Notes on Sevilla

Sevilla in the late summer is, simply, coy.

Stepping out into this city in the morning, the light and shadows plays with your eyes as you try to navigate the cobble stone alleys. When you finally find yourself in an open plaza, it’s quiet, but it’s not eerie. No, Sevilla’s charm comes in the gentle pace of the daytime living. The cityscape takes on the coloring of a ruddy peach, ripe and humble. You sip a coffee slowly, trying to gauge what a local morning really looks like. There are clicks of selfie-sticks and tourists around, but the Spanish you hear is exchanged by the two or three clusters of shop keepers that are readying for a day of slow business. The Sevillans are all away on holiday. It’s August.

Midday, you make the mistake of trying to see the famous Plaza de España—not even sunglasses can thwart the blinding dazzle of this homage to Spain. Beyond the sheer size of this plaza, there are 48 benches that form the arc of the whole plaza. They take you by the hand, telling the stories of each province of Spain. Illustrated ceramic tiles reiterate the patience of Sevilla: the cadence here is unaggressive and wholly romantic.

The time in the sun has left you weary, though, and before you know it, you’re back in the alleyways, listening to the Spanish guitar that floats over the eaves of the baroque buildings around you. You shake your head, because that seems to be a little too idyllic, until you rope around another corner to find the guitarist sitting with his friend outside a café. They carry on as you walk by, never pausing in their afternoon delight. This makes you forget the self-conscious feeling of being a foreigner.

Before you know it you’ve come across a hat shop run by a husband and wife, where the two run a small business of passion, creating the most fantastical headwear that you’ve ever seen. You ask if you can try them on, and Patricia’s husband answers back, por supuesto—of course. So you do, and suddenly you feel as though your alter ego has come out to play, just in time for some orange wine under Las Setas de Sevilla. You watch the sky take flame, and as darkness settles, the Spaniards take to the streets for a night that explains the quiet of the morning.