It wasn’t really that expensive to get a Blablacar from the Portuguese Algarve to the Spanish Sevilla… but that’s not what I do it for anyway, for the money (that’s just a positive side effect). I adore hitchhiking because instead of a simple lame transfer you allow yourself a true adventure.
It’s never the mundane boring people that pick up hitchhikers.
Especially Joy wasn’t. After my friend Wouter had driven me to the international highway where I shortly posted in the blistering sun, it took the British 50-year-old-but-looking-like-40-year-old only 4 minutes to promptly halt with squeeking tires and take me for a spin. Within a mere 10 minutes I was entirely updated about the life of this piece of blonde craziness, including the ins and outs of her delirious adventures as an alcoholic journalist (sober since 2 years) and her psychotic son brainwashed by a spiritual commune. At least she’s going places.
With her little dog on my lap we raced straight to Andalusia, throwing a well-meant “fuck you, you foh-king wankah” to every perceived ‘idiot’ driving passed a tad too reckless. This woman was absolutely nuts, which is exactly why we immediately hit it off. Scarily enough, I felt like I was granted a little sneak-peek into future me.
With bed-breakfast-but-no-alcohol-invitations in the pocket I wandered from the highway intersection to downtown Sevilla, where hotel receptionist and heavily-pierced metalhead Alvaro was awaiting my arrival.
While the sweat poured down my face (Sevilla, djeez, get a grip with your humid 45 degrees, you think that’s fun?) I suddenly noticed how much I’m in Europe right now. I mean, it’s been a while. I’m not used anymore to those straight well-kept streets, immaculate bicycle lanes and trees planted with an exactly measured distance in between them. And man, what’s with the surplus of traffic rules and signs?! Luckily Alvaro shares my general life ethics, which basically means using rules as an indicator of what ‘normal people’ do, so where the fun begins for people like us. Even though he spent his days working his ass off saving for his next trip (also for him money is only meant to travel), the time we would pass together was an absolute blast.
So after a little welcome hug I started walking into the direction of the historical center alone, being one of the few people outside in the devastating midday heat, sprayed by tiny water hoses hanging over the streets for the necessary cool-off. Admitted, Sevilla was worth it. Opposed to the modern and well-organized outskirts, the core of the town is as traditional and ancient as time could have possibly preserved it.
The deeper I walked into the center, the more tourists blocked my way, which unconsciously forces my mind into flight-mode.
Without realizing where I was going I had already dived into a labyrinth of narrow twisting side streets where all sounds suddenly disappeared. Amidst the acute stillness my thoughts were rapidly released and it swiftly occurred to me how happy I was people spoke Spanish again after 4 months of Brazilian and Portuguese-Portuguese… alright, I learned that language good enough by now, but it feels like for months people around you have been stuttering or the sound level of reality had been too low and all of a sudden you can hear clearly again. Sure, after 3 years in South America I had to get used to the monotonous s-s-s-tongue-out-of-your-mouth-Spanish, but it felt like home somehow. My home for only a week.
When I awoke out of my thoughts I suddenly stood at Plaza de España, at the foot of a giant palace with fountains and bridges and people being unrealistically happy in front of cameras.
The wind carried some distant music that pointed my ears. I followed my curiosity and walked guided by its rhythm. The melody of these strengthening sounds melted together with some flavorful clapping, filling up the music with the taste of strong passion. I followed the pillars alongside the gallery until they revealed a woman. She was dressed in black and wore flowers in her hair, her face serious, drowned in amorous concentration. I tried to move but I couldn’t, I was under her spell. I could think of nothing, the aroused ticking of her feet echoed through my brain. This is magic.
I don’t know if I sat there 10 minutes or an hour watching the flamenco, but once they stopped and I looked up to the sky the night had made its entrance. It had ‘cooled down’ to 31 degrees, pleasurable.
I decided to return to Alvaro when I promptly walked into a giant street party. It’s like life wanted me there… and you should never turn down an invitation, especially not from life itself.
I promptly forgot about my self-invented detox week and ordered a ‘vino de laranja’, an orange wine, the local specialty. Orange = fruit = healthy, right? I decided I like Sevilla.
Every smile turns into a conversation and everyone has something to say, even if they don’t.
I wanted more of it. As my Dutch blood goes pumping every time I visually trace down a bicycle lane, I decided to surrender to my instincts and uncover Sevilla on wheels. Luck had it that Alvaro owned a public-bike-membership-card which I could use for free, as long as I limit myself to rides of maximum 30 minutes each (an hour only costing €1 - it’s called Sevici). European cities are small anyway.
First I raced down to the Metropol Parasol, a futuristic building providing a fantastic view over the ancient-modern cityscape (€3).
From there I pedaled down to the Andalusian palace Casa de Pilatos and Museo de Bellas Artes, which is free for EU citizens but closed early in summer. As the combination of art and free stuff sounds like the ultimate Steph-deal I came back for that one though, to conclude this ‘best museum in town’ is merely a pathetic mix of religious bullcrap. Apparently just the Spanish Inquisition wasn’t enough suffering caused by the church, they have to bug generations to come by spreading their atrocious imagery globally under the cloak of ‘art’.
No, then you’re better off at the Museo de Arte Contemporaneo. Especially if you’re into plain weirdness, which needless to say I am.
A surreal expedition through the subconscious layers of those mentally deviant. Delicious, keep it coming.
Staring at some cultivated mind trip on canvas I suddenly felt my phone vibrating against my hip: Alvaro. If I had time to meet him at the Bohemian Quarter, the part of town once tormented by the hookers and homeless until it got swiped empty to serve the New Age youngsters and liberal hipsters. Sure, fill my glass.
The next morning Alvaro was free to show me one of his favorite places in town: The Alcazar Palace. Or, if you’re a fervent Game of Thrones fanatic like this one: Dorne.
I already visited King's Landing (Dubrovnik), Braavos (Šibenik), The House of the Undying (Dubrovnik), Meereen (Split) and Qarth (Trogir), all in Croatia, but now I can proudly add another film location to the list. It’s not cheap, but man, is it worth those 9 bucks!
You see, the Spanish know how to build shit, that’s why in Latin America you probably gonna like the cities with a sad colonial history best, because they are shaped to Spanish example… BUT those Moorish Muslims are pretty damn awesome with a bunch of bricks as well! Let them blend at this African-European border and tadaaaaaa, magic happens.
Alcazar truly shows that 1+1=3, the best of both worlds can be found back in this architectural masterpiece. With Alvaro on my side to point out the sublime details (like a tiled wall composed by a drunk guy and two people portrayed on a tapestry… fucking)...
... I felt I could truly capture the essence of this ingenuity. I sat against the walls where Oberyn held sensual orgies with his beloved Ellaria and I strolled in the gardens where the Sand Snakes fought the Lannisters. I was grateful.
With this I already got more than I could have ever expected from Sevilla, but this sweltering pearl of a city wasn’t done with me yet. Initially I came up with the plan to join one of the many tip-based walking tours Sevilla houses, but I apparently choose exactly the wrong company: freewalkingtoursevilla.com. Even though their website shows an extensive schedule with precise days and times, that apparently doesn’t really means anything in Spain. But that’s okay, I rather just walk and see whatever comes on my way, which is usually more exciting than following a neatly planned program shielding off all surprises.
And so I found myself hanging out in the oldest bar of Sevilla, El Rinconcillo, ordering the (only?) vegan tapas ‘espinaca con garbanzos’ (spinach with chickpeas… and a bucket of garlic) whilst finishing a ‘vino de laranja’ or two.
They say time travel isn’t possible, but you simply never entered El Rinconcillo before. The dusty bottles, the cracked mosaics, the old ivory dial plate phone… everything is old here. Man, even the staff comes from the early 1900s! Their big bellies telling the story of a good Burgundian life full of tastes and flavors maneuver passed the wooden bar, on which they write your order with a white piece of chalk. Secretly they put the leftover pieces of the ‘manchego’ cheese and Iberic ham in their mouths, mischievously grinning when they noticed I was watching them. Life is good in El Rinconcillo, a little time capsule in the heart of Sevilla.
Still with my head a century back in time I entered a hidden book shop, one of those where you have to blow the dust off the covers to read the titles. When I asked the good man behind the counter about his favorite Spanish writers his eyes lit up and filled with a passion you hardly ever see in a world where people are always busy. I knew I wanted to buy a book from him, if only to capture this passion and take it with me. ‘Historia de la Vida del Buscon’ from Francisco de Quevedo is what he enclosed in my hands, a masterpiece of Spanish literature rooted in the city I was standing in.
I felt it burning in my backpack. I traveled to Sevilla and now Sevilla traveled along with me.