The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society Read Online Free
Author: Chris Stewart
for. Can you imagine if they heard about that stunt Michael was planning to pull!’ And he leaned forward with eyes closed and rubbed his temples. Apparently it helps with the frown lines.
At the museum the idea was to drink fizzy wine, eat tapas, get addressed by local dignitaries and, time permitting , look at some of the exhibits before departing again for lunch. ‘All you have to do, Chris,’ explained Jeremy, ‘is keep things pleasant, and if they want to know anything about Spain and the Spanish, you tell them. Okay? And, oh-dear-lord, can you do anything about those shirt cuffs?’
Apart from the cuffs it was an easy enough task. These were people groomed in the well-bred, polished manners of Boston’s patrician class and keeping them pleasant was a bit like asking a group of teenagers to be moody. They even smiled graciously while I paraphrased and embellished captions they had already just translated perfectly competently for themselves. To be honest, I couldn’t work up too much enthusiasm for the horse-drawn coaches; it was nice that somebody was keeping them polished, but the truth is that Americans do that sort of thing much better than anybody else.
Later that evening the luxury bus was again purring outside the hotel, waiting to drive us a half-dozen blocks to our destination for dinner. I suggested we left it where it was and made use of the beautiful night to work up an appetite. Everybody enthusiastically agreed and we set off, in one of the most improbable crocodiles I’ve ever been part of, along the palm-lined river bank of theGuadalquivir, marvelling at the luminous glow of leaves in the light of the streetlamps. ‘Now this is a worry,’ whispered Jeremy, through the corner of his mouth. ‘If someone so much as loses a heel or steps in donkey shit, we could be in serious trouble, you know!’ But I could tell that even he was starting to relax a bit, swinging his blazer over his shoulder.
Michael managed to join us for the tail-end of our dinner in the courtyard of a fabulously furnished sixteenth-century palacete or mansion. Just as the waiters were circulating with plates of petits fours , he burst in and, hovering around the tables with the trajectory of a bee in a lavender bush, plonked himself on a chair beside me.
‘Ah, Chris,’ he intoned, craning his neck to study the beautifully carved marble fountains and scan the aftermath of the feast, ‘what a sybarite you’ve become!’
It turned out that he had hot-footed it from dinner with the university students. In fact, he had been on a binge of double booking all day: two large meals and as many pre-and post-prandial drinks as could mathematically be accommodated. A lesser man would have gone under, but Michael was in his element. Indeed, as the Bostonians were seen safely back to the Alfonso XIII, he clearly felt the night was young. ‘W-what we need, Chris, is to w-wind d-down a bit. An extra glass or two would do us good.’
Michael knew Seville well: he’d lived for years in the city and had many friends. We drank with most of them that night, in the sort of bars you’d never normally find – let alone go into. Returning to the Alfonso XIII at five in the morning, I stood in the bathroom, swaying slightly and trying to focus on the haggard face staring back at methrough rheumy eyes. It looked sorely in need of some plain country living.
Next morning Michael seemed, if anything, rejuvenated, and as we arrived at the Bellas Artes museum, slipped back into the persona of art expert. In we trooped, about twenty of us, our rubbery trainers squeaking on the marble floors, as he hurried us at great speed through room after room – ‘You don’t want to b-bother with any of this stuff – constipated , sycophantic, depressingly conventional’ – until at last we reached a sculpture or painting he thought worthy of our attention.
It was a figure of a kneeling Saint Jerome, carved by Torrigiani. Michael then launched into
At the museum the idea was to drink fizzy wine, eat tapas, get addressed by local dignitaries and, time permitting , look at some of the exhibits before departing again for lunch. ‘All you have to do, Chris,’ explained Jeremy, ‘is keep things pleasant, and if they want to know anything about Spain and the Spanish, you tell them. Okay? And, oh-dear-lord, can you do anything about those shirt cuffs?’
Apart from the cuffs it was an easy enough task. These were people groomed in the well-bred, polished manners of Boston’s patrician class and keeping them pleasant was a bit like asking a group of teenagers to be moody. They even smiled graciously while I paraphrased and embellished captions they had already just translated perfectly competently for themselves. To be honest, I couldn’t work up too much enthusiasm for the horse-drawn coaches; it was nice that somebody was keeping them polished, but the truth is that Americans do that sort of thing much better than anybody else.
Later that evening the luxury bus was again purring outside the hotel, waiting to drive us a half-dozen blocks to our destination for dinner. I suggested we left it where it was and made use of the beautiful night to work up an appetite. Everybody enthusiastically agreed and we set off, in one of the most improbable crocodiles I’ve ever been part of, along the palm-lined river bank of theGuadalquivir, marvelling at the luminous glow of leaves in the light of the streetlamps. ‘Now this is a worry,’ whispered Jeremy, through the corner of his mouth. ‘If someone so much as loses a heel or steps in donkey shit, we could be in serious trouble, you know!’ But I could tell that even he was starting to relax a bit, swinging his blazer over his shoulder.
Michael managed to join us for the tail-end of our dinner in the courtyard of a fabulously furnished sixteenth-century palacete or mansion. Just as the waiters were circulating with plates of petits fours , he burst in and, hovering around the tables with the trajectory of a bee in a lavender bush, plonked himself on a chair beside me.
‘Ah, Chris,’ he intoned, craning his neck to study the beautifully carved marble fountains and scan the aftermath of the feast, ‘what a sybarite you’ve become!’
It turned out that he had hot-footed it from dinner with the university students. In fact, he had been on a binge of double booking all day: two large meals and as many pre-and post-prandial drinks as could mathematically be accommodated. A lesser man would have gone under, but Michael was in his element. Indeed, as the Bostonians were seen safely back to the Alfonso XIII, he clearly felt the night was young. ‘W-what we need, Chris, is to w-wind d-down a bit. An extra glass or two would do us good.’
Michael knew Seville well: he’d lived for years in the city and had many friends. We drank with most of them that night, in the sort of bars you’d never normally find – let alone go into. Returning to the Alfonso XIII at five in the morning, I stood in the bathroom, swaying slightly and trying to focus on the haggard face staring back at methrough rheumy eyes. It looked sorely in need of some plain country living.
Next morning Michael seemed, if anything, rejuvenated, and as we arrived at the Bellas Artes museum, slipped back into the persona of art expert. In we trooped, about twenty of us, our rubbery trainers squeaking on the marble floors, as he hurried us at great speed through room after room – ‘You don’t want to b-bother with any of this stuff – constipated , sycophantic, depressingly conventional’ – until at last we reached a sculpture or painting he thought worthy of our attention.
It was a figure of a kneeling Saint Jerome, carved by Torrigiani. Michael then launched into
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