Sevillian Civilians Part III

Lesson of the day: cheat the system by joining a group tour. You may also learn something. Arriving at the Alcazar, I was greeted by a line of tourists that seemed to stretch for miles towards I don't know where. The line seemed to be longer than the two lines that are permanently, and randomly, etched in my memory. The first line, which I had the pleasure of standing in for a good hour or so in the scorching, dry St. Petersburg summer sun, was for the observation deck on the St. Isaac's Cathedral. The second line, and I have no idea why this has made a comfortable and permanent home in my memory, was in some park in Russia where I waited 45 minutes in a line surrounded by chatty Russian ladies to use the bathroom. But I digress.

Fortunately, my experience with this particular line did not last long since my program director quickly ushered me and the other two girls into the hands of a tour guide with whom we only waited ten minutes to enter the mudejar* palace. Walking into the Alcazar was like walking into a smaller version of the Alhambra.

Look familiar? Tiled walls, herradura** arches, stone carvings, immaculate gardens. Having spent almost ten hours at the Alhambra back in October, I felt very much at home walking through the splendid rooms of the Alcazar.

main patio:





stucco etching and tiles

gardens:





*Arab design applied to Christian architecture
**horseshoe

Sevillian Civilians Part II

Leaning back in the thick, wicker terrace chair, letting my tired bones and muscles relax from the morning journey from Madrid and afternoon sightseeing, I breathed in the still, warm air. Despite it being overcast and every moment on the brink of rain, it felt like summer, a wonderful feeling in the middle of March, especially since Burgos was still cold, rainy, and required a winter coat. After indulging my senses for a few moments, I directed my attention to the matter at hand: lunch. Being part of a group of six people, I agreed that tapas would indeed be the easiest solution to ordering. Minutes later, our jolly Andalucian waiter brought out plates of olives, fried fish, calamari, gazpacho, paella, and cheese. Dribbling drops of fresh lemon onto some fried bacalao*, I wanted to stay in Seville forever.

Following the overly hearty lunch and obligatory turrón** ice cream, I made my way to the bank of the River Guadalquivir, where the breeze cooled the air slightly and ruffled the trees, tousling their leaves. I put on my cardigan. At six o'clock, I boarded a tour boat that took me on a leisurely, one-hour ride down the river. I did not pay attention to the pre-recorded, multilingual, robotic voice that was narrating the tour. I leaned over the rail and watched the motor churning the water, creating swirling foam patterns. I did not think about anything particular as I stared into the horizon. Same people, same feelings, same thoughts.

The day turned into dusky evening as everyone returned to the hotel to rest and get ready for flamenco later that evening. A couple of hours later, four dressed and coiffed girls exited the hotel into the dark streets illuminated orange by the street lights and faint glow of old, brown buildings. What began as an enjoyable stroll to the flamenco venue quickly evolved into a frantic dash through the streets of old Seville. The guidebooks say that one of Seville's charms is its crooked little streets that you should get lost in to truly experience the atmosphere of the city. Personally, I do not elect to get lost in any kind of street when I have to be at a performance in ten minutes, but that is exactly what happened. Realizing we would be incredibly late, we started sprinting, nice clothes be damned, yelling permiso*** to the crowds in front of us, diving in between people. As luck would have it, not only were none of the people we asked for directions from Seville, but the street we were looking for had no street sign, which is quite normal in Spain. Typically, the street you are looking for is always the one without a street sign (why is that?). I do not quite remember how, but we finally arrived at the old synagogue, panting and sweating, where the entire house staff was waiting just for us to begin the performance. All I can say is, now the Spaniards know what it feels like to wait for other people.

*cod
**nougat
***excuse me

Sevillian Civilians Part I

Stepping off the AVE train in Seville's Santa Justa station, I half expected all my six year-old memories of Seville to suddenly rush back to me. Unfortunately, my life is not one of those movies where the protagonist suddenly has flashbacks that come flooding back in intermittent bursts, triggered by some object, event, or location. I really could not remember my Sevillian August, as much as I tried. Fortunately, I now have new memories of Seville that will suffice just as well in describing the toast of Andalucia.

The second order of the day--the hotel being the first--was the cathedral. Seville is home to the largest cathedral in Spain. I have seen tons of cathedrals by now so the size did not quite phase me, but, as usual, the spectacle of the cathedral itself did not fail to impress. The Gothic facade stretches its flying buttress arms in all directions, as if it were stretching and unfolding for a yawn. The small, Spanish houses that surround the cathedral cower in its mightiness, which casts giant shadows on the plazas around it. Am I making the cathedral sound too much like Godzilla?

Although the Seville cathedral is traditionally Gothic, like the rest of the cathedrals in Spain, it also possesses strong elements of Arab influence due to Andalucia's Moorish past. The Giralda, done in the popular mudejar* style, stands erect on the perimeter of the courtyard, which is filled with orange trees, a typical Arabic design aspect. The air is filled with the sweet fragrance of the oranges. The top of the Giralda offers beautiful views of Seville as well as of the cathedral itself. However, to experience these prized views, you have to be willing to climb. Stupidly, I briefly entertained the hope of there being an elevator before beginning my climb, but sadly, elevators do not complete the mudejar style. Fortunately, the journey up to the cima** of the Giralda is one via ramps, not stairs. Thank goodness, a compromise.

Up next, an evening sprint through Seville. Stay tuned.

*Arabic style applied to Christian architecture

**top