Chenbl, Carlos and I elected to seek out our breakfast at one of the little shops on the street rather than partaking of the hotel’s breakfast, which wasn’t included in the room price. We found a decent restaurant and sat at the bar while the gangster-esque boss tossed our plates at us. After we returned to the hotel, we sat around the pool in the back talking about earthquakes and looking at the planes overhead. Iris undertook an elaborate photo shoot of a pomegranate’s journey around the pool.

Our train to Madrid was at 12:45, so we got some lunch to go at the station. When we departed, we noticed that we were again facing backwards for some reason. Also, the sun refused to touch the western part of the sky even though it was well after noon. I suppose we must have been travelling more east than north for most of the trip. The train provided some nice jazz music accessible through the seat jacks, but no USB or wifi.

We retrieved our luggage from the lockers at the station in Madrid and headed out to our hotel, and then, once we’d rested up for a good five minutes, headed out again to the museum, supposedly the third largest in the world after the Lourvre and the British museum. It was impressive, but as we’d only arrived after 6 p.m. and it closed at 8pm, we didn’t see most of it. I was impressed, however, at just how much martyrdom went on back in the day.

Dinner was some delicious Greek food at an upscale food court, and then a taxi back to the hotel.  During the ride I heard Carlos speak more than I’d ever heard him speak before as he waxed lyrical about his beloved bamboo to the taxi driver.

We had to pick up our tickets, so we decided to have breakfast at the train station; this turned out to be a good idea, as even though the place we picked apparently only had two people running it, the sandwiches were quite good. After spending too much time seething over missed shots in the lovely light while waiting for the 32 Bus into the old town, we boarded the crowded vehicle.

The old part of Sevilla kind of reminds me, this time around anyway, of the Old Quarter of Hanoi in Vietnam. This is not a compliment. I mostly missed Sevilla during my last visit due to a stomach illness requiring me to be bed-ridden for three days, subsisting on cherries. This time I got a better feel for the place, and I came away kind of wanting to wash my hands.

One of the first things we saw upon disembarking was a huge, long, vast line of mostly young women in line for free make-up at a cosmetics store. The second was a large, raucous protest by people in medical garb demanding more hospitals. We made our way to the big cathedral from which that bastard Christopher Columbus embarked on his genocidal journey, and where he finally ended up. Or his body did, anyway. There was a long line, of course, and there were protests when we joined Chenbl, who had saved us a space. It turned out, however, that Chenbl, who has a cold and a runny nose, had ducked into a pharmacy and bought some cold medicine that was so strong it nearly knocked him out. So while the others toured the cathedral, I sat by a sleeping Chenbl on a bench in the atrium making sure he didn’t get robbed blind.

The cathedral, at least what I saw of it, was magnificent of course. It was also partially under reconstruction, and the workers glared at me when I took their pictures instead of the gilding on the altar. Classical music was being piped in from somewhere. In one of the chambers, an older man decked out in the latest, most fashionable attire (his leather bag was “The Bridge” and his pant legs were folded up to his pasty white calves) used one of his two digital Leicas to take snaps of the jewelry on display. Though a shame, it was actually rather appropriate. The other tourists cast quizzical gazes at me when I took a shot of the Leica Man. Sorry, Ted from Wisconsin…I just couldn’t help it. As we left the cathedral, fat women in scarves tried to give us leaves. I knew better than to accept anything of this sort and had to issue a severe glare and a sharp “No!” to stop the “Chico! Chico!” Carlos forgot himself and took one of the leaves, and I could hear behind me the woman insisting that he pay her for the leaf. Carlos turned around and said GRACIAS in a tone that shut her up.

Chenbl was still under the influence of the cold medicine, so we elected to take a horse cart tour around the city. This was fairly pleasant, the driver telling Carlos about the history of the city, Carlos translating it for me, and me translating it for Chenbl. With all of the translation going on, I wouldn’t be surprised if Chenbl didn’t end up thinking Seville was founded by Martians, especially in his state of mind.

After the horse cart ride, we boarded one of the open-topped tourist buses. Chenbl promptly went to sleep again, but I listened to a recording of a bored English woman tell me about the various landmarks we passed. This was actually a good way to see more of the real Seville, especially the parts across the river. Some of the descriptions of the rusting, derelict displays left over from the “Five Centuries of Oppression” celebration in 1992 were sad and pathetic, but I suppose it’s at least good that they’re on the tour.

What is it with women walking dogs in Spain? Why are there so many?

We got off at Plaza de Espana and walked around looking for a bathroom. Public bathrooms are pretty scarce on the ground here, it seems. When we approached the staff of the Citroen Bar as they were preparing to close, they flatly refused to let us borrow their restrooms, so we ended up at a nearby food fair. There we had some sausages, beef, rice and noodles, before looking for a bus back to the hotel. Chenbl was feeling better by this point, however, so we looked up a flamenco place someone had heard of. We nearly missed it, but when Carlos questioned a large, burly bald man in a suit at a door, it turned out that that was indeed the place.

The vibe inside was weird, to be honest. Water dripped from the ceiling onto the wooden tables, colored lights straight out of a dorm room flashed on and off; the bartender yelled at Carlos for some reason. We chose seats by a wall and waited for the show to start. When it did, the performers were barely visible behind a tall woman who was determined to avoid using her own eyes to gaze upon the show, looking at it through her cellphone instead. I liked what I saw of it, more than any other of the total of one flamenco shows I’ve seen. The kitchen staff seemed eager to get in on the act, bashing pans around and breaking ice at a volume greater than that of the performers. Some of the Asian members of the audience seemed to be trying to clap along, unsuccessfully.

But Chenbl was tired again, so we left and made our way back to the main road, where a large crowd was eating outside a restaurant. There we caught a bus and, accompanied by a loud, overly friendly drunk passenger, traveled back to our remote hotel location.

A couple of good nights’ sleep has me feeling better, or perhaps I just like Granada. Despite the sub-par Alhambra experience, I still have warm fuzzy feelings for this city. Even though I can’t claim I really know it at all.

The weather was a bit cloudy as we checked our bags at the hotel and set out in search of breakfast. We ended up at the cafe where Ray, Gordon and I ate seven years ago, just as the sun broke out in full, blasting our table with lovely light and making the meal full of wincing, and not just because the waiter accidentally spilled Ewan’s coffee all over the table. Another waiter rushed over to help, but the first one just shouted at him. I assume there’s some kind of ongoing argument between them. The food was good when it came, however, and I managed to take a panorama without anyone having two heads for once.

After breakfast we split up, the girls and Ewan going shopping or something, while Carlos, Chenbl and I caught a bus up the hill opposite Alhambra. We got off halfway up and walked the rest of the way up to the observation deck, where a small band was playing and a group of schoolchildren were lined up on a wall, reading. Alhambra lay across the valley, shrouded in mist so that little more than its silhouette was visible. We bought some castanuelas and got instructions back down the hill.

The stream that runs down the valley is lovely indeed, and if I were to move to Granada, I’d definitely consider something in that area. We got some pomegranate juice and met up with the others in front of the cathedral before settling down in one of the many squares in the belltower’s shadow for some delicious paella. The restaurant was called “El Doseo” and the manager couldn’t have been nicer.

The walk back to the hotel helped some with our digestion, and I found myself, as I usually do when I’m about to leave Granada, that I’d like to stay. Perhaps someday I will.

But not this time. Instead, I got on a bus with the others and went to the bus station, where we switched to a long-haul vehicle for the trip to Sevilla. This was a surprisingly strict process, and I wondered if they have a serious problem with people getting on buses they haven’t bought tickets for.

On our way through the town, I could see that Granada is not just the old town, the suburbs are far less entertaining, which is no suprise. I passed the time taking photos of the truck drivers we passed on the highway and looking out at the scenery, rough landscapes gradually becoming tamer as we went. The driver had neglected to tell us what the wifi password was, and there was a sign over him that read “Do Not Talk To Driver,” so we were stuck enjoying the trip the old-fashioned way, something that was made more difficult due to the nonstop static-y radio that played the whole time.

When we arrived in Sevilla, we were first told there was no bus from the bus station to the train station except for the airport bus, which makes no sense at all. Then we found that there was a bus, but it went a bit out of the way. None of this constituted a good first impression.

When we finally got to the area where our hotel is located, I was reminded more of southern China than Spain: Blocks of apartments, tiled sidewalks…I even caught a whiff of stinky tofu, but I think I might have simply walked through someone’s sneeze.

We took a bus into the old part of town, but we hadn’t gone far when the driver pulled over, hopped out and ran over to a police van. He brought the cops over, and they escorted a guy off the bus. After talking with him for a while, they told us to go get another bus, so I assume the bus itself was guilty of some crime and needed to be interrogated. Carlos said that this kind of thing was a common occurance in his native Guatemala. When we got to the old part of town, we went in search of a restaurant someone had heard of online, but when we found it, the waiter/manager yelled at Carlos to get the hell out. I suppose they really must be making too much money, and we decided to help them out of this predicament by not only not eating there, but leaving our impressions on various online sites as well. We did manage to find a decent place in yet another square. We’d gotten halfway though our meal when a cello and guitar group set up on the sidewalk, played a tune rather badly, and then the guitarist went around with a hat for donations. When he came to our table Chenbl just stared at him. “No? Fine,” the guitarists said in a huff as the cellist struggled through arpeggios.

When we told the restaurant manager out our troubles at the previous place, he actually gave us free drinks. So there’s that.

Thankfully, it wasn’t raining in Granada when we set out from the hotel this morning. A bit cloudy, but clear enough and warm enough. We walked down the main road towards Alhambra, stopping to buy stamps (I know, who buys stamps these days? But my travelling companions are apparently in that demographic), and stopping into a busy restaurant for a breakfast of ham and cheese on bread eaten while standing at the counter. The place had the air of customers who come every day for years. The older man who shoved our juice at us took apparent umbrage at our misplacement of the olive oil bottle after using it. “Look at you, you’re making such a MESS!” I scolded Carlos in a mocking tone. Then we ate lemon pie.

The people of this city seem quite purposeful in their stride, or perhaps it was just mostly people going to work, but I sensed a bit of impatience in people making their way around us on the sidewalk. I noted a lot of dapper older men in swank hats and fashionably elderly ladies walking around with dogs. Perhaps Granada is kind of cut off from the rest of Spain? It kind of feels that way. It’s certainly cleaner, trendier and more grafitti-free than it was before.

We took a peek inside the big cathedral, decided against paying money to see the rest of it, and then ducked into a neighboring church that was free. Then we passed a young man playing metal drums in the style of Phillip Glass. We stopped and bought his album to show support, and he let us have a go on the drums.

The bus took us up the mountain to Alhambra, first carrying an elderly nun and then, after she got off, a group of muslims. It was a good thing we had reserved tickets, because that day’s tickets were all sold out, we heard people inquiring at the gate. Inside we followed a babbling brook up to the Generalife Gardens, tasting the water of the fountains as we went, and then down to the main part of Alhambra. We took in the hotel, formerly a Franciscan monk hangout, and then waited in line, dodging French would-be line-cutters, for the interior of Alhambra.

The last time I was here, in 2009, I was amazed at how eloquent and amazing this place was. But management has changed. The lovely audio guide telling the stories of Alhambra’s every corner has gone away, and the staff are no longer friendly, but rather imperious. Much of the interior is under construction as well. One self-important tourist was trying to boss everyone around. “Don’t touch that!” she yelled at Chenbl after he brushed against a wall. “Wear your bag on the front!” She yelled at me.

“But your bag is on your back,” I said.

“That’s my purse,” she said, though her purse was as big as a backpack. “It’s different.”

“Ah yes, arbitrary definitions; the spice of life,” I said. I was about to ask her why she really wanted to work as a nanny at Alhambra, but she’d moved on to yelling at other tourists, Spanish tourists who were much better equipped to tell her to fuck off in their own language.

The church was dark and boring, and the ramparts had closed once we were done fucking around and wasting time, so we made our way past the free-roaming cats, down through the magnificent gate and onto a bus back down the hill to downtown where the fountain was lit up.

We enjoyed a street flamenco performance, and then stuffed ourselves with hot and cold running tapas at a nearby restaurant, snatching a table from under the noses of a henpecked British couple.

We walked down the tourist streets looking at stupid shops and digesting the tapas. I bought some slippers, and got a snazzy hat for Carlos so he doesn’t have to wear that baseball cap any more. Then it was back to the hotel. I’ve enjoyed Granada again this time, though the experience at Alhambra was sorely disappointing after treasuring the memory of my first visit there for the last seven years.

Up at four in the god-damn morning today, so we could check out and haul our asses to the train station, where we stored some of our luggage in lockers utilizing a clever Jenga-inspired approach to stuffing things in other things. Ewan had to piss, but he decided for some reason not to wait until we were on the train, electing instead to run back to the hotel to do the deed. But eventually we all got on the train, and soon enough we were heading seemingly backwards down south, eating some of the delicious Guatemalan biscuits Carlos had brought.

It was pitch black outside, rain streaking the windows all the way down. The sky didn’t make itself noticeable until after 8 a.m., and of course it was pouring as we pulled into the station at Cordoba. We shouldered our way through the downpour to get on a bus that took us out to the Roman bridge, which we crossed to go see the cathedral. “No hats,” said the the guard as we entered.

“Ok, ” I said. “Can I have something to keep my head warm? Like a slightly stiff piece of cloth or something?” Apparently I couldn’t. But the cathedral was impressive, even more so when I got an audio guide to tell me about all of its history, being passed back and forth between Christianity and Islamic forces.

Afterward we had some “tortillas” at a place just outside the compound, though the chunks of potato were the farthest from the word “tortilla” I could think of. The pigeons liked it though.

After walking down some alleys, we chanced upon what appeared to be Roman ruins, which turned out to be home for many stray cats. Down at the riverbank, I noticed a bleating/clanging sound, and I noted to Chenbl and the others that there was a large herd of sheep charging across the opposite bank. It took a bit of convincing the others that this was actually happening, but eventually I got through, and we rushed over the bridge to observe the phenomenon.

The weather was nice and hot by the time we again crossed the Roman bridge. Tourists were everywhere. But we got on a bus back to the train station and another one to Granada. The ride was amazing, gorgeous, winding through ever more mountainous terrain with rolling fields of meticulously space olive trees and white-walled towns crowned with ancient castles and cathedrals as the sun cast longer shadows. Occasionally we would stop in a town to let someone off, the big bus maneuvering through tiny alleys with surprising alacrity. The sky was barely light by the time we pulled into the old grey bus station in Granada. A local bus ride later we were at our hotel, next to giant old city gate. It took a while, but we here now.

Heavy rain greeted us in the morning in Shanghai at the Hotel With the Mysteriously Uneven Floors. Breakfast was a meager lineup of food in metal canisters, eaten to the Australian twang of the tourists at the next table. They were complaining that they had no choice of hotel, but please, if anyone had a choice they wouldn’t choose that one. Command economy FTW.

The bus back to the airport was nicer than the one from the airport, but the scene that greeted us as we forged our way into customs was utter chaos. Immigration was insanely crowded, but the security line was a huge crowd of people stuck in what passed for a line, with Chinese people cutting in line left and right, occasionally being shouted at by the officers. Chenbl’s luggage fell over and scared a small Chinese girl, who immediately went into hysterics mode. The whole thing was the most impressive display of incompetence I’ve seen at an airport, and that, sir, is saying something.

Thankfully we’d arrived at the airport three hours ahead of schedule, so we were on time when we took the escalator downstairs from the semi-civilized airport lounges into the cattle pen that held everyone not deemed good enough to board their planes directly from the gates. A bus took us out to the tarmac and dumped us into inches of water in the pouring rain, leaving us to fend for ourselves on the way to the stairs, which weren’t even covered, though several other covered stairways stood by a little ways away, unused.

The plane was nicer at least. I watched a long series of movies as we flew over Russia’s flyover country (in this case all of it), trying to stay awake so I could defeat jetlag in Madrid. Towards the end of the flight I was nodding off, though.

Customs and immigration in Madrid were quick and easy. We met Carlos at the airport and got on the subway into town, against Carlos’ better judgement because the station near our hotel was closed. This turned out to be a bad idea, as it was raining hard in Madrid as well. The whole world, it seems lately, is undergoing a deluge of biblical proportions. Taipei, Shanghai, Madrid…it doesn’t matter where we go, it’s always soaking, sopping wet.

I wanted to go right to bed, but Chenbl had other ideas, so we all went out and walked around the neighborhood. I was dragging my feet, nodding stupidly at any inquiries made in my direction, and there was no way I could have written a journal entry, so I just passed out instead.

That was yesterday. Today we awoke early in the morning to….more heavy rain. We headed out anyway, having breakfast at a 24-hour joint across the street where they have nice donuts and ham sandwiches. Then we stopped into an old church, and then visited a large flea market where the stall owners were kept busy trying to keep the rain from collapsing their tents. A marathon was being run nearby, the police keeping things in order; one pedestrian tried to cross illegally, and was escorted by an officer right back to where he’d been.

Then we took a bus to Segovia. A nice bus, and after going through a tunnel and over some mountains, actual sun came out. We spent some time on logistical bs before making our way downtown to see the big aqueduct, and then climbing up to see the big cathedral and the castle. It was quite impressive. When the tour guide mentioned Queen Isabella giving Christopher Columbus a bunch of money for his trip, I added, “…so he could begin hundreds of years of exploitation, slavery and genocide of the indigenous peoples of the Americas.”

“The bitch,” Carlos added helpfully. The birds there have calls that sound like laser guns. Having skipped lunch, we feasted on ham and cheese with a whole damn pig before rushing back to get the bus back to Madrid. We were stuck in traffic for two hours, but I spent it asleep.

There are many more details about the day that I’ve forgotten because we’ve been rushing around and I didn’t have the chance to write them down. Just FYI, it’s that kind of vacation, so don’t expect too much from this account.

Our flight wasn’t supposed to leave until 3pm, but Chenbl had us meet up at the Airport Bus Station (aka the “Yes We Can’t Believe the Airport MRT Isn’t Ready Yet Either Station) at 10am. This, he believed, would let us take it nice and slow. He had no idea.

We got to the airport by 11am, meeting up with Ewan, Iris (one of my photography students) and Iris’s friend Ms. Shao. So there’s five of us on this trip. We had lunch at Mosburger (Ewan had Burger King), and made our way towards our gate in a leisurely fashion. I ran into Zhao Chuan, and we chatted a bit. The last time I saw him was after our last gig at Sappho, when we were both rather drunk. I honestly don’t know what is up with us constantly running into aging rock stars at airports. I suppose the odds are just better there.

We waited at our gate for the plane to Shanghai. And waited. And waited. A Chinese man who had an app on his phone said the plane hadn’t even left Shanghai yet for some reason. So we waited some more. The room filled with mainland Chinese tourists, and the volume level rose in purportion.

The man with the app left suddenly, just before the announcement was made that our gate was being changed. Apparently his app told him. Everyone rushed to the gate next door, and there we waited some more. Eventually the plane arrived, and we got on, only to wait some more. And hour went by, and I entertained myself by broadcasting live on Facebook from the plane.  Another hour went by.

We didn’t take off until after 7pm, and any chance of tooling around Shanghai that day was dashed. It was raining when we arrived in any case, and by the time we had made our way through customs and immigration (we took the Chinese line as it was much shorter than the foreigner line), found the hotel agent and the (mandated by law) decrepit van to take us to the hotel, it was near 11. Nothing was open, so we ordered some dumplings from an app on Iris’ phone.