First, dinner with two friends in the barrio of Santa Cruz, the old Jewish quarter: we strolled down impossibly narrow alleyways to come upon tapas bars bordering every hidden plaza, cured meat hanging in their bright interiors. We ate instead in what could have once been a Jewish crypt; lanterns hung from six-sided star openings in arched ceilings. I had pizza.
We then wandered toward Sevilla’s fantastic cathedral. And this is where is got theatric. Horse-drawn carriages clopped around the perimeter, lovers huddled under palm and pomegranate trees, and a man perched just beyond a gazebo with his amped guitar, picking at flamenco melodies.
It has been strange to be in Sevilla for an orientation program that has not yet interacted with the city. Tomorrow we will tour the Alcazar and go to a flamenco show. So far, though, our information sessions (covering housing, reality in the Spanish classroom, how to open a bank account, etc) have all been held in the hotel and our meals have mainly been here as well. It’s not that I didn’t feel I was in Sevilla, it was that I felt I wasn’t here because of Sevilla. In truth, I am not. Soon I will be traveling to Arcos de la Frontera, in the province of Cadiz, and there I will spend the next eight months or so teaching English. But to be in Sevilla for a few days already and not to have felt so obviously in need of a stereotypical Spanish experience is strange. Luckily, the night continued to provide.
After the cathedral, we headed west toward the river Guadalquivir. On the way we got our first—ahem, appreciative—remarks from Spanish men. Nothing too fancy, just “guapa” (beautiful) and “qué visión” (what a vision). We continued on, past the bullfighting ring to the water’s edge. Just south stood the Torre del Oro and, from about there, came the sound of snare drums. “Marching band practice?” we wondered and approached the tower. At the base of the tower were about forty men—and one woman—standing in a circle. About fifteen of them had drums and the rest were on some sort of horn, a sort of high-pitched trumpet. They produced the kind of eerie, gut-wrenching sound you would imagine might accompany the Virgin Mary in a solemn procession during Semana Santa. Except that it was a Tuesday night in September, and most of the guys leaned against car hoods or stone stairs leading down to the tower. As we were leaving, a couple of the horn-players had branched off and seemed to be done with the jam session even though the music was clearly not over. We were thinking, Monday-night-poker-night, Tuesday-night-solemn-klezmer-sounding-and/or-Catholic-processional-horn-and-snare-practice-night? In any case, I appreciated the music wafting back to us for several more turns down narrow alleyways, carried along with the scent of orange blossoms.
We passed two more guitarists in the streets on our way back to the hotel. And then drunken Spaniards in one of their picturesque parks. And finally, perhaps the best pick-up possible: just as we’d crossed a street, a garbage truck turned the corner and a man hanging on the end in his bright orange vest signaled to us that we should hop on for a ride. Spain, could you be any more Spanish?
The Giralda of Sevilla's cathedral after dark
The Torre de Oro where band practice occurs
