Spanish Flamenco Matadors (Seville)

Our first full day in Seville dawned bright and sunny and we headed off to our first pre-booked experience of life in the Andalusian capital. In our Spanish travels so far, we have wandered past a number of bull fighting arenas dear reader: Barcelona, Màlaga, Ronda... but we have not ventured inside one yet. Today, we were off to a self-guided tour of the arena in Seville where it is the last legal place to witness this controversial expression of Spanish culture. 

It would not be our cup of tea to actually attend one of these spectacles but they have been immortalised by writers such as Hemingway and, as the tour documented, the contests are steeped in tradition, built around honour for both the bravery of the matador and the power of the bull.

It seemed like a relatively straight forward path from our hotel to the arena but we allowed an additional 20 minutes so as to arrive the recommended 10 minutes before our booked time slot without having to rush. The aim was to observe what we found along the way to inform future planning for our time here.

Jayne continued to consult the street map as we walked, trying to locate street signs to confirm we were headed the right way. There were lots of grand buildings to look at and interesting things to see, including an entire platoon of soldiers, complete with automatic rifles who happened to be heading the opposite way along the footpath. We thought it best to give way to them since they outnumbered and out-gunned us.

The lack of street signage prompted us to confirm our position with Google. Instead on being closer to the  Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza,  we were in fact further away. Clearly we had taken a wrong turn so we headed across a park, now hurrying to make our 10am booking time.  

After 20 minutes of rushing past points of interest we would have to revisit later, we made it to the river that runs through Seville, where sadly there was a cruise ship docked. I thought we would be safe this far inland. Wrong. We turned towards the Plaza de Toros, arriving with a couple of minutes to spare.  Tickets presented and audioguide downloaded, we entered the inside corridors under the arena seating, to examine the various displays of artwork, posters and artefacts that chronicle the history of this Spanish iconic cultural phenomenon. 

There were no matador heads on display.

There were matadors outfits from famous contests as well as the taxidermied specimens of several revered bulls, some full bodies others were heads mounted on walls. I didn't any information regarding how many bulls won the contest. If any. 

An unnamed opponent.

Curiously, while all these were labelled and explained in the audioguide, nothing was written or said about the several displays of models human heads that were hanging from ropes amid the displays. Haven't read anywhere that human sacrifices were part of the process?

Flashy.

Further along, we saw the yards where the horses were prepared to be ridden out into the arena to commence the fights, the chapel where the matadors say their final prayers to calm themselves before entering the fray and then finally, we entered the arena itself. 

Horse feeding station.

Well almost. I wanted a shot of the passage into the arena. Sadly it was a day for the vapid and vacuous. Once the four ladies of a particular nationality who had taken 62 photos of each other and checked them carefully had moved to the side of the entrance, I had to contend with one last couple. 

Probably not worth the wait.

They were in the centre of the ring and continued to take still photos and then video of each other. Over and over and over. I managed to get the photos I wanted when they moved to the side of the ring. However, they dominated the ring for a full 30 minutes before moving to the stands where they continued to self-document their shallow lives. And she wasn't that good looking anyway. If medals were being awarded for this self-indulgent behaviour they would sweep the pool and be awarded gold, sliver and bronze.

You really had to be there.

The Plaza de Toros has a capacity of about 12,000 but today, it was virtually empty, except for a few groups of tourists most of whom were, it seemed, in total awe of where they were standing. You could always tell when a family group arrived because the kids all charged around the ring with their bull horn-fingers either side of their head. Most amusing.

The best seats are in the shade.

If you ever wondered about the authenticity of the bullfight, a quick look at the barriers that protect the matador from a raging bull would dispel any doubts. The barrier closest to the royal box was the one with the most damage because that is where the action would be centred.

Get behind the barrier.

Leaving the selfie crowd still taking photos of themselves, we thought breakfast might be a good idea. Down one side street and a couple of deft steps to get in front of a tour group and we found ourselves at the back of the Cathedral and outside a café. Time for espresso and tostados and to review the map to see where we were in relation to the hotel. 

Service, as appears to be the custom in Spain, is relaxed so it took a while to get served and even longer to get la cuenta. No worries, we weren't in a hurry and were able to watch the many tour groups being led around the Cathedral. This spectator sport also included several near deaths as the trams rattled down their tracks, stopping for no-one, especially stupid tourists listening to their guide at the exclusion of the rest of the world. Sadly the gene pool was not the winner today, but it was touch and go a couple of times.

We skirted around the Cathedral to observe the queue, hoping to gain entrance. It went around the corner. These were people queueing to buy entrance now and the line was barely moving. Toward the rear end of the Cathedral were two other queues, one for groups 😬 and the other for tickets purchased online. Again, neither were making any progress.

The front of the Cathedral.

Jayne spied a 'tourist information centre' which is code for, we sell you tours. In she went to enquire about the Cathedral. No deal. And the Palace? No deal. See, we might not have managed to be here for a major foot race (see Berlin, Barcelona) but we scored Spanish National Day and a long weekend. It is Christopher Columbus Day on Sunday and his remains are allegedly (it's disputed), in the Cathedral where there will no doubt be a huge mass (in both senses) in two days' time. Monday, is of course, a public holiday in lieu of Sunday. We haven't run across this many random closures since being in France in May - avoid it if you can.

The Cathedral, the largest Gothic Church in Europe, and the Palace have now been added to Alhambra as sites to pre-book for our next visitation to Spain. 

The tower at the rear of the Cathedral.

Suitably foiled, we walked back to the river to the Torre del Toro, or Golden Tower and checked out the required river crossing for tonight's Flamenco show. If ever a bridge was made for lovelocks it is this one and yet there was not a lock in sight. We turned back to the hotel and photographed some of the sites we had passed in our haste in the morning.

The Golden Tower.

It was beer time back at the hotel where we booked a sherry tasting for tomorrow and a tour of Córdoba. I mean we wouldn't want to miss out. We also checked out various tours to Alhambra from Seville and other places. Yes, we could have secured tickets but the prices were astronomical. The spectator sport in the hotel lobby, was watching some unrestrained children banging things on a table, screaming intermittently and smearing some sort of food stuff on the decorative mirrors. I mean you couldn't expect any of the six adults in the group to actually supervise them, could you?

Just after 6pm we left the hotel for the Baraka Flamenco Show. The tickets requested you to arrive 20 minutes early so you could be served your drink. Given Spanish pace of service, that made sense. We arrived at the appointed time and were seated next to a couple of Australians from Gladstone. The drinks were ready on the bar, well, jugs of Sangria were on the bar. I ordered two glasses of white wine.

The show was very up close and personal. The performance space was quite small and we were front row. There were three chairs behind the 'dance floor' one for the guitarist, one for the singer and one for one of the dancers, depending on what was happening. Flamenco is quite intense and extremely loud. My watch warned me several times that I was in a loud environment.

The facial expressions of the dancers, their movement and the plaintiff voice of the singer suggested the story was quite emotional. It was amazing to watch the dancers and the speed with which they could move their feet. The show lasted an hour and given the intensity, I doubt they could have continued much longer and there was a second show at 9pm.

At the conclusion, we bid farewell to our fellow Australians and crossed the river to walk back to the hotel. On the way we had to step aside to allow a marching band to pass. Totally normal. None of the restaurants peaked our interest on the way home so we opted for room service, after a day filled with Spanish culture and history.

The title today might be a bit obscure, but it suits the day. The Spanish Flamenco Matadors. Enjoy.

Until tomorrow.

        

Help Me, Rhonda (Màlaga - Ronda - Seville)

Ah, transit day fun, dear reader. We commenced the morning in the usual fashion with breakfast at Krumble. Except we were a tad early. They don't open until 10am so we wandered the promenade for a while before being the first customers through the door.

We had already packed, I'm sure I've mentioned how packing cells have changed my world. So easy to pack, unpack and repack. Check out went smoothly. The car appeared quickly and, unlike the Porsche of yesterday, was unwashed. Sigh. Then it was on the road to Ronda. Ah, yes, you are ahead of me, dear reader, the link to today's title, Help Me, Rhonda by The Beach Boys.

Ronda is described as a typical Andalusian white town (almost all the buildings are white) up in the hills above Màlaga and was recommended to us by one of the staff on the day we arrived. It was only 90 minutes or so away and provided a nice break from the direct drive to Seville. The drive was all on A class roads, so no tolls and according to Google, separated dual carriageway. Again, Google lies. There were significant stretches of single lane road, but it was well marked and there were no precipitous cliffs. All good.

Ronda, the white town.

We'd had a bottle of wine from Ronda at dinner one evening so I was looking forward to seeing the grape vines. They must have been well hidden because I didn't see one vine on the way in or the way out. The only minor hiccup in the journey was locating the selected car park at the train station. After a couple of false starts we found an underground car park that was close to where we needed to be. 

Outside the Ronda Bullring.

The main shopping street in the old town stretched from the car park to the bull ring almost a kilometre down the hill. It was the usual polished limestone pedestrian thoroughfare, closed to through traffic but open to cross traffic. It was crowded despite the fact that the shops weren't all open yet. We made the bullring and to my dismay there were tour groups everywhere. Large tour groups. I thought we'd safe this far inland, but no. And like Mostar in Montenegro, Ronda has a famous bridge, and a superior one in my opinion.

The gorge from the new bridge.

We visited the tourist information centre to get a town map and walked the short distance to the 'new' bridge where everyone in Ronda had gathered. It wasn't a particularly pleasant experience with the tour groups who, like a tsunami, just keep coming until you step off the bridge out of their way. Fortunately there were not many vehicles about.

The old bridge in the distance.

The 'new' bridge (late 1750s) takes cars, the 'old' bridge, is for foot traffic only. Both span the gorge that cuts Ronda in two. The gorge is around 100 metres deep so, to construct a stone bridge to span it, is some engineering feat. As I said, more impressive than Mostar, but then Hamish and Andy haven't jumped off this one.

We left the bridge and the mindless crowd to find the Palace or Palacio Mondragãn. After a slight detour due to orienteering issues, we found a church, no surprises there, but not the Palace. A pause and review took us back past the Palace entrance, cleverly disguised and double badged as the Museo de Municipal. A more careful reading had us inside in minutes.

They love a painted dome in Spain.

The museum is a potted history of the this part of the world from first habitation until more recent times. There were the usual artefacts and displays. Nothing outstanding. The Palace itself was really the garden. While it was pleasant with great views over the countryside and provided a nice break from the hordes outside, it was also nothing special.

The path to the garden.

From the palace, we returned to the square that provided access to a viewing platform where you could photograph the entire bridge structure from river bed to road surface. Allegedly. Spoiler alert, I never found out. Jayne found a shady spot in the square and I headed down the ramp. About half way to the bottom of the gorge sits the viewing platform, but there is a catch - it's not free. Now it was only€2,50 for access, but I was pissed that that information had been withheld. It should have been a part of the signage in the square. While others in front of me were deliberating, I turned and climbed back to the square, passing many breathless people, all younger than me, on the way back. 

The new bridge, not from the viewing platform.

We walked back to new bridge where the crowds had thinned significantly. There were a couple of photo ops on the way but I tired of waiting for the vapid and vacuous selfie brigade to get out of the shot. Back in the main street, we dodged the remnant tour groups blocking the street and headed for the car park. 

Beyond the tour groups.

Ronda is a beautiful little town - it is certainly all white, and precariously perched along the top of the gorge but to experience it's true allure, you need to stay a couple of nights so you can wander the streets in the mornings and afternoons without the bus groups. The crowd crush did not make this detour an enjoyable experience.

The rest of the drive to Seville was relatively uneventful although the terrain looked very dry and barren with occasional areas of oasis plantations of various fruit trees. No hot houses here like the coastal farming areas. Periodically, small white towns appeared in the distance and then, suddenly we were in the outer fringes of Seville, the capital of Andalusia. 

The navigation to the hotel was straightforward with only a few death defying roundabouts and happily there was a parking reception area in front of the hotel, allowing us to check in and find the carpark proper.

No car elevators, no tight squeezes - in fact, a super large car space and a lift directly up to the hotel lobby. We found our room and walked in - to find there were two single beds and a sofa double bed made up. Wrong room? Back we went to reception who did not understand why the room was configured like this but allocated us a room that was as we had arranged. 

Once we were settled, it was time to work out our dinner plans and using our street map, we headed out to a tapas place literally around the corner - or so it seemed. Up and down the street we went but there was no restaurant entrance in sight. Google was then consulted and confirmed we should have been looking right at the front door of Barrio Cervecería Sevillana. 

Mystified, we started back towards the hotel, resigned to a room service dinner when a glance up one side street revealed the signage we had been looking for. Into an almost deserted restaurant we went, wondering where everybody was, considering it was past 8pm. We were shown to a table and the waiter introduced himself as Alejandro who then said he could only take drink orders at this stage but not food as the kitchen did not open till 8:30pm. Wine chosen, the place slowly started to fill up although there were always vacant tables inside while we were there.

One more of the new bridge.

The menu had a number of tapas options that had no translation so we asked Alejandro for some advice. He obliged with descriptions of the dishes, some of which we had tried elsewhere. We settled on three at his recommendation, since he said it would be good to leave room for dessert. We generally don't eat dessert but figured that we could always order another tapas dish if we were still hungry.

Out came the first dish, patatas bravas, which looked different to other servings of this we have eaten. It was served with chips rather than scalloped potatoes and beneath the chilli foam was a spicy tomato oil. Then arrived a small serving of calamari, followed by a "sandwich" of pork. It was actually pork loin, bacon, cheese and garlic mayonnaise on brioche. So good.

So good in fact we booked for Sunday night. Sunday is Spain's national day, Christopher Columbus Day. Who knows what will be open and there is plenty to explore on the menu.

Until tomorrow.