Sainthood Runs in the Family

San Geraldo (aka Jerry) is not the first saint in his distinguished family lineage. One of his 22-greats-grandfathers was Fernando III of Spain who lived from 1199 to 1252 and was King of Castile as well as King of León. He greatly expanded the dominions of Castile into Southern Spain, annexing many of the great old cities of Andalucía, including Sevilla.

SAN FERNANDO, LOSING SOME OF HIS 83-YEAR-OLD GLAZE, AT THE PLAZA DE ESPAÑA.

Fernando III was canonized San Fernando in 1671. He's buried in the Cathedral of Sevilla in a gold, crystal, and silver casket. That area of the Cathedral is currently undergoing restoration and therefore covered in scaffolding and tarps, so a photo of his opulent tomb will have to come some other time. But, I was pleased yesterday to discover a terra cotta portrait bust of San Fernando among the famous Spaniards depicted between the arches of the Plaza de España built in 1929.

PLAZA DE ESPAÑA.
SAN FERNANDO CAN BE FOUND BETWEEN THE ARCHES TO THE LEFT OF THE FOUNTAIN.

Jerry comes from a long line of royalty, but this is the only saint (other than Jerry) I am so far aware of. And, as my father used to say in the 1960s, "That and a nickel will get you on the subway."

Bath Time at the Zoo

JUST HANGING OUT.

After giving the kids a good washing, our neighbors' housekeeper/nanny decided to give the animals a good washing, as well. It was an interesting sight and reminded me of bath day at our house (which I clearly enjoyed, although it wasn't quite so colorful).

DRYING OFF IN THE IN THE SUNSHINE WOULD HAVE BEEN FUN.

The First Quadrennial Día de San Geraldo

Yesterday was 29 February. Some of you may recall that it was to be the first quadrennial procession for the Día de San Geraldo (Saint Gerald's Day). In Ocober, I explained that — due to the challenges he was having communicating in Spanish — Jerry was considering becoming a recluse. He initially said I could roll him out once a year just like the locals roll out the statues of Jesus and Sevilla's many Virgins. But then he had a better idea. Rather than an annual event, he would schedule his "procession" for leap year, thereby only having to be rolled out of the house every four years.

OFFICIAL PORTRAIT OF THE SAINT, 2012.

Jerry's sister Linda and her husband Tom are here for a visit — of course, scheduled to coincide with the historic, first-ever, Procesión de San Geraldo. Tom and I, San Geraldo's loyal servants, went out and spent a regal sum on a very grand ruby- and emerald-encrusted crown for the very grand head of San Geraldo. We presented it to him on bended knee with our heads respectfully bowed. Miraculously, the crown was a perfect fit. However, San Geraldo was sadly disappointed that I did not fulfill my promise of a marching band and a dozen burly men to carry him around town. Maybe in 2016.

Linda has suggested that I nail the crown to Jerry's headboard so that when he lies in bed at night the crown will hover majestically above his head. I think it's a brilliant idea. But then, of course, she's the sister of a saint.

Profile (and Silhouette) of a Bullfighter

I haven't yet replaced my camera. I went online and found what I want at a very good price. But, I didn't immediately order it because it meant I would have to wait a week for its arrival. So now, 1-1/2 weeks later, I haven't found the camera around town for a comparable price and will order it ... and wait a week. Meanwhile, I'm still using my phone to record my experiences.

I took a walk to Triana last week under another brilliantly blue and sunny sky. Although I'm not a fan of bullfighting, to say the least, there's a statue that I do like that's dedicated to Juan Belmonte (1892–1962), Triana's most famous bullfighting son. I took a picture of the statue when we were here for the first time in January 2011 because I was taken in by his profile (an excruciatingly prominent nose). The statue was tucked into some trees and, from my angle, I didn't immediately realize it was very contemporary. So, I now find it interesting for more than just his nose.

LOOKING ACROSS THE RIVER TO LA GIRALDA.
(WISH I HAD A "REAL" CAMERA.)

On this walk, when I was behind the statue and glanced back at the city, I saw that La Giralda (the Cathedral's bell tower) was perfectly framed in one of the cut-out spaces in the form. Belmonte's technique was unlike that of earlier matadors. He stood erect and motionless within inches of the bull. As a result, he was frequently gored. In a 1927 bullfight in Barcelona, he was gored through his chest and pinned against the wall. I wonder if the empty space in the sculpture symbolizes that little event.

Don't Be Bitter... Orange

TREE-TRIMMING.

It's the time of year here for the "Seville Oranges" to be harvested. There are more than 14,000 bitter orange trees lining the streets and plazas of Sevilla. They outnumber every other tree in the city and have been around Sevilla for centuries. It's said the Moors began to cultivate them here in the 12th century. Some trees in Spain are said to be over 600 years old.

 WORKING THEIR WAY AROUND THE PLAZA.

The other morning, while we enjoyed our café con leche and tostadas downstairs at El Sanedrín, a work crew arrived and began to trim the trees and box up the oranges on our plaza. The same business is going on all around town. Then the oranges are shipped off to make marmalade.

 LOADING THE TRUCK.

Now we can look forward to the pungent fragrance of the orange blossoms that begin to bloom in March. It will bring back sweet memories of Southern California. We were overwhelmed with the fragrance our first spring in San Diego when we drove into the hills past the orange orchards, with the car windows down. Some years later, we sat by the pool on warm spring nights in Palm Springs and breathed in the citrus-laden air from the trees we had planted behind the hotel. I'm told the entire city of Sevilla fills with the scent. Too bad I can't do a "scratch-n-sniff" blog post.

LATE THAT NIGHT IN ANOTHER PART OF TOWN.

The Sister(and Brother)hood of the Traveling Shirt

Although I am not thrilled to post current photos of myself and do so rarely, I am happy to share a few photos today. It's not that I mind that I'm not as young as I used to be. I just hate photos of myself. I hated looking at photos of myself at 15 when I was 15, at 30 when I was 30, at 40 when I was 40. Now I don't mind those. So, maybe when I'm 90, I'll like looking at photos of myself at 50... OK, 50-plus. OK, OK, 50 and a lot of pluses.

But these photos are for a good cause. The shirt (also know as the Spo Shirt, Shirt of Shirts, and Traveling Shirt) was created by a talented and generous American blogger, Ur-spo, who at the suggestion of another blogger, Cubby, sent this handmade shirt on a world tour in late 2010. Ur-spo is donating money to charity for each person who wears the shirt and shares a photo. A number of charity options were provided; my choice was Doctors Without Borders.

MEETING FOR A DRINK IN PLAZA DEL SALVADOR TUESDAY AFTERNOON.

As you may remember, my camera died (well, I killed it) recently, so photos from my phone are the best I can do while I wait for my new camera to arrive. My gratitude goes to Lola for doing such a good job with a limited resource and a difficult model. From the two shots I've included, you'd think all I do is wander the sunny streets going from bar to bar. Definitely not the case. Really. The shirt has almost completed its world tour; I think it's got four-or-so more stops before it is handed over to Cubby, the mastermind of the charity tour. I am number 29 on the list of lucky recipients and I am honored to participate.

A BREAK... FROM A BEER BREAK... AT LA PERLITA FRIDAY. NEAR THE CHURCH OF LA MAGDALENA.

The shirt came to me after a stop in Derbyshire in the UK. Next stop is somewhere in Australia, New Zealand, California, or Texas. I await my instructions. And, if Ur-spo ever decides he's had enough of his work as a psychiatrist, he can take up tailoring for a living. The shirt is beautifully made. 

The Rules of the Road

WALKING HOME THE OTHER NIGHT VIA CALLE REYES CATÓLICOS (STREET OF THE CATHOLIC KINGS).

A Day at the Beach

A GOOD PLACE TO SPEND AN AFTERNOON.

Monday morning, Jerry and I were awakened by the alarm clock at the crack of dawn. It was 7:45 a.m. here but I'm sure it was the crack of dawn somewhere. We rarely see 7:45 a.m. We met Tere at the bus station (the bus we needed did actually leave from there this time) and the three of us headed down to the beach for the day. Tere is very proud of her upbringing in Conil de la Frontera, a small pueblo on the Atlantic Ocean just east of the city of Cádiz. It's about a 1-3/4-hour drive south from Sevilla.

WHERE TERE WAS CHRISTENED AND BAPTIZED.

MUNICIPAL OFFICES (SINCE THE 1700s) TO THE RIGHT OF THE CHAPEL IN PART OF THE OLD MONASTERY.

The area has been inhabited since prehistoric times, but Conil's origins go back to the Phoenicians (some time around 900 BC, give or take 100 years), who established a new way of tuna fishing called "almadraba." I won't go into the details of almadraba except to explain that it's a net maze that traps the fish in a central pool. It's used less and less now because it's tough on fish populations. By 711 AD, the Moors reached Conil and ruled until the "reconquest" by the Christians in 1265. The words "de la Frontera" were added to the name at that time.

MONUMENT TO THE ALMADRABA FORM OF FISHING.

Jerry and I arrived with Tere late morning 2012 AD, nearly 800 years after the Christians and more than 1,300 years after the Moors. We went and had breakfast (#2) at a little café in town where we got to spend some time with Tere's father and brother, who were (no surprise) kind, warm, fun, and gracious, and made us feel immediately welcome. We three then headed with Tere's brother to another café across the street from the beach for a drink. I was looking forward to some vino dulce (sweet wine made with raisins), but the café was all out. So, instead, I had a soda and we all enjoyed the warm sunshine.

THE ARCH IN THE BACKGROUND SEPARATES THE OLD FROM THE NEW PART OF TOWN.

We took a walk around town, bumping into Tere's extended family and childhood friends everywhere we went. The entire town was tranquil with few people about. It was much larger in area than we expected and has a population of about 21,000. We were told in summer the population increases to well over 100,000. I can't imagine it. Although I would enjoy browsing the shops and street markets that thrive in summer (and are mostly closed in winter), I have no desire to compete for space with the mobs and am really glad we got to explore on a quiet winter's day.

SIXTEENTH-CENTURY CHURCH OF SANTA CATALINA,
WITH MODERN "RESTORATION" IN THE LATE 19TH CENTURY AND RENOVATIONS IN 2008.

We had an unbelievably good seafood lunch beginning with delicious small sandwiches of "marrajo," which turned out to be what we knew as mako shark. I didn't get a picture of the sandwiches because we ate them too fast. I did, however, get one picture of our delectable fried seafood sampler plate before knocking my camera off the tall table and onto the marble floor. The camera did not survive the plunge. My smart phone will have to do until I buy a new camera — and it "did" for many of the photos shown here.

A FRIED SEAFOOD SAMPLER FOR LUNCH. MOMENTS BEFORE I BROKE MY CAMERA.

After lunch, we walked some more and then headed back down to the water. We walked in the sand to a little beach café and sat and relaxed (over coffee and pastries) for about an hour. You can walk this stretch of beach for 17 km (10 miles). We, however, didn't walk the entire length — going about 1/4 km (about 270 yards). We then headed back to the edge of town to catch the bus home.

LOOKING WEST FROM OUR CAFÉ ON THE BEACH.
KEEP GOING, VEER A BIT NORTH, AND YOU'LL EVENTUALLY REACH THE DOWAGER DUCHESS.

There was a pleasant and very typical café bar across from the bus stop. We arrived early for the bus, so headed inside where we found a group of locals sitting and playing cards at one of the tables. Of course, Tere and her father knew the owner/bartender. Her father also knew all the card players. I got to have my vino dulce. And Jerry was pleased to find a video gaming machine by the door. Tere's father played along with him, showing Jerry what buttons to press at bonus time. Jerry never quite understood how it worked, but he managed to double his money before we left town. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough for a new camera.

JERRY TRYING TO LEARN HOW TO MAKE SOME MONEY.

A Birthday Feast, Spanish Style

SOME OF JERRY'S FIRST SPANISH BIRTHDAY DINNER.

Saturday morning turned out just as I had hoped. Jerry went into the kitchen first thing in the morning to find his chocolatey chocolate-truffle birthday pastry. And, apparently, it was as delicious as had been promised by the man behind the counter at La Campana. Jerry then had his yogurt and fruit, and we finally went downstairs to El Sanedrín for desayuno #3.

LOS COCINEROS (THE CHEFS).

Tere then told me that she and Miguel wanted to cook us a typical Spanish birthday dinner at our house. So, they arrived around 9:30 that night loaded down with bags and bags of food. Jerry and I were hustled out of the room and "the caterers" went to work.

We had camarones (tiny shrimp), gambas (bigger shrimp), and large langoustines. The teeny, tiny camarones were to be eaten in their entirety, we were instructed by Tere. (After all, how does one peel a shrimp smaller than the tip of one's pinky?) I figured it was like eating soft-shell crab — which, to be honest, I have never enjoyed. It was — and I enjoyed it just as little! As Tere popped a handful in her mouth, Jerry and I each tried one. I mumbled, "I've got shrimp shell on my tongue." What was left over after dinner went home with Tere. Everything else induced moans of pleasure. There were meats and rolls and flatbreads and crisps. Delicious slices of fish roe (called huevas). Three different patés. Cheeses, including a cubed cheese laced with orange marmalade and mango. Wine with dinner. Champagne with dessert. And what a dessert. A beautiful cake (tarta) filled with more incredibly delicious chocolate truffle. (Jerry and I had smartly decided to forego chocolate y churros in the afternoon.) We had the remaining tarta Sunday for dessert after both lunch and dinner. By Monday morning, we realized we would have to wait a good long time before eating sweets again. We stood firm. We didn't have any chocolate pastries until very late in the afternoon.

I don't have the words — in Spanish or English — to fully express our gratitude for the friendship, the kindness, the generosity, and the joy that Miguel and Tere have brought into our lives these past months. After shopping for this feast of traditional Spanish dishes, hauling it all to our house, working feverishly (and joyfully) in our kitchen for an hour or more, and then serving it all up beautifully, they actually insisted on cleaning up afterward. But I was equally insistent and I won the battle. It was the least I could do (yes, the absolute least).

ONE CANDLE FOR JERRY'S FIRST BIRTHDAY IN SPAIN.

Feliz Cumpleaños, Geraldo

Today is Jerry's birthday. I don't know exactly what the day has in store. I know it starts with a chocolatey chocolate-truffle pastry surprise I picked up yesterday evening from La Campana. I asked for the most chocolatey chocolate pastry they had. I then had it wrapped so it would stay fresh, snuck it into the house, and hid it away until morning.

We will eventually go downstairs to El Sanedrín for desayuno (breakfast) #2 of tostados and café con leche, which will probably really be desayuno #3 for Jerry, since, in addition to the chocolatey chocolate-truffle pastry, I'm sure he'll have had his Greek yogurt and fruit.

This afternoon we'll go for a walk together, perhaps, and enjoy some churros and chocolate. Unless of course this morning's chocolatey chocolate-truffle pastry makes that a chocolate overload. (But it's not likely.) However, Jerry did devour the remainder of a dark chocolate bar after dinner last night. And instead of lunch yesterday, I finished off a box of chocolate truffles. It's been that kind of week... especially for me.

I guess we'll have dinner out somewhere, since Jerry shouldn't have to cook on his birthday. We all know I won't be slaving in the kitchen.

Jerry and I stopped buying each other birthday gifts years ago. We buy what we want when we want it and, now, when we can afford it. Once we began to plan our move to Spain, we stopped buying just for the sake of buying. Even so, I looked around town for something special and couldn't come up with anything.

So today, a bit of chocolate will have to do. Along with my gratitude for this rich and wonderful life filled with joy, adventure, laughter, kindness, compassion, and love. In all my youthful dreaming, I never dreamed anyone as remarkable as Jerry.

Up The Hill, Not Over It

I had a charming evening with Tere and Miguel in Carmona last week on Monday. Carmona is about a half-hour drive east northeast of Sevilla, a bit more by bus. The city dates back to 100–44 BC, one of the strongest Roman cities in Hispania during the time of Julius Caesar. In later centuries, the Moors built a wall around it for protection. It was finally captured by Ferdinand III of Castille in 1247.

JUST WALKING THROUGH TOWN.

We took the bus with the simple plan to have coffee at El Parador, the hotel at the top of the highest hill. Paradores are luxury hotels in Spain that were usually originally palaces, fortresses, convents, monasteries, and other historic buildings. The one in Carmona, Parador Alcazar del Rey Don Pedro, was a Moorish fortress (and before that a fortress of the Carthaginians) added onto by King Pedro the Cruel. It's now a modern hotel, but the oldest parts of the structure date back to the 12th and 13th centuries AD. Anyone I've met in Sevilla who has suggested a visit to Carmona has insisted that it would not be complete without a walk up the hill to the Parador for a cup of coffee.

APPROACHING EL PARADOR.

Since our only goal on my first visit was to have a cup of coffee (OK, and dessert) at El Parador, I have got to get back and explore the ancient Roman ruins and as much of the other history I can take in. And then bore you with the results!

WELCOME TO EL PARADOR.

Tere and Miguel have taken the bus to Carmona often. I met them at the bus station, El Prado de San Salvador, which is about 1-1/4 miles from my house. I was there a few minutes before them but I couldn't find any posting that included a bus to Carmona. While I looked, Miguel and Teré arrived and were also perplexed. After visiting two different ticket windows of two different bus companies, we were directed outside to an unmarked white door that led to an office next to the buses. Miguel knocked and peaked in. A very pleasant man came out and said the Carmona bus didn't leave from there anymore. It now left from San Bernardo Station another 3/4-mile further on. We hustled over to San Bernardo with 4 minutes to spare, jogging the last 1/4-mile only to miss the bus by three minutes. (I have been very, and in this case sadly, impressed with the promptness of Sevilla's and Spain's public transportation.)

LEADING INTO THE PARKING LOT AND COURTYARD. I'M ABOUT TO DO ANOTHER SPRINT.

We had an hour until the next bus to Carmona, so we went for a walk to the the Gardens of La Buhaira (where Jerry and I saw that very strange performance of "Carmen" what seems like years ago). That was probably 1/4-mile away. We strolled the gardens and then walked back to wait another 15 minutes for the bus.

LOOKING BACK TO THE ARCHWAY ONCE INSIDE THE COURTYARD/PARKING LOT.

We left Sevilla late in the day (around 5 p.m.) so, once we arrived in Carmona, we didn't dawdle in the town itself. We were anxious to get to El Parador before the sun was too low to truly appreciate the view, and then the spectacular colors of the sunset. We power-walked entirely uphill about 1/2-mile, through the winding streets of the town. I would stop to take a quick snapshot and would then sprint to catch up with Teré and Miguel.

A VIEW FROM THE TERRACE.

El Parador was worth the trip. The modern hotel is built around the ancient structure and has a large terrace that overlooks the entire valley. We had our coffee and pastries, admired the view, enjoyed one another's company and then headed back down into town to catch the 8:00 bus. I was feeling so smug in my physical fitness (and the fact that I could easily keep up, and then some, with 30-somethings) that, once back in Sevilla, I walked the two miles home from the bus stop. It took me 30 minutes.

ABOUT TO HEAD OUT AND BACK DOWN THE HILL.

Jerry and I had a late dinner and I woke up Tuesday morning for my coffee with Lola feeling tired and achey. I chalked it up to all the power-walking I had done Monday, disappointed that I couldn't keep up as well as I had thought.

THE BELL TOWER OF THE PRIORIAL DE SANTA MARIA.

So, it was with some kind of twisted relief that, during my sleepless Tuesday night, I realized I was more than just tired... And, especially, that it probably had nothing to do with Monday's activity level. I had fever, chills, stomach problems (that linger), and over the course of the week, I grew just generally miserable and, I'm convinced, miserable to be around. So, now that my physical health is mostly recovered, I'm trying to recover the positive attitude I had been working so hard to resurrect. Jerry is a saint.

WINDING OUR WAY DOWN.

Under the Weather

I've been sick. Or, as I've told Lola it's more proper to say, I've been ill. I'm sure the literal translation of "under the weather" won't make any sense in Spanish. It might even mean something dirty. So, I won't try that. I've been in bed and miserable for two days — stomach, chills, aches, sweats. It hasn't been fun, but I think I'm on the mend. Jerry is a good nurse. So expect to see a post from me soon about a charming evening spent in Carmona.

Oops... I Did It Again

As you know, I have learned my lesson. No more literal translations from English to Spanish of American expressions. After calling our friend Tere a slut when what I meant to say — sort of — was she was sexy, I most definitely learned my lesson. And Jerry is trying to be careful with his pronunciation of Spanish vowels to ensure he doesn't inadvertently say something he doesn't mean to say — like polla, which is cock (and not of the poultry variety), instead of pollo, which is chicken. So, you'd think I wouldn't be getting myself into any more trouble. Or, really, you'd think I wouldn't be giving my Spanish friends anything more to laugh — or blush — about.

But then yesterday, while having a conversation about smoking, I decided to tell Tere and Miguel a story about my sister that took place in my parents' apartment some years back.

THE STORY
One day, when my sister, Dale, was not quite 15 and I was not quite 13, we were in the apartment alone. I found her sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette. Except that she wasn't so much smoking the cigarette, as she was blowing into it. Sparks were flying across the room. I was taken aback. "What are you doing?" I demanded to know.

She sniped back at me, "What does it look like? I'm smoking."

I said in my pre-teen wisdom, "Well, you're not supposed to blow into it. You're supposed to suck the smoke into your mouth."

She had a very logical response. "I tried, but I don't like it. It makes me cough."

"Then, you shouldn't smoke," I announced. "You don't look cool."

STILL YEARS TO GO UNTIL THE SMOKING INCIDENT. NOT TOO WORRIED ABOUT "COOL."

WHERE I ERRED
Now, you might have guessed that my Spanish faux pas had something to do with the translation of "blow" or perhaps "suck." But, you'd be wrong. My problem was in naming the room in which I found my sister. My parents' apartment has a formal entry, what is known as a "foyer." My family has always used it as a den of sorts, with bookshelves, sofa and TV. My sister was sitting in that room on that sofa when we had our exchange.

The Spanish equivalent for "foyer" (of French origin) would be entrada. But that didn't occur to me as I told the story. I mentioned the "foyer," pronouncing it the un-classy American way (foy-ur). Miguel and Tere didn't know what I meant. So I then pronounced it the French and/or pretentious-American way (foy-yay). Miguel tittered and Tere blushed and laughed. With further explanation, it was determined that I meant "entrada." But, Tere said in Spanish, "You do realize that follé is the past tense of follar, don't you?" I shrugged. No I did not. Nor did I know what follar was.

I took out my phone and looked it up on Google Translate. Oops. I had dropped the "f bomb"; the "f word"; the word described by an extended middle finger. Don't make me spell it out. You know the one I'm talking about.

I will not be any more specific — in English at least. The Dowager Duchess will read this post. She will see me swear in Spanish. She won't be surprised, but she won't be happy about it.

Anyway, The Duchess will probably be more shocked that her daughter smoked a cigarette...Well tried to smoke a cigarette.

La Pepa — The First Spanish Constitution

I dragged Jerry on a very long walk today. He doesn't know it yet, but we walked more than 3 km (around 2 miles) to reach our destination. (I can just imagine the groan I'll hear when he reads this post.) I walked roundtrip. He took a bus home. Jerry needs new gym/walking shoes; his current shoes are worn out and not very comfortable. Finding size 14 (Spanish size 49) is not easy. People in Spain don't have big feet like Americans.

SHOOTING INTO THE SUN.

Miguel told us last night that a replica of a Spanish galeon was here in Sevilla until Sunday, and I really wanted to see it. The galeon was built in 1992 to commemorate the 500th anniversary of Columbus's so-called "voyage of discovery."

LOOKING SOUTH FROM ABOARD LA PEPA.

The ship was originally called the Galeon de Andalucía, but has been renamed to commemorate the 200th anniversary, 19 May 2012, of the first Spanish constitution. The Constitution of 1812 was one of the most liberal of its time, establishing universal male suffrage, national sovereignty, constitutional monarchy, and freedom of the press. It also supported land reform and free enterprise. It lasted all of two years. Ferdinand VII returned to Spain in 1814 and abolished it. But it was reestablished a couple of times in the 1820s and the 1830s.

LOOKING NORTH, BACK TOWARD OUR HOUSE.
YOU CAN JUST BARELY SEE THE ANCIENT TOWER OF GOLD IN THE CENTER DISTANCE.

The Constitution was written on the Dia de San José (Saint Joseph's Day). The nickname for José is Pepe. In Spanish, the word for constitution is feminine. So, the Constitution was nicknamed La Pepa. Ships are female. So the galeon is also called La Pepa. It all makes perfect sense.

I THINK THE WHOLE THING WAS "RIGGED." (GROAN)

The galeon is making its way around the country. It's already traveled to Spanish cities on the Bay of Biscay and the Atlantic Ocean, such as Bilbao, Santander, La Coruña, Huelva, and Cádiz.  It still has to travel up the east coast of the country on the Mediterranean Sea to Valencia, Barcelona, and other places along the way. It will return to the Atlantic to be back in Cádiz (where the constitution was produced) for the commemorative festivities mid-March. As we approached the greeter at La Pepa's gang plank, I thought, "OK. Let's see how much THIS is going to cost." Well, it was free! And there were docents (the crew) onboard available to answer questions. And a little brochure, also free, along with free postcards (so I can write to my brother).

ONE LAST LOOK BEFORE WE WENT FOR A SNACK.

It was another glorious day, very warm in the sunshine. And there was an abundance of sunshine. After our long walk and (free) tour of the ship, we stopped at one of the two restaurants on the port. I assumed it would be absurdly expensive, being a tourist restaurant. I had a beer. Jerry had a soda. And we each had a delicious, large, and fresh pastry. All for 7 Euros (around $9)! And, as is the norm in Spain, my beer was 60 centimos (around 80 cents) less than Jerry's Coke. I drink beer and wine to be fiscally responsible.

ONE OF TWO RESTAURANTS PORTSIDE. IN BACKGROUND IS SEVILLA'S DANCE CONSERVATORY.

A Bridge (Not) Too Far

I was a bit mopey this afternoon. After doing an hour of Rosetta Stone, I couldn't motivate myself to do anything else (cleaning has been at the top of my list for some time). Jerry suggested I go for a walk. It had turned out to be another glorious day with temps around 63F (17C). Sevilla's temps are very similar in their variance to temps in the desert Southwest of the United States. There is usually at least a 20- to 25-degree (F) difference in nighttime and daytime readings.

This morning at 9, I sat and shivered while having coffee with Lola and Albert outside Casa Santos — it was 39F (4C). When I got back home to the sunshine in our plaza and my second cup of coffee (this time with Jerry at El Sanedrín), I held the hot cup to my face to thaw my frozen nose. It took me several hours to get the chill out of my bones.

Although, I was in that mopey mood that made me want to just get in bed and read, I took Jerry's suggestion and quickly changed into gym clothes and headed out for my walk. I'm so glad I did. The sun was shining. Flowers are always in bloom here, and there were lots of people out walking, running, strolling, rowing, and simply enjoying the day. I didn't have my camera with me and didn't want to slow my pace, but the few shots I took with my phone at least give you a sense of the beauty.

I walked through the city and then along the river beyond the northernmost bridge.  More than 3 km (about 2 miles). Four miles roundtrip in one hour and five minutes. It was invigorating. I came home and stretched. Made myself a protein shake... And then I started to mope again.

But I've perked up sharing my day with you.  And now it's time for our evening snack of apples, crackers, and cheese. Dinner will be in less than three hours. And we'll have a quiet night of TV. Among our 100+ channels, there's bound to be something to watch. It will be alright.