In Tarifa Again
It's easy to hang out in the old section of Tarifa, to wander the twisting alleyways in search of new shops and restaurants, without being the center of attraction, as we were in Morocco. It's really nice to return to Europe, a place where we can enjoy relative anonymity – and back to Spain where we feel comfortable with the language. There's also not much pressure to visit this or that Important Historic Site. There are only a few minor sites in the whole place.
After a good wander we return to the Hostal Africa to relax on the rooftop terrace, read a good book, or write the next blog entry (and hope somebody reads it!). Tarifa is a beguiling place to relax, the kind of laid back town where you could get stuck for a while. But after two days it's time to continue our pilgrimage around the Iberian Penninsula.
There are no trains serving Tarifa so we catch a bus to Sevilla. The very modern highway follows the coast for awhile, then passes inland through open pastureland and some massive wind farms. In one area, towering windmills stretch as far as the eye can see. There are at least hundreds, maybe thousands, of them. We also pass a large array of solar panels.
The USEIA (Energy Information Agency) notes that the average European country uses less than half the energy per capita of the US. The average Spaniard uses slightly less.
Spain, like most other oil-poor countries, realizes the current 'energy fantasyland' can't continue. In this race to the bottom, do the dependent nations use up all the 'cheap' oil before the producing countries drain the wealth out of us? Which comes first?
We pass hillsides of vineyards, river basins of rice paddies, rolling plains of wheat fields, large tracts of smiling sunflowers, and many thousands of acres of olive groves. When you're in southern Spain, you are truly in The Olive Garden.
There are platforms installed atop power poles crossing the countryside, and each contains a large nest with a resident stork family. We stop in towns along the way, and stork nests abound on more power poles and atop abandoned buildings. In Chiclana, women dressed in colorful skirts are standing on strategic corners. Maybe there's a fiesta in town.
The bus makes a brief stop in Cádiz before heading inland for the final stretch. Next stop: Sevilla.
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SEVILLA
At the Sevilla bus station, we roll our bags outside the front door and catch the new, modern, light rail train to Plaza Nueva. It's late afternoon, and we watch classic old buildings and historic sites pass by the window. At various stops there are free bikes available to borrow, and numerous recycling bins where people drop bottles, plastics, paper, cardboard, organic waste, etc.
In many cases, the recycling falls to collection areas below the sidewalks. The train crosses urban bike trails that are well-marked and well-used. The population looks healthy and fit – overweight people seem to be a rarity in central Sevilla. I already want to take pictures, but I'm too busy holding on to the train. I think we're going to enjoy our stay in 'Green Sevilla.'
We arrive at Plaza Nueva and roll our bags down pedestrian-only streets to the Hostal Nuevo Suizo. It's on a side street, right in the heart of things, so we can walk to just about anything we want to see. We look forward to exploring the rest of the inner city, but it's getting late, we're hungry, and we're low on cash.
We head to an ATM (a 'caixa') for a cash infusion. The screen gives me a choice of 8 different languages. Four of them (Euskara, Galego, Catalá, and Castellano) are native to Spain, and there are three others I don't speak. I stand there for a moment to absorb this information before reaching for my camera – and hope nobody gets suspicious that I'm taking a picture of the ATM. Then I meekly press the button for English.
With pockets recharged we're off in search of a late-night dinner like proper Spaniards – at a sidewalk cafe. In Spain, it's a family affair, parents pushing baby buggies, grandparents hand in hand with toddlers, enjoying the coolness of evening until late into the night. After dinner and and several glasses of good 'vino de casa,' we pass a nearby shop specializing in deserts that look amazingly delicious. We split a chocolate something-or-other that assures we'll return for more. Then it's back to the hostal for a good night's rest. We pass a street musician playing an excellent piece of classical music on a cello. I drop a Euro into his basket and we enjoy the music as it echoes through the narrow streets.
In the morning, a simple breakfast awaits in the lobby. We join the other guests with a cheery, "Buenos días. Bon matin. Guten morgen. Whatever." Now and then we even encounter English-speaking guests. We gather a few bites (plus coffee!) to start the day, and we're off to visit Sevilla.
Any guidebook will tell you the Cathedral in Sevilla is a must-see. It was built when Spain was at the economic and cultural epicenter of the western world, and little expense was spared in its construction. As Spanish galleons returned to the mother country loaded with gold looted from the New World, piracy became a problem. It was felt that the port of Cádiz was too exposed to attack, so Sevilla – located 100 kilometers up the Río Guadalquivir – was designated as the port of entry. The result is visible in Sevilla today. All around us stands the ancient wealth made possible when Columbus returned with fantastical (and scarcely believable) stories of vast new lands across the sea.
We arrive early at the Cathedral and wander through nearby shops, where we buy tickets for a flamenco show later in the week. A father walks by leading his young white-clad daughters to church. Then we go stand in a long line for tickets to the Cathedral. It's already getting hot and we're glad the line moves quickly.
Soon we're inside the immense, cool caverns of one of the world's largest gothic cathedrals. The soft sounds of muted voices and shuffling feet echo from tons of towering stonework. Light filters down from stained glass windows and refracts through the massive spaces to illuminate the work of thousands of craftspeople. Whether a person is religious or considers it all bunko, there's no denying the architectural and artistic wonder of such a place.
Just a few regrets: the Giralda tower was closed for repairs while we were there and we did not see the magnificent views of the city from the top. Also, our timing was off to hear a concert played on the very impressive organ. Many years ago we were lucky to be in Paris and attended the regular Sunday afternoon concert at Notre Dame. The incomparable acoustics of a huge gothic cathedral make it an experience not to be missed.
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After the Cathedral, we're in serious need of a late lunch. We stop in a narrow alley at a street cafe for tapas, and relax in the welcome shade as the world walks by. There's a very ornate steeple, bathed in sunlight, that's visible over rooftops down the street. I consult my pocket map and try to determine which church it is. Among dozens of other important sites, the map lists 29 historic churches (and 8 convents!). The steeple lines up with the narrow street where we're sitting, so I figure it must be the bell tower of San Salvador. I ask the waiter and he says, "Oh no, señor. That's San Felipe de Neri."
San Felipe de Neri? That one's not even on our map! How many more ornate churches are around here that would be historic monuments in many other cities, but don't even deserve mention in Sevilla?
On our way to the old theater where the Flamenco show is held, we pass an enormous modernist structure that dwarfs the surrounding older buildings. We're not sure what it is, or why, but we'll return for another look later.
The flamenco show is held in a large older theater that could use some attention. But we didn't come for the architecture; we came for the show. And it was a good one. We'd seen two shows in Granada, but thought we should soak up a bit more of this essential Spanish art form in Sevilla. The swirl of colors and passionate sounds evokes Spain as little else is able to.
The dark-eyed Gypsy passion, anguished song, and flying skirts always make for a memorable event. We shared it with a crowd of Japanese tourists who were clearly excited to be there.
Later, in the waning afternoon, we stop at that 'structure' we passed earlier and discover it's now the meeting ground for Sevilla's recently united, disaffected youth – "Los Indignados." There are signs everywhere about injustice, political crimes, and the austerity measures that are being pushed by the European Union. Posters proclaim solidarity with Greek workers, and denounce "La Merkel," the current leader of Germany. Banners support gender equality. There's a large shanty-structure erected as part of the encampment. The ongoing protests that have been sweeping Europe continue to crop up along our path as the youth realize they'll be paying for the massive fraud perpetrated by bankers and stock swindlers. The swindlers of Europe seem not to have mounted an effective, Tea Party/Fox News-type, propaganda campaign yet. Or at least the youth aren't buying it.
The structure itself soars high over a street and occupies a plaza, creating an elevated plaza with underground parking and some shops. The effect at this time is somewhat overwhelming and appears to have a deadening effect on its surroundings. It's an impressive engineering accomplishment, but as an urban investment I'm not sure it hit the mark, and it may have been better conceived as a much smaller sculptural piece.
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Each day we wander through the cobblestone streets of Sevilla, the same streets where Murillo, Velasquez, and other great artists have walked. Under an archway in the Plaza Nueva there's a plaque stating that Cervantes described this particular corner in Don Quijote. Sevilla was once among the world's wealthiest cities and its patronage of the arts was legendary. This kind of simple plaque will become commonplace before we leave this city where they revere their artists and writers.
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It's Sunday, a good warm day for a wander toward the river and the Museum of Contemporary Art that our map shows somewhere on the other side. But just a few blocks away from our hotel we happen upon an open air arts fair in a shady square in front of the Museo de Bellas Artes. Banners hanging from the museum announce the opening of a major new exhibit. We are so easily distracted.
And there's more very good art sitting around the square than we would have expected. It's easy to imagine it's the product of centuries of local emphasis on training in the classics. As we wander through the square, we see numerous works that we'd happily have on a wall at home – if we had any more wall space, some money, and some way to cart it back home. I take a few pictures of the square with the gracious entryway of the museum in the background, being careful not to focus on any works in the arts fair. Nobody glares at me.
Inside the museum, there's a comprehensive exhibit showing the influence of British artists in the early 19th century who flocked to Spain to paint scenes of picturesque local costumes and pastoral country scenes. This theme was later adopted and refined by Spanish artists who recognized the unique character of their own culture, and were slowly leaving the dominating influence of Catholicism behind.
After the heavy and painful religiosity of the past, humor was now possible. A Spanish man standing next to me helped his young son understand one of the paintings. He pointed to the old friar seated behind the table, slumped in his chair, and explained that he was dozing after a heavy meal. Then he pointed to the young friar whose hand was sneaking over the edge of the table toward the half-empty wine bottle. He asked his son, "What do you think the young friar is doing there?" His son stared at the painting for a moment, and slowly smiled as he realized all art isn't painful.
In another room, I noticed a painting of a small boy leading a blind man, and I recalled a similar one I'd seen a day earlier in the Cathedral, depicting a guardian angel leading the Christ Child. Both paintings were about the same size, the poses were almost alike, but now the child was leading the way. Do we have a continuing metaphor here?
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We manage to cross the river on another day but we were late getting started and the Contemporary Art Museum is about to close. We explore the grounds instead, enjoy a light lunch, and take notice of an 'artistic expression' in graffiti.
The afternoon turns into a long wander, through the grounds of the Sevilla Expo 92, which is now a leafy center of office buildings and institutes. We wander along down streets named Calle Johan Gutenberg, and Calle Albert Einstein passing the Three Cultures Center.
The afternoon turns into a very long walk as we head toward one of the daring and sculptural bridges designed by Santiago Calatrava for the Expo. We finally reach a point where we confront a barrier and it appears we may have to turn back the way we came. We are very tired by this point, and maybe a bit grumpy. Lucky for us, some local person had 'modified' the barrier, enabling us to slip through. We breath a sigh of relief, and follow 'local custom.'
Soon we're crossing the bridge, a sweeping, dynamic structure. Farther up the river stands another Calatrava bridge that resembles ones we've seen in the waterfront redevelopment in Buenos Aires and at a nature preserve in Redding, California. What better way to recognize such talent than with bridges that sweep across the sky? A few more blocks of walking and we're ready for some shade, a cold beer, and the inevitable tray of delicious olives that accompanies every drink, and precedes every meal. Life is good.
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There is so much to see in Sevilla, and so little time. We devote a morning to a tour of the bull ring. This is the one where Bizet set the opera Carmen. This is the famous one where the toreadors marched through the gate. This is the 'mother lode.' Nearby is the old Tobacco Factory where Carmen worked and started all the trouble – to a memorable soundtrack. It didn't work out too well for Carmen or Don José, but in proper tragic opera fashion, that's how things go. Things also didn't work out too well for the composer. Georges Bizet died at the age of 36, three months after the opera opened on March 3, 1875.
There are bullfights in the Sevilla bullring every Sunday afternoon all summer. Except when we're there. The Sunday when we're in Sevilla there's an important 'romeria,' or pilgrimage being held, and the bullfight is always cancelled on that day. This actually comes as a relief and avoids the necessity for us to make a decision whether to participate in this essential, and bloody, Spanish rite. During our tour of the famous bullring, I ask our guide what happens to the bull after the fight. "Off to the restaurant!" she says. The entire 'fight' is simply an entertaining way for the public to enjoy a vicarious visit to the slaughter house, to watch the bull be taunted and abused with much pageantry and flair. As for the bull, he has a very short, and annoying, career in the ring.
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On our map we notice something called Plaza de España. It's a large thing of some sort and it's in a very large park. We decide to take a nice long walk in that direction and enjoy a quiet afternoon in the park. What we find is another astounding structure that merits little mention in guidebooks. It's a huge semi-circular confection of brick and tile, built for the 1929 Exposición Iberoamericano.
We spent considerable time wandering through it and the large adjoining park. Sevilla seems to have so many of these hidden gems they just can't mention them all. This is a city that requires time to explore.
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On this trip I realize that I've become the person I used to envy – with enough time and resources to enjoy life and travel to the fullest, as long as we stay within budget.
There's a very humorous aspect to the accommodations we can afford. At least, that way of seeing things makes it easier to accept. Most of them – well, pretty much all of them – resemble scenes from that New York City apartment in "The Honeymooners."
I have memories of Jackie Gleason listening to various plumbing sounds coming from the upstairs neighbors, and then yelling out the window at them. We don't yell at the neighbors, but that has become a part of our traveling life. It's either that or spend about twice as much for lodging. We'd rather spend more time in-country, and not obsess over the plumbing noises.
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Dusk slowly falls over the city. It's 10:00 p.m., and the sun is just setting (!), still washing the steeples and parapets of Sevilla's classical skyline in a rich bath of liquid gold. Swallows dive through the evening sky filling the air with song, a proper serenade to enjoy a sidewalk table of tapas and a glass of good Spanish vino tinto. A guitarist ambles by and plays "Besame mucho." It's a 'tourist song' that I've grown tired of, and I wish he'd play something more 'sevillano.' He wanders off. Maybe I'll mention it when I see him again.
After a good dinner, there's always room for good ice cream. Fortunately, there are plenty of ice cream stands in Sevilla. In fact, we've found excellent hand-dipped ice cream in every Spanish city we've visited. It's a wonderful way to enjoy our last evening in magical Sevilla.
In the morning we'll head out again on the next leg of our journey – this time to Portugal.
All I can say is ......WOW :~) xo
Posted by: Nanci | July 14, 2011 at 08:56 PM