EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJanuary 3, 1999
Carmona
It’s if we’re in another country, again.
Suddenly, the air is warm and dry. Things feel different. It’s
sweet and startling to feel sun and warmth amidst brown hills and a vast, blue sky. The
plains sprawl around us, growing cereal and fruit trees and ostriches. Orange trees line
the pebbly streets.
Carmona is a small but monumental town, rich with historical sights and
Andalusian charm. Its old quarter sits on a strategic hill, walled and jeweled with the Alcazar
(Fortress) Del Rey D. Pedro, now a Parador (government-run luxury hotel). The
two-arched Gate of Seville is Roman, but reflects later Arab and medieval additions.
Walking through the narrow streets is like a dream. Suddenly, after all the concrete the
structures are stuccoed and pristine with white paint and hundreds of busy tiles. Huge
doors stand open, exposing courtyards bursting with bedding plants, trees, cool sitting
rooms and decadent living room-like garages. A pair of old women chat in their slippers. A
one-eyed dog relaxes in a café entrance. The high walls of the old city maze amplify a
moto’s two-stroke.
The road to the Fortress follows the edge of the old town, and takes us
to the highest point, overlooking a vast, stretching plain. One can see the road to
Seville, straight from the Puerta de Cordoba and off into the distance. The Parador
is a magnet for escaping Londoners.
Beyond the newer part of town, to the west, lies the Roman Necropolis,
discovered and excavated in 1881. The burial grounds cover the period between 1BC and 4AD,
composed of hundreds of burial tombs and dugout stone chambers. Walking along the road we
can see the adjoining amphitheater and the remains of a foundation, but we can’t get
into the museum on this Sunday evening. This is when Rich grows frustrated with our
off-season travel, and we remind ourselves that things are cursed in the high season with
the crowds and the heat, and cursed in the off-season with the closed-up, fenced in,
locked historical monuments and natural sights.
It’s 7:30PM and the population of Carmona is heading for Mass, in
one of the town’s five huge, ornate churches. Bells compete for customers. The
townspeople drift through the old city in dressy clothes.
We sit at the bar in the café beneath our hostel. Once again, the busy
bartender checked us in. The hostel is inexpensive and still full of character. Checkered
marble tiles, sunlit, meandering hallways, a large room with a balcony overlooking the
main street. Once again, the hot water is questionable, but the room is large enough to
live in and comes with it’s own heating and cooling system. I imagine it is
unbearably hot here in the summertime.
This bar is deafeningly loud. Before Mass, families gather for coffee,
hot chocolate, and a sweet. Carmona is famous for its cakes, made by hand at the Santa
Clara and Concepcion Convents. The children play in the bar, dressed in heavy, bright
coats, or tiny, cropped cardigans over full dresses.
In the Old Town we find a Tapas bar with a written menu, and I
am pleased to finally sit down with the phrase book to translate each item. The list
includes octopus, bull’s testicles, fried cod, shrimp salad, marinated tuna and
mushrooms, lobster or chicken brochette, fried eggplant with garlic, cheese, chorizo
sausage, jamon, and my new favorite, Tortillas Espagna (potato and onion omelet).
This place is magic. The sunset lasts forever. The sky is Alizarin,
then Ultramarine. Walls reflect the unbelievable canopy over the white, meandering pueblo.
