Seeing the Barber in Seville

It was extremely nice to stay in a home (particularly with such a welcoming hostess) for the first time in six weeks, but the next morning, after breakfast and a long Internet session, I left Córdoba by bus to Seville. It rained most of the way, but Seville was mercifully dry, though cloudy. Even in this weather, however, the city impressed with its vibrance of color and lush tropical vegetation. Palms and orange trees were everywhere, although the orange I tried was so sour and bitter it kept me spitting for a good two minutes.

Compared to Córdoba, everthing seemed larger and somewhat less cozy. The river Guadalquivir, which made this inland town one of the greatest ports in Europe during the post-Columbus era, was probably the least impressive of the city´s attractions. The endless variety of contrasting façades reminded me a bit of the German towns I had seen, but here the tone was decidedly more tropical.

It was time for me to get a haircut, and I stopped at a local barber shop, receiving my usual "zero" treatment. This time, the barber was engaged in an animated conversation with a friend about the dictator Franco as he handled the straight razor, which made me fear for my head as though I, myself, were one of Franco´s victims. Then, after a light dinner of gazpacho (a great cold tomato-based soup with hard-boiled egg and raw vegetables) and fish, I called it a night, returning to a hostel I found earlier in the day. The hostess was Russian and didn´t charge me extra for a double room (20 EUR).