Back in Seville

This picture is not Seville, but after spending the morning reading about tourist scams, I thought I would post it. It's from the entrance to the Mezquita in Cordoba. A familiar sight I have seen outside the Cathedrals here in Seville and in Granada and outside the Mezquita in Cordoba. Friendly women offering a spring of rosemary as a "gift" who then grab your palm and give an unsolicited palm reading. I watched this particular deal go down. The woman in the center stood there and smiled and laughed as the gypsy woman told her all kinds of good things (they must have been good because she was smiling). The gypsy touched the woman's shoulder several times, tenderly. To the right is another woman who actually approached the gypsy with her palm out and asked for a palm reading. Ok, I hope I am not this dumb when I go to Rome.

What was always interesting to me in these transactions was the moment when the women demanded money. The whole scene changed from a tender, warm "gift" to a look of embarrassed regret for trusting another human being. In this case, the woman asked her husband who refused to have his palm read for some money. He pulled out a few coins and gave them to the gypsy, who indignantly showed them to her "partner".

This brings me back to Seville.

I arrived "home" on the train about 2:30 p.m. The number 32 bus was stopped outside of the train station because a line of people kept asking the driver questions - "How do I get to the airport?" and things like that. Good for me because that was the bus I wanted. Within a few minutes, I was walking down Feria Street back home.

I decided to stop at a local bar/cafe for lunch because I had no food. It's just down the street and it is recommended in Lonely Planet. It's called La Ilustre Victima - a strange name for a place if I do say so. The Illustrious Victim? What does that mean? Maybe it's a literary reference.

Anyway, I grabbed the last available table outside and even though the waitress saw me sit down she ignored me for quite a while. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to go in and order, but I waited. There were about 7 other tables outside and surely someone would come out to take care of them.

Finally a waiter came out. He asked if he could help me. I asked him for the menu. I never understand why this isn't automatic. He brought the menu and I ordered a water.

He came back to take my order and for some reason did not understand my Spanish. I've been traveling and speaking Spanish for a while now and this is the first time someone didn't understand me. Maybe he is not Spanish? Anyway, he eventually got my order which was a plate with bean cous cous and pork filet.

As he walked by again, I ordered a beer.

I sat and looked at my grimy neighborhood. The cobblestone streets that are in need of a good washing. The older blonde prostitute who walks around in her high heels on the cobblestones looking like she has had too much coffee (as opposed to the three African women who stand leisurely around just looking bored). Dogs walked by and peed on the walls. Finally my lunch arrived. I was really hungry and gobbled it down as it was really good - especially the cous cous which had garbanzos on top and carmelized onions and raisins.

I wanted more, so as the waitress walked by and grabbed my empty plate, I asked her what they had for desert. She turned away from me as if she hadn't heard me and went to the next table and grabbed the guy's empty plate. I was thinking maybe I should ask again louder - but how could she not have heard me? She then picked up the menu on his table and opened it to the desert section and put it on my table, without saying a word.

Could it be that these people just hate what they are doing for a living? Or is this what happens when service is not tied to tips?

The waiter walked by and I ordered a "baklawa de cacahuates" - peanut baklava. He said, 'eh?' I repeated myself and pointed to the words on the menu. Has my Spanish deteriorated that much?

It was a good lunch, but not a very pleasant experience. Maybe I'm making service more important than it should be. Eating out is about the food, right?

I came home to my little retreat here in Seville and after going to Corte Ingles to pick up some foodstuffs, I spent the rest of the day just chilling.

It's now Sunday morning and I can hear the three African prostitutes chatting and laughing outside my window. Across the street the little African boy and girl are yelling. The other little African family, a woman with two cute little boys and a smaller girl have already gone out - she yelling at them, and they crying.

Yep, I am "home".