The Sangria is Red!

Travel, they say, broadens a person’s perspective. Knowingly or not, it invariably pushes a person out of the narrow shells of ignorance, which the boundaries of a comfort zone often bind in. Needless to say, I have been no exception to this rule. In fact, each one of my travel experiences has been quite the entertaining educator, infusing interesting stories with a handful of ‘do’s and don’ts’, making each travel memory a story to be shared. While there are many stories that are best enjoyed behind closed doors with close friends, there are some which deserve attention from the larger audience, for their sheer comic relevance. This one, I write from my Spain travels in the summer of 2018.

It all began about six months back, when we started planning for our Spain holiday. We were knee deep in research, visualizing and finalizing the itinerary of our trip. After countless brainstorming sessions, we zeroed down on six cities for our two-week-long vacation, taking care as to bring in a hearty combination of beaches, mountains, football, architecture and music, to ensure that we immerse ourselves completely in the cultural essentials of Spain. We were a group of four and each of our holiday aspirations were put together in a jar, which was shaken and stirred to create an exotic Spanish cocktail. But just as we were about to sip it, a friend, who had recently been to Spain, gave us one tiny disclaimer.

“At least one of you obviously knows Spanish, right?” he said.

Of course, we did not, and nodded our heads in a strict ‘No’.

“Then pick up some working knowledge of Spanish”, he continued. “Apart from the bigger cities like Madrid and Barcelona, the citizens barely know or understand English. You have time. Get going!”

My husband chose to completely ignore this suggestion. He was confident that through his miming and acting skills, he could positively get around, even without knowing the language. I, on the other hand, considered the recommendation seriously. Thus, to ensure that our travel experience was without any bumpy language barriers, I purchased a thin book called ‘Spanish Made Easy’ and started reading it casually, with my morning tea every day. As it turned out, subconsciously, I acquainted myself with basic grammar and some useful sentences in Spanish, in a span of one month. To hone my amateur Spanish skills further, I downloaded a mobile application called ‘Speak Tribe’, which gave me an interactive interface and enhanced my confidence. In my mind, I prepared a two-set opening dialogue for any interaction, which went something like this: 

1. "Hola! Mi nombre es Dipro"

 (“Hello, my name is Dipro”. The bookings were all done in Dipro’s name. Hence, for ease of chit-chat and pronunciation, introducing me as Dipro seemed to be the right thing to do). 

2. "Habla Ingles?"

(“Do you speak English?” This was an elimination round. If the person responded in affirmative, our conversation would be a cake-walk. If not, well, I decided to take it up from there).

I completed my homework on how to start a conversation, how to ask for directions and how to order in a restaurant. To add a touch of sparkle, I kept in mind the two golden phrases: ‘gracias’, meaning ‘thank you’, and ‘por favor’, meaning ‘please’. By the time we boarded our flight to Madrid, I was certain that I am going to kill it with my Espanol skills!

However, as soon as the flight touched down Madrid, the Spanish skills fled my mind like a bull just let out of its cage! Thankfully, I did not miss it much in Madrid. My trial began when we reached our next station - the town of Seville.

 

Wikipedia will tell you that the marvels of Seville are best experienced in the old town, where the two main tourist attractions are located – the Seville Cathedral and the Alcazar Castle. The black-grey Seville Cathedral is the largest Gothic Cathedral in the world and is home to the tomb of Christopher Colombus, whereas the ornate Alcazar Castle, or the Royal Palace, boasts of some magnificent Eighteenth Century Moorish architecture, which is signature of Spain’s Andalusia region. Our apartment, located within a radius of about 700 metres from these two monuments, was set amidst the narrow stony pathways, right above a cozy pub called ‘Fabiola’. I will not lie, but the prospect of having a tapas bar right below our house was as exciting as soaking in the medieval charms of Seville! The wooden doors of the pub on the ground floor opened to a bustling locality, connecting the alleys to numerous tapas bars and restaurants, as well as colorful souvenir shops, leading up to the Cathedral. The streets were lined with open tables set out by the restaurants, where one could sit and sip on fine wine, while admiring the historic architecture. Often, men on horse carriages would pass by, inviting tourists to take a ride through the town. It was as if we were transported in time!   

There was only one glitch.

Our host, who was also the owner of Fabiola pub, was a simple old man, with absolutely no knowledge of English. Naturally, I was pushed forward by my three friends, to have the ‘check-in’ conversation with him. Luckily, the Spanish skills, which had fled back in Madrid, decided to Flamenco its way back in my memory. As planned, I started with my two-set dialogue to begin the conversation. The owner was extremely welcoming and spoke a lot of fluent Espanol to greet us, most of which I could not grasp. For the little part that I did, it was understood that our apartment was on the second floor of the building and a woman would take us upstairs, to show us the room and the facilities we were about to enjoy. It seemed like a plan to us! We swiftly ordered a round of ‘cerveza’ (Spanish for beer), to mark the beginning of our Seville stay, and thereafter started our journey upstairs guided by the lady we were introduced to.   

  

The building had no elevator and we had four, extremely weighty suitcases to be hurdled up. It is therefore safe to assume that the climb through the winding staircase was creaky, filled with the air of occasional puffing and panting at the landings. But it was victory at last, when we reached our room. The lady accompanying us showed us the kitchen, the washing machine, the remote control of the air conditioner and the basic rules to be followed during our stay. Only the Wifi password, she said, was to be collected from the owner downstairs. As she left, we took no time to declare our spots in the room and took out our mobile phones to perform the most crucial task of the day – updating our Instagram feeds.  

But of course, the Wifi password was to be obtained from Mr. Fabiola!

Hence, I was once again pushed out, to run down and fetch the password, because by then, I was designated the face of communication by the group. Truth be told, I needed the password as well. So, I trudged down, in my slippers, to meet Mr. Fabiola at the pub.

As I climbed down, a strange incident happened. I found the lady, who had shown us the room, on the first-floor landing, crouching near the kitchen door. Her nose was bleeding profusely and she stood a little startled, knowing not what to do. I immediately rushed to help her. But all she asked me was to get somebody from downstairs.

In that moment, in my mind, I tried to picture myself communicating this extremely difficult sentence to the owner in Spanish, to explain that the lady was bleeding from her nose and needed help at once. I did not have my phone, there was no Google translator in the vicinity and I had to act quickly. It was close to dreadful. I thought, even if I could mention bleeding, it would be half the task won. But alas! My Spanish dictionary was not prepared to spit out any word remotely resembling ‘blood’ at all.

Just then, my mind briefly drifted to about 3 days back, when we were in Madrid. It was our first night out and my friend wanted to have a glass of sangria at the restaurant we were sitting at. The menu card had simply mentioned ‘sangria’ under the drinks section, amongst other cocktails. So, my friend had called the waiter and asked innocently:

“What sangria do you have? Is it white or red?”

The waiter had been horror-struck when he heard this question, and had asked us, in his heavy Spanish accent:

“White sangria? Where have you had a white sangria?

My friend, who was petrified already, had feebly answered “India?”

It was true. White sangria, made with white wine and exotic fruits such as green apple, kiwi and the likes, was quite a regular on menu cards of most Indian restaurants but the waiter seemed to disagree. He continued:

“Lady, there is no such thing as a white sangria! Sangria, means blood! Hence, a sangria is always red.”

Like a thunderbolt, I switched back to reality, where I was standing with the bleeding lady at our apartment in Seville. I knew just what to do! I assured her to get somebody and ran downstairs.  

As I barged into the pub, I found Mr. Fabiola near the beer tap. Confidently I walked up to him and said:

“Senor, un momento por favor”

(“Sir, one moment please”)

“Esa Mujeres…”

(“That woman”, I continued, pointing upstairs)

This much, I knew. However, the ride thereafter seemed a bit rocky, because I did not know the Spanish of ‘nose’. I simply pointed at my nose and said ‘sangria’.

Mr. Fabiola stared at me, part amused and part bewildered. It appeared to him that my nose needed some sangria, or that sangria was running down that woman’s nose. Not giving a care about what he thought, I repeated the gesture multiple times, after which, he finally seemed to understand what had happened. Without further ado, he rushed upstairs to help the lady.

I heaved a sigh of relief and ordered for a glass of cerveza to calm my nerves, again. After I collected the password from the pub, I walked upstairs to find our Senorita lying down on the first-floor sofa, with a kerchief pressed to her nose. She looked at me and smiled saying ‘gracias’. All was well, that ended well.     

Just in case you were wondering, blood in Spanish translates to ‘sangre’. Hence, I was close. Really close.

The rest of our Seville journey was as beautiful as the orange courtyards that are strewn across the town. We tanned ourselves in the Seville sun, watched a soul-stirring Flamenco show, found out that goat cheese and orange marmalade was a delicious combination, and spent hours exploring the lanes and by-lanes of the town.

But amongst all the take-aways from our Seville sojourn, only one stood out for me. The sangria is always red!