The River Guadalquivir

Vastly stretching cold milky coffee of a river, wide between the two sides of the city that the Romans first entered. Every time a road is dug up, or a pavement or the authorities want to set up a market place or a new building, then they find roman remains that they have to excavate and exhibit. So cranes and builders and old and tourists combine.
On a sunny, breezy February day, two London tourists, seeing me alone, took my photo. I took photos of the swirling, wide river and the cranes and old town. A good day.
And a man, born in a village near Cordoba came with his family to the city when he was still young. They told him he was too shy, he should talk to people, be a man. So he went, aged 19, to Madrid to make something of himself. He came home after a month and they said, "Why have you come back? You will never make it in this world, you are too puny, too scared, go back to Madird and show you are a man."
He didn't go back to Madrid because he didn't want to. Instead, he travelled the world to prove he was a man. In Australia, he tried out for a football team, because he was a good, fast player, but the english coach chose someone else. He married, had a daughter and travelled again, ending up in Reno, America. He travelled down the coast playing flamenco guitar. He married, had a son and left when it fell apart. He came back, working for the navy, to Cordoba. And he'd spent the morning playing flamenco with friends and was going to the cinema that evening. He was called Angel.

The Roman Bridge seems to be a place that people stroll from the far side of the river and back, in groups, talking so loudly you think they are arguing. And the river, fawn, beige, flowing vast and wide.