Home Again

I'm back in VA, where everyone but me seems to think I belong. Actually, it's nice to sleep in my own bed and be in a place where I can understand what's going on if I choose to. I'm also incredibly grateful that I, and my luggage, made it when and where we were supposed to. The return travel, 18 hours worth, was definitely the longest route I 've ever taken from Europe: Sevilla to Barcelona; Barcelona to Paris; Paris to Dulles. For a girl terrified of flying, that was a lot of take offs and landings. Also probably the reason I drank a significant amount of gratis Champagne from Air France. Or I just love booze. Either way.

So, Liz picked me up at the airport, as has become our tradition; and, after about 2 hours of trying to clear customs and immigration, we hit the road for trouble. Being the most excellent friend she is, Liz had bottles of Vinho Verde and some snacks on hand to ease the pain of being home. We dropped my stuff at my house, cleaned up (meaning I brushed my hair and put on some makeup . . . no sense in scaring the villagers immediately upon my return), and headed to O'Connells. And, the rest is pretty predictable. I made bad choices by drinking Irish Car Bombs and Magners Cider on minimal food and no sleep for over 24 hours. But it was fun as hell and great too see everyone! In fact, one of the best statements ever, came from our collective bad behavior, in an email yesterday morning. To protect the not so innocent, I'm keeping the author of this line anonymous "My head is about to explode, I think I might ralph and my upper lip smells like man. It must have been a good night, though I don't recall much."

I spent most of yesterday asleep; in fact I think I was only really awake for about 5 hours total. I LOVE SUMMERTIME!!!!!!!!!

Merrin, me, Haley, and Loralei at O'Connells

Liz, honoring the "french fry incident" of last year's return home outing.

Liz wearing my friend's extra outfit that was stuffed into the smallest purse, ever! Kelly looks on with horrified amusement.

another Irish Car Bomb seems like a good idea . . .

on second thought, maybe not!

Alex, Liz (doing what, I'm not sure), me at Union Street

the beginning of the end, bar #3 Bayou Room

self-explanatory

"do whaaaaa!"

Alex, me, random guy at Bayou Room just before we all pour ourselves into cabs.

Bullshit . . . I mean Bull Fight

WARNING: this post is going to have the “F” word in it about 752 times. Click away if foul language is a problem.

WHAT. THE. FUCK. Ok, I try to be culturally sensitive when I travel. And I went into this bullfighting thing with an open mind. You know Hemingway wrote about it and made it sound so artistic and almost existential. Man against beast, the poetry of the matador maneuvering the toro around his body. What fucking ever. I made it through one dead bull and one possibly dead matador before I had to get the fuck out. I’m not going to lie. The costumes are fancy, shiny, and colorful. And, watching the bull coming charging out into the arena is really impressive. I will even go so far as to say that watching the matador simply maneuver the bull around with his cape is pretty and courageous and intriguing. And that’s where it ends. Once they start punching the banderillas into the bulls back to weaken its muscles and piss it off, now you’re just being a fucking douchebag. Let’s also be clear about something else. It’s not man against beast. It’s the bull against the goddamn swaying colored cape. That bull couldn’t have given two shits about the matador; he was naturally responding to the movement and color of the cape. Um, much like a kitten with a moving string. How the fuck is that man against beast. You’re the dumb shit waving the cape so close to your body, hoping he doesn’t get too close and gore your ass. At some points, the bull even stopped caring about the cape. The matador had to taunt it by waving it harder and even walking over to the bull and putting it directly in its face.

The first matador I saw apparently was not very good. He didn’t make a killing stab and the bull had to stagger around before it bled enough to fall down and then he could kill it. I stopped watching until I heard the crowd cheer and knew it was dead. Then the most fucking ridiculous portion of the event took place. Three beautiful horses all decked in red sashes, bells, and a yoke are paraded out to the dead animal. The carcass is hooked to their yoke and they drag it across the arena while some retard guys crack whips and yell shit. The crowd stands as if in honor of the dead bull. Unfuckingbelievable. I decided that I’d seen enough and was going to leave right after the second bull did the whole cape charging thing, but before they started hurting it. And, lo and behold the matador fucked up and got himself gored and trampled on. I had even just muttered, as the bull came charging into the ring, “I hope he gores your stupid ass.” I didn’t really mean it. Ok, I kinda did; but I didn’t necessarily need to see it. I’m pretty sure that guy was fucked up. All the little picadors, sort of rodeo clowns if you will, came running out to distract the bull with their capes and carry the wounded guy out. That’s when I picked up my stuff and beat it. As far as I’m concerned, that bull is still alive because I never saw differently; and, that matador got what he deserved for engaging in such a barbaric, pointless, and cruel event. And, the crowd . . . well I’m sure they are lovely humans, but what the fuck! I was the only person around who seemed in the least bit horrified. Everyone was all dressed up, snacking on nuts, drinking Cava, and otherwise acting like they were at Gold Cup. I just couldn’t believe it. I’ve asked several people, now, if they go to see the Toros. The answer is mostly a definitive no! Several times I’ve been told it is a “spectacle” that only the rich go to. If that is the case, the rich are some seriously fucking bored ass people if this is their version of entertainment.

I know I voluntarily went to this thing; and, I know I read about the how they wounded and then killed the bull, but I was still stunned and horrified. Pageantry, courage, and passion my fucking ass!!!!! I am less of a human for having watched this. I gave a homeless man some euro on my way home; hopefully that will balance things out!

liquid courage did not help when it came right down to it!

entrance to the shitshow, notice the man with a cooler of drinks and snacks.

the arena is really pretty when no animals are being killed in it

cape work is cool to watch; they should just leave it at that and not harm the bull. FUCKERS!

yeah, that bull is no longer interested, oh but let’s taunt it and then kill it anyway

the banderillas may be colorful and pretty but they are still cruel

the matador who got gored and the bull who won, as far as I’m concerned

civilized video I took on my way home to make myself feel better. No idea why its sideways.

Final Day inSevilla

I am, as usual, incredibly sad to report today is the last day of my trip. I’m especially heartbroken that this summer’s adventure was only half of what I normally do; it feels very strange to be coming home in July. Yeah, yeah, I know . . . I am lucky to be able to do any of this at all. And, I truly do feel fortunate, in addition to the spoiled bratty sadness that it’s coming to an end. Leaving also has a different feeling to it since I have been travelling in places that I am not familiar with. It has been quite a few years since I have travelled in countries that I have no familiarity with. I was truly a tourist and it was a huge amount of fun. My summers in Italy haven’t had that quality since I’m so used to the culture, language, trains, people etc. I am grateful for having had the opportunity to visit Portugal and return to Spain, to a region I had not been in before. Europe fucking kiss ass, plain and simple! Alright, on with a story . . .

Because I am a planner, when I’m not lounging about being a drunkard in Roma, I left today free to do some shopping (not under the influence of Sangria this time) , have a nice long walk in the park, and tapas bar hop for some final snacks, cerveza, sangria, and manzanilla (yes I am mixing). I’m also still planning on going to the bullfight tonight, against my better judgment.
Anyway, the day has been fabulous. The Maria Luisa Park is huge, beautiful, and awesome. It was the sight of the Iberoamerican Exhibition of 1929. Because of this they built some seriously impressive national pavilions, the best of course is Plaza de Espana. It’s so expansive, as a matter of fact, I couldn’t get the whole thing into a picture. The rest of the park is full of fountains, sculptures, green space, and thankfully shade. It’s hot as hell today!

This last bit of information will be especially meaningful to Angela. She is a huge fan of my alter ego, “Summer,” who made her first appearance in Spain. I stopped at a recommended tapas kiosk in the park for food and cerveza. The bartender/cook was this old man who made fun of every single customer at the place. He also sang your order, threw napkins at people standing around, and yelled nonsense at anyone who walked by. He was hilarious. When he realized that I had no game in Spanish and he couldn’t speak English, he took to whistling, pointing, and making assorted noises to get his point across. Apparently, instead of just swatting at a fly that was pissing me off, he wanted me to squash it with his menu. Um, yeah no. Not on the bar, thanks. So, I was quietly eating and watching him give these 3 guys, standing near me, massive amounts of shit. One of them returns an insult and he responds by grabbing his junk and pretty much telling them to suck it. I just happened to look at him at this exact moment and burst out laughing. Both the bartender and 3 guys thought my laughter was even funnier than the exchange they were having. It was also, apparently, an invitation, for the only one of them who spoke English, to come over and talk to me. At this point, I would like to be able to tell you that I met the modern day Don Juan of Sevilla, but that would just be an enormous lie. I did, however, meet a rather chatty, pushy, Spaniard who was also very attractive. Until he opened his mouth to reveal his ONE TOOTH. Holy. Shit. Looking into that pie-hole was like staring into the sun. I’m not sure if it was the spell of his dental issue (notice I used the singular of issue, not issues, because of his 1 tooth . . . get it!) or the muchas cervezas he bought me, but I revealed a little too much about my intentions for this evening. Since I was still deciding between a Flamenco bar and the bullfight, he decided he would accompany me to the bar; and, he wasn’t taking no for an answer despite my best efforts. Ok, let’s just put this out there, I am that shallow, that I can’t get past the missing 27 teeth. Thus, “Summer” arrived. She gave her name, the neighborhood where she was staying, and the time she thought she might be at the Flamenco bar. None of which remotely resembles me or where I will be. I love that girl!!!!

So, I may or may not be able to post about the bullfight tonight. I guess that will depend on whether or not I’m in the fetal position from all the inhumanity and bloodshed. If I don’t, be warned. Liz, per tradition, is picking me up at the airport tomorrow evening and we will be out terrorizing the citizenry of Alexandria until I pass out from exhaustion; join us if you will. That is assuming that I make all my connections in Barcelona and Paris. Oy!
Flamenco costume store; or what I envision and LSD trip would be like.

midget nuns who kept popping up while I was shopping. Yeah, I know this will land me in hell.

just for more perspective on how small they really are

Queens Sewing Box, former garden lodge of the Palacio de San Telmo

Plaza de Espana, right before I dropped by guide book into that stagnant water belonging to the fountain that is not running. Seriously??????? Good thing its my last day and I no longer need it. I think it might have Hep C.

one of 4 sets of bridges

each province in Spain is represented

province of Cadiz

pretty pretty fountains

Frog and Swan fountain

the Lions fountain

these things are all over Sevilla, on statues, fountains, the tops of buildings, and staircases

Museo de Artes y Costumbres Populares

statues everywhere

nasty post-park feet

Cordoba

Took the train out to Cordoba today to see what I like to call the Mosquedral. It’s this ridiculously awesome combination of a former Christian basilica turned Mosque, when the Muslims conquered, that the Reconquistadors took back and decided to build a cathedral in the middle of. Seriously, it’s crazy. The cathedral pushes right up in the middle of a forest of Moorish arches. The doors from the outside still retain their very Muslim architecture, with some statues and such to Christian saints too. The former minaret has been turned into a bell tower, as they all have in Andalusia. And, the courtyard used for ablations during Moorish times was full of palm trees that the Christians ripped out and replaced with orange trees. I have decided that I really do like Moorish architecture; there is just something about all the arches and smooth lines that is really nice. Baroque style can go f*uck itself; I had bad dreams, last night, about all those creepy cherubs, saints, and plaster doodad ornamentation covering every inch of some of these churches. Or maybe the bad dreams were from too much sangria? No. . . . because at this point, I am a professional!

Oh, and I have now run into my American friends from Massachusetts, for the 3rd day running, in odd and random places. They were in the Mosquedral in Cordoba today too. I met them in the square in front of the Cathedral three days ago, and then saw them while we were both buying water at some random shop the same day, and then again in the Cathedral the following day as well as while having drinks that night. And, I still don’t know what their names are. Nice, huh! This simply reaffirms my philosophy that you should never take the attitude of, “whatever, I’ll never see these people again.” Because you will; and they will bring back up how you tripped over your own flipflop and made a loud smacking sound on the floor of the cathedral while it was all quiet and such. And then made it that much worse by laughing out loud. Not that I did that. As far as you know.

Bell tower, previous minaret

Door of Forgiveness

along the outside walls

forest of arches in every direction you looked

Muslim influence infused with Christian symbols

you can see the main alter and nave area smack in the middle of the arches

Orange tree courtyard

Centro, Triana, and Arenal

Centro is the shopping district of the city. Pretty much anything you could want is here: designer clothes, ceramics, Flamenco costumes, custom made hats, Sephora, H&M, etc. There are a couple little churches tucked into the mess and of course little bars. Because the sun is so hot, they string these massive canvases across the streets so the pedestrian shopping zones stay in the shade. Very clever, these people.
Ayuntimiento, city hall whose frieze wasn’t finished because the city ran out of money. It sits on Plaza de San Francisco, the sit of public trials for heretics during the Inquisition.

a 1924 tile ad for Studebakers in the shopping district

La Magdalena church

Casa de la Condesa Lebrija, the home of a single countess who traveled the world in the 1800’s collecting Roman ruins, etc. She remodeled her 15th century house, often, to fit the antiquities she collected from her travels. Bitch, I can’t even afford to have a vase shipped home, much less move entire mosaic floors.

the glassed in porch leading to the summer dining room

some of the mosaics she had salvaged and moved to her home

the summer dining room. I want seasonal dining rooms!

the grand staircase

Baroque architecture officially freaks me out, Iglesia Del Salvador

restored courtyard of a bank. . . awesome!

Triana is the neighborhood across the river from Santa Cruz, Centro, and Arenal. Its known for being the home of most of Sevilla’s top Flamenco perfomers as well as the city’s ceramics producers. It definitely still has a working class vibe to it and is not as touristy as Santa Cruz. No English gets spoken on this side of the river. I’m still not sure if the way too expensive ceramic bowl I bought can actually be used to hold anything. And, I have no idea how I’m going to get this thing home in one piece. Good move on my part. I should have had my Tinto de Verano after I went shopping.

Rodrigo de Triana Monument; he was the lucky guy assigned crow’s nest duty on Columbus’ La Pinta when they were close enough to see land. His words “Tierra,” marking the first person to lay eyes on the Americas, are on the bottom of the monument. That’s just funny.

Iglesia de Santa Ana, legend has it that children baptized here are given the gift of Flamenco singing and dancing

Pila de los Gitanos, the baptismal font, I was going to take some holy water for my sister but didn’t want to curse myself

the underside of all the balconies have amazing ceramic tile work

statue honoring Traina’s many reknowned Flamenco dancers

Capalita del Carmen, random little chapel that sits at the end of a bridge into Triana

the passageway from the river, through which suspected heretics were dragged into the headquarters of the Inquisition
fresh food market of Triana

Ceramica Santa Ana, scene of expensive impulse buy

Arenal is between the Cathedral and the river. I walked back through this part of the city to find the Plaza de torros de la Maestranza, otherwise known as the Bullfighting Arena. I’m going to put on my big girl pants and go on Thursday night. I don’t know if I will stay to watch all 6 of the bulls be “dispatched,” (that’s the Spaniards’ polite way of saying they kill the bull by putting a sword between its shoulder blades to pierce its heart, in the ring, IN FRONT OF YOU), but I will at least be there for 1 to say I’ve done it. I may need therapy after this.

tile ad for Manzanilla, chilled sherry Hospital de la Caridad, founded in 1674 as a charity hospital; it stills cares for the elderly and sick

random traffic circle

Torre del Oro believed to once have been covered in gold