I spotted a Renault 4 parked on the road opposite (above), set against a backdrop of apartment blocks which were in a fairly decrepit, run-down state. The city, like Seville, was in another baking tray location sufficiently far inland to escape any welcome sea breezes drifting up from the Atlantic, and also like Seville it contained a combination of beautiful boulevards and contrasting grotty bits stashed around some corners. I had to sort out my travel arrangements for the following day, as realistically there was only one train I could take in order to reach Morocco at a reasonable time. Knowing by now how tedious the queueing system often was at Spanish stations, I headed off to the ticket office in Córdoba to get the business done and out of the way. Waiting to purchase my ticket was, as predicted, a lengthy affair, and I found myself pacing the station concourse for an hour. Once done, I walked back into the town, passing another of the electronic time and temperature signs which were frequently found in these parts by the roadside (above). I had seen them showing forty-three degrees celsius earlier on, and I was supposedly to feel thankful that this one was now confirming a comparitively cool forty. The conspicuous lack of excitement today seemed inexcusable. It was Saturday, but along with the prolonged hangover from Corpus Christi, the soaring temperatures were keeping most wise citizens indoors and little was happening around the city. Cafés were locked up and the only people milling around were tourists like myself. I found my way to a tapas bar that was open, sat myself down with a tomato salsa and downed a cerveza, then spent a couple of hours firing off emails to the forgotten ones at the absurdly cheap Internet facility within the hostel. By this time it was late afternoon, and expecting the evening meals served here to be equally good value, I put in an order for one. Some proper hot food would be a welcome change to my standard supermarket offerings which seldom involved cooking anything, but the cost was not as impressive as I had hoped it would be, and for the price I might as well have tried a local restaurant instead, soaking up some genuine Spanish cuisine in the process. I had rather lost my nerve a little when it came to eating out alone, and had there been anybody else similarly single in the hostel I would have been happy to suggest some shared dining experience, but the place was still unsatisfyingly quiet. As far as other activities were concerned, my Brazilian room-mate-cum-travel guide had suggested visiting the Mezquita, perhaps the most famous landmark of Córdoba and located only yards from the hostel. However, I had missed the once-weekly free entry opportunity, and it would now set me back a fair price to go inside. I knew, having already reserved my seat on the train for tomorrow morning, that there was little chance of rising at 6am and taking a whistle-stop tour of the place before heading off for the station, so now was my only chance to visit. But I was feeling financially wounded and worried that at this, the halfway point of my adventure, I may already have spent substantially more than half my budget. So I missed out on what may have been the city's star attraction and instead spent the evening, once more, reading in the courtyard. Days before leaving England I had found a novel in a charity shop which seemed a fitting companion for my voyages. It was based on the true stories of a writer who had moved with his family to Spain, and settled in amongst the local traditions in a province on the east coast. Although his middle-class perspective as a resident was at odds with my own humble tourist existence, there were many things I would read about and then witness for myself whilst in the country. Certainly the lazy pace of life in these parched regions was evident, as was the countryside with its rows of citrus groves, and the variety of the fresh local cuisine was also described in detail through the pages. There were countless references to all sorts of weird and wonderful characters and situations encountered in everyday Spanish life. I was fairly certain, however, that I never read any warnings about laying awake on a rickety, vibrating bunk bed whilst other persons openly pleasured themselves, so I had to assume that such events weren't a celebrated tradition in this part of the world. Nevertheless, I had my own small, embarrassing scene involving a room-mate still to come. During my evening in the courtyard, I again sat as a solitary figure under the stars, with only the occasional gecko climbing the walls for company. The peaceful square was also a main passage linking one side of the hostel building, but so few guests were booked in that rarely did anyone walk past. Then a lone girl strolled in and glanced across at me before sitting down at a table on the far side. She was young, attractive and probably Spanish, judging by her features. It was fairly dark, aside from the area where I sat which was lit by the glow of some vending machines, acting as a magnet to various small creatures which found this a source of fascination, but I could see her occasionally looking around at me in a shy manner. This was my opportunity, I had to seize my chance; a single female in want of some company and here I was, keen to practise my Spanish skills. I tentatively sat trying to look casual for a good fifteen minutes, exchanging the odd mildly flirtatious glance, and trying to build up enough courage within me for what would be an obvious pulling maneouvre. I had never been the greatest demonstrator of chat-up lines, or of initiating any communication with the opposite sex, but here, hundreds of miles away from home where nobody knew me, it didn't seem so daunting. It was a shame that she too wasn't a small enough creature to be enticed by the allure of my glowing surroundings, and this meant that I would have to make the first move and take my magnetic charm to her. I had sat endlessly going over all the possibilities and outcomes in my head, and then with a confident spurt, I decided to go for it and introduce myself. As I approached, she suddenly began exerting previously redundant facial muscles and eyed me with a cautious, almost frowning look, rattling my nerve somewhat. My initial enquiry as to what language she spoke had only just extracted the word español, when our fleeting acquaintance was interrupted with the worst possible outcome. My Brazilian room-mate, who I had already shared quite a few friendly conversations with, arrived at that very moment and asked the girl if she was ready to go. He looked at me with a bemused and concerned expression, wondering why I had betrayed him in deciding to chat up his girlfriend, and I edged myself away red-faced, limbs frozen and unable to muster up another word to lighten the mood. The Brazilian had never made it known previously that he was not travelling alone, and his big tease of a female partner had clearly revelled in not letting on either. It had taken me a full quarter of an hour to muse over the situation and the pros and cons of approaching the girl. If I had waited just three more seconds I would have been spared any embarrassment. I returned to my seat and the surrounding insects, and remained there with my wine and my book until after midnight, completing another six chapters about the cheerful life of Spain, and feeling that I was missing out on it. HOSTEL REPORT: Albergue Juvenil Córdoba - see day 15 |