Seville Dreams

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Puedo escribir los versos a más de 40 grados esta noche
Pablo Neruda

When Galway winds blow and the last summer sun shines, I sigh for the city of Hercules – the god of travel. Seville for me is warm yellow mixed with orange peels, blue, and malachite. Brass gates and behind them gardens like from “Tales from the Arabian Nights”. “Red buses and Santa Justa railway station where I get off or get on with flushed face.

Because Seville is a tropical stop on the road and thinks I love you. I look at Seville with a completely non-touristic eye, because I haven’t seen its big landmarks yet. Instead of standing in queues, I throw myself spontaneously into its bizarre mosaic.

This time I have about three hours to remind the city which I wanted to visit someday after watching Benito Zambaro’s movie Alone. The film wanders the poor alleys of a city, but this is still a warm yellow city with orange trees growing along the curbs, full of feelings.

The taxi driver – an elderly man has no idea where the Real Academia de Bellas Artes de Santa Isabel de Hungaria is, which I am curious about. So he asks colleagues and one of them turn on the GPS, then explain to my driver how he can drive. I speak Spanish, of course, and I missing a word in Portuguese. In the while a white car takes me downtown. On the way, I recognize the Plaza de Pilate, which shimmers in the color of mango. There is silence in it. We make our way through narrow streets until we can’t get any further.

So I get off near the cathedral, and I know the tram stop, so go in the direction the driver pointed me to, I enter some academy and ask for directions. Incidentally, I reach Cuesta del Bacalao where tables are squeezed in a short street under umbrellas from which cool water is spraying pleasantly. It’s probably 40 degrees. I feel like I live in an oven – so writes about Seville the poet Pablo Neruda. But the waiter immediately knows that I need a smoothie with ice. Later, he searches the address for me, and turns out Calle Abades is just around the corner.

I stick to the wall of the tenement house to let the car pass, and finally, I see the gate of the Art Academy but it is closed. I ring the big bell, but no answer. Now I know the academy is only open until 1 pm. So, I decide to find Museo del Baile Flamenco, where I was a few years ago. Again, I squeeze through the streets, fluttering a fan, and absorb the tones, and feel that this city is close to me for some reason. I wander around small squares, one of them is called Plaza de la Alfalfa and the same square where Maciek and I ate our first breakfast in Seville.

The Flamenco Museum is nearby. First, water and waves appear on the screen, and then the dancer imitates the movement of the waving water with her hands. Even the fingers are dancing. Then I see the giant poster with Carmen de Toledo, and I imagine, that this is me on an empty stage. There is a vintage machine with wooden flamenco shoes. I turn the crank and, the heels start to stomp. I am reminded of the flamenco dancer from Cadiz in La Cava tavern, and her red shoes that turned into fire. Those hot feelings will snuggly me when winter comes.

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