Something Wicked This Way Went

The National Express bus deposited us unceremoniously at the entrance to Stanstead airport, an hour or so out of London. This regional airport is home to RyanAir, the budget airline of choice for countless backpackers and those trying desperately to cash in on life insurance policies. Ryanair, whose motto Fly for Less with Less that Flies doesn't exactly inspire confidence, has an interesting business model. They actually just give the seats away, perhaps hoping their progressive socialist approach will save the company's shareholders money while flying, thus negating the need for any actual profits. Since it takes more than Monopoly money to run an airline, the company has come up with some incredibly creative synergistic strategies to help cut operational costs. For example, in the back pocket of every seat is a standard barf bag; one that doubles as a 35mm film drop-off envelope. No shit. I took it with me to prove to everyone that this item actually exists, though it's tempting to vomit into it after a rough night and mail it to Kodak. I'm curious to see what they develop, perhaps the reconstructed remains of the fried fish that necessitated the bag in the first place. Despite all this, RyanAir managed to get us to our destination, Seville, with only a bit of turbulance.


This was my second time in Seville, my first visit having been just a few months earlier. Our plane landed late in the evening and after a brief wait we caught the airport bus to the center of town. I got extremely lost the last time I was in Seville, where the narrow, winding, street plan was undoubtedly engineered by a toddler with an etch-a-sketch. Luckily I remember quite a bit from my last experience and we quickly made our way towards the massive cathedral which dominates the old quarter and where many of the hostels are located. After examining a few without much enthusiasm we finally settled on a clean and quiet little place tucked in one of the many alleyways off the main shopping grid.
Several travelers had told us about a bar with a free flamenco show so organized our belongings and headed out to look for it. The air was cool, crisp, and delightful. Seville is spectacular at night, and the seasonal holiday lights adorning the buildings and trees (not present on my last visit) only added to the majestic grandeur of the city. The stunningly classic architecture is a wonder to behold at any time of year, but lit with a thousand lights it transceded its normal beauty to become a vision ripped from an angelic dream. Occaisionally checking a compass, we walked the curving streets looking for this place. Finally, after about forty minutes, we saw something we recognized?our hostel. Somehow in all the twists and turns we had walked in a giant circle. Frustrated, but not about to give up, we gave it another whirl. With the help of a local woman we eventually found the place; its single entry a signless, nondescript red door in an alley wall. Elated to be there we sat down for the show. We expected beautiful Andalusian women, glinting castinets, vigorous and rhythmic dance. Instead, an old man took the stage. With a Spanish guitar strumming in the background he bellowed some deep, throaty, Spanish songs. It was an auditory nightmare. You could visibly see the crowd revulse. I imagine a similar sounds would eminate from a man pinned underneath a Greyhound bus. We took in a few more songs then headed back home.

Our second day had a completely different feel but was no less interesting. Xander and I crossed to the western side of the river, away from the old quarter and into a more modern Seville. I had never explored this part of Seville before and it is shockingly different. Strange, modern, and incongruous buildings formed an unlikely skyline. Now here was the strange part - it all looked like it had been recently abandoned. Cars were definitely passing by on the streets but as we walked down wide pedestrian boulevards - in the middle of the day - we were alone. The walkway, though modern in appearance, was cracked and buckled. Dead plants hung limply from artistic metal tubing which ran overhead. Fountains in this large median were flowing but looked dirty and unkempt. We walked a good mile along this Path of the Modern Day Damned before it dead-ended at a decrepit train station. Two arcing metal struts at least 100 feet high crossed from opposity corners, making a giant X in the sky that held aloft a torn and sagging sunscreen. A lot of effort went in to building whatever we had encountered but now it looked nothing more than a future lost, a shell that was once full. We never found out the cause of the decay or even the reason for the construction itself, but one thing was certain, something wicked this way went.