Not quite over.

I've just read the title I gave to the lost post and feel suddenly saddened by it. It's been an amazing week in many different ways and looking back on it as opposed to when I was experiencing it, if feels suddenly sad that it is over and in the past. It's distanced now, gone and I wonder if I will actually go back. Must be my mood today, feel lousy as can feel the first stages of a cold coming on and my head is fuzzy. Get a bit weepy as well when I'm ill, so this probably isn't the best time to be writing an uplifting travel blog on Cordoba and Jerez. And I should be writing about Jerez today, but I don't want that to be anything but capturing how I felt on that exact day, that Saturday, 13th of February, setting out early, before other Cordobans were up, passing strange figures dressed as cockerals and archbishops and clowns as they returned home from the train station and the first night of the festival in Cadiz. It's all the off-kilter moments that make travel, or I suppose any event special. It's who you talk to, an exchange, the sight of a figure silhouetted against the sky, of a cloud, of sun on water, of someone you don't know smiling and saying hello. Early dawn and fancy dress figures. A cold station platform and the smell of fresh coffee. Dusk and clearing away pavement tables. A man smoking a big fat cigar and looking content with the world. Of two women who speak different languages and understanding each other. These things make life and travel exciting. I'm going to stop. Today is not the day to say goodbye to Cordoba.

Cordoba coming to an end

Friday afternoon in a cold Cordoba

Maimonides (Moses ben Maimon) born in Cordoba in 1135 and died in Egypt in 1204. He was a great Jewish scholar, philosopher and physician. At the age of twenty three he fled with his family to Fez to escape religious persecution by the fanatical Almohads in al-Andalus.
I kept seeing his tempting figure trying to find the synagogue in Calle Judios. Eventually found it today, opposite the back entrance to the Courtyard of the Artisans, hidden behind a statue, through a small courtyard. It is tiny and empty. Except for a large group of Japanese tourists today. It is the only synagogue left in Cordoba. Tall and square and empty but for the inscriptions and motifs on the walls.
Apart from finding this building, I have half hunted all week for gifts to take home for my daughters. I've looked at so much jewellry, been tempted by beautiful hair combs, but very expensive. And would they wear them? The people in the shops have been very helpful and kind. The only person who I felt was slightly too helpful shall we say, was in the Courtyard of the Artisans just by the synagogue. There is a great deal of filigree around, very pretty, but we have some and it can go green if not worn regularly. Today, the right gift appeared. It was in a leather goods shop and I would definitely recommend leather as a gift. Two little bags, one dark, one light, long handles, pockets. Perfect. And the shop owner, after wrapping them, stuck little labels on them so that I called write their names and so know which was which. There was a massive old cash register on the desk. Very pleasant shopping.
Fourteen euros each.
Lunch in the little cafe in the square by the archeological museum. The tables and chairs were all piled up as it was cold. Inside, empty, but for the barman and one customer watching a bonkers show on the wall mounted television. Obviously hilarious, but lost on me. Had a slice of thick omelette and a fino. So delicious.
And the cold potato omelette, bit heavy. Like cake.

A breezy, chilly day growing colder. I would recommend gloves and a scarf. I had a scarf, but didn't think I'd need gloves. Of course, it's unusually cold this year in Cordoba, but I could have done with a pair.
I feel I belong here, winding streets, children being picked up from school, often by their fathers, grandparents, mothers, different times of day for things to happen than in England, an easy mix of young and old, new and ancient, smooth and crumbling. Crumbling doesn't mean, 'knock it down' here, it means, live in it, it's a home and the streets aren't precious, drive down them, pedestrains, get out of the way. No street too narrow, not a four wheel drive in sight. Now, in a city, doesn't that make your heart sing? Cordoba seems to have got it right. Oh, did I mention it has a communist council? I'm sure I have.

Sights

An entrance to the old town.

Friday in Cordoba

It's cold, cold, cold today. Later in the afternoon there is a brief snow flurry. This is highly unusual here. Crazy weather.
It's a day of getting jobs done. Jerez de la Frontera tomorrow (I'm getting nervous) so booked the ticket. Trenhotel on the way there, departing 7.28 (love the way these times are worked out) arriving 9.50am. Twenty-four Euros ninety-five. And on the way back, Ave Shuttle, leaving Jerez at 8.53 pm (?) and arriving back in Cordoba at 10.40. Cost Twenty four euros eighty.
This was done in a local travel agent, so booked my return train ticket to Malaga as well for Sunday. I'd looked up the time and price, Trenhotel, leaving 7.18 arriving in Malaga 8.30 am. Twenty euros eighty-five. Now watch this as the bloke booked the ticket, I didn't check it and it turned out he booked me with the massive comfy seats, which was great, but it cost thirty-three euros eighty. Just so you know and don't assume they'll ask you about the seat you want. Anyway, all done and isn't getting your tickets sorted a relief?

Had a cafe con leche (coffee with milk) and this sickly, heavy long sausage thing that's like a doughnut called a choro. The plate arrived with three actually, but I could only eat part of one of them. The coffees were good though. Had two. And the coffee place, it was up in the main shopping pedestrianised area. Called El Guido. Art deco, bar station in the middle, waiters alerted to your every whim. Mid-morning and men talking, standing, sitting, drinking anis and coffee, smoking, dealing, talking. A group talking business, some land deal being made. And amazingly, as a contact lens wearing gal, the cigarette smoke didn't bother my eyes. It didn't get under the lenses and cause havoc. Didn't bother me at all. Nor did the smell. It didn't smell of ash and greyness, but was subtle and aromatic under the coffee beans. Spaniards are ignoring the ban of smoking inside in public places and don't you love them for it? I'm not a smoker and I loved this place. Could have sat there all day, watching people, mainly men, come and go. It seemed to be the business and the friends' meeting place. I seem to be saying this a lot, don't I? "I could have stayed there all day." Maybe I should move here.
The picture at the top is in the Mezzquita. Just liked it.

Cordobans

Old road sweeper smoking a large fat cigar smilingly saying, "Hola."
Well dressed woman in her fifties, raising her sun glasses, stopping and saying, "Hola, que passer?" I said 'Hola' and we both moved on. Maybe she mistook me for someone else.
Finally, a young spanish couple asking me, in spanish, "What's down there?" and pointing down the street. I shrugged, "I'm sorry, I can't help, I'm english." Funny what we say when we have only a few words we know in another language.

The Alcazar Take Two

Lemons looking like grapefruits and oranges hang from the trees in the green of the courtyard and the aroma of citrus fills the air. Water and dappled sunshine. Peace. A hidden pool in a small stone cave, steps, ochre sandy paths, dense conifers, flat-topped, long fountains, pots of lilies, four italians cooing, "Bella, bella," and taking another photograph.
I left behind the slightly eery Royal baths, room after stone room, empty, unsettling to be alone in, underground, feeling that if the rooms continued to lead off one another, you could be lost, wandering around, forgotten, no-one knowing you were there and the lights going out. I didn't linger here. I've put them out of order. I saw them before strolling outside to the citrus filled Moorish Patio and sunshine. I lingered through the trees, stepping over fallen oranges, breathing in the scent of the air. And catching sight of flickering light on water.
And the tall cyprus trees, dark shapes against the blue sky and water, sun-kissed water. I don't want to leave here. It is so peaceful and summery warm sitting by the water soothing jets splashing down.
Light. Light bright and white and blue and green, changing as the sun hits the water and all the time, the deep green towers of solid foliage.
This place is good for the soul.