Back to colour
After an unintentional Friday night out last week, which took in…
– a Peruvian-Japanese restaurant
– a power of wine before the food (mmm, ceviche) arrived –
– a plaza-full of squat bars
– a West African band (to my delight)
– dancing to bassy-dub-type sounds (also to my delight)
– a robbery (to no delight whatsoever)
– a contender for the worst toilet in the Western Hemisphere (to my nausea)
– and walking in a circle for an hour or so before finding the way home
…my Saturday plans were in ruination and I had to spend the entire day languishing, day-dreaming of eating the eggs and toast I was too sickly to get up and cook, and, unexpectedly, feeling an anxious longing to be among greenery, shrubbery, foliage, lush gardens of green.
Sunday, I did the only thing I could to soothe my botanical desires and took an afternoon stroll down by the Guadalquivir and into Maria Luisa park:
Not exactly verdant, but one of several fountains along a tidy section of the riverbank, which I assume are dedicated to the various barrios of riverside industriy that would at one time have been present, each fountain bearing a different name.
I put on my 50mm lens since I hadn’t used it in a while, a nice low f-number for making a slight bokeh effect of the pink bush.
GREEN. Just what I was after. This was some sort of cheese plant. I had an obsession with cheese plants when I was little. There used to be a huge one in the doctors’ waiting room. See, cheese has always been on my mind…
Children on tricycles (albeit with four wheels), terrorising the park-going public. At one point I also saw a family of half a dozen or more careering around on one of those bus-pedalo things, hooting and screaming and having the time of their lives.
Any musings of paradise were swiftly brought to an end, however, when I returned to my street and to the rubbish strike. This was on Sunday – they only called it off yesterday. The rubbish mountain is still there. You can imagine… Despite the disruption, though, the strikers didn’t win any concessions and for that, I’m sad. Hard times in España, true dat.
I was refreshed and ready to take in a touch more nightlife again by Sunday evening, heading to Ánima for some live musics – a bar Andalucian in appearance, with an Austrian dueño who serves goulash and mulled wine, and, it seemed, frequented by a fortunate wealth of fit, bearded men. The band wore black hats and played in a klezmer style. I must say, I was relieved to find that there is a little music culture going on in Seville after all. I’d been starting to worry…
Ánima. You can just make out a silhouette of hat and clarinet by the door frame. Beard+hat, by the way – win-win combination.
salty woe 