Watch where you step. Look both ways. And under no circumstances whatsoever, wander aimlessly into the bike path. If you do, there’s a good chance you’ll collide with a very fast, basket laden bicycle. Or, at a minimum, you’ll have a tall, beautiful, and perfectly multi-lingual Dutchman or woman ring a loud bell and politely shout to get the ‘f’ out of the way. Cycling is a cornerstone of the culture in Amsterdam - just as much as canals, museums and coffee shops - and thousands of bikes cruise around the city during every season and at every hour of the day. It’s just one of the things that makes this gorgeous, creative, liberal, historical, free-thinking city unlike anywhere else in the world.
No where else in Spain is the influence of the country’s diverse history and converging cultures so apparent than in Andalucia. It’s a region many think of as traditionally Spanish, from Flamenco to bullfights, tapas to a vibrant late night culture. Around every corner, the combination of Moorish architecture with traditional Spanish buildings and plazas creates a unique sense of place. When you’re in Andalucia, you know it.
Located in the southern part of the peninsula, Andalucia is the most populous autonomous community in Spain. The name, Andalucia, is derived from the Arabic word Al-Andalus and dates back to 716, just after the Moors took over Spain by defeating the Visigoths. Historically an agricultural region, it’s home to some of the best olive oil in the world. It’s also the hottest region in Europe, with average summertime highs of 97 °F in Sevilla and Cordoba. No wonder Andalucians are known for their siestas.
We come here in the summer, so as we mention, it’s hot. Near the Portuguese border and just north of the Golfo de Cadiz, Sevilla is an elegant city that feels like an amalgamation of Spanish stereotypes. We arrive in the late afternoon, check in to our apartment in the Triana neighborhood along the west bank of the Guadalquivir River, and quickly get ready for a small-group Flamenco, food, and wine tour.
The Scottish Rail rolls east, passing flocks of fluffy white sheep. We throw out guesses of how many we’ve passed (500? 1,000?) - an unwinnable game. Somehow, the passing hills are illuminated by the muted grey sky, creating an Emerald city-like green glow. We take a sip of whisky (that’s whisky, not whiskey, and certainly not scotch) from a test-tube size dram, both because it’s weirdly cold outside for being spring and because that’s what you do here. Scotland is all about feeling cozy and, even when the rest of the world is wearing shorts, we’re 100% here for it.
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