How to Not Get Robbed in Sevilla

Step One: Avoid going to Sevilla.
Step Two (Assuming you've bypassed Step One): Avoid the most touristy locations.
Step Three: If you must be a tourist, at least avoid these locations at siesta time (3-5 pm) when the only people out are tourists and thieves.
Step Four: If you must be in a touristy location at siesta time, certainly keep track of your personal belongings at all times. For instance, avoid looking away from your bag, especially if you do not have an arm through the straps (scratch that: always have an arm through your bag straps, no matter what).
Step Five: Avoid being distracted by things like seeing your boyfriend for the first time in three months.
Step Six: Enjoy the peace of mind you now have about not being robbed in Sevilla!

Of course, I did this research the hard way and, as Mom likes to say during Mini-Golf when the colorful ball narrowly misses the hole, I wuz ROBBED. (Echoes of Mom's gangster "You wuz ROBBED!" now usher forth). Patrick, the aforementioned hadn't-seen-him-in-three-months-boyfriend, and I were in the Plaza Espana around 4 pm, we were eating truffles, and some guy distracted us with some bullshit question about directions while his pal made off with my bag. I noticed immediately and Patrick took off running. I stayed behind with Patrick's stuff in near panic ("Oh shit, my wallet...oh shit, my cellphone...oh shit, my iPod...oh SHIT my passport"). A few minutes later, Patrick reappeared disheveled, bagless. Then a shout from behind him, he went off running again, and reappeared a minute later, bagful. I almost cried with joy. Did I actually cry? It's likely. Everything was in my bag except my wallet, which was something I could deal with losing (no credit cards, not much money, etc).

Patrick explained, as we, exhausted, found a bus back to Arcos (good ol' safe Arcos) that he chased the thief across extremely busy streets of traffic and hedges, shouting "Thief!!" extremely loudly all the while. When the thief dropped my unnecessarily heavy bag (thinking he'd made off with the most important thing by taking my wallet), some kind shopkeeper noticed and made sure the bag got back to Patrick.

So, Step One of How to Deal With Getting Robbed in Sevilla: Find a hero and keep him close by.

It's beginning to look a lot like...

Christmas in Arcos: Celebrations start over a month in advance. Sometime in mid-November, Patra and I wondered at the "Felices Fiestas" sign that had just been hung over the entrance to the old town. We weren't sure if we'd missed notice of a November party. But no, it was just early felicitations for the late-December holiday season.

Since then, decorations have gone up all over town, and different restaurants have sponsored parties almost every Friday and Saturday night. These parties feature flamenco singing in the streets, free anise, and bunuelos, which are little heaps of fried dough, basically doughnuts but less wholesome (seriously--they're just sizzled fat; even the smell of them gives a normally healthy person heartburn). Based on the number of these parties we've frequented, Patra and I could be said to be fanatics. Last night we went to a party in our neighborhood, one that didn't even seem connected to a restaurant. Just a neighborhood block party with someone frying dough and other people shaking tambourines in a circle, clapping hands, and chanting the Christmas songs of Arcos. We were given "hot chocolate" with our bunuelos, which had the consistency of a thick soup. Sore stomachs for all!

And although the weather has been temporate lately (usually mid 60s during the day), just as the calendar was turning over to December, a midnight thunderstorm turned into hail, which collected in small white piles in the street outside my window. I can't say I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, but it's fun to pretend...

Andalucian Christmas carols in front of an old convent

But at least I saw Africa...

The theme of my last blog has come true much too often in the past week. Immediately after I wrote the blog I went to flamenco class, expecting to, well, dance. Instead, we discussed the nature of male-female relations in Spain in the present day and what to do if we know someone who's being abused in their relationship (at first I was disappointed not to dance, but then I realized that this conversation was invaluable cultural insight). Then this week, flamenco class was replaced with drinks at a nearby bar. Also a form of cultural insight? Continuing on that flamenco-not-working-out theme, Patra and I went to Sevilla yesterday to see a show featuring Antonio "El Pipa," the teacher of the class we went to in Jerez (see "Rain, Dance"). And it was sold out. But in each of these cases there was a valuable replacement for the activity I expected to do--serious conversation and then drinks with my dirty-joke-telling flamenco classmates (all women over the age of 50), Sevilla nightlife and fabulous tapas.

I'm still looking for a lesson in my travels (travails) of today. I boarded a bus at 4:30 in Sevilla that was supposed to go through Jerez, from which I would take a bus back to Arcos. At about 6:00, I began to realize that Jerez was not in my bus driver's agenda. We went past the city, to be sure, but failed to stop anywhere nearby. The saddest part of the ride, besides the immediate knot that tied up my innards as I came to this realization, was when we passed a turnoff marked "Arcos." I tried to silently will the bus driver to take that turn, but my psychic powers of persuasion failed me. The driver had only one destination in mind: Algeciras.

Let me give you some perspective about Algeciras. Rick Steves sums it up best: "Algeciras is only worth leaving." My Lonely Planet guide describes Algeciras thus: "The major port linking Spain with Africa: an industrial town, a big fishing port and a drug smuggling centre....unattractive and polluted." Then later the guide continues: "Be alert in the port, bus terminal, and market in the evening." And where was I headed? First to the port, and then the bus terminal. In the evening. I felt not a little nauseous.

Eventually we arrived, I waited in the brighest lights of the bus terminal, calmed my nerves by talking to Patrick, then later talking to Patra and Mom, and got on a return bus to Jerez (one that would actually stop there!). In Jerez I had to catch a taxi to Arcos, which was pricey but worth it to return to my own bed and hot shower, and Arcenses singing in the streets. In general, I can't say a lot of good came out the unexpected journey south. But there were a few moments when I was on the return bus to Jerez when I looked out my window and the lights of Tangiers, Africa pierced the night sky from across the water. Africa, so close that signs in Algeciras are in Spanish and Arabic, and on board my bus I heard the music of Moroccan French mixed with Arabic and Spanish (while meanwhile the Mexican-looking man across the aisle from me was reading "For Whom the Bell Tolls" in English).

As Mom reminded me during our conversation, it can be frustrating to have plans spoilt or expectations frustrated. But in the wreckage (in this case, of my nerves and wallet), there are equally unexpected joys. And perhaps that's the lesson: the beauty present in these situations is all the more poignant.