Seville - a touch of sunshine on a fiery soul

Af Joan Juanita Andersen

The Spanish sun is relentless

From its place in the high, deep blue Andalusian sky, it burns directly on the whitewashed houses of Seville. It entices with promises of carefree flirting, dazzling bright days without end and an intoxicating feeling of freedom.

But it's still early. The first rays of dawn can only faintly be perceived as a luminous mist on the roofs of the city. Down by the semi-dark river Guadalquivir is deserted. Only the street sweepers walk around trying to get rid of the last remnants of empty bottles, chip bags and other rubbish that the young people have left the night before. 

The last traces of the stardust above me are slowly fading as I silently walk along the promenade with the many palm trees. The cool caresses of the night air have done good to my body, which just over half a day ago was tempted and burned by the dull sun.

While the light is getting closer and closer, I pass a narrow street. I have quickly fallen in love with the narrow, semi-dark alleys that together form the framework of daily life in Seville.

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Shadow in Seville

In many of the most charming neighborhoods in Seville, it seems that the builders in mindless infatuation with the city have hastily built a lot of houses without thinking that carriages could drive through the streets, or that the sun would never reach all the way down to the bottom.

But perhaps this has been the intention. As a protection against the unbearable heat of summer, it has probably been nice to be able to escape into cool shade whenever you want.

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Watched by watchful eyes

I feel drawn to the narrow streets and their stories. The whitewashed houses with their iron bars for the windows and the flowers, which radiate in a thousand shades, hide everything that goes on behind the walls. Only occasionally do I get a glimpse behind the facade when a gate opens or a window slams open.

It's almost as if I're being watched by vigilant eyes as I suddenly enter the street. Eyes that I cannot even see. Eyes that hide so many whispering secrets and tales that if I step one step too close, they will capture me here in the midst of their demands for honor.

I want to be caught so that I do not have the opportunity to tell the outside world about my experiences behind the walls. It is as if the Spanish soul demands my freedom for a small sight of its mighty being.

I stroke my fingers over the iron bars that sit in front of all the windows. Behind them are shutters that keep both the heath and curious eyes out.

I smile melancholy when I think of having heard that the iron grids were built for the sole purpose of keeping the young cavalier away from his beloved and avoiding physical contact before the marriage that was so important in the old days. Still, the young lovers found their own way of communicating. In countless poems, stories and in the flamenco dances, the Spanish fan appears as a secret messenger between the young couple.

When words could not express their desires or frustrations at not being able to touch each other other than through a lattice - and with thousands of gossipy eyes watching - the fan with its many formation possibilities became their common secret heartbeat.

It was hard to be in love with the old Spain. Especially if one was in love with the wrong one.

The walls that surround me, however, tell nothing about the many emotions that have been suppressed over time, and about the sensible marriages that were entered into to secure the future power and prestige of the families.

Pending silence

The diffused morning light creeps into the alley. I hold my breath and listen to the compact silence and roar of the cars that have begun to circulate in the streets outside. I should go back and find the straight path home before getting lost in the labyrinthine streets or ending up in one of the dangerous neighborhoods.

The disappointment turns into a sigh. I had hoped to catch a glimpse of the Spanish soul in this street, but I feel nothing but the watchful, waiting silence. It almost feels like the street breathes a sigh of relief as I leave it again. Slightly exhausted, I go out into the morning sun, which has now risen completely.

As I walk past the same street later in the afternoon, I refuse for a moment to go in there again.

There is a strange shiver in the air. The orange trees and the wild flowers behind the iron grids smell intensely in the hot sun. My feet even find their way into the winding cobblestone house, orange trees and high walls. It feels as if the heat of a thousand summers has been retained in this very street.

I move slowly, hesitantly. Sensing how the streets are getting narrower and narrower, fewer and fewer people pass me. They look at me suspiciously and hurry on. Despite the fact that it is early afternoon and the heath makes my skin moist, it seems as if the darkness has suddenly fallen on. I fear that the houses that tower up on either side of me will eventually grow together so that the darkness will be total and the blue sky will completely disappear.

Declaration of love in the streets of Seville

Suddenly the sound of live Spanish guitar playing flows out to me. A deep and resounding male voice convincingly proclaims that if the woman he loves will become his, he will give her "el mundo entero"; Worldwide.

The raw sound of his voice is accompanied by the loud sound of clapping and boot-trampling, and when I reach the next house, and look in through an iron lattice, he suddenly stands there. A tall muscular man in worn black cowboy pants, bare upper body and with long hair stomps a few times on the floor. He moves his arms back and pushes his chest forward so that it looks as if he is ready to fight against - and win over - both the sun, the water, the fire and the darkness to win his beloved's heart.

As he slowly and with all his strength raises his arms upwards in a fascinating position, he takes a step forward. All the muscles in his body are tense. His hands are brought to life. Like two birds, they begin in circular motions to try to grasp the longing that hangs everywhere in the hot, painful air, and which constantly seeks an escape route out through the iron bars and the silent, white houses.

I feel an anger that is not his alone, but a fire that burns in the common Spanish soul - transferred to the expressive dance of flamenco.

The naked sound from the guitar becomes increasingly intense. The dancer moves in fast precise movements. I only sense the pulsating body in front of me. How, under total control, it frantically tries to scream out the hopelessness of love while the face shows no signs of emotion.

Absorbed in Andalusia

My heart beats in time with the fast, sharp tramp. I wish I could release the burning sensation from the icy iron bars that shut it inside. Unleash the many years of repressed passions in the streets of Seville and even be senselessly seduced by them, become a part of them. I feel like jumping straight into the Spanish sun and letting it burn me up so I can finally be freed from all the sorrow that engulfs me in this moment.

Suddenly I make eye contact with the dancer. A stern, judgmental gaze that is probably just concentrated by the dance and not consciously out to make it icy down my back. Suddenly, I know I have crossed a line by venturing as far as I have done. I have listed myself to see a glimpse of something far greater and far more powerful than my inexperienced heart can comprehend.

I gasp and start jogging from there. The streets are getting wider, I hear the sound of cars again, more people are passing me. But then I end up in a dead end. I'm lost. Andalusia will hold me now that I have violated its innermost being. My hands tremble and my heart beats with fear. The scent of flowers turns into a nauseating prison.

Back on track

A young smiling Spaniard who wants to practice his English leads me out to recognizable places again. I see the modern supermarket, the common tumult in the street, and in the distance a billboard for a large burger chain flashes.

I walk down to the banks of the Guadalquivirs and sit down. The sun has lost its roof on Seville and has left an alluring, red color in the west. I am grateful for the cool memory of the river that this world is at least as wonderful as the kingdom of the sun.

Seville is relentless. In its own enticing, seductive way, it managed to engulf me, caress me, and ignite a restless, life-long fire in my body. A fire I wish I could encapsulate and always feel as strongly as I feel it right now.

I close my eyes and feel happy; it is still only spring in Seville.