The First Sunday in Sevilla

Europe » Spain » Andalusia » Seville
November 27th 2008

Published: November 27th 2008

Although I'm posting about my experiences last Sunday, today is Thanksgiving back in the States. Therefore, I want to wish my family and friends to happiest of happy Thanksgivings, and I'll post about my entire first week in the CELTA course tomorrow afternoon. I hope you're all well, and Nina, I love you.

- Jesse

Sunday - November 23, 2008

I woke up this morning to the bright blue sky of Seville and the ringing of church bells. They echoed throughout the city, calling the faithful the morning's mass and me to the bright, sunlit terrace of the hostel. The beds were comfortable and I had slept very well. After spending a few moments admiring the sunshine and the cool mid-morning air, I headed downstairs to the homey, wood decor of the hostel's kitchen for a simple breakfast of toast with jam and butter. The smell of fresh coffee greeted my nose and warmed my body. Addicted to coffee back home, I was overjoyed to have some first thing in the morning, grateful for simple pleasures. Karen had been up by that time and she filled me in on her plan to check out the morning church services at Seville's Cathedral with Kevin. I decided to tag along when Kevin arrived around 10:45.

After checking out and leaving my bag with the hostel for safekeeping, we stepped outside onto the cobblestone road of Triana, peaceful in the morning air. A brisk walk took us past the Plaza de Cuba and across the Puente San Telmo (San Telmo Bridge) and into the north side of the city. The Cathedral rose up from the horizon and greeted us like old friends, golden and beautiful in the morning light, its peaks rising into the sky like fingers reaching for the heavens. People milled about the crowded streets, enjoying a Sunday stroll, a late breakfast, or the communal atmosphere in the streets. Such is Spain.

We attempted to enter the Cathedral, but were barred from the 11 o'clock service because we were late. Instead, we decided to grab some churros and cafe con leche before the 12 o'clock started. In our jaunt toward the cafe, we ran into a line of marching bands tromping past the Cathedral, playing loudly and making the streets festive and lively. Band after band passed as we continued to walk toward the center of town, their brass instruments blaring. Reaching the cafe, we sat down and ordered, talking as we ate. Kevin and Karen have turned out to have very interesting lives. They both come from very close-knit Dutch community in Alberta, Canada. As I learned, Karen had completed a five-month stint as a forestry firefighter up in that area of Canada as well.

By the time 11:40 rolled around, we were again on our way to the Cathedral. As I've come to learn, the Cathedral is not only the largest Cathedral in Spain, but also the largest Gothic building in the world! It's only smaller than St. Paul's Cathedral in London and St. Peter's Cathedral in Rome. You can understand how wowed I was when we entered the building, it's vaulted ceilings rising more than a hundred feet (or what I estimated at the time, I may be wrong) in the air above us, the center ceiling filled with beautiful stone carvings. The altar was surrounded by a large metal grating and contained a massive wall decoration of molded golden images of Jesus and other holy things. One can only feel small and finite compared to the grandeur of such a place. The priests voice echoed off the stonewalls and through the hushed air of the Cathedral. The congregation stirred in the silent actions of the Catholic faithful, while I merely followed along through motions that hadn't been practiced for years. I've forgotten how much constant standing and sitting were required. The service passed by and I simply took in the feeling of being in such a historic place; a place that people had been coming for centuries to commune with their God, or simply to have a little peace separate from the hectic life outside its heavenly sanctuary; a structure that had stood for year upon year, outlasting those that had come to see its façade rising above their city, and outlasting its creators; a structure that had been meticulously crafted by human hands and had withstood the test of time, had seen the feet of people long dead and gone grace its floors. The very historic nature of the place was enough to send my mind reeling. The priest read on, but I was too lost to care, I came for a communion with the soul of the Cathedral and drew breaths of historical solitude. Such is my notion of spirituality.

The mass finished and we exited the Cathedral around 12:45, discussing the service between us. To our sheer surprise we happened upon the beginning of a street performance directly outside the Cathedral. We milled around with the rest of the crowd, searching for an opening between the veritable sea of heads. I realized what it was as soon as I saw the performers. A women stood near a wooden board set up as a stage on the ground, a blood-red rose tucked behind her left ear. She was dressed in black, with a tight, but swirling skirt flowing about her legs. Two men, guitars in hand, began strumming a magical and mystically mournful tune. A woman, sitting between them began to clap her hands in a fast flamenco beat. CLAP clap clap CLAP clap clap CLAP clap clap. She took up a tonal singing, which rose and fell through musical peaks and valleys. The dancer’s hands writhed like snakes in thrall, slithering gracefully through the air, weaving a tapestry of music and movement. He flashing black eyes remained calm and concentrated. She was there and yet elsewhere. A hand-drummer joined, the guitar grew faster. Suddenly, she stomped her foot, sending an echo from the board to the ears of the onlookers. Once, twice, three times. She began to move her feet, her body joining her hands in motion. Her dance was rapture, she spun, she tapped, she filled me with awe. And, just as soon as it started, she spun one last time into a graceful pose, the music suddenly silent. The crowd clapped and remained for two more performances. My first flamenco show left me stunned and wanting more. It’s only fueled my desire to learn flamenco guitar, a bit of a pet dream I’ve left stored up inside and unrealized. Perhaps one day.

After such an enjoyable morning, I decided it was time to see about my lodging for the CELTA course. Karen and Kevin were off to see the Plaza de Espana, a grand construction representing the provinces and heritage of Spain on the East side of the city. It is surrounded by a large, lush and winding garden. I didn’t have the luxury of seeing it that day, unfortunately. Wishing them well on their tramp around the city, I grabbed my pack from the hostel and headed back across to the north-west side of the city, seeking Calle Santa Anna and a building subtly titled Number 5. I arrived after about 25 minutes of walking through Seville’s winding roads, finding the building to lie right off of the Alameda de Hercules, a large plaza hosting numerous bars, cafes and other places of revelry. I buzzed into room 1F, the landlady’s apartment, but found no answer. Luckily, the program I was starting on Monday had an office that was open on Sundays. I decided to try my luck there. Hoisting my pack I headed off toward Calle Mendez Nunez, roughly a ten-minute walk east. When I arrived, I discovered that they didn’t open until 5 PM. It being 2, I had some time to kill.

I decided to grab a drink and spend some time enjoying the weather and the sunshine in the Plaza Nueva, two minutes near the program’s offices. Buying a Coke and bottle of water from a street kiosk, I dropped my pack on a bench sitting along a quaint street in the plaza, right under a statue of King Ferdinand III, the 13th century king of Castille who wrested control of Seville from the hands of the Spanish-Muslim Caliphate. I sat there for about a half hour thinking about the day and my travels thus far, trepidations about the upcoming course rolling through my head. Yet, oddly, I was quite at peace.

To my surprise, an old man approached my bench and sat down at the other end. It was an interestingly odd thing for me to experience, as there were other open benches along the plaza. In America, people usually keep their distance from people they don’t know in public areas. “El dia es bueno,” he said to me in an offhand fashion, glancing up at the sky. “Es muy bonita,” I responded. One thing about many of the Spanish people down in Sevilla, once you give them an in, they will talk your ear off. It reminds me of home.

I could not comprehend half the things he said to me, as he did not speak a work of English, but he was very patient with my Spanish and didn’t mind repeating things three or four times until I grasped what he was saying. He asked me where I was from and I told him, although he thought I was English for about an hour before I realized when he said “ingles” he was referring to nationality rather than language. By the time he started asking me about England and my home, I had realized the discrepancy. “No, no, yo soy Americano,” I said. “Vivo en Miami, Los Estados Unidos.” From there we talked about the recent election and the goings on of the world and of life in general. Again, it was a broken conversation, but one of the more interesting ones I’ve ever had. I eventually learned that his whole family, including his three brothers, were all dead and gone. He was “solo,” as he put it - alone. He was quite a jolly fellow and, overall, seemed very lonely and quite talkative, as if he had not spoken with anyone in ages, which was why I suppose he approached me in the plaza that day. We sat there for two hours, an 89-year-old Spanish man and a 22-year-old American, smoking the cigarettes he offered to me and chatting about this and that. It made me think about how funny and beautiful life is all at the same time. Eventually it started nearing 5 and I told him that I had to go meet some “amigos,” for lack of a better word. As we had used a paper to get through some vocabulary issues earlier, he again briefly wrote on it, passing it to me when finished. He had written his name, Juan Ruiz, on it and his phone number. “Amigos,” he said referring to us. “Amigos,” I agreed, vowing to call him. We shook hands and he headed across the plaza toward the east side of town. I walked back toward the offices I sought out previously that day, my heart breaking for a lonely old man.

I reached the offices about five minutes later, getting there seconds before it opened. I briefly met one of my fellow classmates, Mike, a roughly 40 something man from North Carolina. He received his key and was off before the secretary contacted my landlady and I was on my way to get into my flat. Again, hoisting my pack, I was hoofing it toward Santa Ana.

Reaching Alameda de Hercules and finding my way through the outdoor tables of the cafes, I reached Santa Ana and took a left toward building five. After some confusion I eventually was able to get into the flat. It was a nice place with three rooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen and a spacious living room. Best of all, two French doors opened onto Alameda de Hercules itself. They looked out on the large plaza, where people took the traditional afternoon paseo (stroll) through the neighborhood. The flow of Spanish life outside the window was peaceful and comforting. I was struck at that moment with the thought of how odd it was to be where I was.

I used the mobile phone that Josh had provided me to call up Kevin and Karen. They told me that they were hanging on the riverside by the Puente Isabel II, an ornate bridge stretching across the Guadalquiver to Triana on the south side of the river. Being without my 22-pound backpack I was able to reach their location relatively quickly and meet up with them to grab some dinner. Afterwards, I headed back to the hostel with Karen to check some e-mails and talk with Nina, as my flat lacks wireless or Internet connection. All the while, Karen planned her next few days on the road. Saying our goodbyes, I headed back to the flat around 10 PM, realizing that I needed a good sleep before starting such an intensive course the next day.

Reaching the apartment, I let myself in and began putting my few possessions away (literally 6 shirts, 2 pairs of pants, socks and underwear, 4 books, a laptop, a towel, a sweater, and a leather jacket, as well as some other small things). It took me five minutes. Such is the beauty of traveling light. Around this time my two flat-mates came through the front door after going about town on some errands, and I was able to finally meet them. James was a 26 year-old from Cornwall in Southeast England, who had lived in Andalucia (Southern Spain) for two years, while Erik was a 36-year-old from San Diego who had done a lot of traveling and living/surfing abroad. We sat down at the living room table and got to know each other, chatting about where we had been and our lives up to this point in time. Both have turned out to be hilarious, good-natured, good-humored, and very interesting people. I think my living arrangements have turned out quite well.

After such an eventful day it was time to turn in and prepare for the coming day. Here goes nothing.

The First Sunday in Sevilla

Sunday - November 23, 2008

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