Sevilla - nice to Sevilla, to Sevilla nice

I bought my ticket at Malaga station and boarded the train for Sevilla. As I sat down I began to look forward to the journey ahead. That was until a young lady sat down opposite and proceeded to munch and gnaw her way through various items of food that made me feel a little uncomfortable. It sounded disgusting.

My response was to raise a Spanish newspaper to my face and do my best to ignore the grazing that was occurring over the table.

When in England I like to read Spanish newspapers, if only to show off my ability to understand the language. However, this can prove to be a mistake on Spanish soil as it can give the impression that you are a fluent native. My immediate response is always a "Si, si, claro" as this tends to fend off most on-comers, leaving them with the belief that you understand exactly what they said. Trouble is, occasionally they have asked you whether you can be the Matador for this evening's bull-fight and you have respondend, "Yes, yes, of course".

Anyway, I arrived in Sevilla and decided to walk into town in search of a place to stay. I find this (walking) beats the bus, unless it is raining, in three important ways: Firstly, you save yourself a much needed euro or two for tapas and beer. Secondly, you get to see a lot of the town. Finally, you can also explore more hostals.

As I walked towards the centre of town I was instantly enchanted by its twisty, turny streets and immediate warmth that the old buildings emitted. Spain has many cities where there is an old town separated from the rest of the city that gives you a feeling that you are on an island, and I like it.

Once in the centre of town I marvelled at the cathedral and found myself a hostal. Of course the process of finding somewhere to stay was not as clear-cut as this. I had the usual enquiries: walking into one hostal, finding out it was 100 euros a night and saying to the receptionist "Ok. Thanks. I might be back soon" when there is more chance of me becoming fluent in Spanish than me returning at that price. Then entering a hostal asking how much and the price came tumbling down with every indecisive word I muttered hoping that it might eventually be free.

Just to let you know this is the basic template of any hostal bargaining situation that can occur in many parts of the world, including Spain:

Me: "Hola" (always start with a Spanish word in the forlorn hope you might get the locals' price but then that goes out of the window as the conversation reaches a more complex level and the receptionist instantly realises you are an ignorant tourist)

Hotel: "Hello, sir"

Me: "How much is it for a room or a dorm bed for one person?"

Hotel: "Well, we have a special room which is 50 euros per person"

Me: "Do you have a room that is not special?"

Hotel: "Yes."

Me: "And how much is that?"

Hotel: "50 euros"

Me: "Err... Ok... Thanks... I might..."

Hotel: "Ha ha ha. Hold on. I was just joking. A little joke. Sorry. 40 euros is the price."

Me: "Err..."

Hotel: "It has a tv, shower and many things. Very good price"

Me: "Err..."

Hotel: "Ok. I make a special price for you. 25 Euros."

This indeed is a good price but when I found the Hostal Nuevo Suizo for 11 euros it was no contest.

Anyway, there are many wonderful things about Sevilla that are immediately apparent but it does fall a little short when it comes to food. It is not easy to find good tapas or paella. In fact, putting it another way, it is easy to find bad tapas and paella.

There is one exception to that, Taberna Coloniales Catedral, and I would implore anyone to go there as it is fantastic.

It was head and shoulders above anywhere else in town and this was perfectly illustrated by the fact it was packed to the rafters while all the other restaurants were empty. There was a 30 minute wait for a table but it would prove to be well worth it.

As I waited, I noticed they had a funny system set up to decide who would be next to acquire a table. It seemed about as complicated as a World Cup draw but somehow it worked.

There was a list of names on this whiteboard and occasionally a name from it would be shouted out. Then it would be crossed off once the person/s had accepted the invitation. A few minutes later the next one on the list would be called when a table became available.

It seemed to make sense until I noticed there was no particular order to it and that some would immediately be propelled to the front of the queue for no apparent reason.

Then I made up my own mind as to how it worked, if you had an amusing name then you were a sure-fire bet to get a table quickly, hence Mr P.Nesshead came quickly. Then there was a guy called Jesus, he didn't wait long either, I guess he might get cross if he wasn't dealt with rapidly.

I also tried Churros while I was in Sevilla. Churros are similar to doughnuts and a bit of a Spanish must-try delicacy, best eaten with hot chocolate.

Nevertheless, you have to be careful when you eat them. I approached one eatery at around 2pm and asked for them having seen the word 'Churros' emblazoned in the restaurant window. At this point a local nudged me and said: "You're too late." To which I replied: "But I saw some people eating them yesterday at around tea-time, as it was getting dark." I said this quite confidently and thought there was no possible way that my newly acquainted friend could get out of that one. "Ah", she replied. "You are can eat them then, as well."

So, basically, I was too late for Churros, and too early for them. Strange but funny. I waited until 5pm and had some then. I later discovered 'Churros Time' was breakfast or late afternoon. So don't you dare try to order them at any other time.

The best thing I could say about Sevilla was it became the town on my trip that I kept promising to leave but kept saying "Oh, just one more day."

However, eventually I did leave, but in the certainty that I would be back again one day.

Malaga - try before you buy

I slept through the entire flight from London which was a blessing. Well, i say entire, I did manage to catch the descent from the skies. As we came down, I noticed blistering sunshine, crystallised on the sea. Anyway, I digress, as we came over the sea I kept thinking 'where's the land?' We were declining towards the ground, yet there was no sign of any greenery or tarmac. Was this an emergency landing like we all saw in the Hudson at the beginning of the year. I remember watching those survivors on the wing of the plane as it sat there in the Hudson and I was pleased I wasn't one of them due to my inability to swim. Imagine that. Your pilot had masterfully saved your life, only for it to end all in tears with you drowning while your fellow passengers swam to safety.

I realise I'm digressing once more so back to the story. At times like these I always glance (stare) the air hosts and hostesses to see their reaction to events. If they're panicking then you know you're in trouble and it is time for you to do likewise. However, they were calm. But what if they were wrong? Whilst processing these thoughts, I felt a thud and then another that indicated we were landing... on dry land.

The smile of relief was soon wiped off my face by what followed. Clapping. I hate it. One of my bug-bears and I can't understand it.

I'm not a nervous flyer by definition and I always tell people that I'm not bothered by flying but moments like these and the sweat on the palms of my hands suggest otherwise.

Anyway, if you're still with me and didn't find my 500 words just describing my arrival, which actually occurred in less time that it takes to read about it, then let's move on.

Despite the sunshine it was bitterly cold due to the blustery wind. I wasn't disappointed by this as I expected it to be a little on the chilly side. It is nearly Christmas, after all.

I plumped for the Hostal Costa Rica. I can be of the superstitious variety so I thought this would be a sound choice given my familiarity with the aforementioned country. Not only that, it would undoubtedly be owned or managed by people from the Central American state.

I was wrong on all counts but it seemed a bargain at just 20 euros per night for a private room.

Wrong again. I realised I had hired a fridge, not a room. A sizeable fridge, it had a bed and a sink, but a fridge nevertheless. In fact, a fridge could have been a tad warmer in comparison. Ah, but there was a window ajar so I immediately closed it in the forlorn belief that my cooler would magically turn into an oven. It didn't.

I slept well, despite the chill. Mind you, I wore as many clothes as I could without feeling uncomfortable. That meant two jackets, shoes and gloves, as well as the other general outdoor-wear.

As for the town itself, it was nice. The central, pedestrian only streets and alleys were pleasant. I became especially fond of one restaurant, in particular. It was called 'Gorki' which I also found cute. I stumbled across it quite by chance as I had previously been a patron of the restaurant opposite. This respective eatery had advertised a croissant and a coffee for less than three euros. Job done, or so I thought.

I sat there for nearly half an hour, without even a look from any of the waiters. I hadn't showered for a day and a half and this may have perturbed them from serving me.

You may ask why I wasn't pro-active in my search for a waiter. Well, I was in holiday mode and not flustered in the slightest by their inactivity.

I trotted across to Gorki when I realised my custom would be better appreciated elsewhere. And it was. Excellent service ensued and I received an extremely tasty Cheese and bacon baguette. This sandwich won the day after narrowly edging out the lasagne, despite the Italian dish appearing attractively on the adjacent table as two people divulged this wonderful looking meal.

I loved the way the lasagne was not just any lasagne. No. This was a Gorki lasagne. trouble was, at this stage I was not aware of the restaurant's name and promptly asked a waiter what the Gorki bit meant, thinking that it was a local term meaning chicken or vegetarian. 'Well... er... it's lasagne.' The waiter was as bewildered by my question as I was by his answer.

Nevertheless, I departed a contented man. So much so I returned later that day for the 'Gorki Lasagne'. It was then I noticed how everything on the menu was prefixed with by the term 'Gorki'.

My experience, much like the lasagne, was not as pleasurable as it had appeared earlier. The staff were not so welcoming second time round, perhaps insulted by my 26 cent tip I had left them before. Once a backpacker, always a backpacker. Still, I more than doubled that tip on my second visit. They made a slight error on the bill in my favour and I thought it only right that someone else should benefit.

I was so self-satisfied with my own generosity I began to amuse myself by observing (and judging) other people.

On one table there was an attractive lady chatting amorously with her companion, who I could only see from behind. I could tell he was an older man by a significant bald patch on the back of his head. This was interspersed with slicked back hair in that way that older, richer, manner that Spanish men do. Still managing to tan the bald patch in unison to the skin on the rest of his face. I knew this when he eventually showed his face as he headed of to the gents. His female accompaniment nodded and smiled as she agreed to everything he uttered, particularly when he suggested he would pay the bill. They went home together.

On another table there were two mediocre looking women. I studied them for a while and they never once glanced in my direction. Lesbians.

Finally, I became entranced by the most fascinating table of them all. Two men in their late 50s or early 60s enjoying each other's company almost as much as their brandy and cigars. They looked as cool as I want to look as they smoked their Cubans and drank their liquor from those marvellous bowls that they serve brandy in. Whenever I try to imitate this behaviour I just get bits of tobacco in my mouth having snipped off the end amateurishly and struggle to take two sips from the brandy as I find the drink repulsive. These cool dudes sipped and smoked like they were enjoying it. Cooler than Hannibal (the one from the A-Team, not the cannibal or the one with elephants).

Afterwards, I went for a wander. I noticed many hostels and hotels. Occasionally I would stop and enquire how much or how nice they were. I wasn't going to change from my previous commitment as I had already paid up front. A pointless exercise you may think but it was made worthwhile when I found one hostel that seemed very nice and at a reasonable price. Then I shared a lift with a Bulgarian who promptly advised me not to stay there. 'Too cold', she muttered. Thank goodness my abode wasn't the only one.

The next day I saw one hotel that looked very attractive, and warm. It appeared expensive but I thought I'd check it out, all the same. As I entered the man on reception finished his conversation and put down the phone. As he looked at me with baited breath, I realised I was in a shop that sold doors and was lulled by the sense of warmth that the shiny timber emitted.

I quickly left before even a word had been exchanged with my tail well and truly between my legs.

I was so dejected I decided to cheer myself up with bag of freshly made crisps. As I petulantly reached across to try one as she was filling my up my bag, I managed to knock it over, emptying the bag of crisps all over the till. 'Puta!' I exclaimed. As the word spilled out of my mouth just like the delicacy had done moments earlier I realised the embarrassment my expletive had caused. The kind girl refilled my bag and I reciprocated her kindness by getting the next train out of town.

What a lucky Basque-ard!

'Hijo de puta!' (son of a bitch) he shouted as he was almost apoplectic with rage. As the man climbed out of the car, he shouted with incredulous rage at the almost tearful bus driver. But could you blame him for his red rack to a bull reaction (pun intended)? He had just witnessed a bus career straight into the back of the car he was in and he was venting his frustration due to the fact that his young child was next to him...

Only problem was, the bus did not exactly 'career' into the back of the car. It merely kissed it. Barely scratched it.

Carnage had ensued and the whole town of San Sebastian had come to a standstill. I decided it would be quicker (and possibly safer) to alight at this involuntary stop. Bienvenido to the Basque Country!

I would not call this a bad experience, not at all. Quite amusing really. Particularly when, in the midst of his bull-like rage, the angry Spaniard could not untangle his trailing foot from the seat belt he had been wearing as he exited the car. He was almost willing to leave his leg behind as a a sacrifice, he was that pissed off.

Still, a great place to explore and my mirth would not end with other people's travel fury.

As you walk around the streets of the old town, do not be surprised to see trickles of fluid passing through the cobbled streets. No doubt some spilt beer, was my first reaction. However, I would later discover many children with their clothes hauled down by rushing parents, eager for their offspring to unleash the latest amount of piss from within. That explained the wet ground when it had not rained here in weeks.

Still, if at any stage you happen to have the misfortune of loose urine splashing up onto your leg then fear not- there is help at hand because there are sure to be plenty of tissues lying around. The locals and the tourists (I'm not quite sure which is which as 99% of the tourists seem to be Spanish too) are never slow in tossing a used tissue onto the floor.

Remarkably, though, San Sebastian is a clean place. The loose tissues keeping the cleaning men busy throughout the day but they are diligent.

How would you know you were in Spain did i hear you say? Well, a quick glance at the number of Chrissy Waddle style mullets would soon tell you exactly which part of the world you are in. However, I will say this- they can't half make the mullet look very cool!

A slightly less cool trait is the locals do have a penchant for spitting. Adults and children alike are, almost, encouraged to empty the contents of their mouth whenever they so choose. Sometimes it seems like they are in competition with each other, both for frequency, volume and distance.

Finally, when buying a postcard you will have to buy your stamp separately. Bit of a bummer this, I know, but you soon get used to it. However, don't try looking for a stamp between two and four in the afternoon as the only place you can buy them is a tobacconist and, you guessed it, they are closed for a couple of hours every afternoon. Buy a postcard, sure, but how dare you have the cheek to want to send it mid-afternoon when the rest of San sebastian want to... well... rest!

Still, great sunset, great food, great place. Beats Margate any day.