LOOKING FOR A GARAGE IN SEVILLA

1972

By Eleanora Lello Daniel

(aged 85, died. aged 90 in Hawthorn, Melbourne 27.2.91)

We entered Seville before dark, with ample time to find the small hotel recommended by our daughter (Deirdre). At least, it would have been ample time if we had entered the city by the right bridge and if we’d been able to understand Andalusian Spanish well enough. As it was, darkness had overtaken us suddenly (as it does in the south of Spain) and we found ourselves lost in a maze of narrow streets encompassed by tall buildings.

At last, accompanied by tooting from frustrated motorists coming from three directions and all apparently wanting to turn in the exact spot where we were trying to squeeze our car into a vacant parking place, we found ourselves in a rather wider portion of street. Here an official was busy shepherding cars and issuing tickets for parking. He described to us where to find the hotel and my husband, unwilling to leave a parking space once found, set off by foot to find its location. While he was away, I was very amused to see how the parking attendant tidied up the wider street nearby. Most of the cars there were small; they were left unlocked and with the handbrake off. As a motorist collected his car and moved off, the attendant pushed up all those behind, filling the vacant space and thus leaving a space at the end of the street.

At last Trevor returned, saying, ‘I’ve found it and you’ll be amazed.’ In reply, I asked anxiously, ‘Where are we going to leave the car?’ ‘God knows,’ he replied, letting in the clutch and moving off at a fast speed. After several turns, we came to the street in which the hotel was situated. It was so narrow that two cars could pass only by both running up on to the three-foot wide pavements. And we were obliged to do the same. In taking out our overnight hand luggage, we had to shut the car doors and skip quickly to front or rear of the car several times, as other cars came screeching around the corner, passing us and sweeping dangerously close to the walls on the opposite side of the street as they drove up on to that pavement.

On entering the hotel, I was truly amazed. Seville, in almost every narrow street, offers tantalizing glimpses of exquisite patios, cool with beautiful tiling and columns, greenery and fountains, but what I saw before me now exceeding any of those I had previous glimpsed. The hall was pure Moorish, perfectly preserved, with tall columns and intricately worked arches. After booking in, we ascended a noble marble stairway to a room with great tall doors, which could open on to the entrance hall below.

I must be honest and add that the bed and room and conveniences weren’t in keeping with the outward grandeur. But then, neither was the price – a modest one pound each, and this included an English breakfast of two eggs and bacon.

Well, after booking in, we had the over-riding problem of what to do with the car. As we planned to stay in Spain for as much of the winter as possible, and our meagre travelling allowance being what it was, our car was loaded to the roof with food, clothing, camping equipment, etc. all of it loose – just jammed in wherever a space could be found. Obviously, it couldn’t be left in the street overnight.

The youth at the reception desk assured us that we could leave the car at another hotel, just around the corner – the Hotel Colon – so there we went. But we found that the comisionario at the door of this high class hotel first wanted the key of our car, then he required us to unload it, take out all our possessions and keep them overnight in our hotel room. ‘But,’ we said, ‘this is impossible. These things aren’t packed, they’re loose.’ ‘Well,’ he answered, ‘you can’t leave things in your car. There are thieves who will break into it. Take these things up to your room.’ ‘But we haven’t a room here,’ we told him. ‘We are staying at the Zaida.’ With that, he dismissed us with a contemptuous wave of the arm.

Back at the despised, yet very beautiful, Zaida, we were told that clients’ cars are left in the street all night and the portero is supposed to keep an eye on them. However, the young man was kind enough to give us the name of a garage which would house our car and guard it overnight.

Accordingly, we set off for the Garaje Tristan. By now, Trevor – a skilful driver but not the most patient one in heavy traffic – was beginning to sound explosive, so I set off on foot to locate this place, while he dawdled along with the car, trying to avoid holding up the increasingly thick stream of cars, all homeward bound. I asked several people, but they looked puzzled (perhaps it was because of my poor Spanish); they had apparently never heard of the Garaje Tristan. I was then approached by a middle-aged lady, who had heard me talking. She spoke English and – bless her – said that opposite the station was a garage with a plaza for parking cars: ‘First right, then left.’

I then had to find Trevor and car, lurking in the badly lit (though wide) street. This achieved, we managed to park, although we did so near a corner, much to the annoyance of what seemed like hundreds of drivers, who converged upon that particular corner at that particular time. We locked the car and proceeded on foot to find the mythical Garaje Tristan. After several enquiries, all of which drew blanks, we passed a smart car showroom, and there we found a salesman who did know. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘first left and opposite the station.’

And, after turning left and right, opposite the station there was an inconspicuous noticeboard, bearing the name Garaje Tristan. Even then we couldn’t believe our search was ended. We entered and found a small office where there were two men, and further on a sight beautiful to behold – better even than Moorish arches and marble floors. Before us was a large space, with neat rows of parked cars and plenty of room for more, with men to guard them and doors that could be locked. And the charge for this security and relief from worry? A mere 35 pence (UK)!