Europe: Redux II
Europe: Redux II
Ferried back to Spain i landed in Tarifa in the dark and boringly familiar rain of early evening. After checking into a hostel I headed to a nearby bar, with book in hand, to quietly mark my return to the sodden land of alcohol. Somewhat unfortunately, somewhat fortuitously, i didn't make it through the first drink or chapter before falling into conversation with a group of young British ex-pats - one of whom bore the obvious benefits of a West Cork schooling. A drink turned into a couple into a few into a club into a party back at their place into Christ is that the time i'd better get back. Darkening the hostel reception at 9:30 am, check out time impending at 10:00am, i checked in for an extra nite, being in no state to board a bus. And so i slept for a day, headed for another quiet pint and a read and finally caught the bus to Seville.
Seville
A relatively quiet and pleasant week was passed in Seville. Much time spent strolling the streets and occupying the cafes. A trip to the bullfighting ring and museum, and a read of Death in the Afternoon, somewhat illuminated a gorey sport. Though still i find it difficult not to let my sympathies and support charge to the bull rather than the matador and his assorted cohorts.
An excellent hostel organised nitely activities and i submitted to the obligatory flamenco show. A large crowd of tourists, and some locals, sat before a small stage set in a large venue at the side of a popular local bar. The star of the show was tall and ample of girth, having distinctive tourist-appeasing dark Roma hair and stern complexion. To accomplished music and enthusiastic clapping she pouted and stamped and swaggered up a storm. With reluctance she occasionally stood aside for the musician's solos. At the end of each tune she led the applause and fixed the audience with a threatening stare that intoned 'Clap, or I keeeel you'. Before once more stomping into a fury of dance that reinforced the latent threat.
Another evening outing involved a pub crawl ending in a club. Emerging into a convivial morning at 5:30am there was a queue outside waiting to get in. The Spanish like to do it late! And they are also fond of haırcuts and fashions that elsewhere have people reaching for the hotline to the lunatic asylum. Current hairstyle king is the 'Fernando Torres' as eponymously sported by the Spanish international at the world cup. For those unfamiliar with the Torres, an approximation may be had by growiıng a mullet, then arming a blind drunk with an electric sheep shears and requesting a short back and sides, all the time standing barefoot on hot coals.
Torre Vieja and Valencia
Heading up the East coast I accepted the extremely generous offer to stay at my cousins' place in Torre Vieja, a small town South of Alicante. The weather was excellent - and unfairly raised expectations of what was to come through the rest of Europe - and the beach was close. An ideal couple of days became a couple of weeks as my lazy sunkissed arse initially refused all efforts to move it further North. Why and how did our paleolithic ancestors bother stumbling North of the Med?? So i lingered and read, and lay in the sun, and walked the coast and watched the Irish tv beamed in directly by satellite.
In the evenings I availed of the supermarket and the novelty of my own kitchen and watched the football matches in the numerous ex-pat pubs. Costa ex-pat is a part of Spain where Spanish is not required. I had a haircut and discussed football in the 'British Barber Shop'. Fish and chips of the highest order was found next door to the pubs. And the pubs of course were all Paddy bars - The Old Bog Road, The Temple Bar, An Shibin. In fact i may have scandalised my kind cousins and endangered their standing in the local community by visiting The Judges Chambers, reportedly owned by none other than Mrs. John Gilligan.
When finally the body was persuaded to move - by the fear that my forebearing cousins may consider consulting Spanish lawyers about an eviction order - it grudgingly went the short distance to Valencia and lingered for a couple of days. The outstanding feature of town being the modern architecture of the new planetarium and science centres. The enormous multi-storied planetarium is a highlight, having the distinct look of a giant stormtrooper helmet from a Star Wars movie. After this it was on to Barcelona and Liverpool's date with detiny in the Nou Camp.
Ferried back to Spain i landed in Tarifa in the dark and boringly familiar rain of early evening. After checking into a hostel I headed to a nearby bar, with book in hand, to quietly mark my return to the sodden land of alcohol. Somewhat unfortunately, somewhat fortuitously, i didn't make it through the first drink or chapter before falling into conversation with a group of young British ex-pats - one of whom bore the obvious benefits of a West Cork schooling. A drink turned into a couple into a few into a club into a party back at their place into Christ is that the time i'd better get back. Darkening the hostel reception at 9:30 am, check out time impending at 10:00am, i checked in for an extra nite, being in no state to board a bus. And so i slept for a day, headed for another quiet pint and a read and finally caught the bus to Seville.
Seville
A relatively quiet and pleasant week was passed in Seville. Much time spent strolling the streets and occupying the cafes. A trip to the bullfighting ring and museum, and a read of Death in the Afternoon, somewhat illuminated a gorey sport. Though still i find it difficult not to let my sympathies and support charge to the bull rather than the matador and his assorted cohorts.
An excellent hostel organised nitely activities and i submitted to the obligatory flamenco show. A large crowd of tourists, and some locals, sat before a small stage set in a large venue at the side of a popular local bar. The star of the show was tall and ample of girth, having distinctive tourist-appeasing dark Roma hair and stern complexion. To accomplished music and enthusiastic clapping she pouted and stamped and swaggered up a storm. With reluctance she occasionally stood aside for the musician's solos. At the end of each tune she led the applause and fixed the audience with a threatening stare that intoned 'Clap, or I keeeel you'. Before once more stomping into a fury of dance that reinforced the latent threat.
Another evening outing involved a pub crawl ending in a club. Emerging into a convivial morning at 5:30am there was a queue outside waiting to get in. The Spanish like to do it late! And they are also fond of haırcuts and fashions that elsewhere have people reaching for the hotline to the lunatic asylum. Current hairstyle king is the 'Fernando Torres' as eponymously sported by the Spanish international at the world cup. For those unfamiliar with the Torres, an approximation may be had by growiıng a mullet, then arming a blind drunk with an electric sheep shears and requesting a short back and sides, all the time standing barefoot on hot coals.
Torre Vieja and Valencia
Heading up the East coast I accepted the extremely generous offer to stay at my cousins' place in Torre Vieja, a small town South of Alicante. The weather was excellent - and unfairly raised expectations of what was to come through the rest of Europe - and the beach was close. An ideal couple of days became a couple of weeks as my lazy sunkissed arse initially refused all efforts to move it further North. Why and how did our paleolithic ancestors bother stumbling North of the Med?? So i lingered and read, and lay in the sun, and walked the coast and watched the Irish tv beamed in directly by satellite.
In the evenings I availed of the supermarket and the novelty of my own kitchen and watched the football matches in the numerous ex-pat pubs. Costa ex-pat is a part of Spain where Spanish is not required. I had a haircut and discussed football in the 'British Barber Shop'. Fish and chips of the highest order was found next door to the pubs. And the pubs of course were all Paddy bars - The Old Bog Road, The Temple Bar, An Shibin. In fact i may have scandalised my kind cousins and endangered their standing in the local community by visiting The Judges Chambers, reportedly owned by none other than Mrs. John Gilligan.
When finally the body was persuaded to move - by the fear that my forebearing cousins may consider consulting Spanish lawyers about an eviction order - it grudgingly went the short distance to Valencia and lingered for a couple of days. The outstanding feature of town being the modern architecture of the new planetarium and science centres. The enormous multi-storied planetarium is a highlight, having the distinct look of a giant stormtrooper helmet from a Star Wars movie. After this it was on to Barcelona and Liverpool's date with detiny in the Nou Camp.
posted by Supertramp | 10:17 AM
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