sevilla, or a reckoning with the current

In 546 AD, a young boy looks out across what we know as the Guadalquivir River. It is night, and the stars are bright- more bright than I see them now, if I had to guess. It’s 546 AD, after all. Sevilla won’t receive any electricity for around 1400 years, so, while the Islamic and Christian conquests yet to come might slightly increase the number of hearths and lamps polluting the constellations, he’s situated smack dab in the middle of a pretty aesthetically pleasing 2700-year-long run of hundreds of brilliant, shiny pinholes of light in the otherwise inky-black cosmos. He’s looking out to the river, which reflects these stars in a pretty striking manner, but he’s not really taking the river in right now. Half of his mind is dedicated to- well, he’s not sure. I think we’re all familiar the pure rage that every 12-year-old human, throughout all of history, is bound to experience at some point for absolutely zero reason other than the emotional results of a hormonal cocktail that the Visigothic science of his contemporaries has not yet grown to understand. The other half of his mind is hanging around a couple of kilometers behind him; his thoughts are dedicated to a trip his family took, earlier that day, to what we now call Plaza de la Alfalfa. His dad told him (as his dad had heard from his dad, and his dad’s dad had heard from a wiser man in a more culturally naive time) that this plaza was once the site of the Roman forum; here, there were temples, baths, markets, and public buildings. All the way back in 49 BC, of course. Hundreds of years had passed. And before that, they say that other, more noble, more ancient, glorious people lived there for hundreds more (around 700, as we have come to find out). The young man’s mind can hardly wrap around the fact that this site could be so impossibly ancient.

Perhaps, he thinks, he would be able to comprehend this city better, and thereby comprehend his place in humanity better (“am I a single, unimportant drop in a massive pitcher of bipedal sangria? ”), if he knew more about this city. If he knew how the ancients lived. If he knew how the Romans got here. If he knew how his people got here. If he knew what it meant to them to live in this place, the Visigoths of generations before, the grandfathers and grandmothers ruled by Amalaric, Theudis and Theudigisel (those faceless people attached to powerful names spoken with a reverence for authority that a twelve-year-old has not yet appropriately identified as the offspring of fear). He wishes he knew more- moments before his mind pulls him back to that 12-year-old-rage, now directed to a sibling or a pet or a local boy who offended him unjustly. His mind has wandered away, but, just for a moment, it hovered in the exact same spot of wonder which mine occupies in this same place, 1500 years later, my stream of consciousness occupied by a visit to the same plaza, my emotions held hostage by the same amazement at antiquity. And, armed with a higher volume of historical deductions, archeological conclusions, and linguistic insights about Sevilla’s history than that Visigothic tween could ever possibly hope to imagine, I am no less disturbed by worldly insignificance than he was. But something else crosses both of our minds in those moments before we are pulled back from our existential trips through the philosophy of historical scale: reassurance. Somehow, in spite of ourselves, we both look out upon the river of ancient history which laps at our shores and winds through our cities and find a bit of reassurance. Yes, there is something nice in this knowledge that there have been generations upon generations before us, and that there will be generations upon generations after us; there is something sweet and light in this knowledge that, no matter the context or the pressure of what we consider modern, someone else has been here too.

I’ve been here for a month. It used to be that, if I were presented with a trip (particularly a trip to a city with as much culture and history as Sevilla), I couldn’t wait to jump onto my notes app and sleepily write a blog post about my meals and experiences. But here, it seems, I’ve met my match. Studying abroad in a foreign country is not a gentle flow of new experiences, but rather a deluge- and, even worse for the writer in me, its a deluge designed by a committee and academic staff to be maximally positive and maximally enjoyable. I’ve avoided the post longer than I should have, mostly because I know there’s only so many times I can robotically churn out sentences like “the plaza took my breath away” or “the ham was incredible” before I start to annoy myself and the unfortunate friends and family who stick around for a post.

But it's time. Here's how it's been.

As my plane landed in Sevilla, every second of runway deceleration into my new life (or, I should say, 4-month-long temporary life) lended a little more momentum to a rapidly quickening chemical whir of anxiety and excitement. There are months when I feel stuck in limbo; when all that's going on in a day's passage is the growth of a day's worth of fingernails and a day's worth of hair. But then there are minutes which are so novel and hold so much weight for my future that, while they maintain their temporal length on paper, they seem to stretch out in either direction toward infinity; in physics terms, they may take up one cubic second of time, but they have the density of the center of a newborn star. That's how a lot of traveling feels, and that's how all of studying abroad in Sevilla has felt. This feeling, the feeling of moments simply meaning more (hello ESPN), is aided and abetted by Sevilla’s unique artistic character. Its hard to not feel like life is more vivid wrapped in the city’s narrow, winding streets, among its beautiful baroque, neoclassical, Islamic, and traditional Spanish architecture, and striding past its million charming restaurants which seem to be always full of locals and tourists alike lazily chowing on inexpensive small plates and downing inexpensive alcohol, constantly aware of the temperature on some cognitive level- thanking god for the relatively chill mornings, rushing back to your air-conditioned bedroom for a nap when it gets above 100 in the brutal August-September heat, and emerging again at 6pm to cast about before the main event which you have anticipated all day: dinner. More on that in a paragraph or two.

As I climbed down the stairs, I noticed walking six steps ahead a group of people my age who were almost certainly also doing my study abroad program. I hung back, neither brave enough nor sufficiently resolved to abandon my internal speculative daze regarding the next few months. Eventually, of course, I needed to break that shell and meet people. Sevilla is enjoyable on your own, thanks to its rather peaceful nature and the charming dimensions of the everyday scenes (a mother-daughter duo dancing Flamenco at the Plaza de España, or the morning light slowly re-introducing the river to the realm of sight as stray cats slink by under the cover of fading darkness). But you need other people to get anywhere near a full experience. If you want an example of that necessity, look no further than the requirements of Spain’s signature culinary experience- the tapa. My first day in Sevilla, I wandered on my own through the streets and stopped at the first tapas spot I could find. The food was good- I went with  a cold potato salad and a small serving of tender Iberico pork. The potato salad was definitely a miss, but the pork was excellent, aided mostly by the contrast between a crunchy exterior and flavorful, juicy interior. Whats more, the restaurant itself was charming as hell. Tapas restaurants in Sevilla are, in my experienced, characterized by charming outdoor seating arrangements and somewhat ancient-feeling, dimly lit interiors decorated with traditional Spanish artwork. There’s an aspect of homogeneity; they all typically have the same prices (4.50 euros for each tapa plate is what I’ve come to expect), and not much menu deviation. They do vary in quality, but each has its strong and weak dishes, and, in my experience, its futile to worry too much about which restaurant has which speciality. It’s much less stressful (and, likely, a much more authentic experience) to simply find a place that looks nice, make sure the menu is cheap, and find a good table.

Like I said, my first meal in Spain was consumed alone, but the tapa dinner is an experience that demands other people. So staying in a shell hasn’t really been an option. Thank god, then, that the kids in my study abroad program have been so positively delightful. The thirty-or-so Georgetown students who are here with me have been, obviously, great company. They’ve been blissfully down for many a mid-quality tapa, as is obvious from my camera roll. Students from other schools (Claremont Mckenna, Tulane, Tufts, UC Boulder, Alleghany, Belmont, the list goes on) who I’ve met here have been equally great. All of this means that I’ve been able to tapear with that most important ingredient- other people.

The best tapas I’ve had so far were the best largely because of the environment I consumed them in. Take this bocadillo from Bar Las Niñas, a restaurant situated in the middle of a beautiful park lit by string lights when the sun goes down. This was my first night in Sevilla, and I was surrounded by strangers who were able to share a meal with the energy of a group who had known each other for much longer. The bocadillo was good, if not frustratingly simple. That’s how sandwiches go here, you’ll find; easier to just say “okay” and promise yourself to enjoy a monstrous deli creation when you’re back stateside.  I’d give the vibes a 9/10 and the sandwich a 6.5/10.

Or take this strangely delightful selection from Casa Tomate, a charming tapas restaurant which, as I already mentioned, was strikingly similar to about five others I’ve visited. Here, the energy was great, but we sat inside, and this was a mistake. Regardless, the food was sufficiently interesting to make up for any dearth of cultural immersion. We ate a dish of pineapple with shrimp and some unidentified sauce, served within a hollowed out pineapple. This was the part of the meal that was least enjoyable, but most fascinating. We also went with a very simple and well-prepared chicken dish, chorizo sausage that I quite liked, and a cheese and jam plate which, while not absolutely stellar, was absolutely necessary to enjoy the aforementioned sausage.

The best affordable tapas I've had in Sevilla came from Taberna Coloniales; this meal was again enjoyed inside (due to it being a busy night with a packed outdoor seating area), but because we were in a small, charming backroom with around 15 people, the energy remained immaculate. We accidentally ordered a slate of fried food, which we all regretted promptly, but this was user error. Most notable here were the spinach croquettes, with an enjoyably sweet, creamy interior, and the buñelos, which were cheesy and addictive (the Me of Spanish food).

Finally, this wasn't exactly a tapa, but the iberico ham and tomato toast I enjoyed from this restaurant in dreamy, sleepy Aracena, a nearby town, really did the trick for me. I ate this right between an 18-mile run and an 8-mile hike, and I wouldn't have survived without the fatty, energy-filled delight of such a simple yet beautiful breakfast.

The area of Sevilla I enjoyed most of these tapas in was near Centro, particularly the Nervion-Casco Antiguo-La Buhaira area. This is a part of the city typified by Sevilla's signature aesthetically pleasing, rather ancient-feeling, undeniably Spanish brand of municipal design. Most notable is, in my mind La Giralda, a towering building that's Muslim in origin and below which sits a beautiful plaza. There's also the iconic Iglesia Colegial Del Devino Salvador, which I pass every morning on the way to class. I could go on and on with Sevilla's architectural sites, but the point here is that the restaurant experience is implicitly dependant upon contextualization by the looming weight of history. It's less a clash of old and new and more a clash of importance in history and importance in the day-to-day, more minute social realm.

While I've been grateful to enjoy the city alongside other students, another important aspect of my experience in Sevilla has been figuring out how to be comfortable being alone. It's not that I don't know other people here, but I do want to meet locals, and even outside of socializing, I want to have an experience of the city and Europe in general that is authentic to me. This requires silence; it requires the ability to walk alone. To eat, sometimes, alone. To sit alone. To be alone among strangers to the extent that "alone" ceases to be the accurate description, and "among" takes its place. An ideal I haven't achieved, which is to say, an ideal to which I have the pleasure of aspiring.

Long story short, I want to be alone sometimes, and this means, among other things, scavenging. Scavenging for experiences, for suitable third spaces, for shade, and, yes, for food. I've had some very solid baked goods, many in between classes from Pan y Piu. This apple empanada blew my socks off. The bottom dough was dense and buttery- the top, flaky and soft. And the apple filling was, well, apple filling. You can't go wrong. This chicken pot pie empanada from another bakery was also superb. The most surprising baked good I've had while I've been here was this simple loaf of milk bread, which was covered in a delightful sugary exterior crust. That said, my most enjoyable experience eating alone has been far and away the experience of bringing food to the Plaza de España. This plaza was built in the 1920s, but despite (or perhaps because of) that fact, it fulfills every dream of grand Spanish architecture I could ever have. I mean, just look at it. There's really nothing like the experience of sitting in this plaza as the sun goes down, listening to steps on cobblestone and the conversations of strangers from every country and walk of life, and taking in the distant sound of flamenco music drifting from the performers in the center of the square. I have enjoyed here a few simple picnics assembled from the grocery store consisting of iberico ham, parmesan cheese, strawberry jam, and this insanely good 40-cent loaf of bread that the local store carries as a token from God sent to make up for every piece of rotten produce I've ever accidentally bitten into. These meals have been delicious and simple, but even if they weren't, they've been peaceful, and that's what I was going for anyways.

Finally, I've been eating gelato in Sevilla like there's an impending shortage and my Visa denies me ration card access. The best gelato I've had so far has been, objectively speaking, a mango and dark chocolate cone from Mito. Mito stands so far above all of the other more tourist-oriented gelato stands in Sevilla that it feels insulting to even compare them. Gelato should only be served from containers that are covered throughout the day, which Mito does. The colors are vivid, the texture is sufficiently creamy, and the flavors are, importantly, very rich. But that's not to say that the other gelato I've had hasn't been enjoyable in its own right. Speaking contextually, my best experience eating gelato on this trip so far came when I got cookies and cream and strawberry gelato after a long, tiring beach day in Cadiz. There's also a decent place right across the street from the University of Sevilla's History building, which has been good for a quick sitch where I need gelato fast. This is all to say that I think there's a 1:1 correlation between the happiness of my day-to-day and the rate at which I remember the existence of, and consume, ice cream. If that's true, then there's your quantifiable evidence that Sevilla has been going pretty well.

The quality of my experience, from the gelato on through, has been enriched first and foremost by the weight of Sevillan culture. Over a year ago, I wrote in a blog post about Lisbon that I think part of what makes "European cities" seem so different from American ones is the subconscious perspective which is enabled by contextualization within a milennia-spanning civilizational history. I stand by that. For better or for worse, you are not alone. Not in time, not in space. For better or for worse, you are just like other people. But I stand by that with a caveat. You only get to take part in that big ole story if you embrace the fact that feeling special, feeling unique, feeling, sometimes, alone, is, if not entirely accurate within such an overwhelming societal context, just as innate and important to your experience of the human condition as breathing. The big point of abroad for me so far? To figure out the balance between fitting into a new culture and maintaining the many parts of myself that must be maintained in order for cultural experiences to have any meaning at all. If you take ice cream to the porch to enjoy it with a view, but the ice cream melts, that's not ice cream with a good view. It's warm flavored milk on a stoop. I think I can both enjoy the stoop and prevent myself from melting.

Unfortunately for the 12-year-old from 546 AD, he won't get to eat ice cream. Or eat tapas with interesting Americans among interesting Spaniards. Or fly in a plane to vatious European cities. That's why its so special that we could each have the same visceral moment of amazement at the crushing and liberating weight of historical context- of mysterious ancient stories and wild  future hypotheticals. (I should mention here that, I know the kid is made up, but I'm not sure that makes him less real in this context). Lying underneath a curtain of stars, we're both on a journey to slowly, inch by inch, with laboring souls and drumming hearts, to figure out what Sevilla means for us beyond the physical. To feel at home in this bizarre human condition. We both wade into the Guadalquivir, and, with the cold drilling deep into our bones, we let ourselves float.