Mango-nificent Music

San Geraldo has been mixing up unbelievable salads for lunch several days a week. Sunday's included a smattering of lettuce as a base, spiced shrimp, sweet and juicy tomatoes, cubes of herb cheese, and the absolute best fresh mango. Just the thought of it today makes my mouth water.

SWEET MANGO (AND OTHER GOOD STUFF).

After lunch, and a brief siesta for San Geraldo, we went for a walk through the southern edge of the nearby neighborhood of La Macarena. Like La Alameda, La Macarena is known for being a bit more eclectic and counter-culture than our neighborhood. Lots of hippie-types, dreadlocks, dogs with bandanas, and general coolness.

CONTINUING ON CALLE FERIA.

We headed up Calle Feria, which starts as a hodgepodge of shops, restaurants, and churches with small plazas here and there, before becoming a busier residential and business street. When it was still that hodgepodge, we came upon a a singer and a guitar player outside a tiny bar. I recorded one song. The music was as sweet and fresh as San Geraldo's mango.

JAMMING AND HAVING A BALL.

Click here to check out my video on Youtube.com.

The song is guaranteed to improve your outlook.

I could have stayed all afternoon.

FURTHER ALONG CALLE FERIA. SUNDAY DRIVERS.

From the Virgin on the Pillar to Danny Kaye

Without even trying last night, we found Nuestra Virgen del Pilar in all her splendor. We were walking to dinner at Catalina when we began to hear another very good marching band. We sped in the direction of the music (well, I sped with my camera; San Geraldo sauntered) and reached the Iglesia Santa Ángela de la Cruz (Church of Saint Angela of the Cross).

A beautiful paso was rounding the corner toward the open front doors of the church. It was different from other floats we've seen. The Virgin and Child were smaller and elevated on a column. Yes, I know it's the Virgin of the Pillar and therefore they're mounted on a pillar (not a column), but I didn't catch on right away. 

Click photo at left for a large (although not ideal) virgin vision.

We watched the float round the corner. There was a pause while the costaleros turned around beneath the paso. They then began to carefully take it in reverse (the float was in reverse, the costaleros were not) through the main doors of the church.

Mad Dogs and Englishman
We continued our walk to Catalina and had another perfect evening with a warm welcome, friendly and attentive service, and unbelievably good food. We began the evening sitting on the terrace (patio) near a couple with two dogs (they're there often and the dogs have always been well-behaved). One of the dogs, Polo, had a high-pitched yap that for some reason this particular evening he was directing angrily at every passing stranger. It drove us a little crazy, so we moved to the other end of the patio and all was well.

On our way home a group of four guys in their 20s were loudly singing/slurring as they walked on the other side of the street slightly behind us. Although we see plenty of social drinking in Sevilla, it's extremely rare for us to see a display of public intoxication. The four guys crossed to our side and we heard one solitary voice call out from about 15 feet away, "Hola!"

We turned, but he was having such a difficult time focusing we couldn't tell if he was even looking in our direction. Everyone else on the street pointedly ignored these guys. He called out "Hola" two more times and we turned and waited. He approached us, although not very directly, and blurted, "Church?"

I said, "What church?" (We were standing right in front of the Church of Saint Angela of the Cross and had already passed one other on our brief walk.)

He tilted his head blankly in my general direction. "Church?" he repeated.

San Geraldo then asked, "Do you know the name of the church?"

He tilted his head in San Geraldo's general direction.

I then asked, "What language do you speak? ¿Qué habla?

Another perplexed head tilt. One of his loud friends then reached us. In a very slurred English accent, he said, "Do you know where Hoe-stel Oh-A-sis is?"

San Geraldo asked, "Do you know the street it's on?"

"No. But, it's next to the church," he announced proudly and then asked, "Where's the church?"

There were churches visible in all directions, we pointed out. He smiled.

"You don't know the name of the church or the street?" I asked.

"No," he laughed, "I don't know anything." He smiled broadly, doffed an invisible hat, and staggered off to catch up with another friend careening down the street.

Celebrating Finding Ray Charles

I awoke this morning at 8:15 to the sweet sound of San Geraldo's voice, "Mitchell, there's a procession headed down the street toward us right now."

THE VIRGIN IS ON HER WAY.

THIS ALTAR BOY LED WITH AN OBVIOUSLY VERY HOLY ITEM.

I jumped out of bed, grateful for the wake-up call. Our sculptor friend, José, told me the other day that he would be carrying something in a procession this morning for his brotherhood, Nuestra Señora del Rosario (Our Lady of the Rosary). It didn't dawn on me to ask José the occasion. However, I did ask him what time and I was told 11 a.m. (not the crack of dawn). What he didn't clarify was that 11 a.m. was the return trip from Monasterio de Santa Rosalía, the convent down the street from us. The procession left from the Chapel of the Humeros at 7 a.m.! Fortunately, San Geraldo didn't sleep in this morning and heard the approach. I threw on some nearby clothes (I'll have to share that combination with you one of these days) and I ran out on the balcony. We were downstairs before 10:30 for breakfast, so I got shots of the return trip at street-level.

What Day Is This?
I bumped into some neighbors and was reminded that today is Spain's National Day (Fiesta Nacional de España), celebrated in honor of the day in 1492 that Christopher Columbus "discovered" America. The day is also dedicated to Nuestra Señora del Pilar (Our Lady of the Pillar), the patron saint of all Hispanic people. She's also the Patron Saint of the Spanish Civil Guard (the federal police force), so the day triples as the Day of the Armed Forces, as well. If you've been following my blog for more than a year, I'm certain you remembered all this from last year's post (even though I did not).

NUESTRA SEÑORA DEL ROSARIO ON HER WAY HOME AROUND 11:15.

AND, FINALLLY, OUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD SCULPTOR.

If you weren't aware of why Christopher Columbus really wanted to discover America, click here to check out the Youtube video where Flip Wilson explains it all.

No Sweet Rolls

Vanessa is one of the wonderful women we get to see almost every morning when we go downstairs to El Sanedrín for breakfast. When we met, she told us she spoke no English other than a few catch phrases. It turns out she didn't appreciate how much she really remembered from her school days. Every day, she practices her English with us and, in turn, helps us improve our Spanish. Like our journey with Spanish, it's not all smooth sailing for Vanessa. She can especially get stuck on some of the consonant combinations.

VANESSA.  ALWAYS THE BEST WAY TO START A DAY.

Yesterday morning, after delivering our tostadas and cafés con leche, Vanessa wished us "buen provecho" (remember that one?), only she said it in English. Or, well, she tried to say it in English. What came out was, "Have a good breaksfuck."


While We're On The Subject
That reminds me of a story my father used to like to tell.

A woman walks into a café, sits down at the counter and says, "Hi. I'll have a cup of coffee and a sweet roll." 

Sorry, ma'am," replies the owner. "We're all out of sweet rolls."

"OK," she says, "I'll have a cup of tea and a sweet roll."

He stares at her a moment and says, "We don't have any sweet rolls."

"Oh, then I guess I'll have some orange juice and a sweet roll," she replies.

In frustration, he asks, "Lady, what do you get when you take the 'S-C' out of SCRAP?"

She thinks for a moment, smiles, and says, "You get RAP."

"And what do you get when you take the 'S-T' out of STINK?"

"You get INK."

"That's right," he smiles.

"Now, what do you get when you take the "F-U-C-K" out of SWEET ROLLS?"

"There's no 'F-U-C-K' in sweet rolls," she responds.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you, Lady! THERE'S NO FUCKIN' SWEET ROLLS!!!"

WHENEVER I SWORE, MY FATHER WOULD DEMAND:
"DO YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER WITH THAT MOUTH?!?"
I SHOULD HAVE ASKED HIM THE SAME QUESTION.

I'll Paint Rainbows All Over Your Blues

I decided this morning that I wanted to explore all the sculptures in Maria Luisa Park. So, I walked over on this 'blustery autumn' day. In shorts and a short-sleeve shirt. Under another vividly blue sky. Not a cloud in sight. And with only the slightest breeze to lessen the effects of the 90F/33C sunshine. Somewhere in the world, I know, it's blustery and autumn. Just not here in Sevilla. I strolled the entire park and shot photos of most of the sculptures. But, given the heat, I found myself drawn to the water — the fountains, ponds, and the waterfall. After walking for two hours, I decided it would be much more refreshing to share that water with you. The statues will wait for another day.

PLAZA DE ESPAÑA, ONCE AGAIN.  BORDERING MARIA LUISA PARK.

A LITTLE BIT OF PARADISE. 

THE LIONS FOUNTAIN.

BY A WATERFALL... THINGS ARE LOOKING UP.

ATOP THE WATERFALL. DYING TO TAKE THE PLUNGE. 

DOUBLE HAPPINESS.  HOPE THIS PAINTS RAINBOWS ALL OVER YOUR BLUES.

Chocolate and Fish Bones

Sevilla has had the pleasure of welcoming my blogger buddy, Peter (Tippin' the Scales) for a four-day visit. Peter arrived from Amsterdam Friday night to see the sights and taste the tapas. He appears to be enjoying both. His first night here, we went to Dos de Mayo for dinner. After a bit of input from Peter, San Geraldo went up to the bar and did the ordering. There's always some special fish dish being plugged; I usually turn them down. Not San Geraldo. He said, "I don't know what kind of fish it was, but I was shown something special and ordered it."

'Oh, no, I'm not going to like this," I said to myself. And, boy, was I ever right! A platter of three whole fish (heads, tails, fins) came out a few minutes later. 'How long has San Geraldo lived with me?' I thought, 'He's got to know there's no way I'll eat that.'

SAN GERALDO HOLDING THE REMAINS OF SOME FISH OR OTHER AT DOS DE MAYO.
PETER LOOKING ON.

San Geraldo tasted it and said it was delicious. I tasted and agreed. But, you know, you had to peel it from the bones. And then you had to pick tiny bones out of what you peeled. And then you still had to pull little bones out of your mouth. And then the head and tail — and skeleton that didn't get in your mouth — remained on your plate. Definitely not for me! The only positive (well other than the taste) was the fact that the fish eyes were either coated in breading or they had been removed. Staring at the dead fish and seeing it stare back at me would have pushed me right over the edge. Peter admired the fish from a cautious distance.

AT THE CATHEDRAL
PIGEONS DESECRATING ONE OF THE FRESHLY CLEANED STATUES.

Peter has been on his own the last two days for in-depth exploration and we get the pleasure of his company for dinner. It took me the first two days of his visit to finally remember that in Spanish his country is called Holanda and not Holandia. I'm surprised one of my Spanish friends didn't finally just slap me upside the head.

OUTSIDE THE CATHEDRAL SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

Saturday, Peter and I went over to the Cathedral. The line was monstrous, so we didn't go inside, but a wedding was about to begin in one of the side chapels, so we enjoyed seeing the women in their mantillas and the men in tailcoats. We had drinks nearby and then moved on to the Metropol Parasol. We walked the entire loop at the top and then enjoyed lunch at one of the cafés.

ATOP METROPOL PARASOL WITH SEVILLA'S SKYSCRAPER RISING IN BACKGROUND.
(DUTCH SKYSCRAPER FOREGROUND.  I'M 6'2"/188CM AND HE MAKES ME FEEL SHORT).

Peter has read enough of my blog, and I have commented often enough on his, for him to know that I (along with San Geraldo) have a more than passing fondness for chocolate. He arrived with an assortment of gourmet chocolates from his favorite chocolate shop in Amsterdam. Amazingly, we haven't opened any of them yet because we're so overwhelmed that we can't figure out where to begin.

WHERE DO I BEGIN...
TO TELL THE STORY OF HOW SWEET A LOVE CAN BE?

There are chocolate bars with Serrano pepper; black truffle (mushroom) and sea salt; olive oil; vanilla and smoke; and even bacon. Bacon Bar sounds like it should be for breakfast, with a side of eggs. Maybe tomorrow morning. I'm afraid the minute I open one bar, I'm going to inhale them all.

Well, I've done worse things in my life. (Just kidding, Dowager Duchess. I've never done anything bad in my entire life.)

Endless Summer

On my walk the other day I had two indications that summer is finally over in Sevilla. The first: The canvas awnings strung across plazas and pedestrian malls are coming down. They're there to provide shade from the overwhelming summer sun. Now that it's topping out at a brisk 92F/33C, there's apparently no longer a need. Today didn't even make it up to 89F/32C. By next week, I'll need to unpack my scarves.

THE LAST CANVAS AWNING ON CALLE TETUAN,
WHICH SOON BECOMES CALLE DE VALEZQUEZ BEFORE FINISHING AS CALLE O'DONNELL
ALL THAT HAPPENS OVER LESS THAN HALF A KILOMETER. AND I WONDER WHY I GET LOST!

The other sign of autumn — the leaves will stay on the trees for at least another month — my "giant asparagus" is gone. The enormous flower stem has been cut down and the dead plant removed. Who knows when the other American agave nearby will be old enough to bloom (and die). The babies produced by the one that's gone will have to grow for another 30 years or more before they produce a flower (and then die).

NO MORE GIANT ASPARAGUS.

I just thought of an even more obvious indication that summer is over. One mid-afternoon, during the warmest part of the clear and sunny day, San Geraldo actually left the house and went for a long walk with me. He crossed the river and everything! It has got to be autumn.

WHILE SITTING IN THE SHADE WITH SAN GERALDO ON THE ISLAND OF LA CARTUJA.

Forever Plaid

When I was 14, my sister Dale told me I needed to learn how to dress. She took me shopping and taught me. Since her favorite places to shop were Bloomingdale's and Saks Fifth Avenue, she also taught me how to spend. One of Dale's rules in 1968 was that you never mixed plaids and stripes (unless you really knew what you were doing — which apparently she did and I did not). And you never, ever, mixed two different plaids. Well, unless it was patchwork, and then — yet again — you really needed to know what you were doing (again, she did and I did not).

Dale hasn't been around to see how styles have changed. Plaids and stripes, and plaids and plaids "work" now although they didn't work in the '70s. But, I still find myself judging pattern combinations by her standards. On my way home today from an autumn fair, I saw a combination that Dale most certainly wouldn't have approved of. At first it made me shudder just a little. I walked behind the guy for about five minutes and realized the combination had started to grow on me — "like mold," I could hear Dale saying — so I slowed down and let the moment pass. It was less a moment of inspiration and more a moment of nausea. Nope, you still won't catch me wearing a combination like that. But, I hope it makes him happy.

MAYBE THE TWO FRIENDS SHOULD HAVE COORDINATED THEIR OUTFITS.

When I was 22 (and knew what I was doing), I bought a patchwork shirt at Saks. While writing this, I remembered a photo of me in that shirt. I had a good friend who was Italian and owned a marble exporting company based in Carrara, Italy, where I worked here and there (barely) as a way to pass the time. No pay, but a very nice life. The marble was quarried in the mountains above the Italian Riviera where Michelangelo got his marble. That summer (of the patchwork shirt), my friend and I went up to the quarries one day. I watched as she selected where she wanted them to cut. Sorry you can't see the shirt clearly. Apparently my friend's assistant didn't think my shirt was all that important.

SUMMER OF '76.
THE SAME PATCHWORK PLAID SHIRT, I'M SURE, THAT MICHELANGELO WORE.

A'right A'ready

I think many people experience this: The fear that after the death of someone we love, we might somehow forget them. That we might not honor them by remembering them every minute of every day. That we might no longer vividly see their faces in our memories. Or hear their voices clearly in our minds. And that, somehow, if we don't remember every little detail every moment of our lives, we have betrayed them and the memory of them, and that we never loved them enough in the first place.

I've talked plenty about my sister, Dale. She was 2 years and 9 months my senior. She died when she was 29, almost half-way through the year to her 30th birthday. She never met Jerry. She wasn't around when I came out of the closet (although I know she knew, probably long before I did). She wasn't around to see me move west and then east again and north and then west again. And on and on. She wasn't around, thankfully, when our father had cancer (three times in five years) and then died. Nor, again thankfully, when our mother was hit by a car. She wasn't around to see our brother gain his independence and grow into the person he's become. She wasn't around to see The Dowager Duchess's hair turn white (or mine fall out while turning gray). She wasn't around to even know that I call our mother The Dowager Duchess and not "Mum" like she called her with her late-developing English accent.

She's missed a lot in the last 31-1/2 years. Or maybe she hasn't. Maybe she's seen it all. I know she's somewhere within me every step of the way. She died on a Saturday in March. I have tried over the years to not dwell on that date. It was only one day, and it wasn't a very good one. Well, let's be honest and say it sucked big time. She was born on a Wednesday in September. I have never forgotten that day and, over the years, I've tried to celebrate it instead of mourning it.

So, it was a shock this week when I looked at the date and realized I had missed it. I had missed writing a blog post about her. I had missed mentioning the day to Jerry. I was so angry with myself. 'How could I have forgotten her?' I demanded. She's still in my thoughts ever single day, not every minute, but definitely every day. I used to obsess about her birthday. I was depressed building up to it, depressed on the day — no matter how much I said I was celebrating it — and depressed for weeks after. So how could it have slipped by? Didn't I care anymore? Then I realized, I had returned from my trip to New York five days earlier. My jet lag was the pits and I then was sick in bed — miserably sick in bed, unable to sleep, with no interest in food, and overwhelmingly depressed. And that miserable, sick-in-bed, don't-want-to-live day was Dale's birthday.

But now, time to move on. Dale would definitely have said long before this point, "A'right a'ready. Stop being such a killjoy! 

YO-YO SIS. SHE NEVER COULD PLAY THE CELLO.

So, a'right a'ready!  Dale taught me how to ice skate. She taught me how to dance. She was really good at both, but I never let myself go the way she could. So, when we were kids (Dale was already in her teens), before any event (wedding, bar mitzvah, school event) she would drag me into her room, turn on her "record player," and make me dance with her. Thanks to Dale, I could do a bunch of the steps performed on stage by The Temptations — never very useful at a bar mitzvah unless I was going to be a back-up singer for "Walter Lebow and His Orchestra." I don't know how much more useful it was to line-dance, stomping my feet and clapping my hands to the beat of "Glad All Over" by The Dave Clark Five. But it was definitely fun.

Thinking of you, Dale, and feeling glad all over!

Got Milk?

The other morning, when our tostadas and first cups of café con leche were brought to the table, San Geraldo said, "Gracias." The server responded, "Buen provecho."

("Buen provecho" is the same as "bon appetit" — "enjoy your meal" in English.)

San Geraldo looked at me perplexedly and asked:
"Why did she say 'leche' [milk] after I said, 'gracias' [thank you]?

SOMETIMES, I GET TIRED OF BEING SO NICE.

The different Andalusian village accents are not easy to understand. This young woman is from a small pueblo and even the other staff tease her about how she swallows her words.

Still, I could have had a really good time (for myself) with San Geraldo.

I could have told him, "It's an odd local custom, but you really should do it as well. Whenever someones says "Thank you," you're supposed to respond, "Milk!"

I'm so nice. I hope he appreciates how lucky he is.

Carrying the Body Through the Streets

Yesterday presented another first for me in Sevilla. I was walking near the Cathedral with a couple of friends from Santa Barbara who were passing through town, giving them an overview of the city. As we were rounding the corner of the Archbishop's Palace, I heard the drums of a marching band. It was somber and sounded like another religious procession. I rushed in the direction of the music with my friends close behind. We came upon a small procession. There was a float being hoisted by its invisible strongmen (hidden under the curtain). But, there was no seated or standing Virgin atop the float. As we neared it, we realized it was a silver and glass coffin. We immediately calmed ourselves respectfully, thinking we had come upon a funeral.

On closer inspection, I was relieved to see that beneath the glass was not a corpse, but a statue. We watched it pass having no idea — other than the Latin inscription I photographed — who it was or what the occasion.

A BIT UNNERVING AT FIRST SIGHT.

Last night, I did some research and learned that what we had stumbled on was a very big deal. It was in honor of the 200th anniversary of Don Bosco's birth. I'll provide my own "dumbed-down" (for myself) version of what I read.

Don Bosco (Giovanni Melchiorre Bosco) was an Italian Roman Catholic priest who, in 1845, founded The Salesians, a charity organization to help the young and poor children of the industrial revolution. The "institute" is named for St. Francis de Sales, an early-modern bishop of Geneva. The corpse-like statue encased permanently under glass is a reliquary; apparently the right hand of Saint Don Bosco is encased within the chest cavity of this particular statue. This is the first time the reliquary has ever visited Sevilla. It's making its rounds of the city this weekend and we just happened to be at the Cathedral at the right time. Later on, San Geraldo and I went for a walk and came upon another band preparing to march from the Plaza de San Lorenzo.

WE DIDN'T KNOW WHERE THEY WERE HEADED, BUT WE JOINED THEM ANYWAY.

THE SOUR-SOUNDING BAND WOUND THROUGH TOWN, FINALLY TURNING ONTO THIS STREET.

THE BAND STOPPED OUTSIDE A SCHOOL CREATED BY THE SALESIAN ORDER.
WHO SHOULD EMERGE? DON BOSCO.

In 2006, Don Bosco's hand was packed in a silver box and tied with a red ribbon before being placed inside the statue. Imagine finding that under the Christmas tree!

AND, FINALLY, HOW WE ENDED OUR PILGRIMAGE LAST NIGHT.

Lope de Vega is Not a Drag Queen

ALSO NOT A DRAG QUEEN.

I am ashamed to admit that, until my first visit to Sevilla in early 2011, I had no idea who Lope de Vega was. So, when I noticed a small poster advertising what looked like some very avant garde, campy theater, I thought he was a local drag queen. Not so.

Lope de Vega (1562–1635) is one of the most prolific authors in the history of literature. He is said to have transformed Spanish baroque theater. Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616) called him "the phoenix of wits" and he is sometimes referred to internationally as "the Spanish Shakespeare." Shame on me! The poster I had seen (and I've seen many since) was promoting a play being performed at the Lope de Vega Theater here in Sevilla.

So, this post in truth really doesn't have much to do with drag queens. The opening photo is of Jerry's father dressed up for a PTA (Parent Teacher Association) fundraiser in the 1950s. Jerry's father did not have a drag name. And it's just as well. He obviously wouldn't have had much of a career. He also was a very good sport and wouldn't have minded at all that I've shared this photo.

So, What's It About?
This post is about some of the original pavilions — beginning with the Lope de Vega Theater — that were built here for the Ibero-American Exposition of 1929 (for which the Plaza de España was created) and how the buildings are currently being used. In addition to the buildings I describe here, there were many other beautiful structures created for the 1929 Exposition. Some are museums, some consulates, and others are part of the university.

SEVILLE PAVILION, THEATER, AND CASINO.
LOPE DE VEGA THEATER.

LOPE DE VEGA LOBBY; ORIGINALLY THE CASINO.

ARGENTINA PAVILION.
CURRENTLY SEVILLA'S DANCE CONSERVATORY.

GUATEMALA PAVILION.
PART OF THE DANCE CONSERVATORY.

COLOMBIA PAVILION.
THE CONSULATE OF COLOMBIA.

MEXICO PAVILION.
PART OF THE UNIVERSITY OF SEVILLA.

MUDEJAR PAVILION (PALACE OF DECORATIVE ARTS)
MUSEO DE ARTES Y COSTUMBRES POPULARES (THE MUSEUM OF ARTS AND TRADITIONS).

RENAISSANCE PAVILION (BEHIND TREES).
ARCHAEOLOGY MUSEUM.

My Drag Name
Oh, in case you're wondering, I have never done drag. But, if I were to create a drag name based on the name of my first pet and the first street where I lived (as is one of the suggested ways to do so), that name would be Starr Van Siclen. I like it! Maybe a new career is on the horizon.