Fanfiction → from granada to seville {Canada & Spain}
» Canada, at England's urging, goes on a vacation to Spain, and the wild plains of Andalusia.
» One-shot
» Canada ; Spain ; brief appearances by England & America ; sort of Canada/Spain if you squint
» PG-13
» Read on ao3!
» Personal note: The road from Granada to Seville across the countryside of Andalusia is one of the most breathtaking roads I’ve ever had the pleasure to be on. When people think of Spain, they often think it to be similar to Portugal, or Italy, or even France. But what I find about Spain is that it’s so much wilder and desolate and free. And I guess that’s what I love about Spain. Especially driving through Andalusia, where all you see is barren rolling hills under a vast empty sky. It’s unlike any other place I’ve ever been and I guess the only way you can experience it is to take that ride yourself. Please do.
Matthew Williams sits in a small café in Granada and wonders how on earth he got here.
Actually, that’s a lie. He knows exactly how he got here. He arrived in Spain on a plane from Toronto International Airport, with one small suitcase, a Spanish phrasebook, and a digital camera.
It was all Arthur’s fault. During a phone call one evening, Arthur had boldly announced that both Alfred and Matthew did not travel enough and that was the reason for "overwhelming North American ignorance." After Matthew’s left eyebrow had stopped twitching in annoyance, he had asked where exactly Arthur proposed he go.
"Why my boy," came Arthur’s smug voice down the telephone, "Europe, of course!"
He said the word Europe with a flourish, as if he was extraordinarily proud of Europe and its achievements, which simply made Arthur a hypocrite since wasn’t Arthur famous for not wanting to be part of Europe in the first place? But Matthew had sighed, and mentally made plans for another visit to Paris.
"And you can’t go to visit the frog!"
"Why not?"
"Too French. The culture's too similar."
"Well I’m not visiting you."
"I never said you should."
"Good, because I’m not putting up with your cooking for two weeks."
And that is how he found himself booking a flight to Madrid, amidst Alfred’s excited chattering.
"You have gotta take me some pictures! Get one of a bullfight, and… oh, oh! Some tango dancers too!"
"The tango’s Argentinian actually," replied Matthew, and that was that.
He booked the trip with a touring company, which was the most efficient way of seeing a lot of places in a relatively short period of time. Admittedly, Matthew had only been to Spain once before, a very long time ago, and the trip had not been made for holiday purposes. He knew a little amount of Latin American Spanish, but after seeing the disastrous results his Quebecois French had had on some Parisians during a visit to Francis one year, he’d decided to pick up a Castilian phrasebook, just to be on the safe side. He couldn’t help but feel slightly awkward, however. He wasn’t really Spain’s friend, he didn’t know him that well, they didn’t really share a lot of common history, and he would much rather visit someone he did know better, like Colombia or Venezuela.
Admittedly, at first Matthew hadn’t really been all that excited. But now, nursing a mint tea and looking up at the angular shadows cast by the setting sun over the walls of the Alhambra, he had to admit Spain had been a good choice.
They left for Seville in the early morning, and while the rest of the touring group caught up on sleep in the air conditioned bliss of the coach, Matthew, unable to sleep, watched the rolling hills of Andalusia go by.
They were vaguely similar to his own prairies, in their utter light brown bleakness, but while his prairies were mostly covered in agriculture and other industries, Spain’s landscape was just… empty, save for the occasional giant billboard of a black bull along the highway. The only words his brain could think of to describe the countryside were "bleak" and "empty" and "vast" and "wild", huge expanses of land under an equally huge clear sky.
He thought it was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.
They arrived at the hotel in Seville during siesta, in plus forty heat and Matthew groaned as he stepped out of the air conditioned coach into the sticky, radiation of a Southern Spanish summer. The air was stifling, and he could feel his shirt already sticking to his back. Luckily, he had the rest of the day completely free to wander, and so he set to the task, camera and water bottle in hand, looking far more like a tourist than he would have liked to admit. The streets were mostly empty; the only other people outside being foolish tourists who hadn’t quite grasped the concept of siesta. Matthew decided to be a foolish tourist for once.
However, after ten minutes of walking around the Alcázar, Matthew knew he had to get into the shade somewhere before he passed out from heatstroke. He ducked into a shadowy deserted courtyard, sat down on the cool marble steps and ran a hand through one of the fountains.
"Beautiful, isn’t it?" came a sudden voice in English.
He jumped, looking around quickly to see who had managed to slip through the doorway without him noticing. He came face to face with a mop of dark brown hair and shining green eyes.
"Antonio?"
And why shouldn’t Spain himself be here, in one of his own city’s landmarks? The concept of Spain visiting his own historical sites wasn’t a strange one by any chance, but the fact that Canada was running into Spain in this particular place on this particular day was horribly suspicious at best.
Antonio grinned at Matthew.
"Have you been following me?" Matthew demanded.
"Following you? Why would I follow you, when I know exactly where you are in my country at any given point of the day?"
Matthew suddenly thought about Antonio knowing about every public washroom he’d visited during his trip and shuddered briefly, before realising that it probably really didn’t matter to Antonio, of all people, and threw the thought away.
"Did Arthur tell you I was here on vacation?"
If Arthur had, Antonio was probably not meant to reveal that information, but Antonio nodded brightly, teeth gleaming white in his tanned face.
"I’m in Sevilla this month and he phoned me, saying I should show you around when you arrived. How are you liking Andalucía?"
The names rolled off his tongue with the very faint lisp he’d always had. Matthew attempted to respond in Spanish, but it ended up with a thick French lilt. Antonio grinned, before addressing him in French.
"You are a fool to be out in siesta."
"What are you doing here then?"
"Tch, the heat, it does not bother me so much. But you are used to extreme cold."
"My summers can get pretty hot."
"Not like mine."
There was an awkward pause.
"I guess that’s true… your architecture is incredibly beautiful, by the way."
"It’s not really mine."
"What?"
"It rightfully belongs to al-Andalus. But he is gone, and I guess it is mine now."
"All the same, it’s stunning. I don’t have anything like it back home."
"But you have mountains and lakes and the beaver and the moose, yes?"
Matthew laughed. Antonio sat down beside him, taking off his shoes and making ripples in the water with his toes.
"Where do you travel after Sevilla?" he asked.
"Córdoba, then I believe the tour takes us down to Gibraltar."
Antonio scowled at the mention of Gibraltar, and Matthew suddenly remembered the tensions between Arthur and Antonio over the area. He quickly pulled out his camera and took a photo of Antonio’s surprised face.
"What was that for?"
"Well if I’m going to take pictures of Spain, I might as well get one of you."
They sat there quietly in the shade of a Moorish courtyard in the blazing heat of Seville, and lulled by the sound of splashing water, Matthew found himself singing quietly in French.
"What is that song?" inquired Antonio’s soft voice beside him.
"It’s from Notre Dame de Paris. One of my musicals. You must know the story. In the song, Esmeralda sings about her life as a gypsy and her mother’s tales of Andalusia."
"Sing it to me."
And Matthew did.
My mother told me of Spain
As if it were her country
And of the bandits in the mountains
In the mountains of Andalusia
In the mountains of Andalusia
I have neither father nor mother
I have made Paris my home
But when I imagine the sea
It carries me far away from here
To the mountains of Andalusia
Gypsy
No one knows my country
Gypsy
I'm a daughter of the road
Gypsy, Gypsy
Who can say who I'll love tomorrow?
Gypsy, Gypsy
It's written in the lines of my hand
I spent my childhood
Barefoot in the hills of Provence
For Gypsies, the road is long
The road is long
I'll go on wandering
Beyond the roads of France
I'll follow them to the end of the world
To the end of the world
An Andalusian river
Flows in my blood
Flows in the my veins
Are the Andalusian skies
Worth the pain
Of going back to?
Gypsy
No one knows my country
Gypsy
I'm a daughter of the road
Gypsy, Gypsy
Who can say what will happen tomorrow
Gypsy, Gypsy
It's written in the lines of my hand
It's written in the lines of my hand
» The Song is 'Bohémienne' from "Notre Dame de Paris", a French-Canadian musical based on "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" by French novelist Victor Hugo.
In my headcanon, Spain can speak Spanish, English and French fluently, while Canada knows English, French and only a little Latin American Spanish.