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Part II: The Indios take Seville and Madrid

FROM THIS CORNER

Armida Siguion-Reyna

11/17/2007

New York — By the time you read this, this lola shall be home, most probably unpacking, to the chagrin of children who can’t understand why what can’t run away need to be taken out of suitcases upon arrival, at the expense of rest. Anyway: To continue from last Saturday’s kuwento, allow me now to continue with bits and pieces about the second leg of our trip.

We left Portugal Oct. 31, via a chartered bus, and passed through Algarve, a beautiful stretch of beaches popular to British tourists in the summer, dotted by small villas and mansions owned, we were told, by a smattering of royalty, movie and football stars. We stopped for lunch in Faro, where once again we marveled at how clean the surroundings were. My grandson Rafa put in a .25€ coin to check out a public lavatory, the tubed enclosure slid open to reveal a clean, as in talagang malinis, toilet, complete with toilet paper.

It was dark when we reached Seville, at 6:30 p.m. Soon as we hit town proper, Gerry started to point out noteworthy sites and buildings in areas so well lit, one of us quipped: “Sana man lang kahit 10% ng liwanag dito, malipat sa Ayala Alabang Village.” AAV is arguably the darkest of the supposedly more exclusive villages in Metro Manila, and while residents know the streets well enough, visitors invariably get lost, as even street corners that carry street names are unlit.

Our hotel was the Fernando III, at the center of a cluster of a tight maze of esquinitas so narrow, our bus couldn’t enter, we had to walk from a drop-off place, with our luggage to follow. Right after we had settled, we went to a tapas bar. Hopping from one tapas bar to another is one of the main attractions of Seville, where fried and grilled seafood, fish and meat, chorizos, the famous Jamón Ibérico and fabada are served in small plates called tapas, meaning “lids” or “covers” in Spanish, a throwback to when such snacks were served in tapas used to cover drinks. To paraphrase Joey de Leon, whom we had bumped into in Lisbon, “Sa hamon pa lang, panalo na ang Seville.”

From there, we tried to stroll through the city. I was dead-tired, and although the spirit was willing, the body was rebelling. Two more turns and I grumpily called it a night, but not before seeing the Sevilla Cathedral so beautifully lit at night, looking like an opera set. Words fail me here, I wish you, dear reader, to be able to someday see what we saw. Carlitos could not be contained, he wanted to find out how the lighting was done, and together with Tony Tuviera the next day, ascertained that rooftops of neighboring buildings of various height levels carried light casings focused on the cathedral, from as much possible angles.

Next day, we took a bus tour through the Maria Louisa Park, checked out the buildings put up for the 1929 Expo, marveled at the mudejar architecture, a grand mix of Moorish and Christian influences, and visited the Church of the Virgen de Macarena, the Protector of bullfighters, yup, toreros. In the afternoon, while I stayed in the hotel to rest, the others continued with their sightseeing, for indeed, there was much to see in Seville, the capital of the Andalusian region famous for bullfighters, flamenco and the inspiration of operas like “The Barber of Seville” and “Carmen.”

There’s the “La Giralda,” built in 1184-1198, the minaret that used to be part of the old Mosque, at 200 feet, or some 35 flights high, which Bibeth and children Aya and Rafa climbed, sans elevator. It wasn’t hard, they said, as the tower was constructed as a continuous ramp, from bottom all the way to the top. The Giralda is now part of the Seville Cathedral, where Christopher Columbus is also buried, within walking distance of the Alcázar, a royal palace that used to be a Moorish fort. Further off, in the opposite direction, stood the House of Pilatos, a lavish first class museum, showcasing valuable paintings and sculptures. Night of that day I packed for the last destination, while everyone enjoyed flamenco dancing.

Nov. 3, we drove through the Patios of Cordoba, and dropped by the Mesquita, a combination cathedral/mosque that reminds one and all it’s possible for two faiths to co-exist. I can only describe this with one word, laglag-panga, for that’s what happens when you enter the roofed area, your jaw just drops in awe.

Don Quijote’s La Mancha was on the way, we saw the windmills the fictional idealist perceived in his mind as giants, and in the vicinity had a quick restroom stop-over, plus snacks of manchego cheese and bread, sarap!

Soon enough, we were in Madrid.

The first favor you give yourself in the capital of Spain is not to stay at the Hotel Zenit Ababa, on Alcántara Street, a 4-star pretense of a lodging where guests bring their luggage to their rooms (no bellboys!), and despite the free breakfast, a guest who hasn’t eaten is not allowed to bring at least a sandwich to the tour bus. The housekeeping folks are OK, but the desk people and those manning the restaurant are rude.

Madrid teems with thieves galore. Carlitos’s pocket was picked in the train, he chased the two girls who sat closest to him, and didn’t give up heckling them, until one threw his money back at him. Rafa’s two hats were stolen at the Barajas airport, inside a duty-free shop, and the cashier and store security guard got off with “No intiendo, no hablo Ingles.”

Fortunately, Madrid this year was memorable because of, first, the fabulous fabada, one of the best I’d ever in my life tasted, at the La Panera Cocina Asturiana, boasting of buena tierra, buena mano y autentica cocina de calidad, along Metro Puerta del Sol, done by Filipinos cooks, would you believe?

Second was my birthday dinner, Nov. 4, at the Las Cuevas de Luis Candelas at a corner of the Plaza Mayor. Carlitos was celebrating his birthday as well, and to our surprise, so was one of the waiters serving us. The food was good, the company exceptional.

Finally, Alcázar, in Toledo, a Roman palace in the third century, turned into a fort, the famous site of the legendary “Siege of the Alcázar” during the Spanish Civil War, when Nationalist Colonel José Moscardó protected it from opposing Republican forces. The Republicans held Moscardó’s 16-year-old son Luis hostage, in exchange for the surrender of Alcázar. Moscardó was not shaken, and instead told his son to “then commend your soul to God, shout ‘Viva Cristo Rey’ and die like a hero.”

The anecdote was a fitting end to our vacation. It reminded us of home, where very few set out to die like heroes, and the decidedly unheroic swagger with heroic proportions.

For better or for worse, we’re back.

(For comments, write to: armida114@yahoo.com)