Cordoba! Can this be real?

CORDOBA,CAN THIS BE REAL?
No maps in the bus and train stations and Tourist kiosk locked in siestal slumber.
Still, no harm in a walk after 5 hours on a bus from Madrid.
Gorgeous day.Sunshine like Melbourne in Spring and down the modern boulevardes rolled my luggage using sun and sheer bloody guess work to find where the old town should be.

Despite contradictory signs, I walked straight ahead, somewhat influenced by where every pedestrian was going to or coming from and there was the city wall that not even Islam could defend.
Through the great gateway and into a Cordoba that has waited eleven centuries to greet me, words can barely express my delight. This was the Spain I had hoped for and what I had come to see, feel and taste. I was frustrated to be towing a bag, despite its dutifully bouncing across the cobbles, as crowds fronted courtyard and laneway cafes to drink, smoke, kiss and love life. Steeling myself against the allure of this revelry and glimpses of seductive, shady, private courtyards with palms, fountains and recliner couches (for what purpose I cannot imagine) I blundered on.


Following the same time-tested male method of navigation(scorning map and not seeking local advice) I proceeded to wind through the pedestrian only, shake-hands-across streets

until again, there it was, the incomparable Mezquita, a Christian cathedral built on the foundation of a 9th century mosque. My Hotel was said to be facing the church and with well-earned tourist scepticism, I walked to its North side, where the possible side street ought to be when, to my delight there it was, directly opposite the Mesquita's wall and close to the Roman bridge that crosses the river into the 21st century (let's not go back there for a night or five)
My pocket handkerchief room, though at the end of a fire-trap, one way corridor was cleaner than many I have encountered and with double bed and bidet in the bathroom, was clearly designed for more than one.
The urge to guzzle it all at once was great but as I have five days here, I can afford to let the rest of this evening and Sunday go by and flush the locals out of the streets and back to work (recognising that there is 30% unemployment down here and no mining industry to come to their aid and rescue yet another spend-athon, bankrupt, socialist government). The tourists are more obvious and numerous than so far encountered but nothing like the throng that spring and summer must bring.
So, a quiet evening in an off-stage tiny restaurant, still quiet at 9pm and waiting for the Saturday night rush. Dutch, Spanish and home counties English have beat me there but None enjoyed my Bull's tail casserole( or knew of oxtail stew that my mother used to make on those dark, smoggy northern nights) with bread to dip up the residual gravy. Ah Bisto!!
Look out do I hear loud Americans, time to stroll home and blissfully retire. Couples pass going out or coming home. Girls, for the record-you need to be "poured" into your jeans or tights and be able to wear (master) Knee length, high heeled Musketeer boots to make it here. Why does a coat zipped up(or is it down?) from left shoulder to right knee look so alluring?? Down boy!-time for bed.
Think I could like this place???