Seville as an orange

Grateful to the serendipitous circumstances which saw the (indefinite?) delay of Brexit, I toddled off to the airport, smug in the knowledge that my gamble on a cheap flight had paid off.

After a protracted wait at security due to a rogue tube of handcream, I grabbed a coffee to mitigate the effects of my 02:00 alarm, and met my friend Emily, ready to embark on our adventure.

Emily is one of the most wonderful humans in my life. Our relationship is about as romantic as a platonic relationship between two heterosexual people can get. After five years of living together I still feel the absence of her Nespresso coffee machine and predilection for Radio 2 in the mornings. Our meeting was one of ease, picking up the conversation right where we left it.

After a short flight over crinkled mountains and dusty plains we landed in Seville. The shady boughs of orange trees hung abundantly over our heads as we wound through the curling streets lined with cobbles. The air was sweet with the scent of orange blossom, jasmine and wisteria. Trills of birdsong trailed after the tiny sparrows flitting through the branches. The sun was warm and soft.

Our immediate thoughts were of food. We ventured down a few side streets turning arbitrarily left or right, before finding a tapas bar which extended three stories above a small paved square. We arrived at 14:00 (opening time) and ordered a glut of tapas – croquettes, patas bravas, aubergine and small mounds of cheese. A cheeky tinto de verano or two helped it all slide down.

We dropped our bags at our apartment, taking a quick peek at the view from the rooftop terrace, before ambling back into town, now at a slower, Sevillian pace. We traced the streets to the luscious verdure of the Maria Louisa park, and sat on a bench to watch the parakeets. We then walked up to the Plaza de Espagna. The bravado of the architecture was both humorous and magical, kind of like a kitsch 20th century fairground. We circled round the plaza to the sound of mellifluous guitars, and then made our way to the river where we had a drink and watched the world.

When we returned to the appartment, the sun was beginning to set. The sky echoed with the peal of bells, as we sipped sangria on the rooftop, and talked of the past and the future. As the night deepened, the gentle hubbub of voices gradually rose, cresting into waves of laughter as people spilled out on to the streets below us.

We awoke later than anticipated due to the aberrant habit that clocks have of springing forward at this time of year, however we managed a leisurely breakfast of garlicy tomatoes on toast, fresh orange juice and silky coffee before getting into the queue for the Alcazar Palace. After patiently waiting our turn, we were granted admittance to a mystical world of immaculate gardens, squalling peacocks, and more insta-models than you can shake a selfie-stick at. We were captivated by the cosmic geometry of a million perfect tiles, arranged in a kaleidoscope of blue, turquoise and burnt orange, that seemed to morph into new shapes and patterns as we admired them. Hedges were papered with magenta roses, and violet irises were beginning to wilt in the heat. We spent a couple of hours exploring the Palace, before grabbing a drink to revive ourselves.

Next we visited the cavernous cathedral that is nestled at the centre of the city. We crept in to the service just as the priest transformed the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. His prayer was echoed back to him in the low murmur of a hundred voices.

Following our witness of the sacrament, we planted ourselves in a sunny side street and found even more room for tapas. Our afternoon was spent in the bizzare but endearing Flamenco museum, the translations of the exhibits causing more laughs than they were intended to. We got lost in the labyrinth of the Jewish quarter, nibbled on fresh churros and hot chocolate, then made our way to the ugliest monument in Seville.

Las Setas is an aptly named fungus of concrete that has spored into a useful viewing platform. Accompanied by Emily’s friend Pablo, we surveyed the gothic spires and tetris roofs of the city, as the clouds melted into shades of mauve. We ended our day with more tapas, finding that we had been insidiously infected with Spanish time. 22:00 is not normally when I have dinner, but here it feels that any earlier would be inappropriate.

The next day we boarded a train to Cordoba. We were gently rocked from side to side, as we passed flotillas of orange groves and the occasional lonely farmhouse. After 45 minutes we arrived in the town, and were surprised by the immediacy with which we felt a cultural difference. The cobbles seemed to wind and snake into more dead-ends, but eventually we found ourselves at the famous Mezquita-Cathedral of Cordoba – an ancient mosque that was gutted and ’embellished’ by Christians into an imposing and unique architectural hybrid. We paced under the perfect arches with a sense of loss, feeling the absence of the original Muslim artefacts that had been replaced by gaudy friezes of melancholic weeping Marys and writhing Christs on the cross. The secrets of the original Moorish structure were embedded in the walls, in the delicate artistry of the intricate doorways at the far side of the building, and in the minaret which towers over the orange grove square. We ascended the wooden steps to the top of the tower, and with our head in the bells, and surveyed the city below us.

We spent the rest of our time in Cordoba mooching, eating and drinking depending on the rain. We crossed the elegant Roman bridge and watched the stormy clouds descend.

A trip to Seville would not be complete without an experience of Flamenco. We perched on the rickety wooden benches at La Carbonería, sipped sangria and were hypnotised by the scorpion movements of a young woman as she whipped her braid and sliced through the air.

For our final morning in Seville we had our classic breakfast of tomatoes on toast, orange juice and coffee, before visiting the Iglesia de San Luis de los Franceses. Pablo had piqued our interest by mentioning that it was full of ‘paranormal activities’, so we decided to find out for ourselves.

The Baroque majesty can’t be described as anything other than impressive. The alcoves dripped with cherubs and gold, layered with a light film of dust. The walls looked like they would buckle under the weight if it wasn’t for the spiral columns reaching up to the ceiling. We visited the chapel, slightly horrified by the relics of teeth and bone that were encased in glass boxes, entwined with iridescent pearls, taxidermied birds and withered flowers. We then descended into the crypt. The air cooled, and a fusty scent seemed to seep out of the walls. There was a muffled stillness, but the echoes of children’s laughter could clearly be heard…maybe it was just the school next door.

We had our final meal of veggie paella, and then begrudgingly made our way to the airport.

Seville is gorgeous, especially when illuminated with the warm glow of friendship. Having initially planned to visit about five years ago, there was a lot of scope for disappointment. However the slow pace, the sumptuous food, and the sunny climate has made this an amazing trip, made even more special by the company of a very dear amiga.

Bobbing along…

We spent an evening trying to work out the logistics of visiting Ein Gedi, Masada and the Dead Sea in one day via public transport. After a couple of hours we concluded that it couldn’t be done, at least not without military clock-watching, so we signed up for a tour.

We met the mini bus from the lobby of a fancy hotel, full of elderly Americans regaling tales of their intrepid adventures to each other. Fortunately, none of them were on our bus. Our first stop was the Jordan River, where Jesus is said to have been baptised by John. The river was a peaceful oasis in an arid landscape, bordered by wire fences and minefields. We spent ten blissful minutes quietly contemplating the fluvial border with Jordan, before jumping back on the bus and driving to Ein Gedi.

Ein Gedi is a nature reserve famed for its wildlife and natural waterfalls. Its fame attracts a number of visitors, including troops of baying schoolchildren. Rather than try to ascend higher and higher up the trail, at a pace set by the slowest child, we stopped about halfway up and enjoyed a smaller pool. The clear water felt cool and refreshing between our toes, and along with the merciful breeze, did much to revive us.

Our next stop was the ancient fortress of Masada, where rebels held off against Roman invasion, and chose to kill every person in the compound and commit suicide rather than suffer defeat. The foundations of watchtowers, bathouses and the tannery were spread over a substantial area, giving some idea of the scale of the attack. The views out to the haze of the Dead Sea were spectacular; it’s hard to take this cinematic landscape for granted.

Our final stop was the one we were most excited about. It hadn’t quite sunk in (hahahah) that we were about to visit the lowest place in earth: the Dead Sea. Upon arrival, we slathered warm goopy mud all over our skin, waiting until it tightened and cracked before washing it off with fresh water. Meanwhile, we had a little float, the salt content of the water making us buoyant, and occasionally forcing us to do an involuntary pencil roll. If we rubbed our hands together underwater, they felt slick and oily. Every sensation inspired novelty, however after a time we had to return to the bus, and to Jerusalem.

We touristed hard, and not in the manner to which we have become accustomed. We’re quite happy to find things ourselves, use public transport, and dicatate our own schedule, however for the sake of expediency (and for the sake of our dogmatic refusal to miss anything), the tour was hugely beneficial. Whilst some of the other tourists had expected to be guided, lectured, and photographed at designated points, we were quite happy to explore the sites in the time slots available, safe in the knowledge that we could get home.

Upon our return, we caught a bus back to Tel Aviv – the final stop of our trip. Upon emerging victorious from our battle with the traffic, we grabbed a sabich (aubergine filled pita) and went to sleep.

Our final days in Israel were spent eating delicious shakshuka and salads aplenty, exploring the old town of Jaffa, and basking in the sun at the beach. We also infiltrated an Irish pub on St Patrick’s Day to watch the rugby, but that’s a story in its own right.

Our time here has been one of immense contrast in terms of history, society and culture. This is even reflected in the landscape, which is both breathtakingly beautiful, and terrifyingly hostile. The people we’ve met here have been hospitable and kind, but despite this I have felt very ‘other’. There’s no ostensible reason for this (apart from security treatment at the airport), but if anything, this has made the whole experience more interesting. Alex and Ricardo have been an absolute breeze to travel with, and I’m immensely grateful to them for letting me tag along. We’ve had experiences and made memories that I’m sure will stick with us for years to come; and I can’t wait to bring them up at (in)opportune moments in the future.

A-salzburg

The train to Salzburg was as punctual and painless as you would expect. We arrived at our hostel, were not upgraded to a private apartment, and headed out to witness the Krampus stampede. From the end of November, horned beasts awaken from their slumber to taunt and terrorise the residents of alpine towns. We followed the sound of clanging bells and piercing squeals to Linzer Gasse, where we witnessed a herd of Krampus assaulting their victims, whipping their legs with bundles of dry twigs. After four lashings, we decided that being flagellated isn’t fun, so we went to drink some beer. The alcohol soothed the sting of our lacerations and sent us to sleep.

The next day we rose early to board a bus emblazoned with Julie Andrews’ face. Annie could barely contain her excitement, wiggling in her seat and singing The Sound of Music under her breath. We gathered jewels of trivia about the making of the film and the lives of the actors on set, as we were driven through rolling hills and past glimmering lakes. We were deposited on the famous Do Re Mi steps of Mirabell place, when the wispy clouds coagulated into something more sinister. We sheltered in the hostel to escape the rain before concluding our trip with some organic pizza.

Salzburg is beautiful, and we unanimously wished that we had had more time to frolick in the hills. The cobbled streets and panoramic vistas give the impression of a bucolic ideal far removed from the impersonal mechanism of modernity. And while I’m sure this impression is naive and and underdeveloped, it’s an impression I’m willing to take home. Despite the whipping.

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Coolpenhagen

It’s been a long year, so I scraped together the dregs of my annual leave and booked a flight to Copenhagen.

The unspeakably convenient minibus that previously provided a service from my front door to Luton airport has ceased, so I welded journey out of a tube, a train and a bus to get to my favourite tin shed. As I’m only away for a long weekend, I skipped the check-in queue and whizzed through security, thankfully without having to contort my oversized hand luggage into the tiny metal box representing the permitted dimensions. I chatted to a young half-Polish family over a croissant, then made my way to the gate so efficiently, that I was the first non-priority passenger on the plane.

The flight was over before it started, and I (internally) gasped with wonder as we descended over the wild foaming swell of the North sea, on to the sliver of tarmac. A noiseless metro took me to the centre of the city, and I arrived.

Unable to check in for an hour or so, I grabbed brunch for lunch (because breakfast foods are the most decadent, and best suited to times of leisure), and had a little wander (oversized case in tow) to get my bearings. Once I’d relinquished my cumbersome baggage, I started to follow a man with the intention of partaking in a walking tour.

The man (Jarrod) led aforementioned walking tour, weaving twenty expectant tourists (myself among their number) through the cobbled streets of Christianshavn, past Gothic churches with swirling spindled roofs, into Christiania, the ‘experimental’ and ‘liberal’ Freetown within Copenhagen. I emerged slightly heady from the pungent smog of Pusher Street, thanked Jarrod for his extensive local knowledge, and along with some people from the tour, headed for Paper Island, to one of Copenhagen’s edgy food markets. Stalls provided forays into every cuisine of the world. I settled on a traditional Danish curry, and huddled by the open fire for warmth.

I woke up to a pastel sky and a biting wind. I lingered over a phenomenal chocolate pastry and the first of many coffees, before heading over to Davids Samling; an astonishing collection of Islamic art and European furniture. I lost myself in the flowing filagree and infinite geometry of adorned Koranic texts, marvelled at gargantuan tapestries, salivated over sumptuous jewels, and admired delicate miniatures of richly dressed figures. The chinoiserie in the high-ceilinged chamber looking over Kongens Have kindled a fire of envy in my heart, and I glided from room to room in a bewildered stupor.

The cold air slapped me down to earth, and I joined a second walking tour that took me through squares and passageways past the Rundetaarn and the cathedral. I was conveniently deposited at Torvehallerne where I gorged on artisanal smørrebrød, and briefly regained some warmth.

I spent my afternoon ascending the Rundetaarn, mooching around a cheery exhibition from the Museum of Broken Relationships (on tour from Croatia), lusting after Scandi furniture in Illums Bolighus and sipping coffee number [x] in a chic underground cellar.

I later met a walking tour buddy at Tivoli Gardens, the second-oldest amusement park in Denmark, and the world. By the grace of a gregarious local (with a spare ticket) I got in for free, and was able to appreciate the sparkling lights and stomach-churning rides without wondering if it was worth it. We circled the park sipping gløgg, and absorbing the festive atmosphere.

My final morning in Copenhagen started with the requisite pastry consumption. I then wandered around the elegant Rosenborg Castle. I gazed at ornate porcelain and tiny superfluous trinkets, and gawped at quintessential portraits of people that looked like they could belong to no era but their own. I had a brief rustle through the palm houses at the Botanical Garden, then snaffled another smørrebrød before heading up to see the statue of the Little Mermaid that everyone complains about. It was actually bigger than I thought it would be; have low expectations in life and avoid disappointment. I traipsed back across town, cut across Nyhavn, and returned to the hostel where I finished War and Peace. Finishing War and Peace is not a ‘must-do’ in Copenhagen, but as a semi-significant life event I thought I’d record it here for posterity.

Copenhagen is cool. As in, Shoreditch edgy hipster cool. I’ve had great coffee, great food, and great weather, which is all that I really wanted. The weather was merely circumstantial, but remains part of my experience. The locals have been friendly, and have explained the fashionable concept of hygge to me in a way that I can semi-understand, and can by no means do justice to here (but I’ll try). My hygge is a meditative state of presence and absence. The presence of the self, the moment, the sensation, the absence of the external; obligation, responsibility.

This break, just like my last, has brought me back to myself, because everything I’ve done has been for me. That’s the beauty of solo travel, and whilst it sounds selfish, (and I do sometimes wish I could share an experience), ultimately any perception of a place will be internal, individual and inexpressible to others. Which negates the purpose of this self-indulgent blog, but hey, you read it.

My next trip is going to be with friends (yeah I have some), and whilst the majority of my recent adventures have been ones of self-discovery, I think it’s time to discover a self with others.

The beginning and the end.

It’s strange that my first post should be borne out of an end.

Today is my first day back home, returning after what has been the greatest journey of my life so far – university. To be fair, I haven’t been outside of Europe (excluding Canada, but that definitely can’t be described as an exotic destination), so the fact that university has been my greatest journey doesn’t really say much at all. But nevertheless, I’m currently gratifying an indulgent sense of nostalgia, that has been accumulating for the best part of six months, and can finally be legitimately acknowledged. Euphoric happiness and acute despair are currently vying for dominance in my confused heart and my frazzled brain (finals have a catalogue of side-effects), and the immediate challenge seems to be to decide how to feel.

My last night in Oxford was a heady blur of elegance, as we tried to quench thoughts of our imminent departure by attending Worcester College’s Tercentenary Ball. This white tie event felt special even by Oxford standards, the ludicrous frequency of opportunities for black tie rendering the latter somewhat normalised. Tails, and even top hats (for a brave few, who would inevitably lose the deposits on their hire) meandered through the exquisite gardens of the College, flitting between food tents, stages, and bars, attempting the impossible – not to miss a thing. Live music, a ferris wheel, a ceilidh and a silent disco meant that it was only when the grounds filtered back into focus, in the hazy grey light of the morning, that we realised that any time had passed at all. Returning home at 06:00 I was immune to fatigue, instead mentally re-living the utter perfection of the past 10 hours, denying that the ball had come to an end.

But it had. And so too had my university career. In a few short hours, I would be sitting in a hire-van (unfortunately necessary given the amount of shit that I managed to accumulate – sorry Dad), leaving behind the life that I’ve been lucky enough to enjoy over the past three years. And I have been lucky, and I am lucky but no matter how many times I tell myself this, it’s only now that I’ve left Oxford that I’ll be able to appreciate everything that it has done for me. And I’m fully aware that this process may take years.

But that’s okay, because I have time. To be precise, I have fourteen months, until I must assume my role as an accountant in London, and with it, the incumbent adulthood and responsibility that I have desperately been trying to repress. To use this time effectively, I’ve decided to flee to Asia, to follow the conventional contrails of obnoxious Gap Yah-ers, and to ‘find myself’ (ironically, of course). Prepared for misdirection, cultural gaffes, and unexpected annoyances, I’m hoping that along the way I’ll meet some people and do some things that, like Worcester Ball, I’ll never want to forget.

There are a couple of ‘mini-adventures’ planned before The Trip, starting on Monday with a casual motorbike ride to Poland with my Grandad (yes, my family is slightly unorthodox). I’m seeing this as a dress-rehearsal, so that by the time I reach Asiahhh, I’ll be savvy enough to avoid any truly catastrophic blunders. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

All that I want from my travels is to be a different (and better) person at the end of them – just like Bilbo, or Gulliver. Actually, Gulliver goes a little crazy and starts talking to horses, so maybe not like him. I can’t predict what will happen, where I’ll go, or who I’ll meet, but I also can’t see who I’ll become. And I guess that’s where the adventure lies. Maybe there’s a pearl inside this oyster. 

Worcester College, Oxford. 28/6/14, 06:00.

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