff. I don’t know how they contain their curiosity or commentary.

I slept a little, but not much amidst a big chatty German group, probably going to NYC for the first time. But it was great to get off at Kennedy, haul ass like a New Yorker to the baggage claim, realize that the M60 bus I thought I’d take to 125th street only runs from LaGuardia, and be able to ask the guy at the transportation desk how much the airtrain cost. His answer: “Fidallah.” Hooray! I’m HOME! (I made him say it again and proclaimed my love for him). Well, that train is not well marked, and some other NYers who’d never taken it before and I figured it out together, bringing a few foreigners with us. I was pretty giddy at this point, running on some form of adrenaline, but I got to Grand Central and on a train to Old Greenwich. I borrowed a cellphone to call mom, and enjoyed a LONG sleep on my very own flannel sheets! Woohoo!

I do believe I have successfully scratched the travel itch for the time being…

So now I’m home and slowly getting back into show biz, catering a lot during the holidays, and enjoying the people and things I’d missed. I definitely made the right choice in leaving EV, even before hearing all the ridiculousness that has happened since I left. Now, I just have to get through the battle of getting the last of the money they owe me, which has been ongoing since I returned on Oct. 6th. But I am determined, for myself and the others who have left, none of whom have gotten their money yet, either.

Happy Holidays! Now I gotta get to work on the letter…

SPAIN: Cordoba-Toledo

SPAIN: Cordoba
Friday: up and early and schlepped much farther than I’d realized I’d need to to get to the train station, but got a relatively cheap one (the varieties are confusing) to Cordoba, where there was more confusion and a few hassles regarding bus and train schedules, baggage storage lockers and tourist info. I caught a bus to the area with the must-see stuff, and passed an old Islamic water wheel on my way to the Alcazar de los Reyes Cristianos. The highlights there were the views and the gardens, but it was crowded, partially due to it being a no-admission day and partly because there were a few weddings there for photos (with BITCHY women, I might add).

I had an overpriced falafel lunch and walked on the far side of the Rio Guadalquivir, by the Torre del la Calahorra and Puente Romano (under construction and impassable) to and around the far side of the city wall. Next up was the much-renowned Mezquita, which was a vast maze of endless candy-cane arches; I kept expecting giggling elves to pop out from behind pillars or hang from the ceiling. ‘Twas a wondrous mixture of Muslim and Christian architecture.

After that, the rest paled in comparison. I could only see part of the exterior of the sinagoga, the Puerta de Almodovar was like the Alcazar, and Casa Andalusi was a quaint home crammed with stuff supposedly of note. Spanish plazas never fail to please, though, and the Plazas de las Tendillas and de la Corredera were both lovely. The ruins of a roman temple were a funny find amidst the contemporary traffic.

SPAIN: Toledo

I got photos from my camera transferred to a CD (as many as would fit…) then walked back to the train station to hop a choochoo to Madrid, as there was no direct anything to Toledo, in spite of its being on the way. In Madrid I caught another train to Toledo, and arrived there after dark. Fortunately, I immediately found the bus that dropped me in the center of town, and I found my pension quickly. I was tired but went out for a caña (Mahou beer) and free tapas (rolls with oil, tomato and maybe eggplant, with fries and mayo, salsa and parsley—rock on!). I finally got to bed at 12:30 and slept in instead of running, as I’d be on my feet all day and had a lot of territory to cover.

The Mezquita de Cristo de la Luz (de obras=under construction) was a nifty old mosque with views beyond the city’s walls. I traded the unintelligible English writeup for the Spanish one. I probably shouldn’t have bothered finding the main tourist office after that, but I got a decent map and rode the huge remonte peotonal (escalator) to get there.

Moving on, I found my way (which isn’t easy in Toledo, as all the streets are twisty-turny, not so labeled, and lookalike) to the Monasterio de Santo Domingo el Anterio, where I saw (a copy of) El Greco’s “Acension,” lots of catholic stuff, and nun-made marzipan (I bought a little box—yum!). The Iglesia de San Roman and its Museo de los Concilios y Cultura Visigoda and tower (with what seemed like centuries’ worth of pigeon poop), was a quick stop before Iglesia de Santo Tome, with El Greco’s famous “El Entierro del Conde de Orgay.” Amazing and beautiful, and the tourists pay and are herded through to see this one thing the church has on display.

The Casa-Museo de El Greco offered more, including many portraits and “Vista y Plano de Toledo.” I checked out the Mudejar decoration of Sinagoga del Transito and its Museo Sefardi, then the Sinagoga de Santa Maria La Blanca, with white Almohade arches. The cloisters and sanctuary of San Juan de los Reyes were light-filled and beautiful, with eerie chains of former Christian prisoners adorning the exterior walls.

I turned back towards the center of town for lunch, and settled on a more out-of-the-way place with less crowded outdoor seating, and enjoyed a lunch of partridge with stewed beans and black pudding sausage (partridge is a Toledo specialty, and they don’t mention the sausage in the description, but you can always expect some pork of some kind to make an appearance), accompanied by a delicious pint of Schlosser Alt beer. Mmmmmmm.

Thus fortified, I braced myself for the crowds of Toledo’s famous Catedral. And it was crowded, as it was Saturday and also I think a special tourism day—many sites were free. But the Catedral was glorious, especially the unique Transparente: an elaborate sculpture- and fresco-decorated window above and behind the main altar. The coro, capilla Mayor, Puerta del Reloj, Sala Capitular (500-yr-old Mudejar ceiling), sacrista, cloisters and Custodia de Arfe were all of different styles, from Islamic to Renaissance to Gothic…quite the mishmash.

I passed by the Alcazar, which was under construction and closed, and was happy that the Museo de Santa Cruz had extended hours that day, as I’d heard it was fabulous—and it was! There were tons of El Grecos and works of other masters, plus a special exhibit on seeing all the underlying drawing with whatever their newest technology is.

I went back to my pension via the Arco de la Sangre in the city walls, guarded by a statue of Cervantes, and Plaza de Zocodover, which is seemingly always a-bustle. I picked up my belongings and caught a bus to the train station, where the next two trains were sold out! So I walked to the bus station and caught a slow one, but got to Madrid before it was very late. Whew! A big day!

SPAIN: Ronda - Sevilla

SPAIN: Ronda
La Ciudad Soñada is a lovely little city straddling an ENORMOUS gorge (El Tajo), with stunning views that mysteriously eats huge chunks of space on camera memory sticks. Houses and hotels and fortress walls perch at (or extend over) the very edge of sheer dropoffs.

My hotel room was ready when I arrived at 10am, so I set myself up and did some laundry, taking advantage of having my very own bathroom. I contemplated a nap, but of course couldn’t waste time on mere sleep when there was stuff to see, so out I went. I was tired from the trekking and the lack of sleep, and Ronda is small, so after some churros y chocolate (with smoke) I made my way lazily from sight to sight, window shopping (I even found some Geox sport sandals on end-of-season sale) and gaping at the scenery at all the viewpoints.

I wandered to la Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Socorro, Plaza de Toros’ ring and the museum, the Plaza de España, and Puente Nuevo, then was ready for some real food. I had some unremarkable Valencian paella (where they brought me bread and charged me for it) in a pretty square with la Iglesia de Santa Maria La Mayor, which fueled me for the hike down into the gorge from Plaza Maria Auxiliadora and back. The Palacio de Mondragon, containing the city museum, was lovely and interesting, and I chatted with some Americans whose son was about to pursue acting in LA.

I walked south from the city center to the outer fortress walls, then along the eastern wall to the Arab baths and Puente Viejo. Iglesia de Nuestro Padre Jesus was the last church I visited, then I strolled through town in search of a souvenir, as mom had not been to Ronda, and dinner ideas. Most of the tourist shops in Spain seem to have the same ceramics, except for the different towns’ names, but I bought a little vase for our Spanish collection anyway. No menus were calling my name, and I was fading fast, so I bought some gelato and walked to the western walls to see the sun set over the surrounding valley. I found a grocery store near my hotel and bought a little prepackaged salad and a bag of plain mixed greens to add to it, as I was craving some serious greenery. Alas, they had no cold drinks, so I bought a mini bottle of red wine, which turned out to be pretty bad. But the combo in my hotel room, while organizing my stuff and thoughts with a Spanish telenovela on TV before bed, was perfect.

I had hoped to go for a run around the valley surrounding town the next morning, but clearly needed the sleep and my legs were still pooped from the hiking. I took a bus to Sevilla (which was sitting in the station but left 20 minutes late; nobody was in a rush), and I was the only non-locally-dropped-off passenger for the first hour (I’d contemplated going to the Costa del Sol for the day, but the transportation schedules sucked and it seemed like it would be more hassle than it was worth).

We passed the stunning Plaza de España before pulling into the station, and I got off the bus into the beautiful sunshine (it’s always sunny here!!!), crossing my fingers that I’d find a place to stay easily, as calling around the day before had gotten me nowhere. I found some 20Euro rooms pretty quickly, but they weren’t very well attended and were easily accessible, and I wanted a little more security, so I kept moving on. The cheap places recommended in my book were full, but one sent me to La Gloria, where they gave me a double (barely) for 25Euros, with a shower and sink but no toilet (?). Manolo (the first of three who worked there), was a father hen figure who gave me a map and marked out the best places for cheap bocadillos, nightlife and museums, and implored me to be careful with my bag while sightseeing. He was very happy that I spoke Spanish, as was everyone there during my stay; I don’t think we ever used English.

I was starving at this point, and finally settled on lunch at La Habanita, where I had gazpacho and then pork in sauce with raisins and bacon. On the walk over, I’d passed through Plaza Nueva and Plaza de San Francisco, both of which were under construction—as most of the city, I soon discovered, was (Granada had been, too, but not as pervasively). Bummer.

After lunch I went to see la Catedral, which is on the glorious end of the cathedral spectrum, including a beautiful coro, capilla mayor, Patio de los Naranjos, and views from la Giralda (tower). Unfortunately, my photos came out crappy, and it closed much earlier than I’d realized, so I mis-paced myself and didn’t get to see everything. Across the Plaza del Triunfo, however, the Alcazar was open much later, so I took in the huge complex of rooms and patios and beautiful gardens.

Having had a proper dose of architecture and landscaping, I went to the barrio de Santa Cruz for tapas, where I finally had a true tapas experience. I bellied up to the bar, ordered a caña (small glass of beer) and asked what I should try, which prompted an immediate answer, so that’s what I had. A ham-n-cheesy mini-sandwich deal, which was very good. This approach served me well most of the time; only once did I have a server who didn’t want to deal with making a recommendation. Otherwise, when they see that you’ll take them up on whatever they suggest, they have fun, and it doesn’t cost them any time during rush hour. They keep your tab in chalk on the barspace in front of you and tally it up when you’re ready to go. Several times, since I was alone and hearing other people’s conversations, I ended up helping tourists with little or no Spanish to order drinks and food, which led to a few fun conversations. I also got a useful review of a flamenco performance.

After a few tapas, I went off to find a club where there was supposedly regular and free flamenco dancing, but at 10:30 it was still EMPTY, and I wasn’t going to wait around for hours for the action to begin, so I went home via another tapas place (meat o’clock is always in effect when dealing with tapas, although I did have one of chick peas and spinach). While there is plenty of nightlife and lots of tourists in Sevilla, the late stuff happens in concentrated areas, some tucked away, and the trip back to the hotel involved walking through areas that were pedestrian-only and safe but not very well trafficked, so I didn’t go out late-night. When I got back to the hotel, Jose, who was of the same mold as Manolo #1, was on duty and so very happy to meet me and find out what I’d done that day. Hilarious.

I slept in (Wednesday) and then went on a longish run (1:15) across and down the river Guadalquivir, then back through the park de Maria Luisa…and only got a little lost making my way back home (On the way out, I met Maonolo #2, who observed that I was off to do something sporty and pointed out the black-and-white photos of him in his former pole-vaulting glory days on the wall). I had a huge bocadillo at a ridiculously non-Spanish hour in the late morning, then went to the Museo de las Bellas Artes, which was well worth the trip for paintings by many a Spanish master in a former convent.

I walked down the city-side of the river, picking up some transportation info (and a carnation) at a tourist office, past the bullring and Torre del Oro, then crossed town (construction, construction, construction) to Plaza de España. On the way back, I stopped to listen to a guy playing some amazing guitar along the Alcazar wall, and bought his CD. I sat at an outdoor restaurant table for a glass of fino (sherry), which wasn’t really to my taste, then had some tapas and summer wine at Patio San Eloy before going to the late flamenco show where I’d made a reservation (another crappy seat!). The show was, again, brief, but still enjoyable. The style here was much different than in Granada: much more formal, technical, and severe, and the costumes were all black and more modern. The singer had a ridiculous tenor range but with HUGE vocal tension that made me wonder how long he’d have that voice.

I went back to the hotel, where I was greeted by Jose, who was “SO GLAD!” to see me and solemnly offered me these words of wisdom: “Sleep a lot, eat well, and don’t walk too fast.” OKAY, Jose. I wrote a few postcards on the (bleak) rooftop terrace before bed.

On Thursday, I went to the Thursday flea market, but it didn’t seem to be happening, as only a small, seemingly daily market was going on. I checked out the nearby Macarena Basilica, which was tacky, then took a bus to Santiponce to see Italica, the eerie and weird site of the first Roman town in Spain (206 BC), which included ruins of houses and a huge amphitheater. The nearby monastery was closed, so I took a bus back to Sevilla and walked through La Triana, a neighborhood noted for ceramics (still siesta time, though, so everything was closed).

The hospice Caridad was a bit of a waste, since the main feature, the sculptured altar, was covered. There were some pretty tiles and a few Murillo paintings, though. I made up for it with gelato, then went to the post office for postcard stamps, checked my email at Western Union, had a glass of wine on the Plaza de San Francisco, shopped around and bought a bunch of jewelry at a fun (and BUSY) store, investigated transferring some photos onto a CD, and went out for…tapas. At my first stop, within half a beer, a boisterous Irish guy was chatting me up: he’d lost his cellphone and rental car’s keys, and couldn’t get in touch with the friend with whom he was staying (part-time girlfriend and mother of his son) or find a cab. He claimed to be a psychiatrist with homes in Lima, Huelva, Phuket and Brooklyn, and good-naturedly labeled himself a “prick”, “asshole,” and “bastard” at various points in the conversation, during which he kept ordering beers and close-talking me so that we slowly migrated six feet down the bar. People. Takes all kinds. The bartenders and I were entertained by the situation (This guy did explain that this was Spain’s year for getting allocated EU money, which was why everything was under construction all over the country). I let him leave WITHOUT me, then went to another spot for a taste before calling it a night. Manolo #3 was greatly disappointed that I’d missed the magnificent flea market.