In Seville the days flew by, walking every day until my legs were sore, being entranced and drawn in to this amazing city. I love Spanish breakfasts in cafes and bars. They serve fresh orange juice, wonderful coffee, and toasted baguettes with olive oil and fresh tomato puree. I had breakfast every morning at a different cafe on the Plaza Alameda, and then I had breakfast a second time in some other neighborhood. This is the life, I think, finished with my second breakfast of the day, getting ready to visit the Alcázar, the old Arab fortress.
It took forever to find it, because I let myself get distracted by every little interesting detail. No camera today. I wore out the battery in the cathedral the day before. When the flashing signal came up on the screen: battery exhausted I thought, “Me, too!”I meander around, buying a few souvenirs and postcards. I have to stop for a third snack before going inside. They serve breakfast here until 12:30 and I thank god for that because I can't stand any of the other food. My gums bleed a little now from all the bread, but oh well. Better than being sick from another oil-soaked piece of fish. I need a food buddy so I can find more things I like.
In the Alcázar I wander for a couple of hours through celestial rooms that have no furniture or paintings on most of the walls, and yet so intricately designed that I feel I barely get the whole picture no matter how many times I circle around. Each time I enter a room through a different door it seems like a completely new place until I notice the floor tiles, or a sign posted on a pedestal I've read before. I see people walking in sublime gardens filled with tiled fountains and orange trees, tall cedars and elegant palms. There are waterways throughout the walled gardens, and I find myself contemplating what paradise must be like. Probably like this, if it exists. I get lost at one point and a maintenance man tells I've wandered into an area they're about to spray and directs me back to where more people are. Along the slender, straight paths punctuated with fountains that intersect even more invitingly dreamlike paths, poets and artists lounge, stretched out on benches in the almost warm sunshine, composing verses, sketching or writing in their diaries. They seem to own the space, discouraging any intrusion by mere sightseers into their private world of deep appreciation for this place that is at once so stately and sensual.
It took forever to find it, because I let myself get distracted by every little interesting detail. No camera today. I wore out the battery in the cathedral the day before. When the flashing signal came up on the screen: battery exhausted I thought, “Me, too!”I meander around, buying a few souvenirs and postcards. I have to stop for a third snack before going inside. They serve breakfast here until 12:30 and I thank god for that because I can't stand any of the other food. My gums bleed a little now from all the bread, but oh well. Better than being sick from another oil-soaked piece of fish. I need a food buddy so I can find more things I like.
In the Alcázar I wander for a couple of hours through celestial rooms that have no furniture or paintings on most of the walls, and yet so intricately designed that I feel I barely get the whole picture no matter how many times I circle around. Each time I enter a room through a different door it seems like a completely new place until I notice the floor tiles, or a sign posted on a pedestal I've read before. I see people walking in sublime gardens filled with tiled fountains and orange trees, tall cedars and elegant palms. There are waterways throughout the walled gardens, and I find myself contemplating what paradise must be like. Probably like this, if it exists. I get lost at one point and a maintenance man tells I've wandered into an area they're about to spray and directs me back to where more people are. Along the slender, straight paths punctuated with fountains that intersect even more invitingly dreamlike paths, poets and artists lounge, stretched out on benches in the almost warm sunshine, composing verses, sketching or writing in their diaries. They seem to own the space, discouraging any intrusion by mere sightseers into their private world of deep appreciation for this place that is at once so stately and sensual.
I wander into yet another garden, this one a long rectangle filled with neat rows of orange trees. The oranges shine out from amongst the dark leaves like the stars on the Virgin de Guadalupe's robe. I'm lucky to have come in the winter. Without the oranges it wouldn't be the same at all, I think. I hope they'll still be in season when my mother comes. Ripe oranges overflow every tree in Seville. I read that the city sprays them to make them taste bitter to keep the birds from eating them and making a mess in the streets. But I fantasize about the days when this was a working palace and how the inhabitants must have been able to reach up and pluck an orange down as if they were living in paradise. I hear an American tourist say, loudly, as we pass under an archway, "I get it - they didn't have TV back then so they made pretty buildings." The girl's friends, in her thrall because she is truly a breathtaking young woman, nod in agreement. Later I see this young woman reach up and pick an orange. I don’t warn her about the spray, even though I am very nearby. "Ignorance is not bliss," I think, "it's simply ignorance. Bon appétit."
In the afternoon I went out walking far from the Plaza Alameda and stumbled upon a vegetarian restaurant I'd read about online that's only open 4 days per week. It was open. And scrumptious. No pasta primavera, here, but a menu full of tempting dish like pastel de papa y verdura con dos salsas, and crepas de verdura en salsa de crema. I ordered the pastel, with wine, and dined like a queen. That evening I went to opening night of a romantic comedy. It was a perfect evening. Even better, when I got back to the hostel everyone had gone out together to a flamenco show. I packed my bags and went to sleep in quiet bliss.
The next morning I lingered at the hostel until 10, enjoying a conversation with Enrique, a German-Argentine rock climber working at the hostel. When I checked out I headed to the plaza for breakfast number one.
The train station wasn't busy when I got there at 11, and I still had two hours before my train. The Seville station is a wide rectangular shopping area with a book store, some home shops and 3 cafes. I buy El País, choose the cafe that has the best view for people watching, and get down working on breakfast number two. Next to me is an older woman, maybe 60. In Spain, 60 is old. The woman is dressed very smartly in a Chanel style suit, stockings, heels, gold earrings, penciled on eyebrows, hair professionally styled, with a quietly elegant air about her. We're neighbors there for about an hour, spying on each other surreptitiously as we read the morning paper, watching time tick by on the big station clock, each enjoying the extra lounging time before our train. During this time a Spanish family settles in at the table across from me, and I spend some time observing the two adolescent boys with their sister and mother, chatting and making each other laugh.
When I look back to my neighbor the woman has gone, and I feel a pang that we didn't get to nod goodbye after the long hour we'd spent in silent company. The waitress comes by to clear the table and notices the woman has left her gloves behind. She clears the table but leaves the gloves, just in case. A few minutes later the woman emerges from the restrooms across the wide hall, and I pick up the gloves, rushing out to return them. Of course she went to freshen up up before her train! So old school! It's a curious moment - the woman looks so pleasantly surprised that I have done this, paid this attention to her, and gives me a look I imagine she would normally reserve for a suitor holding a rose up to her as she answered his knock at the door.
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