excerpt from chapter IV. Day 25, Seville, 16.11.2023.
I woke up under the clear blue sky as the hot Andalusian sun already heated the cobbled streets of Seville. I had slept on the hostel’s rooftop as there were no more beds available. Sounds of construction work came from down below — that protruding, squeaking and mechanical rumbling that disturbs the soul. “What am I doing here?” I wondered, sitting on the terrace sofa. “Where am I going?” And in those moments, the whole journey had no sense, and travelling became exhausting and pointless. The Fisherman’s Trail was behind me, the waves and the eternal horizon were far away, and I was completely lost in trying to make sense out of a city.
The sun shed light on the beautiful architecture of the city, and not only every neighbourhood, but every corner of every street was a piece of art. Seville was kept so clean and well-preserved that it seemed like one big museum, and it left me with a subtle feeling of emptiness. There was not much more but to pay entrances and visit, marvel seriously and meticulously, from point A to point B, and tick off all the attractions from the list. Some people preferred to be dragged along from point A to point B in carriages. The horses probably preferred other activities, but there they were, beautiful, well-maintained, muscular, healthy, and chained. Some were as white as canvas, others were as black as coal, and some were earthly brown with fabulous golden hair. The tourists took selfies in carriages, and the horses had metal blinkers around their eyes. A not-so-sterile smell subtly filled the air around the city. It came from piles of what the horses were leaving behind them on the streets, like a statement of freedom.
In the evening I met up with several people through Couchsurfing, and we walked through Seville, drank beer and wine at “only the best places”, supposedly, according to Antonio, who was a local. “I’ll show you only the best of Seville,” he told us with the confidence of someone who really knew everyone in the city. And he took us through beautiful, dark, quiet streets and told us some persuasive touristic stories that were easier to buy into after a few drinks. “I have around 1000 friends and 300 reviews on Couchsurfing,” he fed his own ego. He seemed to be some sort of Couchsurfing social giant, and I wondered what kind of superficial satisfaction that gives to a person. “There is a really good Flamenco show happening tonight,” Antonio said. “Not a touristic show but the real deal.”
We came into a dark yard and entered a small hall packed with people around a narrow podium. It seemed we were the only foreigners there, and that it truly was the real deal. The crowd was full of dark shadows, eagerly waiting for the gypsies to start strumming their classical guitars and for the spectacle to unfold. Then silence fell when a beautiful, short and proud girl stepped onto the podium. Her blood-red heels were like daggers, and the blood-red dress a rose blossoming around her. Dramatic strumming unfolded, and the girl, who couldn’t have been much older than eighteen, stomped into the wooden floor with force and elegance. She spun around her axis like a totem, and her blossoming-flower dress followed, hypnotising the crowd. She spun like a dervish, entered a trance-like state, and so did we in our minds. The gypsies sang their lungs out through their throats, and the emotional charge never fluctuated, never bowed down. I didn’t understand a word, but what else could they have sung about but the strongest love, heartbreaks and misery?
“This is it,” I thought, mesmerised. “This is Andalusia behind the touristic curtains.” The girl drummed her heels into the ground with incredible speed and precision, and every guitar stroke was a statement. Then, as suddenly and dramatically as it started, the show ended. The girl had the most serene and elegant expression the world had ever seen, but her eyes were full of sadness, like a professional athlete beaten into their profession. The girl and the gypsy musicians bowed several times during a long applause, and then they disappeared behind the curtains.