Postmarked Seville

Sipra Pati

Almazen Café, Seville, Spain, May 23, 2018

By myself post-lunch… time to kill after spending two and half hours wandering in the delightful alleys of Seville. Found this café – colorful chalk-written blackboard announcing its beverage and tapas fare. Freshly-squeezed orange juice – cool, not cold - feels like a liquid savior. Mismatched chairs, stools, couches that had seen better days, floor cushions on wooden benches… tables keeping up with the lack of coordinated décor. Very few people – all young – laptops and iPads up – a place to study – can very well imagine my daughter here - alternating her attention intermittently between books, laptop and phone screens. No fans or air conditioning. Yet this place was cool. Like the orange juice I am drinking.

The outside – the cobbled and the brick-lined alleyways; the sidewalks with the neatly-laid out table and chairs is such a thriving space – it makes you feel like everyone is on a perpetual holiday. Yes… the mornings through bulk of the afternoon is littered with tourists – a different energy – languid, anticipation and excitement. The purposeful gait helps discern the native Sevilliano.

Dana Francisquito. Trattoria Bar and Pizzeria, Seville, Spain. May 24 am, 2018.

So much for its name, we walked into this place because its menu proclaimed Paella – the traditional Spanish rice dish. A glass of Sangria for me even though it is not a typical hot day. The wind that blows through the narrow alleyways has a touch of ice to it. But the sun beams its heat through the thick cloud cover. It’s good again.

Around me I hear people conversing in different languages. Everyone’s a visitor. So it seems. I hear some British English, some Bengali reached my ears, perhaps Italian from the table next to ours, a person walking by talking into his phone in Hindi, a shaky merci beaucoup from an elderly French lady, and so many more tongues that my aural sense could not discern. Families, couples, retirees, school children, University and college students, tour groups… just about every kind of visitor. Languages so different, but expressions and intonations dead giveaways. Excited chatter, confusion, apprehension, aah… comprehension, delight, awe, lost, hunger, irritation… just about every tourist-in-a-new-place feeling.

The alleyways of Seville, Spain, alongside Alcazar. May 24 pm, 2018.

Smells of coffee, shrimp, fries, fresh-squeezed orange juice, fresh bread, roasting almonds, caramelizing sugar… my olfactory nerves are in a tizz.

Time to get started on my walk back to Recarerdo Street. My feet will feel the unevenness of the cobbled street and brick-lined alleys; climb onto narrow sidewalks and back on the street. My eyes will take in the colors of the walls and the angles of the alleys, the flowers and foliage spilling over miniscule balconies, the open doorways allowing glimpses into tiny courtyards overpowered by dense foliage and religious niches, smells of lavender, orange and other exotic aromas would entice my senses. Chirping birds… I will hear the parrots and swallows and see them too… the parrots’ green prominent before becoming one with the dense foliage of the trees once alien to this land. The shadows of the buildings will protect me from the intensity of the sun, and once I hear the tweets of the parrots, I will see the alleys open up into broad streets where the buildings will not deter the sun’s rays from activating my sweat glands as it shines down through the clouds (which I am told was rather unusual for the season).

Charlotte GastroBar, Cadiz, Spain, May 25, 2018

The other side of the Atlantic. The skies. The skies. The impeccable blue with the not-so-soft-cotton-candy, not-all-white, some grey, not-seemingly threatening clouds. The blue, the green, the emerald, the undefinable blue green aquamarine of the waters… the shadows of the clouds rendering the water a tad teal. The warm silvery sands, the sea breeze, now cold now not, young lithe bodies shimmering with wisps of clothing, shrieks of joy from some in the water, sea gulls not soaring… the cold cold waters chilling the toes. Before the shivers can pass through… refreshedness filling one’s being. Red seaweed washing ashore. Gentle breakers. An errant one soaking me beyond my ankles. Sand clinging to my wet feet. Then that seemingly innocent grey cloud sneaked up and opened up. Bodies scrambling feet scampering towels hastily thrown around, rushing into a bar. Five minutes – that was all. The clouds sniggered laughing at us. The sun shone down again on the blue, once again resplendent. Charlotte Gastrobar beckoned. White chairs and tables. Chitter-chatter from under the garden umbrellas. A hot Americano in a delicate china cup.