Riding the night train brought back a few uncomfortable memories. I mean uncomfortable mostly in the physical sense. The Spanish railways boast the most kilometers of high-speed rail in all of Europe, and, according to me, one of the nicest rides we’ve experienced yet. However, I have yet to meet a comfortable night train.
Oh believe me, I once thought that night trains were of the kind of “White Christmas” where changing into pajamas was normal and waking up refreshed, pretty and ready to start a romance was just a part of the trip. I have crammed myself into a luggage rack above a car of Mongolian sheep herders (this ride was most unfortunate though for my friend Stephen, who not only slept in a luggage rack opposite mine, but had to cram his lanky 6’4” body in between the short walls), I have slept on actual bunks with sheets and pillows, but usually with a stranger a foot and a half below, I have tried desperately to sleep sitting up without accidentally snuggling the shoulder of a stranger, lights on, cold feet, sore neck, bruised tailbone, sweaty cold noisy cramped smelly and still I choose to travel this way. It IS the easiest way to get from one place to another without wasting a precious sight-seeing day.
Our Seville train seats lounged comfortably for relaxing, and uncomfortably for sleeping. Cold and fitful sleep overtook us for a few hours before our glorious arrival on hard earth. Sarah, an old friend of Jeremy’s from his swimming days in High School, and Cory, her blue-eyed boyfriend, met us at the main train station. He is pursuing is PhD and researching ancient manuscripts of Nicaraguan colonialization from the dusty archives of Seville for a few months and Sarah, like me, tagged along for the experience. An over-priced taxi to their apartment took us the through the scenic route because of the massive construction pot-holing the entire city.
My previous Seville experience centered mostly around the old part of town. We had stayed in a small, sweet, overly tiled pension surrounded by cobblestones and tiny pink streets. It was less touristy than downtown, but we were certainly not knee-deep in Sevillian everyday life, like Sarah and Cory’s apartment. On the other side of the wide river from main Seville and a few winding blocks in, squashed between a Kodak and a watch store overlooking an accordion serenaded café (but only in the mornings and evenings) sat the precarious-to-open wooden door to their apartment complex. We immediately felt at home in their cozy fully-furnished apartment, complete with a washing machine, a courtyard, and warm hospitality.
Sarah, tall, lightly freckled, with bobbed bright blond hair till sported the slender body of a swimmer. Tale after tale of old pool buddies, fading memories, and some delightful stories about their highschool days wove their way into daily conversation. Cory and I were newcomers to the memoirs and appreciated every ounce of juicy info we could get our hands on. Maps, Eurail passes and Spanish guidebooks cluttered the short coffee table between us as we hastily mapped out our next few days of travel.
Cory, destined to translate, also became our tour guide and humbly led the show. Throughout our travels whenever tiredness or hunger struck us we eagerly stopped at a Spanish café for fruity sangria and snacks of bocadillas (small sandwiches on long flakey rolls with meager tasty toppings) or heaven-sent tapas. If I ruled country I would institute the culture of tapas. And all would cheer (except maybe my brother-in-law Jake who can’t quite understand the need for snacks). Tapas are small portions or bite-sized fancy nibbles to share or mix-and-match to create a full meal. I crave variety. I need frequent small meals. I need tapas.
We simply walked by the bull-fighting ring. I sidelined a gory fight the last time I was in Spain, and I can truly say I am glad for it, but I prefer to leave the extended blood and glorification of human dominance for the sake of entertainment to tales of history and once-in-a-lifetime cultural expeditions.
Columbus waved to us from his tomb inside a cathedral, the musty smell of old paper wafted from the Archives, tiny pastel streets competed for sunlight, shops sold boldly colored tile and ceramic art, giant cured pig hocks dangled from course twine in butchers’ windows, ladies flicked and flittered their fancy fans against the heat of the afternoon, and we were mesmerized.
Our evening drew to a close much too soon. We returned to their apartment, sleepy and hungry (was it just yesterday that we left France? It already seemed a world away). Cory and Sarah jetted to the market to purchase dinner makings while Jeremy and I wove our way through the crowded streets to find the nearest pharmacy. With a little script from Cory we were able to mumble and mime our way to some cough medicine, and eventually a little relief for Jeremy.
Not long after our delightful and cozy dinner we were all in bed, prepped and dreaming of Valencia, a city along the eastern coast of Spain.
no, not "just" a pretty street or "just" a fabulous door. ;-) i love seeing beautiful things and places through your eyes!
ReplyDeleteseriously! i love it, "oh just another amazing thing we found and took a picture of."
ReplyDeletegood work team!