Of all Spanish cities, Seville may well be my favorite, far ahead of the others. Yes, I know. You should keep an open mind to all. Too, my bias may reflect the specifics of my previous visit to it: on New Year's Eve, with Ed, when the Sevillanos spilled out onto the streets, loving the moment, then came back again, filling those same streets on New Year's Day, with little kids in tow. It was a charming time to walk in a city of orange hues and orange trees and orange sunshine.
It's one of two Spanish cities that I want Snowdrop to get to know.
But first, we start the day with breakfast at our Madrid hotel. We both got a good night's sleep which is just so grand! ("I woke up to sparrows singing outside! Just like at home!")
The plan is to use the next hour or two wisely. To maybe take a look at the Royal Palace, at least from the outside. [Snowdrop was tickled to learn that the oldest child of a royal (king/queen) gets to be called Princess (or Prince), and all the others are merely Infantes. You can see where this is heading -- so in my family, I would be called Princess Snowdrop and my brothers would be merely Infantes? Hey, missing piece here is that they are not Spanish royals, but oh well!] And to stop at the Corte Ingles, which is sort of like the Macy's of Spain. I'd neglected to pack a baggie of characters that the girl uses for story telling during a downtime. The store has a toy section. I promised a poke into it to see what's there. Finally, I need to find something to take with us to eat on our train trip south.
You could say that we accomplished a tiny bit of all three goals, but none in the way that I expected.
First - the Palace. I made the mistake of taking Snowdrop to the hotel's rooftop before heading out. She'd noticed that some of the buildings here have red tiled rooftops. Just like in Greece and Italy -- she tells me. So we climbed the stairs to the top of the hotel, so that she could see more of that beautiful tile from higher up. What you can also see from up here is the Royal Palace. Or a fragment of it.
Since we cannot get inside the Palace, Snowdrop asks -- why do you want to walk to it if we've already seen it from the outside, from this roof? Okay, good point. Call it a superficial viewing, but realistically, she is not going to get that much more from the street level. (I know that others would disagree, but, I am with the girl on this one.)
Next -- Corte Ingles. This leads us up a couple of small commercial streets. None of them are particularly attractive. We pass so many American fast food chains that it truly feels like we can be on Shopping Street in Anywhere Land. Snowdrop is again frowning at the litter in Madrid. I am thinking that I am doing the city no favor by walking here, but the fact is, street cleaning isn't as ubiquitous in Madrid as, say in Paris. (Even though on one trip to Paris, we hit the city just at the tail end of a sanitation strike and believe me, they had not finished the big cleanup of the city by then!) I let her stay with her impressions. I remember that on my first trip to Venice as a child just a few years older than Snowdrop, I positively disliked it for its smells and dirty canal waters. (It was July, they were less mindful of polluted waters back in the 1960s.) I totally flipped on the city a few years later. It became my favorite destination for years to come.
We walk along streets that are referred to as "pedestrian." It's interesting to see that the pavement is level, in that it does not distinguish the sidewalk from a car lane. No step down, no step back up. And we quickly learn that delivery trucks and special authorized vehicles are permitted, even on these "pedestrian" streets. This false double sense of security (it's called pedestrian, it's all one level) unravels the little girl. She says half jokingly, half seriously -- I am going to die on these streets! I tell her no truck wants to run down a grandma with her little granddaughter. They see us. They're moving slowly. Nonetheless, she walks on the inside, unused to these new for her city traffic patterns.
We enter the big Corte Ingles and ask for the toy department. Not in this one -- the door attendant tells us. Go up the block, turn that way, walk 50 meters, there's another Corte Ingles there. Fourth floor.
I think I am following her instructions. I find the Corte Ingles. Excuse me, do you speak English? No. Okay, toys for children (a lot of hand play on my part)? No. up that calle. We go up that street. Another Corte Ingles. No to English, no to toys either. We go back to the first Corte and re-ask the one attendant who seemed so certain and who spoke some English. She tells us -- turn left, not right. ("I told you!" -- this from Snowdrop; attendant laughs).
Why are there no fewer than four Corte Ingles stores within two blocks of each other?
We find the toy department. It's huge! The trouble is, we enter in the section with dolls. Snowdrop loves dolls.
She doesn't play with them that much at the farmhouse anymore. Nonetheless, she loves them with all her little heart. I swear if there was a fire at the farmhouse, I'd rush to get those dolls out because they have deep meaning for her.
I steer her away toward the bitty characters. She's patient. She nods with understanding. But she talks about the dolls. I'll pay for one! It's not the cost, it's the size. And the play potential. I know this about her: she wont devote many hours to a new doll. Still, her heart is there, in the rows and rows of dolls.
We go back. She picks Aubrey. She loves Aubrey. (Aubrey also happens to be on a 50% sale. At 15 Euro, I love Aubrey as well.) We get Aubrey. Aubrey is big. I will now have with me two suitcases, two backpacks, one purse, one camera, and Aubrey to load onto the train. Fun!
Finally, we walk down to the place recommended by our hotel to pick up something for lunch. The Opera Cafe.
The selection isn't large, but Snowdrop spots a sandwich that she finds acceptable (I'm going to pretend the air-dried Iberian ham is not red meat for my little pescatarian)...
... and I'm taken by a cheese croissant that I'll eat to keep her company. As the Cafe guy fixes our small sandwiches, I watch one guy after another come in and order what is the real Spanish deal -- toasted bread, with olive oil and chopped tomato. Not today, but sometime soon I have to indulge that delicious Spanish food choice.
And now it's time to pack up our bags (while big Aubrey admires the view one last time)...
... and make our way to the station, where we board our fantastic train for the two and a half hour ride that will cover 528 kilometers (328 miles) and take us right into the center of Seville.
(past fields and hills, covered with olive trees)
If I thought that Seville brought out the locals on New Year's, then I have to say, I did not expect that I would get a repeat of this more than one week before Easter. I mean, what's so special about this weekend? The holiday is next weekend!
And yet, I've been warned. Emails from my hotel front desk: be careful! pay attention! there will be disruptions! The Holy Week starts now!
Turns out there's the Holy Week but there is, too, the lead up to it.
Spain is predominantly Catholic. If you go by the Baptism data, you come up with a number like 92% of the population. The true affiliation with Catholicism right now is closer to 60%, but I've seen this before, in countries like Italy: church attendance is on the slide, but this does not take away from the savage adherence to religious traditions. Too, if you look at the demographics, you see that of all cities in Spain, Seville is the most Catholic of them all. Blame the Spanish Inquisition (and the persecution of Jews and Muslims and Protestants for several hundred years) for it. So, on this Holy Week, we're not likely to see fewer people on the streets than, say, on a New Year's weekend.
We're staying at the very lovely old (but new inside) Colon Hotel, a cousin of the Madrid hotel.
(view out our window)
It's not that I am unimaginative -- it's that I looked around for this one amenity that I crossed my fingers for (because it could have been too cold for it). A pool. Oh, did we get lucky! Seville is just right now experiencing a heat wave, and only for the days that we are here. A high of 84f (28c) each day. Good weather for pool dips in the afternoon? I think so!
We leave the sight seeing for the next two days. On this late afternoon, we head for the roof!
(small, but for a kid -- delightful, though she did grumble that I did not go in with her!)
Dinner is at La Piemontesa. I thought I'd do the girl a favor and sprinkle in places that combine Italian into the otherwise Andalusian cuisine. La Piemontesa has both pastas and pizzas. Snowdrop heaven.
(evening exuberance...)
(I realize she is plenty hungry when she proclaims the olives served beforehand are the best ever, and when she dives into her pizza within one second of its arrival.)
Seville is definitely closer to her heart. The late night boisterous social life out on the streets -- sure, there's that. More likely though it's the size of the city. It has the feel of linked neighborhoods. Someone I met by the pool earlier compared it to Florence. I get that. Though of course, tourism in Seville is an entirely different kettle of fish: there are many, many who come here this week from elsewhere, but that "elsewhere" is likely to be from other parts of Spain. There's a lot of Spanish out on the streets, that's for sure.
Okay, tomorrow we plunge into the heart of this place. Tonight? Sleep!
