Espana

If you're superstitious, you believe in omens, in signs that portent if the future will be good or bad.

It was on the plane that I had first realized I had lost my scarf, my favorite one, the green and orage one. I checked my bag and under my seat, in the sleeve of my coat, everywhere, and nowhere was it to be found. I had lost it somewhere after the Swiss border control, between the coffee machine and making fun of the rediculous male models in GQ that I left it behind.

And a tall handsome knight in shining armor (in the form of some kind stranger) rode to my rescue and returned my scarf. No idea how he knew it was mine or where to find me, but there you go.

Landing in Spain I had no idea what to expect or what awaited me. We taxied to Madrid central station, to await the train to Seville, the very same station where the bombings occured. In memorium thereof there is now a large, shining column and x-ray scanner security.

The landscape in Spain reminds me of southern Colorado, rolling hills of low grass and shrubby trees whose regularity betrayed the fact that they were indeed some form of cultivation. Huge expanses of fields are interspersed with farms and towns, the former of which would have been just as much at home in Alamosa as here; the towns, though, betrayed their Moorish architechture in arches and filegree.

Our evening consisted of a tapas tour, a strolling culinary taste of Southern Spain. We ordered Gazpacho and cheeses, fried fish and calamari, eggplant with honey and olives and potatos al-aioli, tortillas (potato fritatas) and summer wine. Life in Spain is different than up North--people dance to street musicians; restaurants do not open until 9 PM and service is "relaxed". The cathedral, an unbelievably huge structure, has separate entraces for different religions, and is the compilation of several hundred years of additions and modifications--and is simply immense. Orange trees line the streets; tiled courtyards of palm trees can be found among old casas, each floor with balconies; narrow streets wind among the ceramic shops, the tapas bars, the small shops and locals. The smell of blooming flowers--mainly the orange trees, which smell like lavendar--gives the air a pleasant perfume, only disturbed by the exhaust of the mopeds and scooters ricocheting through the city.

La vida espaöola...

Life is different in Spain. The day starts late and slowly, with enjoyment and a cup of coffee. No hurry, no rush. Midday comes and goes, creeping on to a Spanish lunch at three, which, combined with a Siesta, takes up much of the afternoon, and work doesnt resume until five or so. Lunch is leisurely, of several courses, not to be hurried. Evenings---these are occasions to be savoured; many dress up, going for some tapas and perhaps a drink before going home to dinner. Spaniards do not eat before 8 or 9 PM; stores are open late, the city is open late, and nothing is to be hurried. People talk loudly, laugh loudly, and visibly enjoy themselves. Like France, two kisses on the cheek for a greeting.

This was my first--and may be my last for the week--opportunity to see Sevilla. If only the rest of the week would be as pleasant as the first evening....