This is my final collection of vignettes and photos from our time in Andalusia. Over the month, they have become my love letters to Spain, sent out to thank her land and her people for hosting us so beautifully in February, before the COVID-19 pandemic swept over her and the rest of our precious planet.
So much is uncertain, may be impossible, but these love letters hold my heart’s desire to return one day to help restore Spain’s people to their livelihoods. Perhaps they will inspire you, too. Kindest regards…and thank you for reading, liking and sharing.
Sevilla has a place in my heart much like Tuscany’s Florence. Maybe it’s the easy-to-walk accessibility to art and architecture, and abundance of cafes with good food and wine. Or that, unlike at home, I’m quick to orient and have a keen sense of direction and memory for where I’m going. (His first time in Florence, my husband, lost in google maps, swore I’d had past lives there, given how quick I was to mark the way with street signs, remembered sights and feelings, and paper map my references.) Making this return, with several days to linger, and then a couple more, was a charmed and cherished way rekindle my affection and conclude our time in Andalusia. And given we spent more time here than elsewhere, this collection of vignettes is longer, and interspersed with photos along the way. May you enjoy!
coming full circle, we finish where we started, Sevilla
what stayed the same, what changed in that ten-day absence?
what continues to shift in the days remaining?
luxe bus from Malaga, leisurely drive north
white stone walls, white lacy almond trees
grey green globes of olive trees row upon row, up and down hillsides
broken by a village, a road, now a mountain range
contrasted by a cerulean sky, and clouds heavy with sea water from the Costa del Sol
arrived and settled into the perfect Santa Cruz apartment,
thoughtful amenities compensate for the lack of light in this classic courtyard setting
shuttered windows will be a blessing in the frying pan heat of a Sevillian summer
famished, we stop at the local plaza for a platter of the fresh fried catch
cold cerveza, chilled manzanilla – could anything taste better?
then to walk and discover along this residential maze of dusky corridors, we really are only ten minutes away from it all
tourists milling in touristy places
servers tend to the calle lined tables, patrons anxious for their mid-afternoon tapas
Giralda continues to command my attention as she did from the first, shining against that afternoon sky
recalling she was my first photo that first evening that first trip in 2017
predestined next step to make the easy cobbled climb of her interior, thirty-four rounds in the sky
and feel compelled to photograph her again and again, morning, noon and night
the cathedral, Giralda’s raison d’etre, the world’s largest gothic church
rose glass window
first elliptical ceiling
Columbus’ final resting place
all bedecked in gilt and grandeur
the Alcazar continued to please, though the growing crowds had us make quick haste
grateful for the grace and space, hush and lush of its gardens
my enchantment with Mudejar beauty
that confluence of east meets west design unique to Spain
deepens in appreciation and respect with every sighting
and the local artist’s rendering brings even more to those moments and my regard
and now, those once tight green buds bursting to reveal
waxy white petals and golden centre, scattered like wedding confetti
sweet fragrance of orange fills the air
evokes childhood memories
belies the bitterness of its fruit
I dance it at home (or try, how I pine I didn’t start at six, or have another lifetime to learn)
I’ve seen flamenco at home and on this very stage
even with reservations, urged us to walk fast, to be early in line,
to get front row seats in the small casa, as it’s first come first seated
welcome given, performers take the stage, I recognize the “bailaor”, the ”cantaor”
I know it will be a good show, but who was to know how good
never had I seen before such ferocity, such passion,
I feel rise in me, in him, in us – with every “golpe”, every “tacon”
he knows, we know – Ole! Duende!
Ole! Ole! because there aren’t words to acknowledge what we witness
if I’d had a long stem rose, I’d have tossed it on the stage
caught up in this sunny Sunday Sevilla Marathon, plans to visit Plaza de Espana now dashed
as 14,000 runners pace themselves to qualify for the 2020 Olympics
(this, before the global coronavirus threatens to quash Tokyo’s summer games)
African men and women break records for the win and places, in mere minutes over two hours
detoured, we walk along the river, same one we meandered along in Cordoba
past bullring, and cafes
a chance turn and we see a sign: La Vermutera de Sevilla
my kind of place for my kind of drink
served over ice with a slice of orange and a green olive
a closet sized bar
walls lined with bottles of Spanish vermut (vermouth) never seen at home
platters of home-made tapas elegantly displayed
local DJ spinning vinyl this Sunday, another serendipitous stroke of luck
lovely young couple with a 16 month daughter – realizing their dream
restless, anxious, dream-filled sleep, always the same the night before I travel
tomorrow the early morn departure, to be soon enough homeward bound
and too, will I remember the way to the hammam today?
wondering, down which alley did my intrepid travel nature go without me?
it’s OK to be afraid, I’m OK, I found my way, I remembered, I arrived
so the universe has given us the gift of 36 more hours
Sevilla, not yet ready to bid us “adios”, what does she have in store?
Mercury in Retrograde an astrological blessing, and fog as thick as gazpacho (hey, it’s Spain)
45 minutes later new tickets, new hotel reservations in here and in Madrid
and hey, look, is this a business class upgrade? Madrid to Amsterdam? Amsterdam home?
Ash Wednesday in Triana, this old gypsy town across the river revers the holy ritual
red velvet draped balconies and wafting incense signal this Catholic church is open for ceremony
I step past the heavy curtained doorway
into this darkened, silent, hallowed space
to mark the beginning of Lent
dozens of six foot tapers burn, baskets full of purple alstroemeria,
the setting for the life sized Mary holding the crown of thorns,
for Christ bearing his cross, and ours
I sit and watch as one by one, each steps forward, bows, kisses His hand
I sit and hold the sacred space for their prayers and mine
acutely knowing how the distance from home had coalesced
into the timelessness of faith that knows no borders
the pup tied to the grilled gate, its water bowl filled, its soft bed on the sidewalk
still it cries for its person, wagging its tail
is it you? me? us?
missing our Annie dog suddenly pierces my moments before freshly pierced heart
coming full circle, that final lunch of fresh fried fish, and longed for salad
your cold cervezas and my three chilled manzanillas give us a glow
we’re easy targets for earnest, busking troubadours with Spanish guitars
African women selling bracelets, men selling sunglasses
those still warm, soft and crispy, Portuguese tarts from the wee bakery by our hotel
a sweet farewell to Sevilla
a portent of our next shared adventure