One Afternoon on a Fragment of the Rio Guadalquivir in Sevilla

I spy a rowboat, instrument of happy hours and unhappy poems at Emma Lake in years past.

 

Let's see if I can still reach the oars.

 

Good. A bit of Sevilla, then, by rowboat. First thing, stay out of the middle of the river.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

East bank, stirring of siesta.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Torre Panoramica in the distance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tallest bit is the top of minaret from which the muezzin called the faithful to prayer 800 or so years ago. Later built higher by one of the Christian kings. About 100 meters from my pension.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Call us some of your river people," these two said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Top of bullfight arena.



 

Torre del Ono, now a naval museum.



 

 

 

 





 

Flamenco

Is it today yet? I'm drunk. But let me tell you about seeing flamenco tonight. Warning: it was so thrilling I may have whooped. 
The show was billed for 9:30, normally my bed time, more or less. Trying to manage my habit of showing up way too early for things, I divided my walk from my pension to the venue into three, stopping every third for a wine and some transcriptions of notes (just in case you think I'm not working). Still, I arrived at the venue two hours early.
It was not just closed; it looked as if it had never been open. My limited travel experience in the old world had taught me that the best places don't necessarily sign themselves as such, and that especially here in Andalusia the night didn't even begin until 9 or so. So I retired to a tapas place down the street, no worries.
No one was in the tapas place, but the guy said come on in. Meanwhile he was swabbing the floor as if anxious to close up and get out of there, though he gladly served me a second wine. Several people came in while I was the only one in the bar. The guy said things to them--something about "we're about to close"--whereupon they nodded, looked at their watches, and left.
Turns out he was swabbing the place before, not after. The place didn't even open until 8, at which time my formerly lonely table in the corner became shoved there by a mass of tapas-'n-drinks Sevillians. Well. I did have to leave for the flamenco show.
Forget about all that. By the time I showed up, that dark doorway on Calle Freso had turned into this hot club in which I could barely find a slot at the bar. And before I run out of gas let me say two things: (1) it was so great to see all ages of locals (and, as far as I could tell, no tourists) digging this scene, and (2) what's not to dig? The vocalist, guitarist and dancer just ripped the place. Truly, flamenco picks you up by the shoulder blades and shakes every strand of your being, as far as I can tell. Again, it was thrilling to see so many young people feeling what way, I mean beautiful young people.
I'm gagagaga, and let the cathedral bells ring, I don't care.
I'll never forget what I saw tonight.

Spanish [insert here much anguish and a pot and half of tea] English

So you want to feel the Spanish language, the poetry of Lorca, the city of Seville? Get yourself a mini Oxford Espanol-Ingles and an edition of Lorca's Poesia Completa, and get busy on Lorca's poem called "Sevilla".
I don't blame the mini Oxford or Lorca, but two minutes later I'd written that Seville is "a tower / full of crooked archers." Seville for "pain," Cordoba for "death," was how I translated Lorca's refrain. "Crazy with horizon" I rather liked but, in the end, I felt as if I'd taken the great Andalucian's immortal poem and doused it in Starbuck grande-sized incompetence.
No worries. Let's try a sinple "Song". Soon a "heart" is said, as I figured it, to be "winning the north," and the poor "north star" had been "beheaded." And in Lorca's "Dos Muchachas" I found "in a small olive grove / sings a German." My mistake. Sings a "sparrow."
There's always another poem. By now I was ready to embrace Lorca's "Song of Desperation" in which, as I had it, padres waited for Advent and boys "painted / their hearts green" somehow.
I'm not sure if the wine helps but I'll keep trying.
Tonight: flamenco.

Away Back

Heading out of Tavira, with Eva again (the busline, not the waitress), I catch sight of my home for the past four nights, the Tavira Inn, tucked in at the base of the train bridge, waiting for the next one. I twinged at the sight of my patio, where 30 minutes earlier I'd stretched and enjoyed the stillness of a sunny morning.
On the A22, Eva takes me to Villa Real, where I spent two nights in '10. I remember rain, and a pronounced grid system (courtesy Marques do Pombal again, who planned the reconstruction of much of southern Portugal after the earthquake of 1755) and a stately blue train station from which I caught a train west--over that bridge in Tavira, come to think of it.
The eastern Algarve on the route into Spain is filled with lovely villas empty until their owners come down for the summer to this area which is thus both saved and eviscerated by the tourist industry. A day like today is the reason: vast open blue sky by the sea.
After a brief stop in Villa Real, we head out to the A22 past that train station, which is not stately from the back. We cross the Rio Guardiana into Spain, pausing to flash our passports for the policia. I lived along the Guardiana for three weeks during that last trip, upriver in Mertola.
So we leave places and wonder if we'll ever be back. Or we're back to places and wonder--I suppose it's possible--if we'll ever leave.
True or false, I'll be back.
And later, Seville. In confess: I'm a non-adventurous eater, with no fridge in my cheap pension room. I'm going to have to get into the tapas culture. Wish me luck!

One Afternoon on Ilha Tavira

I walked the 2km from town to pan the ferry landing. Ilha Tavira is a day-trip destination for many Portuguese and Spanish families.

 

As seen from the boat, the tide was low.

 

I got to the beach side of the island and started walking, leaving the damn camera in the sand.

 

Eventually I settled in a spot out of the wind a bit.

I saw no text on the sign.





So I had to read the sand.







I channeled driftwood for a while, then walked back to the ferry.

As seen from the boat, the tide was higher.

Tomorrow I'm off to Seville.



In Tavira Inn

You'd love this place. The owner, an affable painter/designer named Sebastien, has built a little 6-room hotel that's full of charm.

 

He keeps his BMW 1150 motorcycle inside his beautiful bar/restaurant space which he won't open, he says, until he can get the right staff. Just to the left inside the front gate.

 

On top of the bar he built a salt water pool, too cold yet to swim in. You'll notice the pool's self-cleaning area, front right as you view the pool from the back of the main patio. It's ingenious. Get me to tell you about it.

Perhaps you notice the train bridge in the background. Sabastien says, "The trains remind us how quiet this place is otherwise." Indeed, they are brief but loud, though less so inside the two sets doors leading to my patio.

Sebastien is a loner, like me. But he loves to talk, unlike me. Thus it was all the more remarkable to see him utterly gobsmacked--as in, scrambling to re-process his entire universe--when I told him it had been -40 Celsius at home. He was a long time silent. "Four, zero?" he said finally. I nodded. More silence. You could have heard a train go by.

 

 

 

Walking (to) the Mediterranean

Having a hell of a time with my blog today.

 

I wanted no text.

None of my or any other voice peeping in.

But damn it.

The pics wouldn't stay lined up.

So I had to step in.

Just as I did on the beach at Ilha Tavira today.

The locals found it cold but I found it, or was, balmy.

I had to keep my eye on the time, though.

The last ferry left at 5.

And I wouldn't want to have to spend the night in the lighthouse.