By Emil Rem

It was a comfortable 45-minute ride on the high-speed AVE (Alta Velocidad Espanola) from Seville to Cordoba, at 11am, a comfortable time of day. The sun shone. Farmhouses, herds of cattle, dappled horses grazing in brown, sun-baked fields flashed before his eyes as he glanced from the chess board. The AVE had no time to dawdle or to allow its passengers to soak in the scenery. His eyes would begin to ache if he focused for more than a minute at any passing object.

As usual, he was being trounced by his younger son, Chris, who continued to coax more and more euros from his favourite mark, Dad.

"Pops, you were so close this time," Chris falsely encouraged. "You'll definitely win the next one. Let me set up the board again."

He prayed for a distraction from Laura or Alex, but they were engrossed in scrolling through their mail, oblivious to the world. Thankfully, before he could be hustled further, the trolley cart came to his rescue full of free drinks and snacks, all part of their first-class compartment ticket.

Sandwiches never appealed to him. Instead, he grabbed a couple of packets of mixed nuts and biscuits for later, then studied the drinks. "What's that tall can? The one beside the Coke in a mosaic of colours?"

The server straightened his shoulders as though he had been waiting for this moment to show off his mastery of English. "It's mineral water from Catalonia. Vichy Catalan, naturally carbonated. The best in the world."

Best in the world? How could he refuse? Being a teetotaller, tired of Coke and ginger ale, worrying about his waistline, he had reverted to sipping mineral water whenever he could. The Vichy was delicious. It had a sky-high mineral content resulting in a zesty, salty aftertaste. Before he could finish drinking, the AVE came to a halt, arriving at its destination without him losing another euro.

A few days earlier, on their way to Seville, they had stopped over at this station for an hour, waiting for a connection. The boys had hurtled towards a packed McDonald's taking Laura with them, while he took refuge in a local canteen. Cordoba station was built like a glass cathedral. Far superior to any he had seen in rural England, the place swarmed with tourists and locals alike. The major draw for these day-tripping tourists in their hundreds of thousands was the Unesco World Heritage Site of the Mosque-Cathedral. His family was fortunate. They were here for three days to rest and recover.

To grab a taxi was an achievement in itself, much like at a major airport. Having queued for 20 minutes outside in the scalding heat, they sank gratefully into their seats, luxuriating in air-conditioned bliss.

"Hospes Palacio del Bailio, por favor," he articulated. There was no answer from the orange- bereted cabbie. All he could make out was "Si." By now, he had depleted his store of Spanish. His boys, who had spent a decade learning the language, provided no help. Even his Filipina wife, schooled in Spanish, demurred to speak. In a panic, he ferreted through his backpack, pulled open the hotel confirmation and showed it to the driver. The taxi shot forward, as he, without the time to put on his safety belt, crashed his head against the windscreen.

The car was small, the size of a Toyota Corolla. While his family sat squeezed in the back, he racked his mind for phrases in Spanish. None came. He was now transfixed, staring out the window.

Twenty minutes passed and no sign of a hotel. This was all wrong. Like most European railway stations, Cordoba's should have been located in mid-town with their hotel a matter of minutes away. Laura tapped his shoulder, her look apprehensive.

Once again, he turned to the cabbie. "Where are we going? We passed a sign for downtown a few minutes ago. It was pointing the other way."

The man paid no attention. He was too busy weaving through the dense traffic at heart pounding speed. Suddenly, the driver turned off the main road. Now they were climbing uphill along narrow, single-laned cobbled alleyways. He felt Christopher's nails clawing into him. Beads of anxious sweat dribbled down his forehead despite the air-conditioning. The higher they ascended, the less cars they saw. Shops were closed. Many were boarded up. Pedestrians had vanished.

"Stop! Where are you taking us?" he almost screamed at the driver.

The man's reply was totally muffled by an overgrown, thick, bushy, grey moustache, streaked with white that completely covered his mouth. What should he do? Without warning, the taxi lurched through a narrow white stone archway, halting in someone's courtyard.

The courtyard itself was paved in cobblestones. To their right stood, what appeared to be, stables constructed in heavy dark wood. To the left, a glass front ran from one end of the building to the other. A glass door automatically slid open. A bellboy appeared, loosed their bags from the cabbie's grip and guided them along the narrow corridor running parallel to the courtyard all the way to reception. The terminus was a low, two-desk affair. There was no grand entrance nor high counter. Was this the five-star boutique establishment so highly recommended by Joelle, their long-time travel agent?

What hit him was not what was there, but what wasn't. There was no hubbub, only an air of unhurried peace and tranquillity. The corridor itself was lined with a long, low, pastel-white backless couch. At its side stood a five-foot-tall, earth-toned urn of ancient Etruscan origin. Save for the urn, every piece of furniture was brand new and spotless, all in white and tan. As his family were served cool, refreshing hibiscus juice, he handed over their passports and checked in.

It was 2pm. He addressed the girl assisting him. "We're hungry. Do you have a restaurant? Is it still open?"

The tiny girl looked like a junior high schooler. She raised her eyes from her laptop. "Yes, in the garden, round the corner. Here are your keys to suites 25 and 26 on the second floor. The bellman will take your luggage to your rooms while you eat."

Once again, he was awed by the stillness and the almost soporific pace of anyone he saw. Had they entered a cloister of avowed silence? There was no traffic. No noise, not even echoes from the outside. Quietude enough to drown you. The all-white calming corridor led to a glass double door with large, vertical, ornate brass handles. On exiting, they climbed down four white stone steps and entered a long, oblong garden. to one side stood a grove of orange trees. Underneath them, several small black wrought-iron tables and chairs, all unoccupied. On the other side, an infinity pool beckoned, adorned with green and white striped deck chairs. Between the pool and the end of the garden was a length of shallow water with fountains rising and spouting silently from it. As they approached, a waiter came to sit them at a table beneath the fragrant orange trees. He handed them menus.

"Would you like any drinks to start with?" the server asked almost in a whisper.

"Some Vichy Catalan, please."

The wisp of a smile from the waiter evaporated. "We don't serve any Catalan product here." It was the start of the dichotomy they would experience across Spain. Their constitutionally elected leaders were imprisoned for sedition. To him, coming from Canada, it was a rerun of Quebec's demand for independence.

They grasped their menus without a word. The usual "pub fare" was on offer. Laura chose a Waldorf salad. Where did that come from on a pub menu? He followed the boys in ordering a hamburger and shoestring fries.

"Sir, the food will take at least 20 minutes. Each item is prepared from scratch. You will not be disappointed."

His eyes questioned Laura. She nodded.

As the boys extracted a pack of cards to play gin rummy. Laura fished out a guidebook on Cordoba from her voluminous handbag. He relaxed and drank in the garden. The gentle ebb and flow of water soothed his senses. The style was so Arabic. In 711 CE, desert nomads out of Africa conquered Spain and held it for 400 years. Their greatest love was water. Wherever they settled, they created oases of serenity through pools and fountains.

He too had once tasted peace and tranquillity, as a child returning to Africa each year from schooling in England, being led by his father's hand to prayer. Evening began with the ritual of taking a shower, the putting on of light grey cotton trousers below a freshly ironed powder-blue short-sleeved shirt; a walk along the palm-fringed harbour as the sun set, to arrive at their mosque. At the entrance, they discarded their sandals, washed their feet to purify them then, step by step, they ascended the great wide marble staircase, softly exchanging "Salaam Aleikums" (Peace be upon you) with fellow worshippers, all friends or family in his tightly-knit community, all gravitating to a large prayer hall above. Glassless, filigreed windows lay open facing the ocean, allowing in the cool, salt-tanged breeze. As they sat cross-legged on freshly swept rush mats, a girl sang ginans, hymns of peace offering them solace. It seemed destiny had ordained him two lives, one after the other: one life to experience peace each evening cocooned within a girl's singing, followed by another, wandering the world to retrieve it.

In the garden of Bailio, Laura nudged him out of his reverie. the food was here. A half-inch thick, medium-rare burger was cooked precisely to his asking, slightly crunchy on the exterior and juicy within. Shredded onions along with mild spices had been added to the patty. The pungency of oregano stimulated his taste buds as he bit into the burger. Its bun was encrusted in poppy seed, melting in his mouth. The burger surpassed any he had tasted. and no, the previous best had not been encountered in the heartland of America, but in England at a high-end "American" parlour. Shoestring fries, perfectly seasoned, were accompanied with homemade ketchup and authentic Dijon mustard. Curiosity seized him. Where did the buns come from?

"From Sevilla, specially baked for us and delivered fresh each morning. We are trying to earn a Michelin star, which is why we strive so hard. Our condiments are prepared in-house too."

He discovered that the secret to excellence in cooking came from details such poppy seed on the buns and not overwhelming the food with excessive ingredients.

Their burgers and fries devoured, the boys grew restive. Laura declared siesta time.

"Go to your rooms and relax. I'll join you later. It's dessert time for me." He ended up with thick hot chocolate and churros, fresh out of the oven, to dip them in. The churros were oval-shaped sticks of dough, six inches long with serrated edges, covered in golden castor sugar and cinnamon.

There was nothing more to do on a sun-baked afternoon. They would sleep and venture out in the late evening to enjoy some tapas as the locals did.

Alone for once, he had the luxury of exploring his temporary residence. The Bailio was a converted 15th century mansion built upon the ruins of a roman villa. No wonder it was so quiet. It only had a few dozen rooms. Half of them were vacant. In accordance with its unwritten rules, he crept along the corridor searching for any common room with an open door he could examine to discover its facilities. To his delight, he found one. The glass door opened into a large dining room. The ceiling was at least 20 feet high. It wasn't the ceiling he gaped at, but the floor. It was constructed of thick enforced glass. Underneath that glass were the ruins of a Roman room, together with stone pillars that rose up to the current glass. There was even coloured mosaics on the Roman floor. He couldn't wait to tell Laura and the boys.

Instead of taking the lift, he darted up the beautiful heavy dark wooden stairs. As he opened the door, he exclaimed. "Come with me. I have something spectacular to show you." His wife was fast asleep. He didn't have the heart to wake her. In his disappointment, he surveyed the room. The large open suite was bigger than any he had witnessed in Europe. There was no carpet, only a burnished wood floor. All was built with elegance and style. There were no plastic mouldings. He could jog from one end of the room to the other without bumping into any furniture. The space enhanced the room's tranquillity.

Alright, he would take the boys down to share his find. Walking through their connecting door, they too were beyond waking. He returned to his room, undressed and slipped into bed, falling asleep instantly.

His slumber was shattered by Laura insisting he wake up.

"What is it?" he murmured dreamily.

"It's past eight in the evening. Alex discovered a flamenco festival happening all night. We have to be at the plaza downtown as soon as possible to get a decent seat. Come on, get up. We have to go."

"But I want to show you this room I found."

"There's no time. You can show me in the morning."

A thud on the door. The boys barged in, riffling through his bag of goodies, biting into his favourite chocolate bars. "Come on Pops," they yammered, hauling him out of bed. "We have to go."

"Boys, there's this room I saw. It must be a thousand years old."

"Sorry Pops. We gotta go."

"And don't eat all your Dad's snacks. You won't eat your supper."

He sighed to himself. No peace for the wicked. Gathering up his clothes, he had to put his sandals on in the lift to keep up.

Stopping at the concierge they asked, "How do we get to the main plaza for the festival?"

The balding, overweight man had trouble breathing. "We are on a hill overlooking the city," he wheezed. "As you leave the hotel, follow the road down. You'll reach the Plaza de las Tendillas. That's where the show is. You might be too late to get a seat."

They thanked him and rushed off.

As they clambered down the hill, every alleyway and street was ringing with Flamenco music. Each had its trio of performers: a man thrumming his guitar while a couple laboured to perform a Flamenco for the hundredth time. The couple wore their classic bright red and sombre black outfits. The girl sported a Cordobes, a black wide-brimmed cowboy hat with a flat cap and strap.

Plaza de las Tendillas, the size of two football pitches, throbbed with spectators. Men and no music to direct them. At one end, an enormous stage with lighting equipment had been set up. Deafening music poured out, even though the performance hadn't started. By a miracle, they found a restaurant serving seafood tapas that gave them a table on the plaza with a clear view of the stage. The excitement infected his family. Too busy absorbing the scene, neither Chris nor Alex asked to play cards. The waiter chose tapas for them: clams for Laura; strips of fish inlaid with green olives and sweet peppers. Chris peeled the skin off large prawns, squirting lemon over the morsels. There was salad. And rice blackened with ink from squids.

Performers began taking to the stage. Camera flashlights came into action across the square. For a moment, there was a sudden hush. It was followed by a mighty roar for the stars of the show, who were obviously well-known and beloved by their audience.

As his family applauded with the rest of the crowd, his mind lingered on the peaceful afternoon spent in an Arab oasis of water and lawn, amid the fragrance of marmalade oranges. Too long had his life been shackled to the endless bustle of daily living. Like a genie let loose from a bottle, an image rose before him of a girl singing plaintively in a marble hall covered in rush mats, its filigreed windows open to the ocean's calling.

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