The man from Coria del Río meant Japan, of course – but I am getting ahead of myself.
In the last few years my workdays have not always been typical. Yes, most of my days usually involve meetings, and phone calls, and sitting behind a desk trying not to be sucked into the email black hole – but more and more they are atypical. Not surprisingly this started in PNG – peace marches in autonomous regions; radio shows on the edge of white sand beaches; anti-corruption workshops held under the watchful eye of government spies – all made an appearance in my work calendar. Surprisingly, however, this is now continuing in Germany – or the various other places I wind up for work. Below is a little story about a day last week that I like to call ‘My surreal Friday’.
As happens almost everywhere I go in Europe I am, once again, surrounded by people who speak a language I do not. On this particular day its Spanish, because I am in the incredibly stunning city of Seville, and my two colleagues, and our two hosts, are engaged in a rapid conversation that, to my ears, sounds equally beautiful and incomprehensible.
“They want to take us for a drink?” – my colleague poses this to me as a question, as I am clearly the only thing impeding this Friday afternoon expedition.
“Sure – why not?” I reply, a quick beer and then I can get back to our hotel and the mountain of work I have to do – maybe I can write that strategy after a quick dip in the pool – damn its hot!
My colleagues and I pile into the little hatchback as one of our hosts takes the wheel, and the other jumps on a scooter. Both men are in their fifties, and their offices – “Ten minutes from your hotel – we go?” – are 40 minutes from our hotel – deep in the industrial desert just outside the city.
This is the real Seville – or technically the next town over – not the old, achingly beautiful medieval centre that millions of tourists fall in love with every year (if you haven’t been – go immediately) – but a place full of factories, large abandoned office blocks (“Since recession the big buildings stand empty” – I am told) and empty plains and squares that swirl with the sand that has been used for centuries to make the yellow facades of the buildings and homes that line the cobbled, narrow streets of the city down the river.
We arrive at one such square – an empty bandstand stands at the centre – and the wind has kicked up the yellow dust in the blazing heat. If not for the delicious smell of fish frying nearby, and a peak of the river between the buildings, I would swear it was the Wild West. Numerous restaurants line the square – cheap metal tables and chairs sit outside, but there are no patrons (“too hot”).
I am hardly inspired, but start to head around to the front of the building – surely the river’s edge will be a pretty place for that quick drink? But instead I am ushered inside to a dimly lit taverna with a wooden bar, linoleum floor, little decoration on the walls except aging photos of matadors, and seating for roughly 14 people. Nadal’s match is playing on the television and everyone is a local – children mingling with grandparents, friends who have known each other since birth catching up on their week – laughing over plates piled high with tapas. This is the real Spain – so much so I have no idea where we even are and how I would possibly get back here – and I stick out like a sore thumb. But I love it. Immediately, I love it.
Our beers arrive and so does our first course (one of five – “Just snack, nothing, just snack”) – tomatoes in olive oil – and despite having had lunch, after the first bite, I inhale the tomatoes with a relish usually reserved for meals at restaurants that use more than two ingredients – tomatoes have never tasted this good! Of course I am unaware there is more coming – which may be why our hosts begin to chuckle when they see my delighted face, smeared with olive oil, as I leave my cutlery behind and begin picking up the tomato slices with my fingers.
Giant prawns served with rock salt, battered calamari and octopus (“squeeze lemon –you, yes”), and two plates of fried fish to be eaten off the bone (“no squeeze lemon – only for tourists” with shake of the head and heavy sigh as I reach for the wedge) soon follow, as well as two bottles of manzanilla wine, (sherry wine), and a shot of I don’t know what to finish it all off. I am full, I am a little tipsy, and I may have entered heaven.
Some of the conversation takes place without me – which I am totally fine with as there is eating to be done – but through my interpreters we discuss the tennis, the recent abdication of the Spanish King, our hosts wives and children, their friends (“10 men meet every week for lunch for 30 years – no women – if women come we maybe meet for only 30 days, not 30 years!”) and, finally, this incredulous statement is uttered “I am from Japón”.
I am sure I have misunderstood, as the man in front of me is so typically Spanish in appearance – tanned skin; dark, greying hair; full features – that “Japón” must not mean what I think it means. But, after our ‘quick drink’ we are taken for a stroll along the waterfront (I realize this is why we have come here in the first place – just so this story could be told) towards a dock, where, standing high and tall opposite, is a statue of a Japanese Samurai.
As we look out at the river, I am told that back in 1617 a Japanese delegation led by the great Samurai Hasekura Tsenenaga was sent on a diplomatic mission to Europe, and on the way to Seville, 11km from the city, they stopped in this town, at this very dock. Six of the Samurai were so enamoured with the place that they decided to stay, and now 7000 residents of Coria del Río can trace their ancestry back to Japan – they have even been invited by the Japanese Government to visit one day (“my wife – she no like to fly – so I never go. I love my wife, I am a good husband, so I never go”).
My mind is seriously blown – the food, the wine, the fierce heat – have they all converged so I am hallucinating? We are not yet at Kafka-esque territory, but if a man in a bunny suit appeared I wouldn’t be surprised. But, as we crowd in front of the statue to take a photo – with my belly full, and my mind reeling – I look out at the river, and at my smiling and gracious hosts, and think ‘every Friday should be like this’.
(Have you ever found something completely out of place in its surroundings? Or had your own surreal Friday? Share it below.)
Tales of an awkward (and clumsy) adventurer 