Seville

It’s the 4^th of July today in the States. I always expect other countries to celebrate our Independence Day simply because I’ve done so all my life. It’s the same with Thanksgiving. I can understand why though. And it’s probably a gloomy day for England. Why would they celebrate the day we dissolved our connection with the king and his oppressive taxes.

We got up this morning at seven a.m. to catch a train to Barcelona. It was early for us and probably early for most in Madrid as well, but Seville has been different. Besides our trip to Morocco being postponed until later in our stay abroad, Seville has been my favorite city in Spain. We found our hostel easy enough and the reception there was very warm. Pablo was from Argentina and Rachel from Ireland. The only problem we had is with dormitory stay. There were 10 to our room and not all of them kept the same hours as two weary travelers. A French couple from Paris partied all night and got in at six a.m. They made enough noise to wake up several floors by tossing their belongings around, letting doors slam and speaking in hushed tones. After about an hour they left. I found out later they had to catch an early train.

For breakfast we found a nice place a couple of doors down from the hostel. For 1.90 euro we got an herb tea, freshly-squeezed orange juice and two halves of a toasted baguette along with butter and jam. During breakfast we met a group of Italians, two couples vacationing for a week in Spain. I took some pictures of them on the busy Seville street with traffic going by in the background. They enjoyed it and asked me to email them some. They also suggested we try their hotel because it was close to our hostel and it was cheaper and more private. We went to a website they told us about which discounted our price from 48 euro to 36 euro. This might not seem like a significant amount but it equates to about $17 dollars. After we said goodbye to the Italians we decided to rent bikes and head out to the Torre de Oro (tower of gold) along the river. The weather in Seville has been about 33-35 Celsius. This is even warm for Seville standards. A breeze was blowing in and made the day bearable as we rode our bikes past the section of the city that lies in the shadow of the Alcazar Cathedral. The day before we had walked to the cathedral and decided that biking would be an easier way to see more of the city.

Orange trees line many of the streets in Seville. (I’m thinking the abundant source of oranges was the reason the juice comes with every breakfast). The city center is full of labyrinth-like streets, some of which are so narrow that I had walked down them with my hands touching each wall. An occasional Vespa had been the only traffic interrupting our walk to the Alcazar Cathedral. Like many ancient churches in Europe, it could be used as a landmark to escape the labyrinth.

There are bikes you can rent called Sevici (Seville + bici) which is a combination of the Spanish word for Seville and bikes. There are docking stations in strategic locations throughout the city. You simply swipe your card and pull the bike from the station and are billed for time the bike is used. People all over were using them. We didn’t get those. But we should have. The ones we rented didn’t have a basket, which was much to the chagrin of Carolyn who was hoping to avoid carrying her heavy satchel over her shoulder while she road. In fact, her satchel kept her off balance most of the time she was on the bike and she narrowly missed leaping pedestrians, pigeons and other obstacles that proved problematic in her steering endeavors. There are bike paths all over the city and the flow of traffic is the same as motorized vehicles – you drive on the right hand side. Spaniards shot us some looks every now and then as Carolyn crossed over the center divide. In her defense, the bikes were a little sketchy and didn’t stop on a dime. And they probably couldn’t have stopped on a dollar bill for that matter. My brother Ben (who works at a bike shop) would have adjusted them immediately. The seats are sure to leave me with sore cheeks for the next couple of days. I might as well have been riding on the pole itself. Next time, I’m looking for a big grandma-type seat with a ton of cushion.

The bike ride represented the only low point in Seville (if you can even call it that) and the highlight was surely Los Coloniales, a tapas bar popular with the locals. In fact, it was a local guy who stopped us in the street and asked us if we were looking for a good place to eat. He may have wanted to practice his English with Carolyn or he could have just wanted to help out some travelers. Either way, his suggestion was mint. Many of the plates come with potatoes, especially if they are served with meat. Sauces, both red and white, are poured over meat, potatoes and breads. The special of the day was Arroz Iberico, which was a type of Spanish rice cooked with pork and beef. You could taste the flavor of the meat in the rice itself and it was a dish I ended up wiping clean with a piece of bread.

Carolyn and I ate at Los Coloniales on three different occasions and on the third, brought the Italians with us. We met them on the road near the hostel and they had been looking for somewhere to go to dinner. After meeting them at breakfast that morning I doubted we’d meet up again. It may have been for the size of Seville and the proximity of our lodging but I’d like to think it was due to the fact that here in Europe, the lifestyle put us in closer contact with one another. While at the restaurant it was incredibly difficult keeping my Italian and Spanish separate as I answered questions for the curious Italians about the food and relayed their requests to the annoyed waiter. The main concern of the Italians was the sauces which they considered to be too “pesante (heavy)” for their delicate palates. The phrase “sin salsa” accompanied several of their plates as I translated. Carolyn stared at us as we talked about politics, the economy and the differences and similarities between life here and in the States. It’s difficult for her that she doesn’t speak the language and she’d really like to. I think she understands how important speaking a language is to fully understanding the people and their culture.

We are on the train now bound for Tarragona, a small city just outside Barcelona. It’s a five-hour ride and crosses a large part of the country. With Barcelona near the French border we are excited to head to visit Marseilles and Nice on the way through the Riviera.

Gli Italiani! Forza Italia!

La Torre de Oro, Seville.

Catedral Alcazar, Seville.