Prepare yourself: I'm about to go on about the weather. (To quote a Groucho Marx aside to the audience, "I have to stay here, but there's nothing stopping you from stepping out into the lobby until this blows over.")
Back before this last trip to Sevilla, Madrid experienced a spell of seriously user-friendly weather: weeks of sunshine and mild temperatures, feeling like spring's leading edge. People shedding coats and sweaters, streets and parks filling up with city residents out enjoying air, light, the promise of warmer days. Sevilla, as you might imagine -- 2-1/2 hours to the south via high-speed train -- seemed even deeper into the vernal thing. Conditions that foster relaxation, good humor, days spent outside hanging about with friends.
Last Thursday afternoon, we hopped the train for the return trip to Madrid, and as the city drew near, the sky took on a more wintery look, a look that went neatly with the wintery air that met us on stepping out of the train at Atocha Station. Vacation had clearly, rudely terminated.
Next morning brought rain, and since then -- with the exception of late Saturday and Sunday -- gray skies and cold, damp conditions have been the story here, the temperature dipping low enough this morning to produce snow. Big, fat flakes, 20 or 30 minutes' worth, before changing back to rain.
I'll say one thing: this kind of weather gets Sevilla looking more and more attractive. I'm told Andalucian summers are brutally hot/humid -- escape plans might have to be made for that stretch of time. I get the feeling, though, that life in that city would feel mighty fine during rest of the calendar year. (We all have our daydreams.)
When we arrived in Sevilla, ten days ago now, we stepped from the train into early summer. Which made my little bod extremely happy, almost loopy with abrupt warm-weather joy. Maybe a bit unbalanced from the sudden euphoria, G. and I opted to walk with our baggage from the station to the old quarter of the city, where we would try and track down our hotel. Never, ever (not kidding here -- NEVER) do that to yourself. Grab a cab or stick your thumb out, see if a local driver will take pity on you. Steal a bicycle, scooter, skateboard, shopping cart, pack animal or sherpa -- any option will be an improvement over our baggage-laden slog. Some other friends arrived at the station about five minutes after G. and I set out. Smart friends, who took a cab to the hotel where they met us when we finally showed up. Relaxed, already installed in their rooms. Smiling smugly. (Bastards.)
It's immediately apparent when you step into Sevilla's old quarter (el barrio de Santa Cruz) -- the streets narrow, it's cleaner, the buildings are more beautiful. Old, old structures are strewn all over the place, many of them churches, many featuring small shrines along an outer wall. In fact, there are small shrines everywhere -- I've never seen anything like it -- most consisting of images done on tiles and a legend identifying the saint. Many with a small shelf below the image for flowers, palms, candles. Some with a slot in the wall below all that for donations, usually featuring a discrete plaque saying 'LIMOSNE' (alms).
We staggered our way through winding streets, heading in what we hoped would be the general direction of the hotel. Coming upon, along one especially narrow block, an especially striking shrine built into a long, otherwise featureless wall. G. pulled out his camera, began taking shots of it. As he did, a tiny, stooped, elderly woman limped toward us, stopping by G. to face the shrine, where she made the sign of the cross, muttered a brief prayer.
G.: startled ex-Catholic tourist. Little old woman: true believer.
I've seen a lot of pre-lenten devotional behavior lately. This morning, on the way out of the gym, a young woman entered from the street just as I neared the door. She passed me, making a quick sign of the cross.
I, too, live a spiritual life (believe it or not). Just of a different variety.
To each their own.
rws 10:04 AM [+]