I arrive in Seville to a message from BOOKING.com that my taxi driver has just arrived. I see a compact man moving with a quick shuffle appear into the arrivals area with my name displayed on his phone.
“Hola!” He greets me.
“Hola” I respond back, eager to begin my Spanish immersion.
He asks if I prefer to speak in English or Spanish.
“Espanol por favor” Soy Aprendiendo”. I reply-
“Spanish please, I am learning.” And then in English , “It is good for me to practice."
Paolo, then tells me, “ Sono Italiano.” I am Italian, he says with a sidelong glance at my last name.
“Me too. I respond, well American Italian. My father is Italian.”
He proceeds to tell me he is from Milan , but moved here to Sevilla where he lives and works with his family. He is very excited when I reveal I am from New York. He shares his favorite trips there, as well as about the 24 years he worked in Milan with an Italian export company, exporting fashion goods to the US. He tells me he is a “ski man” ,a wind surfer, and loves ice hockey. New York is his favorite in Christmas time. The lights and the decorations are the best in the world he tells me. I agree wholeheartedly, with a little ache in my heart for the city I had lived in for so long.
Paolo slowly shifts from telling me of the two authentic Italian restaurants in Sevilla that he and his family love, to matters more personal. He tells me about his daughter, now 29, who has returned home to live with him and his wife. She battles cancer of the brain, (I think my translation may be off, but he was emphatically pointing to areas along the top of his skull , his eyes, and nose. ) He tells me. Followed by “She is my world”
His blue eyes cloud with tears, he takes a beat and shows me a picture of his daughter who is blonde, smiling, and a true Italian Beauty.
“She’s beautiful I say, and she looks so happy.”
I mean it.
As a therapist this admission is one that I have navigated before. As I move through the world its as if people can feel that I am a secret keeper. Confessions fall from their mouths with ease. It is the way I know to relate to the world now, but it can sometimes be a challenge to carry the weight of others. It is an honor and a hardship. We discuss how amazing technology is. He reveals that it helped them conceive their child, and save their child. He emphasizes how important it is to receive cancer screenings as you age, because he knows the devastation of nearly finding out too late.
He winds past the street with his two favorite restaurants. He points them out to me and says “If you get sick of Spanish food - you can visit Italy here. “ We did not stop in but the restaurant Alimentari has wonderful reviews.
“ Muchas gracias “ I say as I take note of the restaurant names.
We then find our way to talking about food. If you want to connect to someone, anywhere, talk about food. Ask questions about what their grandmother made, or their favorite flavors. My mind takes me back to my first day working as an intern at a Psychiatric Hospital in the Bronx. I worked at first on the forensic psych - all male unit. It was intimidating to hold my first group, but my supervisor brought up food, and quickly everyone in the room was sharing. It reminded me that it is undoubtedly the thing we all share. It softens each of us being together in discussing nourishment.
Paolo begins explaining why in fact
“Spanish Olive oil is better that Italian olive oil.” He says. “The flavor is stronger, and it is of better quality.”
I imagine him saying this in Italy and snicker to myself as I imagine throngs of Italians cursing his name.
He continues, “ The olive oil in Italy is mostly exported and it’s difficult to come by the really good stuff for everyday use. Where in Spain you always have five liters of local olive oil in the house.”
We then begin talking about our favorite ways to use olive oil. It is the Bubba Gump Shrimp conversation of olive oil.
“ Salads, on bread with fresh herbs, on bread with tomato.”
( ** If you visit this part of Spain you must try the Pan con Tomate - It is fresh tomatoes grated into a pulp with olive oil, garlic, and salt and spread on toast for breakfast. It is one of my most favorite Spanish foods. Simple and delicious.)
“On bread with a little bit of sugar, he shouts”
“Sugar?!” I ask exasperated.
“Yes.” He replies simply, “It is the Italian way.”
I say I have never heard of this but promise I will try it as we pull up to my hotel.
I exit the taxi, he pulls my bags from the trunk, wishes me a “Bien Viaje” and gives me a hug.
I feel refreshed and notice this one minimal interaction with a stranger is knitting together a wound of absence that was parted due to the pandemic. I am coming back to myself and the things I love most. Connection, but more specifically connection with people who lives lives different than my own.
I check into the Hotel Colon Gran Melia , a perfect landing after 18+ hours of travel. The lobby is lush with ceiling length velvet banquettes, white marble floors, and golden edged tables. At reception they asked if I would sit while they checked me in and offered ice cold Cava or sparkling water. I welcomed the bubbling water with joy.
My room has a view that over looks both the grand Cathedral of Sevilla and the royal blue and terra-cotta roofs of the Church of Magdalena. My hotel Guide explains that this is the most popular church for marriage in the area. There is a fruit plate and water set on a low marble table. I lie down for the first time in two days and groan with pleasure. “Made it.” I whisper before getting back up and knocking on the hotel room door next to mine.
My sister Abra, swings the door open with a beaming smile. We greet one another , and head down to the hotel restaurant for some food, as we arrived during siesta hours and most restaurants are closed at this time.
She sips on a Cana or small beer that is foamy and delicious. There is something particularly special about draft beers in Spain. Someone once told me they are all pulled with nitrogen, similar to Guinness , which is what creates that smooth creamy texture. I will fact check this for you all when I arrive in internet service.
I sip on a crisp dry white wine from Galicia, and nibble on the capers and olives as we order “Gambas a la plancha , iberico ham, and a local cheese plate. “ We fall in step to a rhythm that I can only describe as home. We laugh, we tell stories, we reminisce about our earlier trips to Spain. We finish our food, and close our check while buzzing with the excitement of exploration.
Had it not been a Monday, I would have immediately visited Restaurant Eslava but sadly they were closed today. Eslava is an absolute must for anyone visiting the area, a locals spot with some of the best Tapas I have enjoyed in this region of Spain.
We exit the hotel and notice the streets her smell of tobacco and orange blossoms. I take a deep inhale of what feels like my first taste of freedom in a few years. The streets , uneven cobblestone and brick, alert my feet that we are no longer on familiar ground. My jet lag tugs at me, I ask it to sit back until we can tend to it later.
We wander through the streets and stumble across a Semana Santa procession, as it is the beginning of lent. The streets are filled with onlookers, as the purple candles, and the holy altarpiece and walked through the streets into the main cathedral. Incense fills the air and mingles with the floral sugariness of the orange blossoms. This sensory experience captures what Spain represents to me.
My family and friends question why I travel here so often. This is my sixth trip to Spain - I have spent collectively about 16 weeks in this country in the past five years. Yet I keep coming back. The undercurrent of sweetness, mystery and seduction that pulses beneath the streets of Spain mesmerizes me. It is evasive. I can never quite capture it. Like plumes of smoke moving through my fist it always leaves me wanting more. The flavors smoked with spice, tang with bitterness, and flex with strength. The Spanish people seem curious, and fierce, yet reserved and proper. I try to determine this country's pulse, it's peoples way, and hope to one day unlock new understanding.
As we head back to the hotel the sky explodes into shades of pink, and orange. Sidewalk performers belt over their guitars, and I feel my chest expand as my spirit wonders at the beauty. I am overcome with a mix of grief and joy. Grief for time lost, Joy for being found.
I now stare out my train window and watch Sevilla fade into the distance. Rain falls and waters the earth, as movement waters my soul. I have nearly two weeks ahead of wandering, and only a few of those days with my sister. The rest an is opportunity to reconnect with self through a land that never ceases to inspire me.
My advice to those traveling here is take your time and wander the streets. Sit and sip slowly. Catch your breath in the sprawling plazas. Take chances when ordering food, and take time to connect with a local.
Thats all for now, until tomorrow then. Next stop : Cadiz.
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