I’m pretty much fucked. That’s my considered opinion. Fucked.
Okay. Those aren’t my words. I just read them in this book, The Martian. But still that’s how I feel. Moreover, I just started that novel, but, now, I don’t even know if I’ll ever be able to finish it. My phone is almost dead. My book is on my phone. I even had to delete that book app, and pretty soon I could be stuck in the mucking fother boondocks, shoulder deep in mud. No food. No water. No Google. No book. I very well may be doomed. Just like that guy in that novel who was left alone there on Mars for a while.
Well, maybe not that bad. But pretty close.
(a continuation from May 1, 2015 post, Part 1)
Even though we have completely recovered from Madrid’s nightlife, our legs are still lucky enough to get an almost-three-hour respite from day-walking. We are now on a high speed train headed to Seville.
I’m heavily train-sedated by the time we arrive, and I stumble into the station to first glance up and see “Salida – Kansas City Blvd.” And directions to “Florida Street.” And a blurb on my text-machine referencing some lounge called “New York.” Where the heck am I? I feel like I’ve been dumped back into the States and my trip has come to a screeching halt! I shake my head like I’m tossing marbles around inside the top of an hourglass. Then I come to. So we do exit Kansas City Blvd. And we do hike up Florida Street. Then as we drag our luggage up through alleyways to get to the hotel, we see the town crowded with families, professionals, teenagers and young couples – everyone dressed in their Sunday best. Women’s high heels click on cobblestone walkways, and strollers and suitcases bounce through the cobblestone streets as Spaniards and foreigners arrive for the Semana Santa. By late that Palm Sunday afternoon, there is a crowd gathering outside the Cathedral. And, we, along with that crowd, are awaiting our first experience with a Semana Santa procession.
This past Good Friday, the Friday before Easter, I met Jesus. Yep, that’s right…Jesus!
Jesus from Barcelona bought me two shots of whiskey at a little jazz club on the corner of Calle Fernando Colon and Calle Pedro Lopez in Cordoba, Spain. He could barely speak English. I could barely speak Spanish. Yet, over the whisky and a lot of sign language, we became fast friends.
Yes! I got to be in Cordoba, Spain on a Good Friday courtesy of my now-rapidly dwindling savings account.
What put me in Cordoba, Spain on that early Good Friday morning?