EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJanuary 10, 1999
Huerta Santa Maria
Near Galaroza
Seville
James is due at the train station in two hours. He’s catching
the 6 o’clock from Madrid.
We pick up a Caleche in front of the Cathedral. The driver is
round and solid. He points to a map with a route marked – along the bank of the Rio
Guadalquivir, through the Parque de Maria Luisa, past the Plaza Espana
and through the narrow maze that is the Santa Cruz. It’s dusk.
The horse is Pinto-blotchy, with black and white and brown. He trots
along the thoroughfare. He works his way through the rush hour, through the roundabouts,
and to the quieter streets that lead to the park.
The driver is giving me the five-cent tour in Spanish. Really it's
4,000 pesetas. I’m rummaging through the book and the map, following along and
getting the names of things. He repeats slowly, "Mar-ee-ya Loo-wee-sa".
Angela and Rich huddle in the other seat, taking in the wind-chill. The sky turns cobalt.
It’s strange and overwhelming, Seville. All of these museums with
these unbelievable courtyards. A symphony of birds. Fountains. Orange trees. All of these
narrow streets with their whitewash and azuejos - the tiny, perfect, mostly blue
painted tiles. All of these Moorish domes, tiled. Seville lights them orangey-red when the
sun goes down. Arbours lead us through the former grounds of the Palacio de San Telmo.
It’s a 19th urban oasis, punctuated with trellised pools. The Plaza de
Espana is a leftover from the 1929 Ibero-American Exhibition. It’s a huge,
semi-circular palace, complete with rowing canals.
We sit alone in the Restaurant Modesto. It’s modest, but
there are four waiters, in black and white. They’re waiting for something to happen.
We sip our drinks and decipher the menu. We’re full up on a lunch
of paella and tuna and patatas bravas and flan. Rich says, "Death By
Flan". The waiters are cocked. It’s alarming after so many cena
rejections.
Heading up the road, towards Galaroza, and Alfi is getting sluggish.
She doesn’t want to shift. She doesn’t want to climb the hill. Weeks of anxiety
climax and Rich stops the car, at about the 30 km mark. "I’m not sure we’re
going to make it".
James, fresh from the high-speed train, tests Alfi on a side street.
"There are problems alright. The clutch is slipping. But I’ve driven worse than
this a hundred times".
Angela and I count the kilometres from the back seat. Alfi pushes
herself up the road, past Aracena, past the 99th kilometre. Finally we are
gingerly hobbling down the bottom-out road, and up to Santa Maria.
