So. Seville is a stark contrast to the north. It is very hot and dry. I finally left the house without my trenchcoat. There are misters in every restaurant and up and down the mall to add some moisture into the sir so we don't crack open from being so dry and sustaining the impact of moving. You can easily walk one kilometre through a maze of streets and not see a tree. Don't get me wrong there are some immaculate gardens if you seek them out, head to the plazas, or stay on the promenade thing that we did. But the streets are wall to wall buildings, lots of red and ochre paint, and indoor courtyards. It's a dry and arid beauty that possesses this town.
Some windows crack the mould and create pot plant gardens in their bars. That's what I would do if I was in gaol.
The plazas are chock full of people in the evening, playing games, drinking coffee or beer, eating tapas boards of meat and cheese. There are children everywhere playing in the streets and parks. This is true for all of Spain, there is such a strong sense of family that seems a fundamental part of their culture. We are welcomed so much more for having a child and it brings out a warmth and friendliness we wouldn't experience otherwise. Having a baby on the travels has been a virtue. I refer you to this Granny. In all my travels, I don't get random people losing their shit when they see me and asking Karl if it's ok to give me a cuddle.
We spent sometime roaming around the streets of Seville. We don't know if it was the area we were staying in, but there were lots more freaky people hanging around being weird. Take the example of the shirtless, ripped cargo short, pipe playing man, who would walk around the mall randomly yelling out at people... or the sky. He approaches us whilst we were having coffee and wanted to have a big conversation about something. Not speaking Spanish was the perfect way to excuse ourselves from the conversation. We just had to be careful not to speak fluent Spanish when we passed him in the street on other occasions. Nnnnooootttt. Shamefully, we can barely string sentences together.
The other thing Seville is famous for, apart from the breathtaking, heaven on earth alcazar, the waffle which claims to challenge the Eiffel tower and the Cathedral, which barely promotes the fact it has the tomb of Christopher Columbus, is.... What was that? The only thing you HAVE heard of is the thing they don't promote. I know. Tourism marketing these days... Anyway moving on from that recurring theme...
So, back to that other famous thing, a reacquaintance with the pickpocket. This time, we got right into it, picking three within the first hour. Legends. We could have had an excellent story about getting pickpocketed, if the woman behind Karl didn't point out he just dropped a wad of euros on the ground. That's right, between €100-160. I didn't want to count them out in front of the woman and embarrass ourselves even further. I'm glad we got the money back, but if we didn't, imagine the hours of entertainment we could have had figuring out how we got done over, whilst eating bread and butter.
When we first arrived in Seville I noticed a pretty massive shop that had a full window decal of a women with a neck brace and broken leg. It said something along the lines of trafficos assedintos - which I proudly interpreted to say 'traffic accidents.' I didn't think much more of it. Then we started seeing broken limbs everywhere. I'm not joking. Young, old, male, female, pickpocket, weirdo.
Everyone was injured, but the most common injury was strangely, grandmas with slings. All I could imagine was bad ass gangster grandmas, or thrill seekers, out rock climbing or sky diving then sustaining unfortunate injuries. I saw two neck braces and probably 10-15 other plaster casts within the first two days, and those were only the ones that walked right past us. Karl started counting but it seemed a bit macabre. Plus, how can you exaggerate when you know the truth. That would be called lying.
I wasn't deliberately trying to photograph any, but coincidentally, I caught this women in the distance of another photo.
The streets of the old quarter were full of artists. I liked this printmaker the best because Mum is a printmaker amongst other artistic pursuits, and she has taught me a thing or two about this trade, so I like to think I know quality when I see it. This man was using watercolours with his etchings, and some has swirls in them. Anyone else think I have found Mum's long lost soul mate...?
In other news, Matisse has started brushing her teeth. This provides at least five minutes of solid entertainment for her every time it happens. I can't wait for the ironing and washing up to become feasible.