Fuelled by the triple drug coctail
Trip Start
Nov 03, 2004
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77
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Trip End
Nov 23, 2006
Sevilla, Spain
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
destination we run into the same problem time and again. Sevilla
was no different. We approached our target by driving around and
around it, not, as normally, in ever diminishing circles trapped in
the one way system, but repeatedly over the same route trying to run
over the policeman who stood between us and our hotel. Finally,
abandoning the car we walked: to our first choice hotel - which was
full; around and around following the helpful tourist information
direction boards, chasing our tails through the rabbit warren
streets to a random second hotel - which had bed bugs (the bites
have almost disappeared three weeks later); to an ultra styley third
hotel with futons, brushed stainless steel and lime washed pine and
a plate glass and chrome shower that flooded the room of the unwary
and under towel supplied.
The Carthaginians arrived in 500 BC and before them Iberians and
Phoenicians had occupied the site attracted by the silver and copper
in the area. The Romans arrived and then the Moors in 712 AD. In
1023 the city took advantage of the disintegration of the Caliphate
of Córdoba to declare itself an independent taifa or small kingdom.
Eventually the taifa fell in the Reconquest of 1248 AD and was named
Sevilla. The town planning and architecture reflect the city's
somewhat chaotic history. It is a town where serpentine streets,
just one scooter wide, lead you relentlessly back to your starting
point none the wiser where you've been but with a camera full of
architecture, sculpture and contradictions. Where helpful
accommodation location signs point you straight ahead down alleys
which almost immediately split into three, none of which go straight
ahead. Where 15th century churches rub shoulders with 19th century
apartment blocks, both sharing a view of 8th century formal
gardens. Where 17th century marble busts of St Peter and St Phillip
stare down from their wall niches into the windows of lingerie shops
and designers' salons. Where, on the spot where the Inquisition
burnt the last witch in 1781, the gardens celebrating that other
peaceable Spanish undertaking, the colonization of South America,
are planted.
It's a town fuelled on the triple drug cocktail of caffeine,
nicotine and alcohol. Where crossing the road (or a pedestrian
mall) is a jittery experience for all parties. In the evening the
people settle into the cafés for tar-like café solo and artery
clogging crema catalanya, chain smoking and arm waving. At night
they spill from the bars onto the streets and plazas, chain smoking,
arm waving and savouring their fino or manzanilla with little bites
of smoked almonds and stuffed olives or deep-fried anchovies. They
bring their children out to skate on the specially frozen section of
the central plaza and eat a paper cone of ash covered, crunchy,
sweet, roasted chestnuts. They promenade among the glittering store
fronts, crackling and rustling on discarded chestnut shells, chain
smoking and arm waving, along the sparkling, Christmas lit streets.
In the tapas bars we are much more confident. We know you can order
tapa, media porcion and porcion (little, medium, big). All the bars
have a good house red and white, fino and manzanilla (sherries). If
you're feeling brave you can attempt something a little better from
behind the bar but you'll need to be ready to discuss at length
exactly the nuance of flavour you are looking for with the barman.
Beer comes in caña or tubo which is the size of a highball or
grande. In the cabinet on the bar are the quick, easy, point at to
order, dishes of tuna in olive oil with roasted red pepper and
olives, barbequed baby octopus and house pickled olives. About
three tapas makes a meal or you can mix and match with shared media
porcions and tapas. All tapas bars offer caña de lomo (paprika
cured pork loin), Iberico ham, tortilla (potato frittata) and
manchego (a delicious, local sheep cheese). If you're very lucky
there will be offerings of spinach catalanya (sautéed with bacon,
pine nuts and sultanas) or stuffed mushrooms but otherwise
vegetables will be limited to patatas bravas (fried, cubed potatoes
in a fiery dressing), olives and roasted red pepper. You might be
short of your five servings a day but your protein intake will
struggle under the deluge of sautéed pork cubes in paprika sauce,
fillet steak with brie, veal in fig and port wine sauce or chicken
brochettes with melted quince paste. The fish, squid, octopus,
cuttlefish and mollusks come sautéed, deep fried, pickled or raw.
In the style of the Middle Ages skewers, toothpicks, cigarette
packets and napkins are discarded on the floor for sweeping up
later - although there are no rushes and we didn't actually see any
dogs cleaning up bones. You will eat your dinner in a fug of
cheroot smoke and arm waving, you will pay extra for occupying a
table (and even more for a table outside) instead of standing at the
bar, and there will be no coffee. One night the carte was so
daunting we took refuge in the 100 Sandwich Bar.
While in Sevilla we took it easy (except on the food front) and
wandered aimlessly. We visited the cathedral, begun in 1401 in the
late Gothic style, using the floor plan of the mosque already on the
site. It took four centuries to complete and contains the ashes of
Ferdinand III and, reputedly, the remains of Christopher Colombus.
It's really very big, in fact, the largest (by volume) in the
world. This achieves the ambience of a very large, echoing,
warehouse. The bell tower is the surviving minaret of the mosque.
It is topped by a weather vane, the personification of Faith who
holds a particularly stupid and ugly sail contraption (which is what
makes her actually go around with the wind). Having ascended the
thirty-five ramps to the top (ramps so that you can ride horses two
abreast up the tower (as one does)) you get a magnificent view of
the city and excellent opportunities on the way up and down to
photograph the gargoyles. Actually the roof is the best bit - it's
a fantasy wonderland of domes and spires, curlicues, spirals,
buttresses, arches and toadstools - you half expect to see unicorns
and fairies frolicking among the granite castles and making fun of
Faith's idiotic accessorizing.
And then there's the Alcázar, fortress and pleasure palace. Built
by Spanish kings but by Moorish architects it is less clunky than
the Cathedral. Cedar beamed passageways lead from plazas studded
with orange trees to patios with ponds sparkling in the sun and
fragrant hedges. Mazes of irrigation channels set into the flag
stones presented navigational challenges for the unsteady and
ensured the oranges and hedges always looked radiant. Shade is
offered by the slender columned surrounding "cloisters". The sound
of moving water is everywhere. It trickles from fountains, ripples
in pools, meanders through water courses and pours in a torrent from
the roof drenching the incongruous Roman-style marble statues in the
garden. Intricate plaster work around the horseshoe and keyhole
doors usher you into high domed rooms bright with frescoes where
ambassadors were entertained, explorers dispatched, royal children
played and inconvenient younger brothers were dispatched.
Hoping to have the stamina to make it to midnight on New Year's Eve
we didn't venture forth until 9:00pm in search of dinner. Not
wanting to risk the camera on what would no doubt be an evening of
frantic, bustling, arm waving chaos, but wanting to record our
second New Year's Eve in exotic locales, we stumbled down to the
street (for bustling crush backdrop) and, holding the camera at
arm's length took blurred, wobbly photos of ourselves for
posterity. Judging by the crowd we attracted (none of whom offered
to assist) this made us look slightly mad. By 10:00pm we had been
fortified only by a cone of roasted chestnuts and overwhelmed by the
complete lack of Sevillanos on the streets and the number of
them "queuing" riotously outside restaurants. No tapas bars were
open. Having walked to every restaurant we could remember seeing we
finally joined a queue at one just down from the hotel, just before
they closed the waiting list. Only 45 minutes later we had secured
a table and an hour later, after a presentable but not by any means
memorable meal, we were back on the street wondering where the
Sevillanos went after dinner on New Year's Eve. At midnight, from
the roof terrace of the hotel, we watched the horizon lit multi-
coloured by a hundred private fireworks parties. Then we discovered
where the Sevillanos go after dinner on New Year's Eve ... to a dance
club directly through the wall of our hotel room! We spent the
first eight hours of 2006 miserably hunched, praying for respite,
listening to a pumped up DJ and his selection of pounding, thumping,
Spanish rock with overlaid bass track. The chocolate and churros
later that day may not have set the right tone on the resolution
front but they certainly made the day look better.
