Cordoba, Spain
After a pair days' rest at home in Madrid, I headed off again in a southerly direction. I took a bus through the luscious Adalucian countryside to Cordoba on the Wednesday before Easter. Getting from the bus caste to my hostel proved to be a nightmare: I was supposed to take a certain bus, Bus 3, to the city center; but unbeknownst to me, it had been rerouted due to pre-Easter celebrations. When it definitely became apparent that the bus was simply not going to arrive at the plaza I had been told to expect, I got out and hailed a cab. I was becoming more and more anxious, as I had been told my hostel locked its doors on people arriving significantly later than the confirmation-in time they had originally specified. The cab driver told me there was no way he could get near the place where I was staying, because of the processions, and dropped me off several blocks away. It would have been an straightforward ten minute walk, had the streets not been incredibly congested with processions and spectators (I'll elaborate more on the processions themselves in a bit). I made my sadly slow way through the crowds, dragging my suitcase behind me and earning lots of dirty looks from people who thought I was straight trying to get a better viewing spot. "Perdona, perdona," I muttered. When I finally arrived at what I contemplation was my hostel, I nearly collapsed when told that the hostel had no record of my reservation. It turned out that there were two hostels in the area with nearly the same names. I hurriedly made my way to the other hostel and received my bed and key very shortly before it closed up for the evening. This all would have been kind of fun if it hadn't been so very stressful.
When I walked out the next morning, I found Cordoba to be a surprisingly ravishing place, with myriad fountains, unexpected little gardens and courtyards, twisty alleys, and rough cobblestones in geometric patterns. I vomit up a good bit of time just wandering around, past the river and the beautiful...
Trasportata infine a Parigi, in una solenne processione penitenziale, il re a piedi nudi e vestito da penitente consegna la Corona all'arcivescovo.
