Seville: the capital of the fiesta

Seville: the capital of the fiesta, with a gracia that is more vivid than what we call 'charm'; home of the great toreros Joselito, Juan Belmonte. The Gypsy quarter is at Triana, which is also the working class district. The street called Calle de las Sierpas is the most written about in Spanish novels, with its cafés, its tentidos (tarpaulins) from one roof to another, its street-loungers and señoritos.

Cadiz the White, called the Little Cup of Silver, lies open to the sky. Clean and shining, it is an Arab relic that has rediscovered its maritime existence thanks to the United States Military Forces.

At ' Cordoba the Sultan', the Mosque still stands; so do the narrow alleys latticed with the rejas (grilles) reminiscent of the former splendour of the Caliphate.

We have been paseando por España -- strolling through Spain. And doing the thing in the traditional way, let's give the towns their characteristic sayings. Every country has its secrets. But for its own people a country holds no secrets.

Alcala de Henares, poor in water, rich in bread.

Almeria, is of the Levant, not of Andalusia.

At Valencia, no-one is the poorer for having kept a promise.

At Barcelona, arms and silver are of no use that are not well used.

At Salamanca, bad beds, worse inns.

At Xérès, only an ass drinks the beer.

At Malaga, every smoker puffs his own hot air.

Of Jaen, neither she-ass nor woman, and if you hesitate, leave the woman behind and take the she-ass.

Of Malaga, wine, raisins, and sweet potatoes.

From Medina to Valladolid, you will meet mule, monk, or punk.

Of Cuenca, neither girl nor wood.

Of Toledo, potters and bull-fighters.

Aragon hands over the watch and asks the time.

In Baeza, pride and poverty.

At Cordoba, an hour; at Granada, passing through; at Seville, my whole life.

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