far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Wednesday, April 05, 2006

[continued from previous entry]

When daylight began to fade, I headed off into the barrio of Santa Cruz, the warren of narrow streets and pedestrian ways to the east of Sevilla's cathedral, to a place I'd visited a couple of times in the past, a center that hosts flamenco performances every night. By young musicians -- advanced students, maybe -- giving great, energized performances the two occasions I'd been there before.

The music happens in a courtyard, a curtain of trailing vines covering the wall behind the musicians, a canopy a couple of stories up providing a roof. A small space, allowing three performers and an audience of around a hundred seated in rows of chairs around three sides of the room. I arrived early, found myself sitting front and center, daylight fading as nine o'clock approached. A guitarist and vocalist entered, both performers I'd seen here before. They launched into a long, complicated number, the guitarist working hard with difficult, complex material, the singer extravagantly emotional, getting away with it by committing to it in extravagant fashion.

And when they finished up, a dancer entered, one not of the typical look I've seen in the past. Not svelte. A bit chunky, in fact, with heavy features. Took her a few minutes to warm up, her concentration twisting her up features in a strange, unflattering way. And then everything settled into place, her movements found a grace and emotion they hadn't had, her performance became more intense, more in sync with the musicians and the audience. And from there the evening took off.

The moment the show ended, I was out the door, walking back through the barrio, past the tourist concentration point of el Alcázar Real and la Catedral, across la Avenida de la Constitutión into my hotel's barrio. A good fifteen-minute hike, me pulling up at the restaurant in which I'd eaten the night before. Which turned out to be empty, no one there but the owner and me.



He threw together a good meal, brought me a small beer or two, I inhaled everything like someone coming off an extended fast, noting the quiet, sad atmosphere of a place lacking business, the owner reading the paper to kill time, taking a few minutes to write out the next day's menú on a chalkboard.



He didn't seem particularly inclined to a chatfest, I let him alone, paid up, got out. One last walk through narrow streets, the neighborhood's numerous watering holes mostly doing better business than the restaurant (except for a wine bar, empty apart from the two employees who stood outside the door, both talking into cellphones), then back to the hotel where the TV went on for a while, Spanish-speaking voices filling the small space of my room until the light went out.

Next day: more of the same. Good espresso. Croissant. Roaming around enjoying scenery, people. Good lunch.

Late afternoon: returned to hotel, packed up, left for the airport for a Ryan Air flight back to the U.K. Found myself second in line, behind a 60ish English couple with several bags piled on a cart. Airline personnel appeared, putzed around getting ready to begin check-in -- their point person a tall, blonde English type. He gestured the couple forward, tall, blonde guy didn't like something about their stuff, the check-in stretched on and on, him finding one objection after another. Until he sent them and their luggage to a customer service window way off on the other side of the terminal. (To pay for excessive luggage, I found out later.)

During all that, Ryan Air personnel repeatedly announced that passengers were allowed only one carry-on bag. Watching the routine happening with the first couple in line, I began taking the announcements seriously, stuffed my bag o' books into my monster wheeled duffel, leaving me with my laptop bag. Legal, thought I. Blonde guy gestured me forward, I lifted the wheeled duffel onto the conveyer. He stared at a weight indicator, told me it was too heavy. I removed the bag of books, leaving me with the same duffel of possessions I'd come to Sevilla with. No good -- he wanted me to remove five more kilograms of stuff. I stared at him, it not computing. He stared back, expressionless, unyielding. We went back and forth a little, me a little stunned, not getting why my bag would have been acceptable on the way down, unacceptable for the return trip. I removed a few items, jamming them into my computer bag. Then more things, a small, unmistakeable smirk appearing on blonde guy's face during the process. He finally let the bag go through, tossed a boarding pass at me, I turned around to find the couple behind me watching fearfully, wondering what the hell had happened. I told them, they looked from me to the desk, eyes wide. I took off as they approached the desk.

I later spoke to them and to the first couple. This, it turned out, was not the first time they'd witnessed or experienced strange happenings at return-trip check-ins for Ryan Air flights. Couple #1 said this was their third time flying with Ryan Air, they'd been subjected to something unpleasant two out of the three times. By contrast, they'd flown with EasyJet many times, never experienced a problem. Couple #2 were hassled as I was, wound up having to re-distribute stuff between bags.

The good part of the experience: it got me examining my tendency to overpack. This trip, in particular, coming over for a month, I decided to bring everything I wanted. The result: er, too much stuff. Time to re-think the packing thing.

Another good part: I found myself sitting next to couple #1 during the long boarding wait, we began talking and continued talking, becoming one more confirmation of my general experience with Brits: they're friendly, warm folks I enjoy being around.

[continued in next entry, sort of]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Buildings/sky, Sevilla




Madrid, te quiero.

rws 3:44 PM [+]
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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
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June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
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June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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