Of plums and beaches

Wednesday, June 13, 2007-06-13

As I promised, I’ll relate the story of Cadiz (pronounced Cadi-th) as well as a peculiar coincidence concerning plums. So what of Cadiz?
The city smelt of brine and rosemary: an addictive aroma fitting for a place supposed to be the oldest continuously inhabited city in Europe. As we wandered along its ancient pathways, we stumbled upon a cobblestone street covered with rosemary and lined with garland. A gigantic crowd of people lumbered towards us as if bewitched by the melodic and mournful songs emanating from a marching band. It was Corpus Crisiti in Cadiz, and a religious procession was underway celebrating the body of Christ. The rosemary procession was something incredible that made me wish America wasn’t so tradition less. It connected everyone in the town to this 3,000 year history, to ancient memories, Visigoths and Moors, to the Phoenicians and Romans, and farther back, more ancient… more remote. Antiquity blended with the present. All there is, all there was, happened now.

After a long observation of the procession, we entered one of two Cathedrals in the city and sprinted to the peak of highest tower. The entire city lay before us. Most of the businesses of the city were closed because of the feast day but, the beach never shut its’ doors.
We walked through a few more sights in town, none too noteworthy, and found our way to the shore. The entire day was spent half underwater with salt in my ears catching waves and half on a sandy beach towel emblazoned with “George Washington University” where I napped or read or daydreamed of possibility.
The day had no epiphanies, no drama, there was no beginnings or endings, and in all likelihood it will one day fade from my memory. The day was sunshine and quiet thoughts that pulsed like the waves that massaged this ancient seaport. It was meditative. It was beautiful.

* * * * *
A few of you – namely Z and Amy – know of the miraculous nature of the family plum tree. Years ago, my father and I planted a sapling plum. Over the years, it had grown dramatically, blossomed awesomely, but had stubbornly refused to yield any fruit. Completely forgotten, it was not until the day I left that anyone noticed the tree was awash with plums. Ironically, in a year noted for the plague killing of the bees, the plums decide to blossom.
My mom sent pictures of baskets filled to the brim. As usual, I have a theory. This was the only summer I have been absent from home since the tree has been transplanted. Sensing this, the genius of a tree furiously bore fruit, as if to lure me home. It wanted me back. To a degree, its attempt at yearning worked. The images and letters about this phenomenon of produce did make me nostalgic for home. In fact, I complained to my mother, I complained to my friends here, and I daydreamed about plums. Maybe it was the daily e-mails about plums sent to me, maybe it was because I hadn’t even tasted a plum in years… but those plums sounded like the greatest food in the world.
The next time I talked to my Senora, I told her of the beach, my weekend, and most importantly of plums (or ciruelas). She listened, she smiled, and excitedly ran to the kitchen revealing a basket full of plums. Apparently that very weekend, as she visited a friend in the countryside, a plum tree was miraculously producing more plums than it ever had before. Her friend was so awash with plums that she offered them to my Senora to take home.
So perhaps the plum tree in Texas, telepathically communicating with the plum trees of the world, pompously told of its ability to withhold fruit from its cultivator. Maybe, other plums felt bad for this person and felt it necessary to make equally magnificent plums. Maybe, this person was me and I got a taste of Texas in those plums.
Then again, another theory. Maybe because there were two cultivators for this tree – my father and I – this had some effect. Maybe, it’s mandated in some lawbook of nature that other plum trees must supplement the loss when the cultivator is absent or the the tree in question will die . Maybe, as the Alchemist says, “when you want something bad enough, the entire universe conspires to help you.”

Maybe, I got my plums after all.

Where to begin? The Finest Chocolate in the World and catered cocktails in a Moorish patio of a historic Palace? A sun-blistered beach in Cadiz (pronounced Ca-di-th by the lisping Spaniards) or a night with a time traveling Welsh-American? What of the Rosemary Procession and the ageless French students? Perhaps the beginning is the best… To those of you questioning, all reservations about Sevilla have checked out. I utterly adore this place. It took three weeks for me to become accustomed and now, my time left seems tragically short.
Beginnings. Thursday. The Palacio, our place of study that was once a fanciful palace found in the historic Jewish quarter of Sevilla. A cool summer evening, the building has been transformed in lieu of several “3 week-ers” departure. The gates open, fountains are running, caterers are catering. The bar tender freely pours wine and beer to our hearts content. Teachers stumble drunkenly, students are singing. Everyone is dressed in their finest. There are pictures and tears of farewell. First round of hour d’ervs, second, third, fourth and… now desert is hurriedly dispensed. Tiny, minuscule squares of dark fragrant happiness. The Finest Chocolate in the World. A tiny nibble leads to a gasp for air so as to dilute its finery. We – the Americans – gather around completely mesmerized by the indescribably light yet rich velvety goodness of the stuff. We questioned its origin (Swiss? Belgian?), we demanded explanations (Homemade? How expensive?) but, none seemed satisfactory. We contented ourselves with the mysterious experience of having tasted the Philospher’s Stone of chocolate, the holy grail of desert divinity.


Buzzed by more than just chocolate, someone yelled for after party celebrations. And, we found ourselves at the fateful, always American, ex patriot cervezerias and bodegas of Calle Betis in Triana. Despite the picturesque cobble stones and breathtaking old world waterfront view, one might has well been in Adams Morgan or Uptown Dallas. We proceeded to do the second most popular sport in America – next to American football of course – and bar crawl. From the Pirate bar with its red white and blue seaside aethetics to Big Bend, with its endearing Texan charm, we toasted on 1 euro beers and cheap chupitos of tequila.
Now, much more amiable, I befriended bouncers and barmaids and, most importantly, the two ageless Frenchies. Adrian and Mikel, two youths from around Paris, studying in Spanish in Sevilla for 3 months… Their appearance? Gangly boys with shining youthful eyes, completely Agreeable and more than a little bit crazy. We joked, we bought each other shots, and partied the night away. Why ageless? They appeared to be not a day above 15. However, they insisted they were their 20s. Was it just us? No. They got carded (something unimaginable in Spain) at the door of a bar. Whatever their number of years, the ambiguously aged Frenchies have been making reoccurring appearances at my nightly sojourns into the city.

***
The following day, was Cadiz? No. The sunburns on my face have blistered my memory as well. Was it Friday? No We met the ageless French on Friday… Saturday then… Yes, Saturday. Saturday was the day of we met the time traveling Welsh-American. I met up with the Frenchies at Big Bend with my dearest friend here Elise. After perhaps one tequila shot and a beer (it was a deal a beer + a shot for 1.50). The Welsh-American decided it was time to be spirited away to another time. As I was to find out, time traveling is a tiring feat to all involved. We escaped big bend and rushed beside the waterside, across bridges, through narrow streets, getting lost, finding ourselves again, frustrated French cursing, bummed cigarettes, urination on public sidewalks, and finally a gleaming club called “Jackson’s”. The ageless French, put out and exhausted by now, almost hesitate to go in. Elise and I, annoyed by the Welsh-American’s eccentricities nearly leave them for other adventures. Unmoved, the strange Welsh-American convinces us that we have indeed time traveled and inside is our final destination – the mid to late 1970s. We laugh, and go inside.
Flower prints assault us. The French are dumbfounded. Hippie print skirts, 70s disco-funk accompanied by groovy girls and black guys with afros. We saw a long haired man who could only have been Jesus and elderly people who surely were hippies themselves. These refugees from a bygone age danced as the walls of this tiny boxy bar-club spoke of free love turned 70s disco nights. And for a minimum of 30 minutes, we all stood awkwardly dumbfounded at the fact that it seemed we had indeed time traveled. After recovering from our initial shock, we proceeded to dance and drink and dance and drink and dance some more. The Frenchies went nuts. The Welsh-American creepily did an old man dance. Elise got over her fright and grooved a bit. And then it was over, 4 am and a bus to catch at 8. Elise and I had to go. Cadiz (pronounced Cadith) was tomorrow.



***
Sunday. A hour and half bus ride to the oldest continuously inhabited city in Europe. Cadiz stood broken against the seashore now, the most poverty ridden capital of the most impoverished providence in Spain. Despite this, it shown with blistering admiration for its past and how the cathedral shined and how the waves tasted of salt. All afternoon was spent bodysurfing the waves and foot races along the sea shore. Watching the tide slide into the ocean and children gossip and play. Cadiz was, well, paradise in a shining cove. Oh…. Its lunch time soon. The pictures will hopefully convey you the beauty of that place. I still have the Rosemary Procession, Plums, and the Clam to discuss, I’ll finish Cadiz another time.
Ciao.

Rosemary, Plums. The Clam