I felt a silly sadness at leaving Sevilla this morning, as I do at any leaving, thinking I might never see the place again. Last night, over a tasty ham/mushroom/something else casserole, I sat under a bull's head mounted on the wall. Had it fallen, all the matador magic in Andalucia wouldn't have saved me. The longer I sat there, the more I wondered about bullfights and whether they might be a more profound way to live than all our petty fussing over time, as in--just to cite some examples from my own recent existence--alarms, bus timetables, check-in times, café hours, calendars. Not for poor Inclusero, the ex-bull, killed (as bulls always are at bullfights, waiter told me) on April 21, 2006, by Morante de la Puebla, a superstar of the Spanish bull ring, I found out later.
My other standard sensation upon leaving is nervousness: which bus, where to get off, how to get to the hotel, and does the hotel itself present any surprises? No problem with any of that today, a windy day but sunny like all the other ones.
Here's Cadiz looking east from the rooftop of my
hotel:
Here's the wind, looking west:
Maybe Columbus sailed from Cadiz in that wind.
And here's Inclusero, the capable scape-bull:
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