For the past three weeks, due to a
broken washing machine, I have washed clothes by hand. My landlord
doesn't understand the need to wash sweaty clothing during a summer
of daily temperatures hitting 40 – 50 degrees Celsius, so his
search for a replacement has been slow, to say the least. When
technicians finally came to fix the old one, I felt relieved, until
there was a problem cutting the water. Due to my favorite friend, Mr.
Language Barrier, I didn't understand what was involved in turning
off the water to my flat. The techs very quickly, in Spanish, said
“Youneedtogetaplumberorsomeonewithakeytoturnitoffdownstairsinthewaterroom.”
I had no idea what they were talking about, as I'd never done it
before. They left, water dripping under the sink
where they'd disconnected the water hose. “But I'm leaving for
Córdoba in a few hours,” I said.
“Have a nice trip,” said the tech,
and he slammed the front door closed.
I called my landlord, who was not in
town. He very quickly, in Spanish, said
“Youneedtogetthekeytoopenthewaterroomdownstairsandturnoffthewatertoyourflat.”
This key, which I didn't have, involved knocking on several
neighbours' doors, finding no one home, and having to walk all the
way to one neighbour's workplace in order to get her key. “When are
you leaving for Córdoba?” my landlord asked, as I huffed back to
my flat.
“At 1 p.m.”
“It's only 11:30 a.m., there's plenty
of time,” he assured me. Uh, do you know what country we're living
in? I thought. 1.5 hours is NOT enough time to deal with this
problem.
Sure enough, I was right. By the time I
struggled to turn off the water, waited for my landlord's relative to
come and try to turn off the water as well, and cleaned up the mess
from the leak in my flat, I had missed my window for the Blablacar. I
ended up having to settle for a bus 3 hours later. I called my travel
buddy and begged him to meet me for a mandatory alcoholic drink.
As the wine settled into my veins and
relaxed me, I excitedly looked forward to forgetting the catastrophic
morning and hearing great music at the Guitar Festival of Córdoba. The
concert of the night: Chicuelo, Santiago Lara, and Alfredo Lagos.
Three absolutely talented guitarists. It was a mesmerizing evening,
watching their fingers fly over the strings.
We stayed at the very comfortable,
centrally-located Hotel González overnight, and made the most of the
next day: a visit to the Mezquita, a climb up the Cathedral tower, an
indulgent visit to a microbrewery, and a fabulous meal of salmorejo
Cordobese and THE BEST CROQUETAS I've ever eaten, at Casa Pepe. We
survived the intense heat by walking in the shade, always having a
granizado or cold water in hand, and popping into every
air-conditioned shop that was open on a Sunday.
Córdoba's antique centre requires, at
minimum, a full day. Every turn you make, you stumble across a unique
restaurant, or shop, or historic site. This was my third visit and I
realized that there were still more hidden spots that I had no time
to see. I'll be visiting Córdoba again, hopefully this time without
a flood.
