Several mishaps brought me some more delay in Seville, although not on the epic scale as my knee misfortunes had done. This time it was the weather that went berserk and the city was sweltering in the high thirties, some said even low fourties. To see how I would cope with this heat I set out for Italica, an archeological site 8 km out of the city, during the middle of the day, and it nearly killed me. Helped by some digestive problems, which alarmed me, but didn’t stop me from going, I suffered from heat exhaustion to the point of hyperventilation and tingelating hands and arms. Back at the hostel, I got to bed and stayed there till the next day. From then on I spent more time in the Museum de Bellas Artes, which was housed in a nicely cool building.
In Triana, a Sevillean neighbourhood, I found a bike-shop that had the special Rohloff oil that I needed for my bicycle and for money they were willing to change it for me. On the way back I somersaulted with my bicycle when a downhill ramp suddenly turned into bike unfriendly stairs, a metamorphosis I noticed too late. I pulled the brakes and much to my surprise my bike pivoted over the front wheel. When I got up, my left shoulder was sore and I had a few bruises on my right leg. The bike was fine.
Because quite a few attractions were for free on mondays, I did most of my sight-seeing on that day. The Alcazar, the bullfight ring and the Torre del Oro.
The excursion at the bullring I found disappointing.
The Alcazar was not built by the Moors, but a king who happenend to like Moorish architecture. It was still nice, though it felt a bit like Disneyland. The Torre del Oro housed a small naval museum and had some fine maps on display. Maps to me are more exciting than bulls…
My last day in Seville, I spent the night on the roof for free because the hostel was fully booked. It was better than the night before when I had shared a four bed dorm with three Canadian teenage girls. That sounds nice, but all they did was occupying the bathroom for hours on end. The roof I shared with a hippy style Romanian and a Senegalese handyman who did odd jobs at the hostel. The Romanian was a street artist and walked around the city impersonating Jesus, with a huge wooden cross on his shoulders. The Senegalese was a bright young man who had come to Europe and was utterly surprised that, despite record high unemployment, everywhere there was work to be found, but most of the workers were Africans and Romanians.