Jamie Fehr

Maybe the biggest travel challenge I have ever faced was the one I experienced on December the 9th 2006. I got dropped off in Seville near the city center to do some sight seeing and then for the night I was supposed to find my way back to the house of Paco and Chelo (Paco was my boss during the conference I was at from Dec. 6-9th) in a little pueblo called Umbrete to spend the night.

Paco gave me instructions on how to get to their house and Chelo gave me a bus schedule but somehow I knew that this wouldn’t necessarily be an easy trip. To get there, I was to catch a Pueblo bus either at 20:30 or 22:30 and get off at a certain stop, ask someone for directions, and just end up at there house. It all sounded great and good but I then already knew that was not going to be an easy task.

I found the bus station no problem, after all that is where I got dropped off in Seville, but once I got to the bus station I realized that I didn’t know which of the 40+ platforms the bus would come to, so I asked a bus line employee who confirmed with two other coworkers that it was platform 39 so I went there and waited and waited and waited, no bus, “what gives?” I thought to myself, usually the schedules that are handed out are pretty accurate. So I went for a short walk to see if I could find either the bus or someone else who might know where the bus is.

I found the bus, parked in platform 42 and obscured by the two bus between it and where I was waiting. I didn’t have a whole lot of time so I ran and hopped on. I paid the driver for my fair and went to find a seat.

A depressing thought came to me as a result of past experience; “I’m on the right bus, but I have no idea when to get off, nor is it likely that I will know when to get off without asking for someone’s help” (I’m normally too manly to need help). In light of this, I took my bus schedule, which included a list of the stops the bus makes but no map of where the stops are, and determined to keep my tired mind alert (I had just finished the longest, hardest week of work I’ve had here in Spain followed by an intense five hour non-stop sightseeing walk through Seville, I could barely keep my eyes open) to see if I could actually figure out where it was that I needed to get off.

I had been watching for signs and indications as to where I might be for quite some time when instinct told me I was near where I wanted to be, but I still hadn’t the slightest clue if I was even in the right town. So I did what people have a hard time doing and I leaned over and asked the guy sitting next to me help. He pretty much jumped, “You’re here!” was his instantaneous response as reached over to push the “Ask for Stop” button and in that moment the bus pretty much screeched to a halt, “I guess we’re here” I thought to myself as I exited the bus.

However, that was the easy part, I now needed to navigate the twisty windy spanish pueblo streets to the other side of town and find the right, white painted pueblo casa, not a task for the faint hearted, and at this point I realized I was indeed very lost and would not be able to get to the house of Paco and Chelo without asking for directions. So I did the only thing I knew to do, I walked into the nearest bar and showed them the address to where I needed to go. The barkeep looked at me very confusedly. So I explained myself a little more and one of the patrons jumped in and said that he could show me how to get to my destination.

His directions were deceivingly simple, walk down this road till you get to the fork and then go right for a bit and you should be right there. I followed those directions only to end up at another bar where I again asked the barkeep how to get to Alcalde Fransisco Carmen 12 and again got a blank look followed by some further explanation of what I wanted only to again have a patron jump in and say “Adelante!” (that word gets used in a lot of ways, I think in this case he meant up the street). “You’re pretty much there.” He said “You just need to go down the hill and your there.”

There was no hill. Just a right and a left and neither of them actually led me to what I perceived as closer to my destination. So I walked to right a few minutes to end up at a dead end where I turned around and went to the left until my chilled body could march no more (I was wearing only a long sleeved shirt and despite what you might think a seven degree Celsius December night in Andalusia is not warm) I found myself exactly in front of the house that I wanted to be.

I was shocked, I reviewed the piece of paper I had with the address written on three time before ascending the stairs to the front door, “Surely I cannot have successfully navigated that labyrinth of streets that make up you average spanish pueblo, on my own, at night. Surely no foreigner is actually capable of that.” In my state of need however, I had no time to argue with myself. I rang the doorbell hoping that I would see a friendly face on the other side and I was not disappointed. The reception I received was profound.

Chelo quickly found me a warm place to put myself and a good snack for eating. I was taken care of. She gave some internet so I could check my email and find out when the train was leaving for Malaga the next day, she gave me a clean bed, towels and toiletries, and my very own space heater for the night. She really needs to get into hospitality.

I guess in the end all I really wanted to say was a big thank you to Paco and Chelo for taking me in for the night and taking such good care of me. When I mentioned that I wanted to stay in the area for an extra day after the conference she pretty much told me that I was going to spend night at her house. So while I doubt they will ever actually read this, I hope that they know how appreciative I am of them. The spanish people have proved to be a great group.