Sevilla

The first time I went to Sevilla I didn't speak too much Spanish. I only remember going to this bar that had Sevillanas performances and long communal tables. Sevillanas is a kind of non-performance flamenco that regular people do. I barely spoke Spanish, and I went to the bar to order a tapa, and I got some kind of sausage on a stick, with a small ramekin of clear liquid. Was I supposed to dip it? I awkwardly act out. She stops me and gives me a book of matches. I'm supposed to heat it up. I light the gas and warm the sausage! This is fun! I take a bite, and raw pork oozes into my mouth. Of COURSE I'm supposed to COOK it, not heat it up. Idiot. It was February break the second time I saw Sevilla. I went with my friends Nicole and Joanna for about a week. We rented an apartment. We go out, order sangria. It's delicious. We ask the bartender what goes in sangria. He says “wine, sugar, brandy, and whatever I've got.” And that's pretty much how I learned to make sangria. Drunk, we get back to the apartment, turn on the light, and we blow a fuse. It's pitch black. Joanna starts break-dancing for some reason. We cackle. The woman upstairs screams at us to shut up, she has a sleeping baby. Nicole decided instead of trying to find a fuse box, we should go into the basement to try to turn the lights on. Joanna and I yell “NO! Don't go back into the basement! People always get killed going into the basement!!” We're so afraid, in our drunken stupor, that we drag all of the beds into one room, put them together, and sleep together. We drank, shopped, ate as much manchego as a couple of girls could manage. Some 11-year olds asked us in English “you want to fuck?” We had such a great time (there was no fucking of 11-year olds.) So I didn't really plan on seeing Sevilla again, but it turns out that it is a major connection between andalucia and Madrid, and also Portugal, where I've decided to make a pitstop. In Granada, they prepare me. “Here it is hot, but in Sevilla it's HOT. All the time. Day and night.” Sevilla is really great, but the streets are just as labyrinth-like as Turkey, although they are better labeled on maps. I spend more time having no idea where I am or where I am going. I'm happy to be lost and wander. Every corner (except there are no corners, only windey little streets) has a gorgeous house to look at. There's beautiful ceramic, in andalucian style as well as moorish, everywhere, prclaiming who lived where. There's a big shopping area that is arcaded to help avert the intense heat. There's flamenco dress shops everywhere, and I want them all. They're costumy- not appropriate for any normal occasion- each dress has probably 10 yards of fabric, weighs 15 pounds, and is ornate, frilly, and over-the-top. I find the Dolce-and-Gabbana of flamenco ateliers, and am breathless. Some are meant for weddings. I marvel at them, and tell the woman that I would definitely buy one of these if I were going to get married. She jokes, “maybe if you get the dress, the man will appear.” As if that's how it works. The hostel is also brand-new, and decorated in traditional moorish style- there's an inner courtyard, tiling everywhere, and I learn that the room I've booked has NOONE ELSE IN IT. Amazing luck! I love Sevilla! The only other people at the hostel are teenaged italians. I don't think they leave the hostel. I keep seeing the girls cook, while the boys watch American cartoons. One girl is hard at work popping a pimple on the back of another girl while she is cooking. Hostel living is full of adventures and surprises!! Back to that bar, called La Carboneria, and it's lost it's charm. It's hot, sweaty, packed, and the performance is lackluster. The performers look bored and annoyed. I don't have the energy or desire to talk to anyone. The guy to my right keeps drumming on the table. It's driving me mad. I decide it's a full enough day. I walk back to the hostel for about 20 minutes, or at least I THINK I am walking back to the hostel, and I turn the corner to find my self in THE EXACT PLACE I STARTED. Know the phrase “walking in circles?” I take things very literally. A big, fat, circle. A well-meaning American girl with her parents walk up to me and that terrible accent Americans have when they speak Spanish asks me “necesita ayuda?” She's from DC and she's been studying in Seville for 10 weeks. She looks at my map and says “You want to go there,” and points to where I've circled my hostel location.” Thanks, genius, that's why I circled it. Her dad agrees. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. She can't really express to me how to get there. They offer to walk with me. I ask her “Estas estudiando? Como esta tu espanol?” She says “un poco.” Clearly the dimwit spent the the last 10 weeks spending daddy's money, getting drunk and laid, because she doesn't know how to get anywhere and can't understand the most basic of spanish. Very well meaning, though. The next day is spent souvenir shopping. All I really wanted to do was walk around. I don't even really want to go out to eat... my stomach is still a bit sensitive from the ice-cream overindulgence in Granada, and I get too lightheaded from being in the sun and having a nice drink, even one as impotent as a clara or a tinto de verano. No matter. I'm finding the dry heat pleasant, and Sevilla is delightful, especially the old Jewish quarter. It's just so pretty, so even though I don't have the drive to wait in line or pay to see the inside of the Alcazar or the Cathedral (I mean, how many insides of churches does anyone really need to look at?) I'm just enjoyng the solitude and the backdrop. I walk in circles, past one restaurant twice, which causes the waiter to invite me in and have a drink with him, I'm not interested in the companionship. I lose drive a bit towards the end of my journey, and I've been really blessed to find really cool people to talk to and hang out with, but a rest from it is welcome. I go to the alcazar gardens to see one of the nightly perfomances. This time it's classical music by a guitar duo, and the setting is so beautiful and relaxing. The temperature has finally cooled down and there's a gentle breeze. It's too dark to read the program, but I'm proud to have identified that the music was from the baroque period. I guess those years being with a musician weren't for nothing. Pooped once again, I go back to the hostel to maybe have one glass of wine and pack for my early trip. Reception is not 24 hours, and the place is crawling with French teenagers. They're loud and annoying. They even keep telling each other to “shhhh!” and it's not working. I would be more aggravated, but it dawns on me that it's the first time I've seen black and white kids hang out together since I've arrived in Spain, and that makes me happy. I try to go out and have a glass of wine, but my part of town is dead and I don't have the will to walk any more, or even take a cab. It's 12:30, early by Spanish standards, so I hold my tongue and thank GOD I still managed to have my own room. I am lulled to sleep by Brian Eno, successfully drowning out the quiet giggling of the girls in the next room.