At Monte Gordo, the train’s last stop in Portugal,
I’m the one to exit and cross the Rio Changa aboard
a quaint ferry that follows the river current sideways,
landing ten minutes later in Ayamonte,
where Spain goes to fish.
Late afternoon I hop a bus
right out of Disney, cluttered with animals
in a variety of shapes and sizes, mothers juggling
babies, bottles, and belongings, young people
with guitars and radios playing the current Latin hits.
I’m in the rear balanced on my travel-worn two-suiter,
next to a buxom woman eating garlic and blowing
a Spanish tune in my direction.
Midway to Seville the bus jerks to a stop,
tossing passengers and bags into a chaotic pile
of arms and legs, squeals, grunts, and body odors.
When I untangle myself from the mayhem, I see
our driver standing in the middle of the road shaking
his fists and screaming Spanish obscenities
at the driver of a farm wagon blocking our way,
fellow passengers easing my impatience by sharing
a variety of cheeses and delectable libations.
It is sundown when our driver returns to the bus,
makes a gesture at the farmer, grinds his gears,
weaves his lazy way along the road to Seville.
There I bid adios to new-found friends,
search the city for an inexpensive place to sleep,
settle for one of the King Alfonso hotels,
a grand old Ritz, four bucks a night.
Later I retire to sleep off my martinis.
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Regis
the radio, the 'garlic' women, the Spanish obscenities,
cursing a definite art form in Spain..
and that seen better days hotel..oh yes.
This is splendid, Gene, splendid.
John
Anna
Cheers,
Dan
Thanks Dick
The Spanish country version of a traffic jam?
I feel my nose coming alive :)
Blessings,
Christine
George
The buxom woman, lol. I don't know why but Mediterranean look super until they hit 30-ish then become right old bloaters. Growing beards faster than I can, to boot. Funny ole place is mainland south Europe.
Top write.