Middlesex News 7/5/89 – Missing the show on a lucky day in Seville
SEVILLE, Spain—This is my last stop in Spain and I am homesick. My calls home become more frequent. I miss my family and my work. I miss America.
I should have come here first, not last. The city is pure charm. The color white is every where. Orange trees help define the streets. Parks abound. The people take life in stride. The atmosphere is totally relaxing.
But there are disappointments. The great cathedral is the largest Gothic building in the world but inside it you find a gloomy and depressing atmosphere. There you encounter the alleged tomb of Christopher Columbus, yet one knows that another cathedral in the Caribbean has a more realistic claim to his remains.
The Giralda tower stands nearby. It is truly extraordinary. Built by the Arabs in the 12 century, this building is of such extreme beauty and perfection that the Christian conquerors could not bring themselves to tear it down. Every tourist photographs it over and over again, trying to take it home. That is impossible.
The tower was originally a minaret. It is over 300 feet high and rather than stairs it has a ramp just wide enough for two horses to pass each other while traveling in opposite directions. Can you imagine climbing a 30-story building on horseback 800 years ago? Now the tourists, from the world over, huff and puff.
A few yards away one enters the magnificent alcazar, a palace built by Christians in a Moorish style, around 1350. The floors, walls, ceiling and ornamental works are well preserved by the tourists are not restrained and touch everything.
The gardens of the alcazar are immense, of semi-tropical vegetation. I got lost. Everyone there got lost; yet no one cared. Can you really be lost in paradise? However, the gardens are still poorly kept, with visitors slipping on orange peels and leaves everywhere. Are the ground-keepers mad?
Close by one finds the ancient Jewish quarters, with enchanting white houses, narrow streets (some as mind as my extended arms) and delightful gardens. Here the tourists encountered another problem: drug peddlers.
I saw drug transactions carried out in the open, in front of tourists and local children. It is a shame. I have seen this nowhere else in Spain.
Seville will host a world fair in 1992. If the drug dealers are not kicked out by then, we should all boycott this place. The government is making an effort to get rid of them; in fact, I almost got tangled up in a drug raid. Sheer luck saved my day.
Flamenco dancing is a major attraction in this city. Flamenco music can be found almost anywhere but four or five clubs provide special shows for tourists. I intended to visit all of them.
Flamenco music and dance originated with the Gypsies. A song is often accompanied by guitar music and is followed by an improvised dance. The men’s steps are quite intricate, with a lot of toe and heel clicking; the women depend greatly on body movements, particularly those of their hands and arms.
The music is supposed to be tragic, although lighter pieces are also heard. Hand clapping, finger snapping and shouts are common, and in modern times the dancers have added the use of castanets; the women now hit the boards with their feet as hard, or harder, than the men.
My first visit to a club was uneventful. The music was on tape, though, and too sophisticated. The dancers were too young, none of them were Gypsies and none looked sad. The tourists, however, were in ecstasy.
My visit to a second club, yesterday was postponed. I had gone to visit the Great Mosque at Cordoba and when I returned I was too tired for a show. What luck!
Today I finally went to my second cabaret. I was the first person to arrive and for a long time the only visitor at the club. Then an American couple showed up and later three other couples arrived. We were nine persons in all, in a place with a seating capacity of around 250. Oh, well, the show must go on.
This one was the real thing. The music was played with live guitars and the dancers were quite understanding. My only complaint was that they were overweight; it is beyond me how they could manage that.
One woman, in particular, was close to six feet tall and must have weighed more than 200 pounds. But she was phenomenal; she kicked those boards like the best that I have ever seen. I told our little crowd that I hoped no mugger would ever corner her in the dark; just one kick and he was dead, or worse yet his fertility was gone forever.
If the show was so good, then why was the club deserted? Upon arriving at my hotel I grabbed the paper and learned that the night before this cabaret had been raided by the police. Most waiters and a good number of people in the audience had been arrested for drug dealing and drug use. I had escaped a scandal. No more flamenco shows for me.