Part Eight: "Seville really does smell like oranges..."

Don Quojite Computer lab 3-17 9:25am

So, went to Seville this past weekend. Five friends and I (well, three friends and two people who decided to tag along) rented a van, since we sorted out that it was cheaper than buying bus tickets. Which it was, money-wise.

The stress, however, was totally not worth it.


The cursed map of Sevilla.

...well, I dunno. While I did not drive, I somehow or another ended up getting appointed navigator, and while that was fine for the way there (in spite of these round abouts that dump you into a loop and spit you out the other side; quite weird), the city itself was a nightmare to sort out.

I AM GOING TO RANT ABOUT DRIVING. IF YOU WOULD RATHER READ ABOUT SEVILLA, SKIP DOWN TO THE NEXT BLOCK OF CAPPED TEXT

Back home, we got it so easy. We get these enormous signs hanging off poles in the middle of the road, and even if we don´t, we know where to look for posts with the names of side-streets. Not so in Spain. In Spain, the signs may or may not be posted on a building at an intersection, and are printed on a square about half the size of the usual Big American Traffic Sign^tm. So half the time, I´m following the map, but I lose where we are ´cuz we miss a sign. This is extra-stressful because a) most of the streets are one way, b) the roads are six inches wider than the van, maybe less and finally c) the drivers in Spain are off their fucking gourd. Case in point: we´re walking along, I get a green crosswalk, and this car pulls in front of us to unload it´s passengers. Fine, whatever, Spanish drivers suck, I go around behind him. But then, THEN, the fucker BACKS UP INTO ME, taps me with his car, and YELLS AT ME.

Just...just take a moment to process that.

I did, and while my first impulse was to get out of the way, my second impulse was to turn around and slash his tires. It was the culmination of two days´worth of frustration, so I just curled up into a ball and sobbed gently to myself in the middle of the sidewalk.

I HAVE FINISHED RANTING ABOUT DRIVING. WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BLOG.

So anyway, we arrived in Sevilla, it´s two in the morning, and it turns out that two of our traveling companions have forgotten their passports; one of the tagalongs even forgot all her identification. So the guy behind the counter goes, "I can´t let you stay here without a passport."

Well, shit.

So, we stress out for about 20 minutes, while our tagalong mentions sleeping in the van (which, being a nice guy, I couldn´t possibly allow) and the guy keeps saying "it´s policy" (ah, memories of the bookstore). So finally I bust out my Mediocre Spanish Skills^tm (which I used again later to help these Scottish girls; I think I might have a place to stay there, now) to promise the guy that we´ll get faxes of the passports in question tomorrow morning, which he buys and lets us sleep. Which I didn´t, thanks to a "Planes, Trains and Automobiles" moment wherein I shared a bed with a 6´1", 240 pound man. I mentioned as much and that led into an episode of drama wherein I unwittingly portayed myself as an asshole and this older fellow we´re traveling with was unwittingly portrayed as a dirty old man (basically, he wanted to sleep with one of the girls so that the fore-mentioned 6´1 man and I could each get our own beds). In the end, I bunked with the older fellow and was too tired to worry about what may or may not be two pillows.

But anyway....

Our tour of Sevilla was interesting; we started on the north end by the river (´cuz that´s the only place we could find parking) and worked our way down towards the city. The wall along the river is covered with graffiti, but of the artistic, government-sanctioned variety.


Government-sanctioned graffiti?

Quite interesting. I used that as an excuse to start filming (´cuz why would you drop $400 on a camera if it´s just gonna sit in a drawer?), and it was encouraging to do so; I may even be able to make a travelogue that´s genuinely interesting. Or not, we´ll see.

We hit up the Cathedral of Saint Chrisopther, but not before being accosted by some gypsies. Brian and the older fellow (named Nick, actually) dropped five euro apiece, thinking, rather foolishly, that gypsies give change. Well, I don´t know what they were thinking, but it was bizarre: these gypsies hold out a stalk of lavender and, if your hands are free, will take your hand and put it in. "Regalo," they´ll say, which means gift. Then they read your fortune, saying how fantastic it will be, and then say "paga por suerte," pay for luck. At this point I was mulling it over, but my friends, who had gone ahead of me as I was filming something, were calling out, "Don´t do it! Walk away!" So I decided to play dumb, like I didn´t know Spanish, and the gypsy woman eventually got fed up and pulled the lavender out of my hand. I felt victorious, though I also felt sorry for Brian; that wasn´t the first time he´s been screwed over. The gypsies held out the stalks the rest of the trip; by then we knew better.

So, we went through the cathedral, wherein I found myself reminded of Toledo. Fabulous architecture, extravagant chapels, stained glass; more of the same, really. While I´d hate to seem flippant, there´s only so much one could say. I filmed a lot, so that should provide a better idea.


Already got that "oh look, another cathedral" kinda feeling...

Of particular interest was Giralda Tower. 37 stories, all on a ramp (for a horseman to ride up and down five times a day), quite a workout but the view was worth it. The cityscape I took is from the top. Funny, though; I was filming the city, and these bells rang, scaring the crap out of me. As I was recording, of course.

So, we moved on, stopping for drinks (we´ve taken an interest in this liquor they call "aguadriente," some sort of brandy). We then got lost for about an hour or two looking for this flamenco place; here, too, I found myself frustrated by my shortcomings as navigator. But, we sorted it out, eventually, then tried to hit up a jazz festival. Alas, it was to no avail: the festival was sold out. We instead grabbed pizza, and one of our tagalongs, named Alice, decided to debate with Nick whether one should have faith in humanity or not. Only, they didn´t phrase it in those terms; they phrased it in terms of the impact of racial discrimination. I eventually mediated the whole thing, but while I made my best efforts at peace-keeping, Alice, being a bit of an idealist, got labeled a bitch anyway. This made the rest of the trip awkward, which frustrated me on top of the navigation issues. But, we made the best of it, got ice cream on the way back, and called it a night.

Next morning, more stress as we tried to park the car; that everyone was waiting for us caused even more, as we took about an hour to move 1 mile. Damned one-way streets. The two tagalongs ditched us, and took our friend (a girl named Ryan, pronounced Ry-anne) with them, so Nick, Brian and I went and got a little tipsy before heading off to meet them for a bullfight. Being that there was no bullfight, we (luckily) went to Alcazar palace instead.

Alcazar palace was genuinely different, which was refreshing. Initially a Moorish palace, it´s been built upon by each successive conqueror, making for an eclectic mix of architecture. A far cry from the Palace at Madrid, Alcazar implements more organic components like gardens and water elements. And while the etching is intricate, it is patterned rather than artistic like the Catholic designs. I got it on film, so it´ll make sense then.


Photos like these make me wonder how many million others look just like it...

We took a carriage ride through the city, where Alice tried to gossip about Nick (though Brian would have none of it); meanwhile, Nick rode with the other tagalong (named Katie...I think) and Ry-anne. Quite pleasant, if a smidge awkward. Alice is funny to listen to; though 28, she speaks with a certain amount of awe and wonder in her voice. It´s quite amusing, I wish I´d recorded it.

So, we finish, I record some drunk guy in flamenco drag (and, as a result, killed my battery; call it karma), we see a genuine flamenco show, which is cool, or as cool as something rather high-culture can be. We stopped for drinks again, but this was a mistake: I had a few beers, and about a shot and a half of aguadriente, though we never actually settled down to eat. So after the Flamenco show I was in a foul mood. I wanted nothing more than to set down for the night.

Which we tried to. Honestly, we did.

But it turned out that the hostal we were changing to was out in the middle of nowhere; it was Sevilla´s equivalent (sorry, Chris) of Palmdale: a long road of nothing and then a town in the middle of nowhere. We lost the paper with the information on it, so we harassed a few locals (mind you, it was 1 in the morning) and, not finding it, got fed up and just drove home.

For six hours. Overnight.

It didn´t help much that I took us down a wrong turn and right into a police checkpoint, where Nick was breathalyzed at .26 (half the limit, but we all freaked out anyway). He tried to scold Nick, but it did no good; I played dumb, and he waved us on. As I was the last one holding the slip of paper, as well as the navigator, I stayed awake to keep an eye on Nick, if only so I could scream like a girl and wake everyone up in the event he passed out and we drove into a ditch. It was a tough six hours, but we made it, and parted ways at 8 in the morning.

So, while Sevilla was pretty, the task of driving about is seared into my brain; as a result, the city itself left a bad taste in my mouth. On a related note, I will never, ever drive in Europe, nor will I ever again ride in a vehicle that seats less than ten until I return home.