8.23.2004
"LIFE IS LIKE A NAPKIN"
(Alejandro on how small the world is)
One day we're climbing up Ob Hill together in Antarctica and the next he's showing us around his hometown of Sevilla.
Typical Spanish breakfast at Casa Ricardo in the Bronx of Sevilla, Rocheambert: Toast with ham and olive oil, cafe con leche and orange juice. The cafe is in an early 70's-style strip mall under brown and orange awning looking out to tan brick high-rise apartments (where we are staying). The local dog, veinte y uno (21), continually asserts his dominance over the customers' dogs. This place has a real neighborhood feel, friends meeting and greeting, chatting and kissing, sharing a table. Regulars. This is decidedly NOT a tourist haunt.
It's been good seeing Alejandro's roots, his country, his home. He showed us the neighborhood he grew up in, the apartment where his mother was born, the plazas he played in, the church and school he attended.
Last night we went out Spanish style: from place to place to place until 4am. First, J-bar, a 40-year old nondescript hole-in-the-wall serving one kind of beer from one tap -- the local Cruzcampo. We drank 3 small glasses each and ate small strips of salted dried fish while Alejandro explained the origin of the term "tapas."
In the old days, when they would open a beer, they would turn the top ("tapa") over and rest it back on the mouth of the bottle to keep the flies out. To keep the top from blowing away, they would weigh it down with an olive or a small bit of ham. Hence, the birth of the tapas tradition.
From there we moved on to "La Carboneria," an old building where his grandmother used to come buy coal and oil for her lamps. Today it is a sprawling bar where we heard flamenco piano and ate "chorizo al infierno" (sausages cooked over fire at our table).
We finished the evening at a dance club called "El Teatro" (still a theatre by day). I don't know how they do this every weekend -- we were exhausted the entire next day.
(Alejandro on how small the world is)
One day we're climbing up Ob Hill together in Antarctica and the next he's showing us around his hometown of Sevilla.
Typical Spanish breakfast at Casa Ricardo in the Bronx of Sevilla, Rocheambert: Toast with ham and olive oil, cafe con leche and orange juice. The cafe is in an early 70's-style strip mall under brown and orange awning looking out to tan brick high-rise apartments (where we are staying). The local dog, veinte y uno (21), continually asserts his dominance over the customers' dogs. This place has a real neighborhood feel, friends meeting and greeting, chatting and kissing, sharing a table. Regulars. This is decidedly NOT a tourist haunt.
It's been good seeing Alejandro's roots, his country, his home. He showed us the neighborhood he grew up in, the apartment where his mother was born, the plazas he played in, the church and school he attended.
Last night we went out Spanish style: from place to place to place until 4am. First, J-bar, a 40-year old nondescript hole-in-the-wall serving one kind of beer from one tap -- the local Cruzcampo. We drank 3 small glasses each and ate small strips of salted dried fish while Alejandro explained the origin of the term "tapas."
In the old days, when they would open a beer, they would turn the top ("tapa") over and rest it back on the mouth of the bottle to keep the flies out. To keep the top from blowing away, they would weigh it down with an olive or a small bit of ham. Hence, the birth of the tapas tradition.
From there we moved on to "La Carboneria," an old building where his grandmother used to come buy coal and oil for her lamps. Today it is a sprawling bar where we heard flamenco piano and ate "chorizo al infierno" (sausages cooked over fire at our table).
We finished the evening at a dance club called "El Teatro" (still a theatre by day). I don't know how they do this every weekend -- we were exhausted the entire next day.
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