Spain was becoming a blur. But each time we stopped, usually at a small town that was a main street and a few old buildings, we found something new, something to marvel at, something to make us laugh, ooh and ahh, giggle nervously and perhaps even sigh with more than just a hint of sadness. It was all about passion and heat, brilliant sunshine and chilly evenings, wild swings of mood and colour that could bewilder even as it delighted.
Seville was one such stop we made. It was a bright sunny afternoon when we drove into the city, through tiny winding streets, locals and tourists wandering about in the middle of the road and even a clown who juggled oranges across the hood of the car and then darted into a schoolhouse door with a manic laugh. In the centre of all this rose the Giralda, a golden-orange minaret once used by the Moors for the azaan. We wandered into it and upwards, climbing up a steep spiral of stone stairs and sloping ramp, breathing heavily and holding on to the cold iron of the railing. Windows allowed occasional peeps outside, an ever-widening vista of an urban sprawl that combined the modern with the charm of the old. At the top, we exchanged cheery greetings with an English couple who were on their way down, while a large Spanish family exclaimed and smiled at Mum’s tikka and my nicely-lined eyes.
From there it was a short hop to the cathedral where Christopher Columbus’ tomb was. As with almost any and every old church in Europe that I have been to, it was cold enough to keep ice cream frozen at ‘room temperature’, and we shivered in our wrappings even as we huddled together near the bank of candles at the altar. Wonderfully carved wood loomed grandly around, overhead, overwhelming, drowning any reverence I felt with a feeling of how fabulous a disaster it would be if there was a fire. Shaking off the direness, I walked over to look at Chris Columbus. And came back a few minutes later, highly indignant, to hiss at my parents, “He’s not there!”
It was almost a personal affront. Though the elaborate tomb stands proudly in the massive church, Columbus is not in it. By the end of the telling and as my indignation dissipated very slowly – after all, I was brought up on the song “Columbus sailed the ocean blue in fourteen hundred ninety two” – I was completely confused about where the poor man actually was buried, Spain, America or somewhere in between. Let him stay here, close your eyes and pretend, my mother soothingly suggested, while my father voiced irreverent ideas about how he could actually be alive somewhere, sort of like Elvis.
But the mood persisted. As we walked through the streets of Seville, now emptying of the local population and roamed only by the occasional group of camera-hung Japanese, I couldn’t help wondering how poor old Columbus had disappeared, since there was some little mystery attached to the story. And by the time we got back to the pretty little pensione at which we were staying, I was dolefully contemplating my own feelings about not knowing where my body would be. The lady who owned the small hostal did not help with her ‘Hola! Buenas tardes!’ and the small hostal with its sepulchral lighting and doors that did not quite fit did nothing to cheer me up either. My mother was convinced that there was a corpse laid out in the house, since the Senora and her family seemed to be dressed in deepest mourning, only a faint touch of white sparking the stark black of their clothes and the melancholy mien they all wore as matching accessories.
And as we drove away the next morning, only one thought cheered me up. I had appropriated the Senora’s pen!
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