|
 |
TRAVELS WITH MY ART 1 -
THE CITY OF SEVILLE
 Apart
from the flights I didn't book anything in advance. It seemed a far more
romantic notion to just arrive in Andalucia; me with a backpack, and a
whole new world to be discovered. Inevitably, reality turns out to be a
little more bracing than the sunny expectations of one's dreams.
The flight was delayed, and I with my backpack, (and one heavy
suitcase), was finally processed out of Seville airport at 10.30pm. It
was a Sunday night, and the tourist information point, and in fact
anything that looked like a useful counter, had the shutters down. There
was no sign of a bus station about, only a line of predatory taxis
outside, and a multi-storey car park in the gloom behind.
Procrastinating, I wandered up and down, avoiding eye contact with
smoking groups of taxi drivers. Eventually feeling conspicuous, I went
back inside, and looked up some sort of equivalent to "how far, how
much, centre of Seville, and cheap hotel". I had no idea how many miles
we were from the centre of town, or where I wanted to go, and I have a
deep-seated mistrust of foreign taxi drivers. To them I must surely have
appeared to be a walking bag of pesetas wearing a panama hat with "Take
me for a ride" on the front.
|
|
However the hour was
late and I had to find a hotel. I took a deep breath, and strode
purposefully out into the night. Right in front of me was a bus with
‘Sevilla Centro’ lighting the windscreen.
One hundred and thirty pesetas later (50p) I stepped off on to the
Puerta de Jerez, a sort of Piccadilly Circus but thick with palm
trees and exotic scents. As I crossed the road, a happy band of
revelers rounded the corner. Four beautiful young women in full
flamenco dress, escorted by two handsome young swains carrying
guitar cases, passed by, clearly on their way to, or from, a
wonderful evening. They were young, happy and singing, and a frisson
of excitement lifted me on to the Avenida de Construction to go and
find all those cheap and plentiful hotels mentioned in my Insight
Pocket Guide to Southern Spain.
A very useful book with maps, itineraries; where to find whatever it
is you mustn't miss for how much, and how to use the telephones. I
had done some homework in advance, so headed for the Cathedral, as I
was sure that just to the north of it was deepest hotel country.
Suddenly, a spectacular glimpse of "La Giralda", the pinnacle of
Seville Cathedral, came into view. A famously beautiful Moorish
minaret, capped with a Christian belfry, it was floodlit against a
sky of black ink, and scores of swallows caught in the light were
soaring and swooping high above the tower, seemingly as excited as I
was to be there. I walked on air to my hotel.
An hour and a half later I hadn't found it. According to the map I
had walked every street in Northern Seville, and hadn't even found a
single hotel, let alone one that was cheap, or even open. I
exaggerate. There was one facing me, on the opposite side of a huge
square, by the bus station. The huge glass lozenge filled most of my
vision, announced "El Splendido" over the door and had more stars
than I could see in the sky. Could I really spend my entire weeks
allowance on a few hours kip?
My suitcase had become an unspeakable burden, particularly since the
strap had parted company with the rest of the case as I’d come off
the bus. My ankles hurt, my arms trembled with fatigue, and all that
prevented me from kipping on a bench under a palm tree was the
thought of all the undesirable types that seemed ever present in the
shadows all around. I just wanted to stop, but standing alone at
midnight with luggage, and hat on, I couldn't seem to merge in with
my surroundings.
In the distance a star winked at me. It was a neon sign announcing
"HOSTAL" in vertical letters that was malfunctioning and
flickering. I was drawn to it, like the Magi to the Star of David.
In a narrow side street a dimly lit door protected with wrought iron
supported a sign saying ‘Empujar’. My heart sank. The words ‘Closed’
and ‘Full’ sprang to mind. Wearily I disengaged my luggage,
extracted a pocket Spanish dictionary from my backpack, and thumbed
through its pages, straining my eyes to finally read the word
‘Push’.
Three flights of stairs later, I delivered the sentence from my
phrasebook that I'd been rehearsing all evening; and after lots of
waving of arms, pointing and nodding, keys rattled in a door and I
flopped on to a bed. Perhaps presumptuously, I thanked my guardian
angel, saying, "We did it!"
© Christopher Fothergill 2007 |