Alejandra of Seville and other treasures

It’s Monday, nearly eleven and we are finally done with supper. That’s a tad late for us, but I’d been engrossed in deleting hundreds of old photos that I had sloppily left on the computer, leading to the unfortunate situation of a maxed out hard drive, so we got a late start.

We'd eaten pizza. A cheat, I know, because so far as I know, pizza is not Andalusian, not even Spanish, but it was a delicious neighborhood pizza, one you had to wait for, as the place was crowded even at that hour, or perhaps especially at that hour.


 


As always, at the eatery I take a good long look at those around us. I’m especially drawn to the two couples who come in shortly after us. One has a little girl and they put her at the end of the table, give her an iPhone (or some comparable) and then proceed to discuss with each other the state of the world and their lives in it. The girl happily plays with the iPhone and only every few minutes asks some question or other of her mother.

As in France, kids here know what is expected of them when they go out to eat with their families. The meal includes them (even at this late hour), but it isn't about them. Still, I’m impressed enough by this little one that I go up to say a few niceties to the parents. Of course, the mom’s pleased and proud and as she looks into the smiling eyes of her daughter, prodding her to answer for herself the question about her age, the girl tilts her head with a laugh and tells me that she is Alejandra and she is, in fact, three.

She then returns to the iPhone and continues her doodles. I’m amused. Obviously, in postwar Poland, my thumbs would not have known to skirt around a tiny screen, but it’s also true that my own kids never touched a tiny screen or even a big screen with thumbs, or with any other fingers. The whirlygig of time...


But what time does not seem to ever dismantle is the pleasure of eating out and especially outside, even on a January day in Seville, where you need your jacket and a scarf, but having that, you can find a table outdoors and you can stay there the whole afternoon long, talking, eating, eating, talking. As Ed and I walk back from our third and final sight for this day and for Seville in fact, as we’re leaving Tuesday, we pass square after square absolutely packed with people engaged in eating, drinking and talking, talking, so boisterously that the city almost rumbles with their collective voice.

Ed comments – they beat France in this (their devotion to the café-restaurant life) and that’s saying a lot.

If the economy is faltering, it’s surely not making a dent in this one passion that survives all others.


I noted that we are walking from our third sight. There should have been four on this day, but one of them – a local market – was a bust. Lonely Planet needs to do an update there.

The other three? The first was interesting but I cut out early in the tour. Ed sat out altogether. The second was probably in the top handful of sights I have seen in my life. The third was a gentle and tamer version, worth the hike, but my eyes were still glazed over by number two.


So, now let me go back to the beginning of the day, when we sit down to an orange juice and a sweet Bandas de Hoja with coffee (for me; Ed’s still groaning over being full of some past meal or other and so he sticks with juice) at a nearby café. I almost got it right, but not entirely. It took several breakfasts to figure out that if you want to do as they do, the Sevilians, or perhaps all Spaniards, you order a morning set and you’ll get juice, coffee with milk and a toasted roll. Take it with ham, tomato or jam. The price for all that will probably be less than if you order juice alone. It’s just the way it is.





We look for the market, don’t find it (because it’s not there) and backtrack to the Plaza de Toros de la Maestranza. This is where Seville’s great tradition of bullfighting takes place and I say great as in large as opposed to fantastically wonderful. Obviously I’m one of those who is squeamish about the whole concept (I don’t get boxing, hokey or football either – somehow violence as sport doesn’t excite me), but I know no bull has passed through the gates since October and I am not opposed to taking a tour of the beautiful old rink built for the purpose of slowly killing bulls. When Ed makes some comment indicating how terribly offputting the whole thing is, I remind him that back home, he has a cat who likes to torture mice to death in much the same slow way.





But I am not very good at listening to tour guides – especially ones who err on too much or too little detail (this one was the latter) and so after poking around a little, I cut out, feeling entirely satisfied that I have paid enough homage to the place of bull killing (call it what it is; I fail to see it as much of a fight. The deck is stacked against the poor animal no matter how many ambulances stand by at the periphery).





And now we finally approach the Alcazar – the palace built over a period of many centuries, but most notably containing the 14th century additions of Pedro I (who was on good terms with the Muslim emir of Granada and a great fan of the Alhambra palace there). I need add nothing else. Just walk quietly through it with me and make a note to someday take the trip to Seville, because truly, seeing this – and I recommend doing so in the cool relative quiet of a winter day – will be worth the hassle and expense of getting there.




























We move seamlessly from room to courtyard to garden -- enchanting even now at this seasonally restful moment.































At one corner, we find a place (one of many) to sit down, in the favorite way of ours where I am in the sun and Ed is in the shade and I will be surprised if there will be a moment on this trip that will surpass the beautiful tranquility of the minutes we sit there, listening to flights of birds and a distant rumble of a city somewhere there, but not really there at all, not for us, not in this second.







Perhaps the best way to digest the hours spent at the Alcazar is over a late lunch. There are dozens of families out and about... (here are three kids in blue coats with the girls in green tights and with rose bows, and three girls in gray coats and pink tights with pink bows, plus some sundry other sibs)


 


...and even more families at outside tables...






...and there are plenty of tapas places to choose from except  you can’t choose by popularity because they’re all crowded, all with tables spilling out onto the tight sidewalks. So we pick one that seems to have an understandable selection of small dishes, only to find out that they’re not doing small tapas but only half plates and full plates – all very confusing, but no matter, I order two halves – shrimp bubbling in garlic olive oil and spinach with chickpeas and though Ed says he is still not hungry, he changes his mind and helps me eat both.











And so we can dive now into the next and final for us Sevillian sight -- the smaller palace, the Casa de Pilatos. And it’s very pretty and very quiet – a bit out of the way (at the edge of the Jewish Ghetto, so it does make for a nice walk through these tight, confusing alleys)...


 


....it does not really draw lines or crowds and that certainly is pleasant enough. It can’t and shouldn’t be compared to the Alcazar and I’ll resist the temptation to do so, only to say the Casa is like having a perfect espresso after an exquisite meal.
















And now it’s nearly evening and we walk through squares packed with cafés and people...


 



...lots and lots of people and if ever there was a use for the word merrymaking, I’ll throw it out now, because truly, in that great conversation over food and beverage (oftentimes with children playing at the side), there does seem to be a joyousness present that’s hard to imagine under other circumstances.










And the rest – well, you know the rest. Deleting photos and eating pizza in the distant company of the sweet three year old Alejandra.



The next morning, Tuesday morning, this morning, we finally do breakfast right – at this sweet little local place where the waiter has a brother in New York and is pleased that Ed can speak like a native (and understand like a foreigner). I munch on my toasted roll with marmalade and Ed proclaims it is the best orange juice he has tasted ever, or at least on this trip.






We walk to the station with our packs – an hour’s walk really, if you stop to admire Sevillian ceramics...





...and pause to pick up fruit at a local fruit stand where oranges right now are selling for 2 Euro for five kilo.







...and we take the train to Granada.

eight Oceans ago

What’you doin’? I ask Ed. It’s 1:30 at night and I’m surprised to wake up to light coming from a room lamp. (Typically, if he is awake, he’ll read from his computer in darkness.)

Asking does produce an answer, but not one I can readily grasp.
I’m programming a micro processor and building circuits on a breadboard and using the microprocessor to control the circuits. And you?

Guess I’ll work on a post. My talents, if they are that, are so much more humble. Last I read, there were some 156 million blogs out there. You could build a road to Mars from words strung from my blog alone (I just made that up, but it seems probable). If you add photos, we could probably step our way all the way to Jupiter.

It wasn’t always such a popular “sport.” When Ocean was born – eight years ago today! – blogging was thought to be quaintly original. And weird. These days, on the other hand, it’s almost as if the bulk of a blogging public has tried it and moved on. Writing and especially writing daily takes stamina.

So Ed is traveling with a tiny little board and a whole bunch of wires cushioned in his clean underwear. Me, I need my laptop and my camera (padded in clothing too) and a plug adapter and I'm good to go.


To go... And just exactly where did we go today? Well, it turns out that most every sight is closed for the holiday. The books don’t tell you this, so I was surprised, but not entirely disappointed. We’ll do sights on Monday. On Sunday, we walk.

First the fortification: toasted croissants at the corner restaurant. Spanish people don’t do big breakfasts, so if you ask for something like eggs, you’ll get a shake of the head and possibly an eye roll. These foreigners... do they think it’s good to go from dinner at midnight to a breakfast of protein nine hours later? Coffee and a nibble. A Mediterranean idea of a morning meal.


And now the walk. We poke around the courtyard of the Alcazar (the old fort and palace)...





...but then leave the old center of Seville and pick up a path along the Guadalquivir River. It’s strange to think that Columbus brought his ship this far inland. Seville is Columbus territory. When he died, his bones were jostled around from Spain to Hispaniola to Cuba and then to Spain again. Most hold on to the idea that he is now buried in the Cathedral in Seville, just two short blocks from our hotel (A few holdouts claim that it’s not him at all, but rather his son, Diego, but that’s not the point – the point is that Seville could at one time lay claim to his remains, because it was, in the end, this city from which he sailed the ocean blue. Not my little Ocean, but the big Atlantic Ocean.)





It’s a lovely walk on this cool but sunny day in Seville.


 


True, there are those who still haven’t capitulated to the new day in the new year. Celebrating, for them, continues even past the noon hour.





But mostly, people are refreshed and quite sober and it just warms the heart to see them enjoying each other’s company on this New Year’s Day.


We break for lunch, or rather my lunch. At home, I hardly eat anything in mid-afternoon and Ed eats mountains then. Here, we’ve oddly flipped.





A salad with cheese. Predictably delicious.





But what I’ll especially remember from this first real meal of the year is the way the sun moved across the space of the ally, so that initially it was on the cool side...


 


...but then, quite suddenly, I was in the sun and the world around me seemed like such a good and happy place. (I finished my macchiato before the disappointment of its movement out of our range.)





We rest a little and then I urge us out again. That sun stays visible here until about five. Let’s not waste the hours of its Sunday brilliance. The park, let’s head for the park. With the gazebos, pavillions, a Baroque palace, fountains...






No longtime Ocean reader will be surprised by this. I love city parks and especially on a Sunday, when most anyone and their lover, friend or child hustles toward green communal spaces for the sheer pleasure of being outdoors in the company of others.





Seville’s park is glorious and the late afternoon sun – magical.





















We walk the length of the park, me noting the children, of course, always dressed as if this was the most important outing of their young lives. And maybe it is. Chasing and feed birds. Does it get better than this?









Paddled carts and all sorts of moving things are there if you want a somewhat faster pace and as Ed looks around, he mumbles – why is it that everyone is having so much fun out here...





The colors are deep and golden now. It’s a lush park, in a city that experiences winter snow only once every half a century.
















There are quiet corners too. Contemplative spaces.









But what I see is that mostly, it is a place for play. With good spirit.


 




Out now on the streets again and here, too, we encounter a chunk of humanity. Strollers without a goal. They lack that hurried gate. They pause and sip coffee and wine, and nibble cakes, and  buy sacks of roasted chestnuts. And here, too, are the tourists -- cameras around necks, hands in pockets or holding maps -- we're there too, it is our Sunday as well after all.





A good way to ease into the New Year.


Evening. Yesterday, Ed and I had passed an open door where a person was handing out leaflets on Flamenco music and dancing at the cultural center located there, in a courtyard of an old building in the Jewish Quarter. The young artists are from Seville and they’ve picked up some awards for their performances. We bought tickets for this first evening of the New Year.

We arrive just in time for the show, which means that we take the very last seats of a packed courtyard. No matter. I’d say most of the seating here is suboptimal anyway. Rickety folding chairs that slope down so that you have to work your muscles to stay put. As we are in the third (and last) row, we can stand. I do, for the entire one hour performance.





You could only take photos in the last two minutes of the show but from where I am and in the darkness of the space, I cannot produce anything of worth. And even a good photo would not give a good story here because, in fact, the performance is so riveting, so dramatic and perfect that it leaves me nearly tearful. Ed would say that bad movies make me tearful as well so perhaps this isn’t a sign of much, but let me tell you, I rarely leave a live concert choked up.


We walk back to our neighborhood. Our set of blocks. Funny how quickly you identify something as more home than not home. I had made a reservation for a good meal across the river for this day, but we decided earlier to cancel it. A local place is offering a special: gazpacho, paella and sangria for 13 Euros. It’s a homey place with a crew of fast paced waitresses and waters. A place where families gather and friends linger.





And the food is exactly right: not complicated, but perfect in every way.





To the next year then. To Ocean years, to years of moving across the ocean, back and forth, remembering that I should never get too comfortable in life, or at home at the farmhouse, or at least never so comfortable so as to consider movement to be an imposition. Life moves this way and that. And so do I. And so does Ocean.