Catching light in Seville
Our Uber driver pulls up to the Seville train station parking lot and greets us with a nod from the driver's seat. The trunk pops with a thunk, and we heave our bags inside and plop down in the backseat. She pulls away quietly and merges onto a wide lane toward our Airbnb. I take this time to zone out, grateful for the break from navigating. Outside, the city begins to unfold. We pass sprawling parks, corporate buildings, and parking garages, sights I barely register as I check my phone.
Gradually, the buildings grow taller, crowding closer together. The streets narrow, the cars seeming to flow with them like running water through a canyon. Without warning, the driver turns onto a cobblestone alley barely wide enough for her compact car.
This can’t be right…
My stomach tightens, but she presses forward with calm determination, steering deeper into the labyrinth of streets. The alley forks, and she veers right, the path narrowing further. She pauses, pressing a button to fold her side mirrors inward with a soft whir, giving herself just enough clearance to continue.
Jeremy and I smile nervously, watching her clear the walls by mere inches. Up ahead, pedestrians flatten themselves against the alley walls, making room. I feel a pang of guilt—had we really asked this woman to brave these impossible streets for us?
She takes another turn, this time into a livelier stretch lined with bustling restaurants. Diners sit at tiny tables, soaking in the afternoon sun. The aromas of grilled meats and spices waft through the air, mingling with the occasional laugh or clink of glasses. She stops at a crossroads, pointing toward an even narrower alley ahead.
"This is as far as I can go," she says.
We thank her, insisting this is perfect, and unload our bags onto the cobblestones. As I turn to walk away, she stops me, holding up a small screen.
"Tips are separate in Spain," she says. I hesitate with an "oh" but smile and pay anyway.
As she departs, disappearing around the corner of another narrow corridor, we roll our bags up the alley to our temporary home.
The elevator doors open to reveal a studio-sized flat. Across from us, a couch and coffee table rest against a warm red brick wall, a contrast against the white vaulted ceilings. To the right, two French doors stretch toward the ceiling and open into a small iron balcony overlooking the alley below. Across the way is another apartment just like ours. I can hear sounds from tourists walking down below.
The view from our balcony
Jeremy makes for the bedroom in the other direction to drop off his bags and use the bathroom. I unload the contents of my backpack on the couch and lay down in bed with my phone. Restless, I eye the fading daylight and itch to explore, but Jeremy needs a moment to recharge. He naps, and I browse my phone, making a mental list of places to visit.
Around 3, Jeremy wakes, and we quickly don our cameras, ready to hit the streets. Not far from us is a busy plaza lined with boutique shops and fragrant orange trees. We arrive just as the final rays of the setting sun wash over the city, softening the edges of buildings and reflect it in warm, honeyed hues. Every surface seems to drink in the light while the air wafts with the faint scent of jasmine and orange blossoms, an invisible thread weaving through the city.
I watch for a while as the shadows deepen into a rich indigo blue and stretch across the Sevilla Cathedral, clinging to its intricate facade. The scene reminds me of Monet's Rouen Cathedral series, the way light transforms not just the colors but the mood of a structure. I long for the freedom to sit somewhere for an entire day and just capture what I see in vivid colors like some of my favorite urban sketchers.
Nearby, the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves on the stone streets pulls my attention away from the rosey colors that begin to fade. As dusk settles over us, the street lamps flicker on, and the once-quiet alleys awaken with activity. Restaurants open for dinner, and people begin to settle at their chosen spot for a night of drinking, eating, and merriment.
Drawn by the scent of grilled meats and simmering sauces, we stop in front of a bustling eatery. The glow of its warm lighting and the clinking of glasses beckon us inside. After we sit, we start with an order of jamon and cheese followed by a fresh burrata salad. Our main course is a hearty shredded lamb dish. For dessert, we sample a refreshing lemon custard with gin & tonic jelly. Every bite feels like a celebration, but it's the burrata that steals my heart. Full and content, we linger a while longer, soaking in the night as Seville reveals its nocturnal charm.
We stroll down more alleys under the amber glow of street lamps, snapping photos of street life.
We stop at an Irish pub where I order a vino de Naranja, Seville's famed orange wine; it looks almost black-red in color but carries a rich, sweet citrus flavor. Jeremy orders a Guinness, as we eavesdrop on the bartender in his late 40s with an Irish accent, speaking in a mix of English and Spanish over the phone. We talk not so quietly to each other about places we've been to in Ireland, secretly hoping he'll stop and talk to us about Ireland, but he never does. His relief arrives, and he ends his shift, telling his fellow bar mate that he's headed off to the local club.
It's not far behind him that we decide to take our leave as well. More patrons begin filling the bar, giving it a different vibe. Our night is winding down after all.
We meander through the buzzing streets of Seville, passing crowded bars, and venues echoing the sounds of guitars, singing, and the unmistakable thrumming of shoes -- the mark of a late-night Flamenco show. The night seems more alive now than when we started, but my body feels weary and eager to lie in bed.
As we find our way back to our room, sleep finds us fast.
Plaza de España
The following morning, we wake to the early morning light spilling through the front window, the sounds of the city changing mid-shift change. The revelers walk to their homes with soft murmurs, bleary-eyed, while the storefronts and breakfast spots open their doors and prepare for the day ahead.
Jeremy and I dress and set our course for the Real Alcazar. Our pre-paid tickets tell us to be there by 10 am. We set out on foot, refreshed and ready to take in more of Sevilla, with our cameras mounted to our backpacks.
On our way to the Alcazar, I spot sunbeams pushing through an ornately painted banister, casting long shadows that stretch and soften toward us. Our map tells us we're at the Plaza de España, built by Aníbal González for the 1929 Ibero-American Exposition. We capture photos of the plaza, built in the shape of a semicircle with painted ceramic murals, one for each province of Spain.
As we move through the plaza, the sun rises behind a tower, peaking through one of its windows like light through a keyhole.
The sun beams fan out behind it as if trying to engulf the tower.
We climb a bridge adorned in the same white and blue design and realize that our time slot for the Real Alcazar is coming up shortly, so we exit quickly and hustle toward the Alcazar entrance.
The Real Alcazar
The Alcazar is not a castle, as I expected, but more a palace lined with tall hedges and trees dotted with small red flowers.
The walls glow in yellows ranging from soft butter, to a rich honey.
In each room and courtyard, we explore lazily, waiting for the crowds to pass so that we can enjoy the space and the light uninterrupted. I admire the way light softly diffuses down a rough stone staircase, or the way palm fronds cast delicate shadows just beyond a doorway.
Outside, in a small courtyard, soft dappled light paints a weathered wall above a bench covered in green mosaics. I sit for a while and spy an enourmous clay pot tucked into an alcove painted in goldenrod.
The central garden feels like an oasis, complete with tall palm trees rising above hedges and fruit trees, everything painted in a warm afternoon light.
In the center of the garden, is a small building covered in mosaics, the greens, blues and golds seem to seamlessly match with the surroundings.
We finish our exploration with a hedge maze in the south eastern corner of the palace. As we enter, it is quiet and peaceful, empty. Soon after swarms of children in school uniforms run and dart through the maze, laughing and shouting at their friends before being ushered back to their tour group. We walk down the narrow aisles, watching the light bleach the hedges in shards.
How I wish I could stay and watch the light shift and change into the oranges we saw the evening before, but we have more to see in Seville.
We leave the Alcazar from a different exit than when we enter, and we find ourselves in a busy plaza. On the sidewalk, under a shady tree, an old man sits in a chair hunched over a small painting. To his left, is a small table adorned with his artworks. One catches my eye, it’s a 5 inch by 5 inch painting of a flamenco dancer in a blue dress.
He greets me in Spanish and tells me that all the artwork on the table is done by hand and he shows me the tools he uses to create his highly detailed etchings. Most of them are single color and almost look like pointillism. I spot a second print of the tower from the Plaza de España that we saw in the morning, and it feels like fate.
I purchase the flamenco dancer and the tower, making him smile. He thanks me and we say farewell before making our way toward the river, where we plan to explore the many food halls in the area.