My good friend Kirsten and I were sitting at a table at Universal facing the giant salmon-pink façade of Iglesia del Salvador this afternoon.
“You know,” she said, “I don’t know why I ever left Sevilla to go back to Germany.” I don’t either.
There are some universal truths about Sevilla that make this place hard to leave. Kike and I were walking through the church-filled neighborhood of Macarena on Friday en route to a school dinner. A vecino gave us a shortcut which led us down small alleyways named for saints and finally opened into a gigantic stone temple. Sitting on a stoop outside was a gypsy, playing flamenco guitar in the dwindling light of viernes.
Today I sat at Plaza Salvador, beer in hand, and watched Sevillanos socialize. I waited for an hour for Kirsten but was entertained by the beggars, posh children and bikers that always make this plaza full of life. They say the hispalenses live in the streets, and Sunday is the day to do it.
Afterall, the world is a handkerchief (the English translation of Spain’s “It’s a small world”), and running into friends when I live so far out of the center with a lack of a social life is one of the most pleasant parts of my life here. Within a block I bumped into my old flatmate, Megan, and two of my students from Olivares, and it turns out my other American coworker´s husband is an old friend of Kike.
Sevilla, sings María Dolores Pradera, tiene un color especial. Sevilla has something all it’s own.