The Largest Wooden Umbrella in Europe

 

On the night before I left for Seville, I heard my name being called through the window. It's hot on the Iberian Peninsula, and everywhere I've been I've slept with everything open and with a portable fan. 

I didn't expect to hear my name. And it was me, they were calling, or they would have said "See-Moan." How strange it is to hear your name in a strange place.

Sigh-man! Sigh-man! 

It was my host. She had locked herself out. I briefly fantasized about taking over the house now that I ran it, thought about all that sweet, sweet lodger money. But I would eventually lock my own self out, and then the scales would tip back. And then where would I be?

I went downstairs and let her in.

Didn't sleep much after that, since I had an early dawnbus to Seville, so I kind of thrashed around and then packed and made my way to the "autobus estacion." The McDonalds across the street had people lined up waiting for it to open. They sure love their "patatas" here.

Easy ride, but I was too tired to sleep or read, so it passed in a kind of haze. Tried to read My Struggle by Karl Ove, but hated it. A memoir about a writer who drinks too much and has a bad relationship with his father? Groundbreaking! I left that shit on the bus tucked between the seat and the wall. Woe unto he who finds it!

I briefly made an accounting of what being bumped from the flight had cost me. A week in Morocco, of course, so I won't be able to see Rabat or Casablanca. And maybe a few hundred bucks - The flight money and the hotel in Marrakesh I couldn't cancel.

I'm fortunate I'm in a position where I could make Lisbonade out of it all. It's not like I was stranded in Lincoln, Nebraska. Shudder! I might not even have thought of it had I not been so bleary.

Once the shop windows displayed naked children holding crosses, I knew we had crossed over into Spain.

Seville is one of those cool old towns that looked like they just happened. Like, people lived there and then more people came and the city bosses were like, "All right, we'll put them over there," and the it kept happening, and suddenly you've got this sprawly, corkscrewy town with crazy art and buildings.

And so many marvelous parks. I saw wild parakeets! Bright green. I gasped.

My host, Walter, was in constant communication and when I arrived (an easy walk from the Plaza de Armes!), he greeted me with a bowl of pasta. Super soft bed, which I crashed into immediately. There had been a time change, so I was an hour later than I thought I'd be. It felt the same to me, of course.

After a serious siesta, I went out into the world. Such a fragrant marvel. The smell of fruit and flowers everywhere. The apartment was quite near an enormous wooden "umbrella" called The Metropol Parasol. Pretty useless but vaguely hilarious.

This is a bad town to be a pig in. Enormous ham hocks are everywhere, hanging from every possible hook. They're as ubiquitous as disposable lighters.

As it got darker, the town really came alive. Quiet streets were suddenly filled with tables and chairs, and adults, real adults, came to sit and eat and drink.

It was really cool. Like, it was locals drinking wine and talking with their hands and seemingly having a marvelous time. All very casual and leisurely. It wasn't like a lot of Eastern European towns where the sidewalk cafes seem to be populated only be teenagers desperate for something to happen.

I love towns where it really gets going at night. But, like, normal life. Not club life.

Fun little ramble through Santa Cruz, the old Jewish neighborhood, some crackers and coffee, and then sleep. The scent of red sauce and the sound of wooden spoons stirring in metal pots drifted through the window until well after midnight.

I love the way Seville smells.

Woke up early and saw cathedrals and palaces and statues of matadors. I didn't take a lot of pictures, because the style is that easy-to-replicate tile that so many Mexican restaurants at home have mastered. It was a strange feeling to see the real thing and have it be so familiar.

I chose not to visit the Tomb of Christopher Columbus, since the entire country I live in is a tomb for the race he murdered in his genocidal explorations.

Instead, I crossed several bridges in search of street art and found myself in a neighborhood called Triana. Finally felt like myself crawling around under the stanchions, looking for paintings. The smell of urine and cheap beer.

Near some sort of abandoned building transformed into a skate park, an old dude was directing a young model. It was almost pornographic. He kept motioning for her to spread her knees wider. He was directing her and acting like he owned the place. They were in my shots, a bunch.

I hope it works out for her.

It started to rain like crazy. I took a bus, and a man in front of me had freckles on his head like a leopard's spots. He wore a leopard print scarf to accent them. He must have known. I loved that stylish old man and his blue-framed Ray Bans. He is probably wonderful to know. A marvelous stranger to imagine being friends with.

Hid out at home for a while. Then, when it was dry again, I went out in search of a laundromat. I was starting to look and smell like a crazy-person. Long walk through unknown streets with my leather duffle full of my smelly cotton. I saw so much life.

Found a place with no soap and drew pictures of a box with bubbles coming out of it for a pharmacist. He pointed me across the street. Whether he understood my drawing or not, they had what I wanted there.

I also bought a lady's razor, since it was five euros cheaper.

Did laundry next to an old woman and read The Sheltering Sky. When I went to get tokens, I saw the change they had given me at the supermarket had been ripped in half. It was a badly taped-together 5-Euro bill. Half was in my pocket, the other in my hand. Fuckers.

Wouldn't work in the coin machine. So, I went back and bought some fruit. I pushed the bill together with the crappy tape as hard as I could hoping it would last long enough to go from my hand into the cashier's hand into the till.

Slipped it to the guy, and somehow it held long enough to disappear into his drawer. You can't grift a grifter! Fuckers.

Went back, got tokens, put the clothes in, and met an Irishman.

 He guessed I spoke English, and he was right. He was like, "Did you know day film Game o' trones around here? Can't say as I know t'houses, but they film it here and all that."

I loved him.

Took my bags of clean clothes to the bus station and bought a ticket to Tarifa for the next day. Celebrated at something called Patata Queen. French fries. They added the word "queen" after everything there.

So, it was Snacks Queen, Desserts Queen. The menu was called "Menu Queen." The next time a companion takes her time deciding at dinner, I'll say, "You're such a menu queen."

Went home and showered and shaved.

The ladyrazor was disgusting. It had two fleshy purple lips on either side of the blade, and they leaked this gooey lubricant. It made my face disgusting, and I cut myself several times.

I guess a face isn't a pair of legs. If I learn one thing from Spain, it's that.