Spanish on the Fly .....III

Arcos is a nondescript but pretty white walled village on the road to Seville. You know the sort which you see in coffee table books at the upmarket hair salons. It is about 40 Kms from the Sherry capital of the world , Jerez (the word Sherry comes from the English attempts to pronounce the Spanish Jerez . The J in Spanish is a pronounced like a guttural “kh”). The only worthwhile thing to do here is to do nothing , which also explains it’s popularity as a holiday destination with the Spanish civil service. Really.. .there is nothing to be done but just the idle sipping of the local Sherry (an extremely dry, almost acidic wine …not to be confused with the sweet Sherry wine) and gaze out on the Andalucian countryside from the hilltops.

It is nice to be free from this ant like compulsion to be doing something or the other, all the time you are on a holiday…to get the bang for your buck. As a result many a times, one ends up missing the purpose of travel which is not just sight seeing. To enjoy the ambience by sitting in a cafe, catch the local music at the bar , chat up with the local cabbies, polish your foreign language skills, bargain with the street side fruit sellers etc are just as much a part of your holiday as the sight seeing.. Unfortunately the average Indian tourist’s idea does not seem to extend beyond guided sightseeing from behind glass windows. A testimony to this being the travel agency ads in the Indian papers, which pride on squeezing the maximum cities in Europe in the minimum time till a day is going to dawn where the space time continuum is going to collapse into a travel maelstorm, which is going to suck you in and spit you out barely conscious. The purpose of travel to my mind should be broadening your thoughts by experiencing other lifestyles...but then that’s just me.

We left Arcos the next day and despite our best efforts at exorcism, Tuhin was still behind the wheel along with his evil grin. This time he did slow down to 120 kph but that was only at the toll gates on the Auto Pistas to Seville’s Santa Justa.

I had sort of done my preparation for the holiday by taking a crash course in Spanish that came in handy for asking directions to the Santa Justa train station. The average Spaniard speaks decent English, we were told. While this might be true in the touristy places, your average Spanish (with the honourable exception of Othello) certainly doesn’t.

My standard exchange used to be

“Perdon, Senor, Habla usted Ingles ?”
(“Excuse me , do you speak English”)

“No Mordió yo le puedo ayudar si dice mí lo que su problema es. Somos muy amistosos. Infact que somos tan amistosos que en este momento yo le doy a mi hija a usted en casamiento. dijo eso … »

“No but I can help you if tell me what your problem is. We are very friendly. Infact we are so friendly that I am giving my daughter to you in marriage right now . Having said that…”

(Did I mention that Spanish tend to speak a lot)

“Bale,Bale; Donde esta Estacion de Santa Justa ?”
(OK, OK..Where is the Santa Justa station ?)

“Vaya directamente, Gire a la izquierda.. la vuelta izquierda otra vez. el derecho ..turn. ..take la segunda izquierda. ..you verá una farmacia.. lo ignora. Eso es Pedro, él me debe 100 euros. Nunca tome las medicinas de él y también su esposa es fea. ....then toma la tercera izquierda y usted verá un Hotel. Usted puede preguntar allí porque yo no tengo la menor idea cómo le hace llega a Santa Justa”

“Go Straight, Turn left…turn left again...turn right...take the second left...you will see a pharmacy….ignore it. That’s just Pedro, he owes me 100 euros. Never take medicines from him and also his wife is ugly.....then take the third left and you will see a Hotel. You can ask there because I have no idea how do you get to Santa Justa”

With my vocabulary of 150 words , you can see understanding that was a bit of a stretch. But one rule of travel communication is that, a smile can get a lot of things done for you …actually so can a mini skirt but I somehow just couldn’t find one that fit me.

Sevilla (or Seville in English) is the 3rd biggest city in Spain and the birthplace of the Flamenco dance and host to the World’s 3rd biggest Catholic cathedral and the friendliest Hotel manager in the Hotel Alcantara.. (He was so friendly that at one point I started suspecting that he was gay … recovering from abstinence, While speaking to me he used to stand so close that we looked like Siamese twins). It is also the place where Bull Fighting is not a matter of debate like elsewhere in Europe but a cultural tradition like legalising slums in Mumbai. Seville is also one of the hottest places in Europe. In the summer of 2003, when Europe was burnt to a crisp under a scorching heat wave, average Sevillan temperature was around 45 degrees. However, given the moth like attraction to heat of the north Europeans, it is common to see once pale Britons and Scandinavians roam around Seville with a brick coloured complexion and their internal organs just fused together in a molten fudge.

The cathedral in Seville was for me the best building that I saw in Spain. Outrageously huge and tall and incredibly ornate. The Christian Spain had obviously decided to wear it’s heart on its’ sleeve. The people of Seville liberated from the Moors, had apparently stated that we will build a Cathedral so big that people will think this was the work of mad men …and if this indeed madness be , then there is no greater joy than to be insane. You are so dwarfed with the silent opulence of the cathedral that even non believers are forced to believe in the almighty, for the simple reason, this could not have been the work of man. Lined with amazingly ornate chapels , it was like being in the womb of Venus. The Giralda or the cathedral tower at about 200 ft is also pretty impressive when you consider that it was built 500 years back. There are no stairs but ramps as 500 years back the muezzin (the muslims did live on in Seville) wanted to preserve his stamina for the prayer calls and he wanted to ascend it on a horse. If you climb all the way to the top you can get an absolutely fantastic view or a heart attack….depending upon your body fat content.

The piece de resistance was to be the Flamenco dance. You sort of associate certain things indelibly with certain places and Flamenco seemed to straightaway conjure up images of hunky men and Spanish Rositas dancing a seductive, hypnotic dance around each other with increasing tempo ,trying to draw one another in to the crucible of passion. This was the Flamenco which I had seen so far. I.e. the Gypsy Kings kind, which admittedly gave me goose bumps and in some cases was exciting enough to cause bladder leakage. In the pursuit of authenticity , we insisted on watching an original dance. Seeing the original version was something like mistaking the main course for an appetiser. It was original alright. Sure there was the hypnotic combination of lighting fast heel and toe jabs with the flashy swirling of the skirts but was just too austere. No accompanying drums, castanets , sounds and lights. It might have been pure form but then so are Bengali art movies, which are god’s ways of punishing people for voting communists. To me, this Flamenco was akin to taking a guy addicted to Hindi pop to a Hindustani classical concert. As Tuhin, whose biggest grouse during the dance was the complete absence of popcorn, also said ,

“Boss , there is no way you can do Dandia to it ?”

While in Sevilla, we also wanted to catch Bull Fighting. When I say we , I mean only I. To my intense surprise Anju (“What, you want to see innocent animals being killed ?” said she biting into her chicken which was presumably guilty.), Tanuja (“Rahul, How can you see so much pain being inflicted ?”. Tanuja incidentally or may be just dentally is a Dentist. Talk about the pot calling the kettle) and Tuhin (“Dude., Are you nuts ? Those Bulls are an important part of my Milkshake supply chain”) simply stayed away. But try as I might, the Bull Fighting had to be missed. For one it is only on Sundays and two, tickets are sold way in advance. You might hear scalpers selling the tickets on the gray market but trust me that is just a load of Bull. Anyway, that effectively ruled out the most Spanish of the Spanish experiences.

Sevilla to Madrid is best accomplished by taking the high Speed train. But we had Tuhin with us. Best accomplishments are not accomplished in the presence of Tuhin. That is one of the fundamental laws of the Universe ranking right up there with the law of conservation of energy and the law for Ministers to develop heart pains when served with judicial summons. Tuhin had a choice of a Train or a Car to Madrid. It was like offering a choice between a Ayurveda camp or a duty free shop to an alcoholic. Finally, we took the train after convincing Tuhin….which was easily possible with the help of the National Guard and 2 muscled men with tattoos on their biceps which said “Giovanni, the knife, Brasi” and “Pedro, the cobra, Salieri”. Tuhin willingly accompanied us. There is not much free will that you can assert when in a gunny bag.