Walking through Triana a trio of leggy teenaged girls leapt out from a convenience store, all wearing matching light blue school uniforms. The tallest girl with her hazel eyes and caramel hair jumped right in front of Scott, likely on a dare, and made a goofy face at him and yelled out playfully, “Hello! English!” The other girls howled with laughter and then they were off, crossing a traffic circle, munching their chocolate wafers.
Triana is a neighbourhood of Seville that used to be its own little town, separated by the Guadalquivir river. it’s basically where the inquisition castle was, where the Roma people were shoved off to and where all the pollution puffing ceramic factories were. There still seems to be some discrimation against the people freely referred to as “gypsies”. I noticed some graffiti smeared across one of the walls that said, “Roma Merde”.
This was my favourite part of Seville, though, despite its dark undertones. There are quirky little family owned cafes along the water serving dangerously cheap excellent rioja and tapas. The streets are lined with wonderful ceramic shops and pottery artisan studios. We took a ceramics class in one of them through AirBnB experiences, Harper’s chosen adventure day. Paola, the instructor, shared with us some of the history of Triana in her very broken English and then we painted tiles a couple of different ways. One tile had a raised pattern that we flooded with different coloured glazes. The other, we painted our own design straight onto the tile or we used a charcoal stencil. Nora created a bunny motif, Harper did a tribute to his favourite number, I painted tulips and Scott, of course, immortalized a chicken. The class was co-hosted by a crispy thin British potter named Honor who seemed far too nervy to have hands steady enough for the wheel but she turned out beautiful pots none the less. After our ceramics adventure we had decent tapas at Cafe Roma right near the Isabella bridge: some kind of marinated fish. Divine.
We took in the inquisition museum which was, in essence, a walkway through the dark basement of a demolished castle with a few placques. No wonder it was free. The kids were hoping for some gore and I was rather glad they were disappointed. However, I would have liked to have seen some artifacts and learned some more specifics. At least we acknowledged the dark history and were able to talk with the kids about the three hundred years of terror the Catholic Church reigned on Jewish people, women, and basically anyone they wanted to steal property from. What nobody could explain to me was why the pointy hooded figures of the inquisitors were made into cutesy tourist stuffies and fridge magnets.
Our time in Seville was refreshingly unstructured and we didn’t do any road trips. I had planned on seeing Granada but we’ll have to do a Portugal Malaga Granada trip someday and give it the attention it deserves. We wandered neighbourhoods and popped into shops (travel with teens is all about the gelato and clothing stores). The boy says that Gio-lato has the best limon. We ambled through parks and ate a lot of acorn fed Iberian pork. Rarely is it actually called what it is though. It was labelled “Iberian secret” “Iberian prey” and “Iberian boar” over the week. Whatever the Iberian was, it was absolutely acorn fed. Thank God for that. It makes all the difference, those acorns. Everywhere we turned, an Iberian cloven hoof was handcuffed to a butcher block with the thigh sliced open. I was afraid it would turn the kids vegan again.
One of my favourite walks included seeing the largest wooden structure in the world: the parasols. Great views from the top. I love Spain’s public art, it is everywhere. It is a matter of civic pride. Everywhere I look there is something beautiful or weird to contemplate. I love it.
I don’t recommend the Alcazar palace audio tour, it’s terrible. The devices hardly work and the locations aren’t clearly marked. We were so frustrated we just finally gave up and walked out. That said, I did love the gorgeous Moorish architecture combined with the renaissance architecture and how both religious traditions were clearly embraced and architecturally at least, harmonious.
Another thing we did that I regret was going on a horse and carriage ride. I was naive. They are everywhere in Seville. The carriages are light and the horses look shiny and well cared for and I don’t have an ethical problem with people working for animals and animals working for people. But I am used to horses being treated very well like the horses in Chemainus or the horses in Barkerville or the horses on my uncle’s farm. They get water, oats and rest regularly and they are loved by their owners. This carriage driver never once used his switch and hardly used the reigns but the horse did not get water after our half an hour ride and she was foaming at the mouth and sweaty and flinched when we tried to gently and slowly pat her in thanks. This was not a happy animal. The driver was a dink too. Just a money grab. I should have known.
But something we did right…? We decided to see Flamenco in Seville at the Centro Cultural Flamenco: Casa de la Guitarra. it is a small theatre that seats about thirty people and all around are a collection of Spanish guitars ranging from the early 1800s and up: the personal collection of world renown Flamenco guitarist: José Luis Postigo Guerra. If I understood the man at the front counter correctly, Mr Guerra and his wife live upstairs, or this cultural centre is part of their actual house. His wife was there that night after the performance taking the trash from out of the washrooms!
Flamenco is most authentic if seen in one of the flamenco bars but I chose the cultural centre because I am travelling with the kids and also I could be assured that I’d get award winning performers, an attentive audience, a bit of the history in English and a good seat. The Centro cultural Flamenco did not disappoint. The night we went we saw Javi Gomez on guitar (young, amazingly talented and ridiculously handsome) flamenco dancer Jeranys Perez “La Jers” and recent national award winning singer, Manuel Romero. Their chemistry and timing and passion and talent left us all gobsmacked. The guitar collection was also worth seeing.
Later, we walked home through old town and had a drink. The waiter brought the boy a beer and the girl a cava to match Scott and I and we shrugged. When in Spain…while we had our evening beverage under twinkle lights and beach trees, an old man, perhaps homeless, for sure toothless, came up to our table with a guitar that matched his face and hands and played and sang some half decent tune for us with his blackened fingers fluttering over the strings. We paid him for his talent and didn’t judge him for whatever he did with it. We walked home together across the bridge and back to our home, thankful and full of music.
