Huelva, the back streets

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Everything for a Reason

Freshly back in the hood of orange blossoms and no-work mentality, our ears still suffering from bomb shock, we have to start being dilligent right away: the first exam is upon is. That means we have to start studying. A lot. Yup, it's not all la vida loca down in the south. Did we mention we are bearly able to speak Spanish yet?
Besides, on our way back from the Estacion de Sevilla to the street where we lived we got ripped off proper tourist style, having to pay 18 euros for a ride we paid 7 euros for the previous trip. So, who really wants to learn how to speak the language of such vile, old and polluted and disagreeable latin farts?

We do.
But, not because we want to - at this moment - but because we have to. We feverishly jump in, unwillingly, for the sirens of the city are calling and being cooped up in our Triana cage. . . not so much fun. Well, half of us end up jumping in feverishly. The other party ends up gallivanting with a certain latin stukkie.

Day of, silence looms over our heads like a gloomy haze. We sip our morning coffee in the quiet. Our walk to the school: silent. We enter the classroom and merely give our alma mater a nodd of the heads. The morning proceeds in utter seriousness; everyone trying to cram a few more verbs into their heads.

And then It is placed in front of us. And It doesn't look so bad. It actually turns out to be pretty do-able.
And you step outside and the rest of the people aren't wearing a fat smile like you are and you know: shit. It was actually an epic fail. You just seemed to some how be the one to miss out on that detail.

Ah well, we team up and all go and try to find the right answers in big glasses of Limoncello in our favourite little bar and profoundly discuss matters of the world in a language that we do know. We make a pit stop at our Triana palace for a budget meal of tuna pasta and a quick (2 hour) siesta. Back on the streets,we meet up with the gang for a stroll and stumble across a breathtaking shisha bar. It was like something from a Morrocan cult movie, set in the 1930's about the Spanish mafia hanging out and playing cards, where everyone talks in code and sips mata - if there where to be a movie like that, of course. Complete with sweet-smelling smoke dancing through the air, authentic lamps, hand carved, dark wooden tables and cushions that call each and everyone that walks through the door's individual name.
We end up with two human sized hookahs: one filled with aniseed liqueur and apple molasses; the other, good old water and orange flavour.

In an instant, our love affair with this place continues. Who could be so utterly vile to call them silly farts?

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