Don't Go Hungry in Tbilisi's Old Town

The courtyard at Ezo, our end destination

April 20, 2017
 
We met our guide, Kristo, near the Sioni Church in old town Tbilisi. The church is the oldest church in Tbilisi—a church dates to this site from the 300s, the current church from sometime in the 1700s—and the most important to the city. From here, we could look up into the hills and see the statue of the Mother of Tbilisi on the ridge-line holding out her grapes for guests in one hand and a sword in the other—for unwelcome guests?—the white marble of the statue glowing in the sunshine. We were ready for our Tbilisi food tour with Culinary Backstreets, ready to eat Georgian breads and sweets and dumplings and to drink Georgian wines and their native grappa liquor called chacha.

 Kristo first brought us to a bakery near the church, down a stairway with only a small sign to mark the way, and only in Georgian script which is to our eyes indecipherable. We entered a basement to the yeasty smell of baking bread. Kristo explained that Georgians don’t really eat what we consider breakfast food in the West, but will usually only have some bread and maybe some matsoni, or Georgian yogurt. Behind the counter, a baker stood over a cylindrical oven watching the bread bake. Seeing us, he came over and opened the counter so we could come back and look at the oven. He demonstrated how they stick the dough to the side of the hot oven and used a long hook to pull out the bread as it finished baking.

We took a loaf of bread to try. It was good with a crisp crust and light flaky interior, salty and yeasty. Next, Kristo took us to a small shop attached to the church where they sold homemade foods: honeys and churchkhela, the Georgian treat of walnuts dipped in grape juice and dried to a candy—Kristo called this the Georgian Snickers bar. They even sold homemade chacha. We were looking for matsoni, but on this day they were out, so Kristo asked for the Georgian version of cottage cheese topped with some sour cream and honey and a string of churchkhela, and we went outside and sat on a stone ledge to eat with the sun shining and the bees buzzing around the flowers in the lilac bushes nearby.

Table of churchkhela at the Deserters Bazaar

All the food was delicious; we ate some more bread and our little cups of cottage cheese and Kristo explained to us how Georgians traditionally shop for food. They have grocery stores now, and we would later go to the Deserters’ Bazaar which is the main market, but in Georgia, buying good quality food is largely about who you know, about relationships that often go back generations. So Kristo’s grandparents would buy large containers of matsoni from their supplier every week, exchanging containers, and this would be their breakfast when they had it. She said matsoni especially was the super food that leads Georgians to live long lives. Hearing so much about the matsoni, it was a shame not to get to try some. I imagined a thick, Greek yogurt, a little sour but creamy and maybe lightly sweetened with some natural Georgian honey—some of the best honey in the world—from one of the unmarked plastic jars in the little shop by the church we had just visited.

Often the tastiest of foods have no name and no recipe. They are passed down through time, through generations, over the course of hundreds of years until nobody understands anymore why something is done a certain way, only that it must be done that way and is better for it. I had this sense of Georgian cuisine. They claim to be the birthplace of wine and have in fact proved wine to have been produced in the country for 8000 years—this is even advertised at immigration control in the Tbilisi airport. They still make wine in Georgia in clay pots buried in the ground as they always have. Small-scale agriculture still exists in the country—they are just now waking to the potentials of agro-tourism—and almost everybody owns a small plot of grapes they harvest and some walnut trees.

Kristo is more in tune with the current state of Georgian agriculture than most. She owns an organic restaurant in the city—the restaurant is called Ezo—that gets supplied largely through small farmers from the different regions of Georgia. It’s a very exciting project. They even have their own farm now and hope to start stocking their own produce soon, and they host a farmer’s market at the restaurant every week with the extra produce they don’t need for the restaurant.

The flavors of Georgia at the Deserters' Bazaar

From the church, we caught a cab to take us to the Deserters’ Bazaar, the main market in central Tbilisi, where farmers come and set up stands to sell their produce. The bazaar was quieter than usual this day because we were less than a week after Easter and all of Georgia had been feasting for the past few days; but Kristo was able to show us how most people set up their stalls on the outside of the market because the new building charges such high rents. We tried some spices: coriander and Georgian red pepper; and then we took a quick walk around the echoing interior where vendors tried to sell us fruit straight off the trucks from Turkey. In the next building we tasted some Georgian cheeses and dried fruit leather—like fruit roll-ups, made from fresh grape juice dried in a thin layer under the hot summer sun.

The market was interesting, but more of a curiosity: something to see because we must. But now we caught another cab to drive us back into town. The time had come for the real eating on our food quest. We were off in search of khinkali, or Georgian dumplings.

For those who have tried them, khinkali are one of the world’s wonders, filled with a tasty broth and succulent meat and flavored with the tastes of Georgia: coriander and tarragon, some red pepper and caraway seed. The dumplings are shaped by folding the dough together to form a handle, which is then put to use when eating.. Because there is a proper way to eat khinkali—first you pick up the dumpling by the handle or khvost as they call it in Russian—the “tail”; then, you take a bite from the rounded edge of one side of the dumpling to make a small hole from which you drink all the delicious broth before nibbling up the rest of the dumpling. It is a food as fun to eat as it is tasty and one of the highlights of Georgian cuisine.

At Zakhar Zakharich we ordered a plate of pickled vegetables, including jonjoli, a flower of a native bush that is one of the few edible flowers in the world. It had a tangy taste, made more so by the pickling process. We also ordered a plate of mixed herbs we were instructed to eat separate with a pinch of salt, and four different varieties of khinkali; also Nabeghlavi, a Georgian mineral water less well-known than Borjomi but, we were assured, better, and a couple shots of chacha. The varieties of khinkali were cheese, wild mushroom, lamb, and minced meat, and the wild mushroom was especially good. We came back the next night for more. We drank the chacha with a second lamb khinkali and left the restaurant with a nice buzz on our way to a Georgian wine tasting.

We walked from Zakhar Zakharich, holding our jackets in the afternoon heat, up to the Dry Bridge over the restaurant and through a flea market of historical knickknacks, amber necklaces, random oddments of kitchenware, and toys—relics of childhoods past. Through another park, booksellers lined the sidewalks and talked with people passing by. Up through the old town, we stopped at new restaurant Kristo has just opened, a wine bar with an open grill set up in a large room at the end of a stairway. The restaurant was cluttered as they were still working on setting things up with drills and pieces scattered just inside the door.

We continued on around another corner, down a side street on the edge of a construction site, stopping before a red door on an old stone building that said in hand drawn letters, “Vino Underground.” We went down the stairs to a large stone vault: an old wine cellar. Inside the air was cool and musty, and I put back on my jacket. We tried seven different varieties of Georgian wines, from crisp dry whites, to golden ambers, finishing with the famous Saperavi, a deep viscous red heavy on tobacco notes and the char of grilled meat.

The cellar at Vino Underground

We talked about Tbilisi and Georgia—where we should go during the rest of our trip. We talked about the wines. They were all delightful, all unique—in some we swore we could taste the clay notes from the pots used in the fermentation process. They ferment some white varieties with the skins, creating golden amber wines with robust flavor. Georgian wine is difficult to find outside of the country; though they have many producers and many different varieties they do not produce enough wine for mass export. Georgia remains a small country; a country that likes to drink its wine rather than ship it off to distant ports. For this reason, the only way to get an authentic tasting of Georgian wines is to visit, and Vino Underground is a good place to start. We determined to come back and purchase our favorite bottles before the end of our trip.

Some Georgian whites, both unique and delicious

To finish the tour, Kristo brought us to her restaurant in a courtyard set amidst a historic Tbilisi neighborhood: streets of dilapidated buildings with grand doorways and large glass windows set in ornate frames. Ezo is actually Georgian for courtyard. We stopped along the way to explore some of the buildings—Kristo is something of an enthusiast—and discuss Tbilisi architectural history. She showed us through the doorway of one to see an opulent stairway, wide and tall and curving upward. In this neighborhood before Soviet times lived the aristocracy of Tbilisi: merchants and other affluent families. They brought in Italian architects to design their homes, but the buildings were divided into communal housing during the Soviet period and have, I’m led to believe, been slowly crumbling now for decades.

Finally, we arrived at Kristo’s restaurant. She showed us around. The restaurant is made to feel like a house, with an entry hall filled with tables and a back room where the living room would be. The kitchen and dining area included a walk up bar. At this time of year, with the sun shining and the air nice and still, the courtyard is filled with tables. The restaurant is named after the courtyard where Georgian families traditionally gathered, kids played and adults socialized. We picked a table outside to bask in the heat of the sun. Kristo ordered our food for us—we barely looked at the menu—and next came a salad made of jonjoli with a hard crusty cornbread, and pkhali, the Georgian molded salads made of walnuts and beets, sometimes spinach, and other spices, all processed together, blended to a paste. We tried the house white wine, which was delicious and supplied from a vineyard especially for Kristo’s restaurant.

The waiter brought more food to our table, including a grilled dish made of the stomach of some animal—I was a little too far into the wine at this point to pay too close attention to details. We had a crusty flatbread topped with chicken walnut sauce and the local suluguni cheese. The fried potatoes were a marvel. Kristo was especially proud of her potatoes, grown by a farmer she knew in the upper hills of Georgia where the water was fresh and spring fed and could only be reached cross country. There are no roads. She said they were the most organically grown potatoes you could find anywhere in the world—something along those lines—and we could taste the difference.

The neighbor’s dog came and rested by our feet, watching us eat with pleading eyes. Children of friends played with Kristo’s children around the tables, talking in walkie-talkies and riding toy dump trucks. A couple stray cats loitered about the yard.

A Georgian feast at Ezo, with jonjoli salad (bottom center)

We sat for a time, picking at plates of food we could not finish. It was all so good. We hated to let any go to waste. The cats watched us. The dog thumped its tail—a rhythmic noise on the concrete floor of the courtyard. Its tongue lolled in the afternoon heat. The waiter brought another glass of wine—the red, which Kristo insisted we try before leaving. She was very proud of the restaurant’s Saparavi, the classic Georgian dry red. Once again the restaurant has a special supplier; and, though very affordable, this particular red is not available anywhere else. This wine is an Ezo special, like much of the menu: old-fashioned, simple, but good and unique to Georgia. From the jonjoli salad to the plate of Georgian cheeses served with delicious local honey and the tekamali plum sauce that came out with the potatoes.

Stuffed from a day of eating and drinking, we reached our limit and had to say our farewells. We made our way slowly through the dusty streets of the old town, needing the walk. Passing Freedom Square with its giant pillar topped with St. George defeating the serpent, we turned up the hill to our hotel both pleasantly exhausted from the day’s exertions and ready for a long, late afternoon nap.

The Spanish Enigma: A Journey through the Mystery of Andalucia

Orange trees at the Catedral de Sevilla

February 2017

First and foremost, I know nothing of Spain. That was obvious as we traveled around the southern region of Andalucía, from Malaga to Seville, Cordoba and on to Granada. I am not an expert, and the country was and remains a mystery to me. It is a mysterious place, mystical; the kind of place where anything could happen. From the Moorish architecture to the echoing vaults of their vast cathedrals and richly decorated churches, the brightly colored tiles, the fruit trees and palms and majestic plane trees bordering the parks, the tapas and the wine and the people, the country displays a vibrancy edged in gloom. There is a lot here to take in, marks of competing empires, gaudy displays. But it is important to start at the beginning, to travel with care and consider; and so I must.

Of course, the trip began many months before as most trips do, in dreams and vague conceptions of the mind. My wife read a book—maybe it was two books. She likes to read travel books, and she found an interesting one that took place in Spain. There are few better reasons to travel than literary inspiration. The seed was planted and took hold. Imagination provided the necessary nutrients for growth. We conceived a whole mythical world with orange trees and mosques and bright sunshine, a place of respite where we could escape, if only briefly, from the Moscow winter. A vibrant place full of noise and music and dust—perhaps a view of the mountains—and water stretching from the sandy shore, disappearing over the horizon. Spain could offer all this and more if only we could get there, and after one false start—our fault, we simply procrastinated and ran out of time to buy tickets during the January holidays—finally we arrived six weeks later.

We flew into Malaga, in southern Spain on the sea, though we would not truly see Malaga until much later in our journey. First we were going to Seville, so we boarded a train, and then another train and sat and watched the countryside. Through the train window as we slowly moved along appeared rows of olive trees, pale green, lined up like soldiers across the landscape. Traveling on the railroad tracks of Spain, which cut across rural areas, mostly farm land, reminded me of where I grew up in northern New York: small homesteads seemingly cut off from the civilized world, flat fields raked in rows, laid out gently rolling toward a pointed ridge crested in windmills turning slowly in the spring breeze. Not spring, yet, but feeling like it to us. A sunny, dusty, tropical version of home with olives and oranges and palm trees in place of the corn and fields of sunburnt hay in New York. And here, white-washed houses with red clay roofs squatted at the end of dusty drives along empty dirt roads that followed the tracks.

We arrived in Seville at the end of a long day and went for a walk in the gathering dusk. Our hotel was near the river Guadalquivir and we headed that way, to the Puerta de Triana, lit up in the gloom. Along the banks we saw willows drooping in the still green water. A peaceful night, while in the park young Spaniards rode by on skateboards and loitered, drinking beer and talking loudly. We followed the path along the river toward El Torre del Oro, the tower of gold, a part of the city’s medieval fortifications, timeless, watching over the city still, the past watching over the present and giving judgment. What would they think of us today? Best not to wonder.

And so we wandered. Past the tower, we crossed a busy road and entered the Park de Maria Luisa; though the pathways here were lit under the street lights, they were lined by dark shadows: hulking shapes that were trees or benches, park buildings of small Spanish cottages set back in small clearings. In a pond ducks played, and as we walked through the park we saw a bright blue water fountain spraying high into the air, lit in neon lights; behind which, with long arms outstretched and tall towers like minarets reaching for the sky stood a building that appeared to be some sort of palace. We had found the Plaza de España, built in 1929 for the Ibero-American Exposition. Here was a narrow canal crossed by bridges decorated in colorful tiles. A mix of teenagers and tourists moved about the long curving porch in crowds enjoying the evening air and the lit up fountain, now a bright green, like the color of the slime from the movie Ghostbusters.

We woke the next morning ready to explore the city, to breathe in the sun-baked air. But it was Sunday and most places were closed, so we wandered the winding narrow streets of the old town to the north and east of our hotel, getting our bearings. We walked along narrow sidewalks that disappeared into buildings, leaned close to walls to allow cars to pass through streets on which they barely fit, skimming the curbs. We found the Plaza de Salvador and the local church, the Iglesia de Salvador, with crowds of families and running children on the steps. We stopped at the Plaza Virgen de los Reyes, behind the Catedral de Sevilla, and took pictures, before wandering into the Barrio de Santa Cruz neighborhood and losing ourselves once more in the winding streets.

We found a park and the sun, shining warm on our faces through a thin layer of cloud. Seville is covered in brightly colored ceramic tiles, a tradition going back hundreds of years here. In the park, even the benches are covered in tiles. On one of these benches sat a man playing a guitar, hitting high notes and strumming energetically in the Spanish style. We walked the sun-baked clay paths of the park, lined with palm trees and, even in late February, some flowering bushes in reds and pinks. Signs of the approaching spring.

In the center, out of a fountain, water slowly trickled and sparkled in the bright sunlight. From the center of the fountain rose twin columns topped with a lion, a monument to Christopher Columbus, who is buried here in the Seville Cathedral, where we would go next. We stayed in the park enjoying the fountain and the sunshine, seemingly a world away from the Russian winter we had so recently left. Until suddenly the sun abandoned us to the mercies of a cool breeze, blocked by thin puffs of white cloud, and we felt the need to move on.

The cathedral opened in the early afternoon to visitors, and after eating some pastries from a nearby bakery for lunch, we waited with a milling crowd outside the entrance. We entered a cavernous chamber. According to Lonely Planet Spain, in 1401, as the local mosque that had been used as a church crumbled to disrepair, the church authorities in Seville elected to build a cathedral so large future generations would think they must have been mad. This was evident in the design of the building. The construction took over a hundred years and involved several generations of builders and architects.

The cathedral in Seville differs from any other cathedral I had ever seen. We entered one vast space that seemed to encompass several altars facing every which direction. The main altar was gilded in gold, lit up by the blue and green light streaming in through the stained glass windows high on the walls. Framing the altar were pink marble inlaid pillars, and high up the wall over a side entrance that exited, naturally enough in Seville, to an orange grove, a picture of Christ rising from the clouds, the sky on fire in the background. One gets the sense that religious observance in Spain through the centuries must have been a serious, rather grim, affair.

The magnificence of this place is difficult to translate into words. I was out of my depth, floating in space with no place to grab hold, disoriented. Everything astounded. On the floor, inlaid red and gray stone form geometric patterns as, rising up, rows of massive stone pillars, like sentinels, support high-arched ceilings.

We took a second look at the main altar, an intricate display of spires and columns covered in snaking leaves of gold; riches gaudy and unimaginable festooned the arrangement meant, no doubt, as a symbol of devotion to an all-powerful God. Having attended a small Protestant church in small town in the northeastern United States growing up, this view of Christianity is difficult to understand. But it is here; it towers above me and surrounds me.

To the right of the altar is the sepulcher of Christopher Columbus. It was here his remains were brought in 1898. They were transferred from Cuba, and not without a bit of controversy. It was long suspected the bones kept in the Seville Cathedral were actually those of Columbus’s son Diego. Those rumors were recently put to rest by DNA testing. Now Columbus rests on the shoulders of pallbearers dressed in medieval robes adorned with a lion’s crest and crowns of bronze for the viewing pleasure of all who visit the cathedral.

Following signs toward the back of the cathedral is an entrance to the cathedral tower, the oldest part of the building that used to be a minaret when the Moors ruled Seville, only later was it put to its current use. Inside is a wide hallway designed so the guards could ride all the way to the top on horseback: tight corners for a horse but pretty easygoing for us on foot, except for the steep grade. There are no steps until the very end, climbing up to the viewing platform. On the way up we looked out to see the city spread out, church steeples and bridges spanning the Guadalquivir, to the north the twin towers on the Plaza de España; around on the other side is the courtyard filled with rows of orange trees, framed like a picture by the roof, cluttered-looking with so many flying buttresses, pinnacles and sharply-tapered spires.

We alighted to the orange grove to rest on the benches and watch the light play off the fountain and breathe the fresh air. There is something pleasing about orange trees and we lingered in this garden of green and orange, taking pictures, breathing in the scenery and the atmosphere, and watched the multitudes filter in and out of the square and play with the fallen fruit. Children ran around the grounds and the fountains and a group of Asian tourists posed on a bench with their oranges, flashing peace signs or holding up their gathered fruit in an upturned hand. The oranges in Seville are renowned for their bitterness and grow on the trees a dark reddish-orange.

For dinner most nights in Seville we went to a market on the river not far from our hotel, the Mercado del Arenal. It was a nice market with outdoor seating and seemed busy most of the time, though especially in the early dinner hour with lots of people enjoying the terrace and drinking beer and wine. This was tapa hour in Spain. We went inside, collected a variety of plates, and joined the crowds in the sunshine. Here we sat and were lost in a sea of Spanish voices, like listening to a soft melody. The terrace cleared as the evening wore on and the sun died over the western horizon, the evening growing still. I sat and could hear the traffic on the pavement and, further, the sound of hooves on cobblestones from the center where tourists rode in the horse cabs and drivers greeted each other in Spanish, doffing their flat caps as they held straight the reins.

The next morning, I woke up as if in a strange place. I could hear the soft sounds of early morning conversation on the streets outside, and I sat by the open window and enjoyed the cool, still air. The sound carries differently in the sunshine; or is it just that there is always somebody outside here talking, laughing. We went for a run along the river with the sun rising, reflecting on the river's luminescent surface, and slowly warming the air. Then a large breakfast buffet in the hotel with café con leche and pastries and prosciutto with fresh cheese. Honestly, we could have come to Seville just for the breakfast and it would have been a vacation; but we were off today to the Alcazar, the large palace complex next to the cathedral.

On our way, we walked due east through the old town to the Metropol Parasol, a modernist construction in the middle of the old town that clashes splendidly with the surrounding neighborhood. This is Seville’s response to the Eiffel Tower, a superfluous structure whose only purpose is to draw attention. But here we were, and for a small price we rode the elevator to the top for a panoramic view of the surrounding city. In Seville, they call the Metropol Parasol the mushrooms of Seville or las Setas de Sevilla because of its shape. The structure rises 85 feet in the air and was only completed in 2011; it is composed of six parasols stretching out above the Plaza de la Encarnación.

From the curving walkway, we saw clothes hanging from a clothesline on a rooftop terrace, blowing in a stiff breeze. We looked out over the red-tiled rooftops of the city, stretching to the river, broken up by church spires in all the little historical neighborhoods and small plazas around the city center. We could see the tower of the cathedral where we had been the day before, and further, the tall twin towers of the exhibition center on the Plaza de España. We climbed to the top of the central mushroom where a strong wind blew, and then back down to a café in the center for a drink. The superstructure of the Metropol Parasol is built almost exclusively of wood—they used birch imported from Finland—and claims to be the largest wooden structure in the world. For us it was a nice mid-morning diversion with a serviceable view, but we were up higher yesterday and had yet bigger plans for the day. We left the mushrooms behind and continued on our way to the Alcazar.

The Alcazar of Seville was largely built in the 1300s, but the location and fortress walls date back further still, to the 900s. Though built during what are considered the Dark Ages, the Alcazar is far from what I think of when I picture medieval architecture. The Alcazar is a work of art. We entered the Hall of Justice where the molded plaster on the walls—an almost pure white in the sun with the blue sky as a background—appear as coral in a clear and placid sea. A fountain trickles in the center of the floor and the water follows an open drain to an outer courtyard where pigeons roost on the ruins of stone pillars. The floor and walls are decorated with colorful tiles; those on the floor worn smooth and softened by millions of footsteps and centuries of dirt.

We got lost wandering the many rooms. In some places the plaster walls retain some of their original color, and we could make out the blue backgrounds on the moldings. I wonder how these looked when the buildings were new and full of life, before centuries of neglect and disrepair. Here is proof of that age-old adage: they really don’t make them like they used to.
Behind the palace are the gardens. We got lost in a hedge maze that was originally designed in 1914. The hedges, trimmed low---I’m not sure if for the winter or if for easing the task of locating lost children---proved anticlimactic, though we were turned around a few times in our meanderings. A peacock wandered the grounds looking for insects as pigeons cooed from the trees overhead. We clandestinely picked from the king’s oranges, later to eat what would prove to be the bitter fruit of our labors; in the distance we could see towering above us the spire of the cathedral, the old minaret, high above the palace walls.

Our last day in Seville, we went to the Park Maria Luisa and fell asleep on the grass with the sun shining on our faces. I woke up at intervals to read or marvel at our surroundings. Lying back, I looked up at the far fronds of a palm tree swaying in the breeze, and beyond, to the bottomless depth of a blue-gray sky. I could hear the fountain burbling, watched over by regal stone lions as sentinels. The horse carriages were here also, plying the tree-lined paths of the park: the pale trunks of plane trees, barren of leaves now, and the narrow cones of cedars like spear points thrust toward the sky; above all the pencil-straight palm trees, top heavy with their shaggy fronds. It was nice to lie on the grass under the sun in late February; we slept for I don’t know how long, and when we did get up a part of us wanted to remain there lying with the sun warming our faces and breathing in the dusty park air.

But that evening was the flamenco show at the Casa de la Memoria, the House of Memory, on a side street not far from the Metropol Parasol. We stopped on the way there at the Plaza de Salvador at a bar with outdoor seating where they served only cheap beer. We ordered some small plate of food---I forget what we ate. But the place was busy, mostly with people drinking their beer in small glasses and smoking, putting out their cigarettes on the cobblestones of the plaza.

When we arrived at the Casa de la Memoria, we found a long line of tourists, like us, who bought tickets ahead of time for the show. Flamenco is mostly performed for tourists, now. It is not a contemporary Andalusian art form. We filed into a small hall lined with stiff wooden chairs, forming a semi-circle in close proximity to a small wooden stage. The idea was to evoke a more authentic flamenco experience, I think; this is folk music meant for smoke-filled saloons or small groups around campfires.

The artists came out on the stage, first a guitarist and singer, sitting in two chairs that hugged a back curtain. They were quiet, almost shy getting started. First they performed a song with just the two of them, the singer providing the percussion clapping and stomping his feet. They started a second song and the dancers came out on the stage, bringing with them an almost visible tension; the woman especially held herself stiff with tight shoulders and clenched fists, on her face a pained expression.

While the vocalist sang in a tortured voice, she spun, coiled as a tight spring and slapping her body, her thighs, snapping fingers and stomping feet. She screamed. Her body was her drum set and the percussive beat erupted to an explosive crescendo. She danced with aggression, sneered at the spectators close to the stage. We sat in the corner but I imagined they could really feel the emotion up close. We could feel the vibrations as they stomped on the wooden stage. The guitar faded to the background, almost an afterthought. But the guitarist was back there playing, too, strumming with vigor at a lightning fast pace, cascading notes and aggressive slaps to the guitars body added to a percussive cacophony. It was all just more noise behind the stomping and the clapping.

The dancers faced off and the woman led. She was angry. Life had done her wrong in some way, but she was made of something strong. She would not break, but she did turn towards her man, who we can assume had been somehow complicit in this tragedy. She leaned toward him, dancing in his face; if this were life she might have slapped him or pushed him away. Instead, he danced away from her, spinning on his heel. He was the carefree one, seeming indifferent. A showoff?

In the background, the tortured voice sang on, lifting up an octave, the voice almost cracking but remaining composed. He could be happy but life tends to work out in a different way, and so he sang. We could see how this art came from real people, passed down over the generations. People who worked and toiled and knew suffering for what it was, knew that it was everywhere. The dancers danced off the stage and exited. As we left the hall, children of some German tourists who sat in front of us, inspired by the show, spun around mimicking the dancers, almost falling on the ground but laughing as children do. The energy and the magic yet vibrated in the air; the music, so alive and pulsating, could still be felt in the narrow lanes as we walked back, accompanied by these ghosts of the past, to our hotel in Seville.

The next morning, we took the bus to the train station and left for Cordoba. One part of our adventure was over, but we would travel yet further, deeper into the mystery of Andalucia, a land on the edge of two worlds, trying our best to unlock these doors to the mystical Moorish past.