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| A rather blurry photo of a work by Juan de Valdés Leal displayed in the chapel of el Hospital de la Caridad, where everything reflects Baroque Spain´s fixation with fast-approaching mortality. Optimists, avert your eyes. |
I suppose an update is in order, if only just to make a post about the boring minutiae of life in Sevilla. The fact that I’ve been here long enough to start commenting on mundane details is as encouraging as it is alarming; yes, I truly am beginning to feel at home (or at least not totally lost), but this only reminds me of how cruelly short my time here really is. I worry that, having been lulled into a sense of quotidian complacency, I will unwittingly let the next four months pass me by in ictu oculi, as fatalistically presaged on a well-known canvas hanging in one of Seville’s Baroque chapels.
Lately I’ve found it difficult to greet the morning with much of a carpe diem attitude (though true to my Sleeping Beauty reputation, I proudly confess not to have seen too many mornings here), thanks to my feeling significantly under the weather this past week, and the weather itself—invariably cloudy and unpredictably stormy—certainly hasn’t helped to lift my spirits, either. Only now am I beginning to feel the symptoms of what I was worried was a nasal infection starting to disappear. I’m relieved not to have to go to the doctor’s office, though that might have proven an interesting cultural experience. Fun fact: the Spanish word for “congested” is constipado, whose false friend status I’m sure has lead to countless (and hilarious) misunderstandings when unsuspecting guiris like myself have been forced to seek medical attention for swollen sinuses, only to be prodded and poked in the abdomen before being prescribed milk of magnesia. I’ve been resting up, drinking lots of fluids, and politely resisting my host señora’s attempts to pour excessive quantities of distressingly large pills, whose exact purposes I could only imagine, down my sore throat. It seems my condition is improving just in time for the weekend, though I could argue that the typical Spanish weekend is what put my health in jeopardy in the first place.
I don’t know how they do it. Twice, sometimes three times during the weekend, Spaniards will start their evening after sunset and won’t return home until well after the sun has risen (in winter, no less!). A standard evening begins, without surprise, at a tapas bar before migrating to what’s known as a botellón, which is essentially when a large group (or more precisely, lots of small groups) of young people gather by the river to… raise their spirits, if you get my drift. Technically it’s illegal to drink in public, so it’s not uncommon for a cop car to appear at regular intervals to make the crowds disperse, but this is decidedly a largely symbolic act; as soon as the coast is clear, and often even before the squad car is out of sight, people return to their posts and resume their merrymaking. Still, I’m told it’s always worth keeping a wary eye on your surroundings, because if you’re unlucky enough to be stopped by the cops, a considerable fine awaits.
It seems rather silly that folks here brave potential fines and, at this time of year, potentially frigid temperatures, all in the name of a few drinks, but there really is no alternative. The people of Seville invariably take to the streets, and house parties are an extreme exception to the rule; in fact, you are enormously unlikely to see the interior of anyone’s home other than your own and your family members’. (The only flat in the city I’ve seen belongs to volunteers from other parts of Europe.) So far this hasn’t bothered me, as I’m more than happy to venture to (even still) as-of-yet unexplored parts of the city to meet with friends, but I imagine there will come a point when I wish I could just crash at a friend’s place some night to watch a movie or enjoy a home-cooked meal. I’ve met a few international folks who’ve spent a good deal of time here, and this is their principal complaint.
Anyway—apologies for the digression—the whole point of the botellón is to avoid the towering cost of drinks at the discotheque, which is the next leg of the evening, beginning after 2 AM. Notice that I didn’t say it was the last leg, because if you’re able to survive four hours of dancing (though many Spaniards, tragically, don’t dance so much as bob their heads with drink in hand), you’re rewarded with breakfast before stumbling back home among morning joggers and delivery vans. Being the unapologetic night-owl I am, a night out a la española feels like a decided victory on numerous levels, but to repeat it numerous times in a matter of days is clearly out of my ability at the moment, especially when you’ve got to be up for lunch the next day.
Lately I’ve found it difficult to greet the morning with much of a carpe diem attitude (though true to my Sleeping Beauty reputation, I proudly confess not to have seen too many mornings here), thanks to my feeling significantly under the weather this past week, and the weather itself—invariably cloudy and unpredictably stormy—certainly hasn’t helped to lift my spirits, either. Only now am I beginning to feel the symptoms of what I was worried was a nasal infection starting to disappear. I’m relieved not to have to go to the doctor’s office, though that might have proven an interesting cultural experience. Fun fact: the Spanish word for “congested” is constipado, whose false friend status I’m sure has lead to countless (and hilarious) misunderstandings when unsuspecting guiris like myself have been forced to seek medical attention for swollen sinuses, only to be prodded and poked in the abdomen before being prescribed milk of magnesia. I’ve been resting up, drinking lots of fluids, and politely resisting my host señora’s attempts to pour excessive quantities of distressingly large pills, whose exact purposes I could only imagine, down my sore throat. It seems my condition is improving just in time for the weekend, though I could argue that the typical Spanish weekend is what put my health in jeopardy in the first place.
I don’t know how they do it. Twice, sometimes three times during the weekend, Spaniards will start their evening after sunset and won’t return home until well after the sun has risen (in winter, no less!). A standard evening begins, without surprise, at a tapas bar before migrating to what’s known as a botellón, which is essentially when a large group (or more precisely, lots of small groups) of young people gather by the river to… raise their spirits, if you get my drift. Technically it’s illegal to drink in public, so it’s not uncommon for a cop car to appear at regular intervals to make the crowds disperse, but this is decidedly a largely symbolic act; as soon as the coast is clear, and often even before the squad car is out of sight, people return to their posts and resume their merrymaking. Still, I’m told it’s always worth keeping a wary eye on your surroundings, because if you’re unlucky enough to be stopped by the cops, a considerable fine awaits.
It seems rather silly that folks here brave potential fines and, at this time of year, potentially frigid temperatures, all in the name of a few drinks, but there really is no alternative. The people of Seville invariably take to the streets, and house parties are an extreme exception to the rule; in fact, you are enormously unlikely to see the interior of anyone’s home other than your own and your family members’. (The only flat in the city I’ve seen belongs to volunteers from other parts of Europe.) So far this hasn’t bothered me, as I’m more than happy to venture to (even still) as-of-yet unexplored parts of the city to meet with friends, but I imagine there will come a point when I wish I could just crash at a friend’s place some night to watch a movie or enjoy a home-cooked meal. I’ve met a few international folks who’ve spent a good deal of time here, and this is their principal complaint.
Anyway—apologies for the digression—the whole point of the botellón is to avoid the towering cost of drinks at the discotheque, which is the next leg of the evening, beginning after 2 AM. Notice that I didn’t say it was the last leg, because if you’re able to survive four hours of dancing (though many Spaniards, tragically, don’t dance so much as bob their heads with drink in hand), you’re rewarded with breakfast before stumbling back home among morning joggers and delivery vans. Being the unapologetic night-owl I am, a night out a la española feels like a decided victory on numerous levels, but to repeat it numerous times in a matter of days is clearly out of my ability at the moment, especially when you’ve got to be up for lunch the next day.
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