By the time I drove the rented car back into the streets of Seville, more than anything else we were feeling like zombies from the long drive back from Tangier, and from the never-ending day’s events. After finding a spot on the far end of the underground parking, we walked to and entered the staircase in
the middle of the lot. We lumbered up the three levels of stairs, and upon reaching the exit to the street level we pushed ourselves out
into the cold night of Seville.
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| our rented car... |
Looking more like the walking dead, we commenced
the long walk back to our hotel.
During the day, the promenade in the square had been lined with horse-driven
carriages—the horses stomping their hooves from time to time and shaking their tails, snorting or
neighing as they tried unsuccessfully to rid themselves of the pesky flies, while the
drivers chatted away as they waited for riders.
Now the area was dead to the world, and the entire city of Seville
seemed to be wrapped in a cloak of creamy golden honey—its denizens nicely tucked away
somewhere and fast asleep.
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| The way to the hotel... |
As we neared the Cathedral, I was awakened from my poetic
musings of a sleepy Seville. A group of about five individuals suddenly came
into view only a couple of yards away on our side of the street.
The group appeared to be huddled around the same ATM that we had used earlier that day.
“Too
late to cross the street or pretend like we didn’t see them,” I said to Emily in a
low voice. “It might send the wrong
message.”
Before we realized it, the group was deliberately walking toward us!
“What now!” I thought aloud.
Judging from their hand gestures, we deduced that the group
needed help using the ATM.
Not good! I thought.
Coming from the New York City area, I was
leery about even giving them the time of day. I’d heard all the stories of street con-artists—how they lure people
into their games, then steal them blind. During our travels throughout Europe, we’d experienced
several negative encounters with the gypsies.
Like the time a group of females tried to pry Vic’s video camera
off my hands at a McDonald’s in Madrid.
They didn’t get Vic’s camera that time, but one of them managed to take
off with Vic's lunch of Mac and fries.
That night in Seville, I would have gladly given these nightwalkers a Big Mac and fries each. But this
time we were not in a fast food restaurant surrounded by decent patrons, and
there was no security guard to come to our aid like the case in Madrid. Rather than take a chance, especially where it
concerned my sweet Emily, I determined beforehand to have as little contact with these
children of the night as possible, without trying to appear rude. God forbid I should risk getting anyone angry
and make things worse! A very delicate
balancing act at that, I surmised.
One of the men approached us.
When he spoke to us, it sounded like bad Spanish. One language I was comfortable in and familiar
with, was Spanish—I immediately deduced that his accent was not Spanish. Then again, they could’ve been gypsies and I wouldn’t have known the difference.
They could have been any nationality for that matter. Probably tourists, I thought. But again I was not about to take
chances. In my mind, I saw only a
bunch of con-artists trying to con us at 3:30 in the morning, just as they had tried to do in Paris
and Madrid during the day.
The old saying, “Never let them
see you sweat” came to my mind.
“Emily, don’t say a word. Let me take care of this, okay?” I whispered to my daughter.
Then, without so
much as a blink of the eye, I addressed the group, “We’re sorry, but we can’t
help you.”
With that, I turned away from the man and
proceeded to hurry Emily and myself along, all the while praying that these
people were not evil and would not hurt us.
We quickly picked up
the pace and walked hurriedly in the direction of the Cathedral and toward the maze
of back streets and alleyways that lead to our hotel—there was no other place to go but to our hotel. Everything was closed at that God-forsaken hour—I'm guessing even the Cathedral. We were still at least a half-mile away
from our hotel. As we passed the popular
café where we’d had tapas and Rioja the night before, I prayed that we were
not being followed. Neither of us dared
to look back. My mission was to get us back to the hotel safely in the shortest time possible.
“Why would they be trying to get cash at such an un-Godly hour of the
night? Nothing’s opened for business at this time. That’s not a good sign. It might have been a front, to see if we fell
for it,” I ramble on, as we continued rapidly along the maze of alleys.
The Petit Paris sign finally came into view—it was at least a good half-block
away! And we still had no desire to
look back to check if we were being followed.
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| Seville at night.... |
When we finally reached the front door of
the hotel, we were faced with yet another hurdle!—God forbid the ‘vampires’ had been following us, we would’ve been at their mercy! The thick-glass double doors were locked, and
the night clerk on duty was nowhere to be seen.
After what seemed like an
eternity of ringing the bell and banging on the doors, a half-asleep hotel clerk finally emerged from a back room to let us inside.
Without a doubt, I was certain that our guardian angel was watching over us that night!
After some reflection and a prayer of gratitude to God for sparing our lives that night, tucked in our beds in the safety of our room, sleep was all our bodies yearned for!
The next day we returned our Mercedes-Benz, and hopped on the train to Barcelona.
Your comments are always welcomed.
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| our comfy hotel room at the Petit Paris |
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| at the car rental return..... |
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| on the way to Tangier.... |
