A Day in Seville
“Why are we standing here looking at this horse’s arse?”
It was an excellent question, posed by Juan, the host of a walking tour in Seville. He was an engaging chancer who was making the most of Spain’s economic troubles. Jaun had led us to a busy road, in the middle of which was a statue of a rider on a rearing horse. The area under the horse’s tail was rendered with disturbing — unnecessary, even — detail.
“Now,” he continued. “Turn around and look in the opposite direction.” We duly turned about and saw a large-ish dun-coloured building with a wavy roof nestled among some trees. Juan continued. “See that window, with the balcony? That’s the official residence built for the Portuguese ambassador. What do you suppose he sees first thing in the morning when he wakes up?” A horse’s arse, of course.
Everyone shook their heads and chuckled. I laughed too, but with a heavy feeling in my chest. Here in Andalusia, often described as the cultural heart of Spain, I felt like I was at the epicentre of blind cultural pride. Fresh from a turbulent Catalonia in the middle of another push for independence, I found myself in a city where every television in every bar and cafe showed strutting matadors and bleeding, foaming bulls. This elaborate alignment of arses and windows seemed to suggest a pride both overgrown and insecure.
The tour (mostly young Argentinians studying in, wait for it — Portugal) took in all the major architecture of Seville, largely built with money from the Americas (“Sorry guys,” Juan said to the Argentinians). Until the river Guadalquivir became unnavigable from silting, Seville had a monopoly on trade with the Hispanic nations and an awful lot of the money stayed in Seville. While continuing to apologise cheerfully to the Argentinians, Juan pointed out building after building funded by the Americas, and though the magnificent renaissance architecture inspires awe, the unwilling sacrifice that made it possible is horrifying, again, like the haughty, chiseled matador’s elegant dance with his sword and his grotesque partner.
I made arrangements to meet Juan and the rest of his group to see a flamenco performance that night after visiting a few bars.
When we met again, Juan had brought his offsider Alfonso, who was taking over Juan’s bar tour. Tall and with curly blond hair, Alfonso was an unlikely looking Spaniard and had the alert jovial wickedness of a fox terrier. As we set out for our first bar I found myself walking next to Alfonso, and asked him where we were headed. We were at the intersection of two of Seville’s tight alleyways and at that moment two young women in very short skirts walked past, passing to our right. “We go this way,” said Alfonso, grinning, and turned to the right. “Actually,” he said, “it doesn’t matter, anywhere we go, we get a drink, there are so many bars here.”
“One bar for every 108 people in Seville,” Juan, the consummate tour guide, chimed in happily.
There were many opportunities for Alfonso style navigation that night — Seville’s a university town and the evening was warm and humid. Not that it did Alfonso any good — he told me he had a girlfriend studying in England. I asked how long she’d been away. “Four months,” he exclaimed. “Four months! I’m so horny, I could fuck a tree,” and held his arms out to a nearby ficus.
Eventually, we arrived late for the second half of the Flamenco performance. The venue was the rear yard of a bar that had been roofed over and held about a hundred people, all Spanish as far as I could tell. Most of them were seated in front of the stage and we had to squeeze around the side, next to a makeshift bar. Three men were seated on stage dressed in black. Two of them played guitar and another sang and clapped. A woman emerged from behind them to dance, and she came out like a prizefighter coming out of his corner — sweaty and fierce, staring blackly into the audience. At the front of the stage she twisted back and forth with the music, hair flicking wetly with each turn. Unwavering, holding her gaze, the audience stared raptly back.
The singer, a craggy middle-aged man with a long grey pony tail, squinted his eyes closed as he sang, veins standing out on his neck. His voice reminded me of the desert — harsh, beautiful, and comfortless.
Juan was next to me. “All these songs are the same, man,” he said. “Some girl left me and now I want to die.”
But nobody wanted to die that night, the performers were triumphant and the audience applauded furiously at the end, some clapping with their hands above their heads and calling out to the performers, their faces suffused with exultation.
Juan bid us goodbye at that point and we followed Alfonso into the night to visit one bar after another. Eventually I said goodnight to Alfonso and the Argentinians, and wandered unsteadily through the maze of Seville’s tiny twisting streets looking for my hostel. I found it eventually and as I lay on my bed, head spinning, the Flamenco performance is what stayed in my mind. I thought, yes, that’s the heart of the culture here, and something to be truly proud of.
