In Transit
A personal travel blog that I created to document my thoughts on life abroad in Mexico, France, and Spain.
I am in Cadiz, in a room that is meant for two. Outside there is the sporadic banging of drums as the city's 'brotherhoods' lead Easter processions through the streets. They look alarmingly similar to the KKK (although, as I keep being reassured, they have nothing to do with them). It's nearly midnight and the processions go on.
I have had a long day of travelling. I caught the 9:30 bus to Murcia, then a BlaBlaCar to Seville, and another to my final destination, Cadiz. The first BlaBla is with driver Abraham (who has a think Murcian accent), Paula who works in film, and the eccentric Sergio. Halfway through the journey we stop at a service station which overlooks the Sierra Nevada. Despite the visible snow on the mountain tops, it is hot. As we approach Seville. Abraham announces that it's 29 degrees. This city is like a tiny radiator nestled in Andalusia. When we arrive, Sergio offers to be my temporary tour guide as I wait for my next lift to Cadiz. It's Domingo de Ramos (Palm Sunday) and the Sevillians are dressed in their finery. Shiny suits, slick hair, high heels; it looks like everyone is going to a mass wedding.
Seeing as it's 32 degrees (!) Sergio suggests a cervecita, which I readily take him up on. He has an odd kind of manic energy and I struggle to keep up as he strides through the swarthes of fancy people. After proudly showing me his Leatherman and revealing that he works as a chef on a yacht, he downs his beer and we set off again. 'Susan, let's go!' I scuttle after him.
Before we part ways, he says that there is one that that I must see in Seville. Turning a corner, an enormous cathedral appears, beneath which is a procession of hooded figures and crowds of more suited people. I haven't seen a crowd this big since Mexico City. A brass band is following them. Despite this impressive spectacle, Sergio looks vaguely annoyed and marches me away. This will seriously divert his route home. He stops a couple of young girls and asks them if they know the way to Santiago de Compostela, joking that we are pilgrims.
We continue our yomp towards my BlaBla pick-up spot, passing various landmarks. The ayuntamiento, a theatre, the bullring. At a certain bridge another mammoth procession is taking place, and rather than take a detour Sergio marches us straight through the parade, to the fury of the public. 'Perdona,' I whisper sheepishly as he drags his suitcase over people's toes. We stop to look back, and see a huge float carrying the crucifix pass over the bridge. 'Once in a lifetime,' he nods at the float. What we have just barged through is no ordinary procession.
The march continues along the riverbank and through a skatepark before we finally arrive at Plaza de Armas. After a brief farewell, he shouts back at me 'Susan! One last beer!' With 15 minutes until my BlaBla this doesn't really make sense, but there's no saying no to this man. We have another doble and a man with perfect English shows me a leaflet about the processions and the different brotherhoods. At this point I ask Sergio where he learned English. He says that he was sent to the US at age 18 because he was 'on the wrong track'. He was supposed to go for three months, but ended up staying six years. Four of those years were spent as a taxi driver in Manhattan. He says that he still remembers all the road and subway station names. Not many people can say that.