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TRAVELS WITH MY ART
- 6 CORDOBA
 From
an early age, the sound of the Classical or Spanish guitar has
had a profound effect upon me, evoking moods or even memories,
of places to which I have never been. I am not talking of the
rhythms of Flamenco, but rather the more restrained music of the
classical guitar repertoire. One evening in my early teens, I
happened to see a television programme featuring the great
guitarist Andrés Segovia, sitting in the Alhambra Palace playing
‘Memories of the Alhambra’, with fountains and shadows playing
around a sunny courtyard. I was hooked, and embarked upon
several years of lessons upon the instrument. To this day I
intermittently attempt to play such classics as the “Suite Espanol” by Isaac Albeniz. ‘Seville’ ‘Cordoba’, and ‘Granada’
are the names of three of the pieces in the Suite; a series of
musical postcards from Andalucia.
Such are the romantic associations with these beautiful tunes,
in my mind’s eye, that I was keen to visit all three of these
old Moorish cities during the seven days of my visit to Spain.
And so the next morning I packed my bags for Granada; hungry to
visit the fountains and courtyards of the Alhambra Palace, which
I knew rose up out of the city, into the foothills of the Sierra
Nevada.
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At least the bus station was next door
to my hotel, so off I went to get a bus to the train station; only
to be told that there were no buses connecting the bus and railway
stations together.
Obviously no-one had thought of that.
It was a little over a mile across town to the railway station, but
my mistrust of taxi drivers prevented me from making eye contact
with any of them around me, so I set off on foot, clutching my heavy
case to my chest. Forty minutes, I thought cheerfully; coffee en
route.
Ten minutes later I slumped into a chair outside a shady café. The
day was coming on hot, and my backpack had already soaked the back
of my shirt. I had a coffee and croissant and watched Spain go by in
the early morning sunshine. Duly refreshed, I stood, loaded my bags
on board, and looked at the long straight road east. ‘Why am I so
bloody mean?’ I thought to myself. I hailed the next taxi, and was
at the station in ten minutes for less than the price of a beer.
Unfortunately there were to be no trains to Granada until much later
in the day, but wasting a whole day out of my painting schedule
traveling and waiting in stations was not on. There was a train to
Cordoba almost immediately though, so I boarded that, rather
enjoying the sudden change of plan; easy to accomplish when you
haven’t booked hotels, and you have no traveling companion with
whom to argue.
The railway terminus at Cordoba has a bus station adjoining it. This
was much more promising. I had used the two-hour train journey to
inspect the street map of Cordoba from my pocket guide, and locate
two hotels I had found (on the Internet back at home) which were
reasonably priced and handy for both the station and the old part of
the city. No repeat of my experience in Seville thank you very much.
Misreading the signs, I found myself leaving the station through the
bus entrance, running out of footpath, and eventually dodging
coaches swinging through the vast arches that were not designed for
pedestrian use. Realising I was at the wrong end of the shooting
match, I turned in another wrong direction and tramped three sides
around the entire station complex; a vast blank wall to my left the
entire time; passing nobody except for one other person with a case
struggling in the opposite direction. We avoided eye contact. My
circumlocution presented me back to the top of some escalators,
leading down to the platform where I had started. Dripping with
great discs of sweat around my armpits, I realised that it could
well be another one of those days. The hotels wouldn’t be far away
though; I knew that.
They weren’t far away, they were just full.
Clearly internet advertising was successful for them. A largely
fruitless further half-hour washed me up in a rather impressive
square called the Plaza del Tendillas. Definitely coffee time.
One of the joys of being in Spain and Italy at the right time of the
year (which is most of it) is sitting out of doors drinking coffee
and watching the world go by. I could take it up full time in
retirement. Probably die of caffeine overdose after eighteen months
mind you. On this occasion I pulled out my sketchbook on the basis
that if I couldn’t find a hotel, there’s no point in wasting the
day. There was a girl feeding pigeons, which I made a passable
impression of with my pencil, and behind her a tall elegant rounded
façade of a building, topped with a white cupola, upon which perched
a flamboyant equestrian statue. The sort of stuff I like to have a
stab at. It was better than hotel hunting, and boosted my spirits. I
was sure I was going to like Cordoba.
I didn’t for the remainder of the morning. It is a mystery to this
day how, despite possessing an adequate street map of Cordoba, I
found myself back at one of the hotels I had started with.
Hesitating outside, I hastily constructed a sentence from my phrase
book, returned inside, and asked the signor at reception if he knew
of any other inexpensive hotel I might try. He must have understood
me, as he was most forthcoming. I grasped most of his response
through a series of mutual arm waving, nods and wild gesticulations;
which go a long way in any language.
Focusing all my attention on retaining what tattered sense of
direction I still had, I staggered under the weight of my bags for
two short streets before rounding the last corner to confront; yes
you’ve probably guessed by now, hand on heart and hope to die, the
railway station was right in front of me, the hotel next door.
Handy for the journey back I thought. Chronically optimistic to the
end.
© All Content Christopher Fothergill
2007 |
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