COVID-19 in Seville: Scenes from a lockdown lifted

Fifty days.

Fifty days in my home, stealing quick trips to the garbage bins and the supermarket. Fifty days balancing a full-time job and two kids, plus a husband I am not used to seeing all the time. Fifty days with an excuse for baking cookies, sleeping in past 6 am and watching the boys’ clothes grow too small or too short for them.

Ever felt like a tiger in a cage? So did nearly 47 million people living in Spain. Confined to our homes under the strictest lockdown measures in Europe, May 2nd meant an hour of freedom outside the confines of our walls, from watching the world from a window or balcony.

Life in Spain under lockdown

At 9:09 pm, the boys both sound asleep and the Novio splayed on the couch watching CSI (ugh, again), I slip on shoes and a light jacket.

“¿Te vas?”

Sí, voy.

My camera and I need to walk further than the nearest plaza or supermarket. I close the door silently behind me and head east. I need to see the Puente de Triana, the golden bath over the Giralda as the sun sets behind me.

Signs in Spanish regarding garbage disposal in the times

I don’t feel the same solidarity as others – I live in a house next to an empty house. There are no music concerts or comunidad-wide bingo games. We can steal glances at the neighbors, mostly elderly, who rarely venture from their homes but to clap for healthcare workers at 8pm. Even as I write this, I have only just run into someone I know today. We had a cervecita planned when the spring came.

In these fifty days, springtime in Sevilla – fleeting in even the best years – has given way to the start of a blistering summer. Within a few weeks, we won’t leave the house until after 9, when the day finally cools at the edge of night.

Hasta el 40 de mayo… you can’t leave your house. But when you do, so will everyone else.

Rainbow posters saying todo irá bien in Spain during COVID

The Novio had taken care of most grocery runs and going to work occasionally as an essential worker. I’d been content to watch Enrique run around the patio in circles while baby Millán tries to escape his playpen, the sun on my face.

At 1 pm, we have a beer in El Bar de Mi Casa. I hadn’t ventured more than 300 meters from my house, much less to my favorite cervecería, mandated closed since March 14th.

Closed until the virus passes

My route to daycare normall takes me here, to the heart of Triana’s commercial district. Past bakeries, bars, small shops. Tonight, frayed signs, hastily printed out and with vague messaging about reopening, flutter as people go by, on bikes or scooters.

The most jarring? I’m staying home. Closed until the virus passes.

Closed storefronts in Seville, Spain

I’ve felt quarantined for months, to be honest. Giving birth during the hottest months of a punishing summer. Single parenting during the week. Get up-work from home-take care of the boys-work from home-take boys to park-bedtime routine-sleep. Four days straight. Home became my new normal way before COVID-19. I lived for brief trips out for groceries or necessities. A drink on my own while the baby napped in his strolled or I could run out without either one.

Those little moments were mine. A coffee at Pedro’s on the way back from work, running into Raúl at Aldi every Monday morning. I don’t miss people so much as I miss my rituals (sorry guys).

Spanish flags with a black ribbon

I’d like to say that I walk sin rumbo. But Triana has been my home in Spain for six years – I know where she hides her secrets. And I knew San Jacinto would be packed with people.

Balconies in Seville, Spain during COVID pandemic

As the sky turns a cotton candy pink – a telltale sign of the beginning of summer and its end, much like the end of total lockdown and the beginning of de-escalation – I turn north. Zig-zagging through the narrow alleyways near Las Golondrinas, I turn on Calle Alfarería.

A couple strolls together in Seville, Spain after lockdown measures eased

This street, once home to the ceramics factories that give it its name, is now pocked with new housing developments. Most respect the stucco facades and wrought iron balconies. But the modern housing units that connect Alfarería and Castilla seems…odd. Here? I skip down it anyway.

Spit out on Calle Castilla, which snakes along the western bank of the Guadalquivir, I hear things. Bike bells. Neighbors laughing and calling out to one another. Church bells. My days have been anything but silent, but I have missed white noise.

Cesta Solidaria - take what you need but leave what you can

I’m struck at how crowded the street is – I shouldn’t be. Sevillanos live in the street, treating the bar or the tapas joint downstairs as their newspaper, their living room, their inner circle.

Plus, a famous couple lives here and the previous week’s Feria de Abril – celebrated on balconies rather than the fairgrounds – meant the street is still tangled in bunting and the remnants of tattered paper lanterns. Nos puedes quitar la Feria, pero nunca la alegría. Amid so much death and uncertainty, the spirit of the locals is as strong as ever.

Calle Castilla in the neighborhood of Triana with Torre Andalucía in the background

There is nothing so sad as a tattered farollillo, and the sight of one on the Callejón de la Inquisición pinged me in the side, the sadness for a springtime, lost. I haven’t had a primavera sevillana since 2016, and it shows.

A paper lantern on the ground

Celebrating the Feria de Abril in confinement

There’s a man loitering next to the Callejón. I ask if he’s waiting for someone to pass, and he points to his dog, a grisly German Shepherd, while flicking the butt of his cigarette to the cobblestone. He’s been able to go out with his pet since the beginning, so it’s apparent he’s not buzzing with elation like I am.

Callejón in Seville, Spain

Sunset was is at exactly 9:25, and the Paseo de la O is bathed in the yellow light of the streetlamps. He llegado.

My barrio is one of lore – inhabited by sailors and gypsies, haunted by flamenco chords. When I lived in Madrid, my neighborhoods was just that – a jumble of apartments and parking places and old man bars and city. Forever and ever, amén.

An empty alleyway in Seville, Spain during day 50 of confinement

Triana is chaotic. Wild. Familiar. Foreign.

And breathtaking.

Capilla del Carmen and the Puente de Triana of Seville, Spain

The jasmine and jacaranda have bloomed while we were locked away. Wildlife has returned to all part of Spain, and Triana’s river looked clearer than ever. I breath in the deep scent of the flowers, the damp of the river, the clean air that is not tinged with old oil in the fryer.

The jasmine blooms next to the Guadalquivir River in Seville, Spain

I take just as long to cover 150 meters as I do a kilometer, in awe of the bridge, the beauty, the barrio and the smell of a city, waking up.

We are on our way. This will be over. For all of the grief I’ve felt over the last seven weeks, I feel a small seed in my stomach – hope? Bliss? Hunger?

Puente de Triana at nightfall

I am not alone on the Guadalquivir banks, of course, but I may as well be. Gone are the fisherman on the thin stretch of gravel, the tables that spill out of restaurants on Calle Betis. There are no teenagers draped over the steps of the Faro de Triana, limbs linked as they stare downstream towards the Torre de Triana.

Sevilla skyline on a clear summer night

For once, I felt that the city belongs solely to me.

Residents of Seville, Spain can now go for walks or individual exercise after enduring 50 days of strict lockdown

Circling back, I bypass the bridge in favor of the street. The bars here are stacked one on top of another on a normal day, and the patrons, too. Eerily quiet on a Monday night, though the next morning would see businesses beginning to open their rejas halfway as employees worked to disinfect in the hopes of opening on May 11th.

But, briefly, there was just a city and its people and nothing more. Honestly, did we ever need anything more?

Triana, Seville under lockdown

It felt like the first night I ever spent in Triana – a silent Sunday evening when I found everything was closed at twilight and everyone was hunkered down in their home, waiting for Monday. The swallows circled overhead, black torpedoes against a fading sky.

I wish I had something prolific to say about being home for so long and finally rediscovering the world outside of my doorstep. But truthfully, I go to bed every night thankful that I have survived kids, dust bunnies and trying to manage my sanity, my household and my job. That we are safe and healthy. That I have not run out of books or food or patience (or, um, allergy meds).

Seville isn’t itself – but it’s for the better. When I left Seville the first time, I felt heartbroken and hopeful, all at once. My friend Juani had recently moved back from Chile and said it best: you have to leave Sevilla to truly love it.

And, maybe, you have to leave it but then return and have it forbidden. Either way, I can taste the Cruzcampo at La Grande, hear the bellowing of neighbors in the plaza.

Photo Post: La Hermandad Rociera de Triana and the Pilgrimage to El Rocío

“No, no, no,” Lucía shook her head fiercely as curls of white smoke escaped from her lips. “You shouldn’t be in Cerro de Águila by yourself. Crime is rampant over there.”

That following morning at the Novio’s new house in Cerro, I was woken up by the fourth-floor shaking as what sounded like a loud pop boomed throughout. I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door behind me.

Turns out the potential guns from the ‘crime capital’ of Seville were actually noisemakers of the neighborhood’s religious brotherhood.

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Fifty days after Resurrection Sunday, those faithful to the Virgen del Rocío (which is practically all of Southern Spain) make a pilgrimage towards La Aldea, a small hamlet full of stately mansions and dirt roads. The striking hermitage – a grandiose white mirage set at the southern edge of la Aldea with views to the marshes of Doñana National Park – was first built on the supposed spot where Alfonso the Wise found an effigy of the Virgin Mother. Today, it’s popular for its most raucous fiesta in the middle of the springtime. 

Seville counts five hermandades – Savlador and Triana are the most famous – whose numbers are staggering. On the Wednesday before Pentecost Sunday, covered wagons pulled by oxen, horses or even tractors set out towards the Almonte and la Aldea, following a silver-laden carriage with an image of the Rocío known as a simpecado. For many of the devout, this spiritual cleansing, characterized by sleeping and eating outdoors, song and dance and prayer, is the most important part.

IMG_4878

When I worked in Olivares, many of my students went missing in the days leading up to El Rocío and the days surrounding Pentecost. I had a handful named Rocío or Paloma in homenage to the Virgin Mary who, quite possible, is the most revered in Andalucía. 

Few things get me out of bed before 8am, but today I was already out the door at that time, Camarón fully charged and ready to shoot (the cohetes would have woken me up regardless). Mass at the chapel on calle Evangelista began at 7:30am, and the simpecado, preceeded by horses and pilgrims, left shortly thereafter. In the past, the carretas that carry supplied for the ten-day pilgrimage were allowed to traverse Triana, but city ordinance now mandate that the wagons start from Plaza Chapina at the northern end of the neighborhood.

romeros ready for El Rocio

Devout pilgrims at el Rocio

Romeros on Calle Pureza Triana

I followed the crowd to Calle Pureza and the door of the Esperanza de Triana church. Here, in one of the most emblematic monuments of the barrio, the simpecado would pass, the devout would pray and the pilgrimage would truly begin.

Perched on the curb just opposite the gleaming white temple, itself a nod to its marisma counterpart 70 kilometers west, I watched as romeros – the name for pilgrims around these parts – flooded the streets. Men wear straw hats and women don flamenco dresses that are easier to walk in, all clutching medals that bear the Virgen del Rocío.

Rocio Fashion 2015

carretas of El Rocio

Gitanas El Rocio

A three-piece band led the procession. Sevillanas with a twist, rocieras use a cane and a bass drum instead of cajas and flutes in place of guitars, and singers belt out songs proclaiming the glory of the Blanca Paloma. Behind them came romeros on horseback and the image of the Virgen herself.

music of el Rocio

prensa en el rocio

Triana to El Rocio on horseback

romeros
Romeros de Triana 2015

Calle Pureza during El Rocio

El Rocio passing by the Esperanza de Triana

Once the simpecado had reached the door of the church, pulled by two oxen, a man on horseback removed his had and, red faced, began to rally.¡Viva La Virgen del Rocío! ¡Viva la Blanca Paloma!¡Viva la Marismeña! Each battle cry was followed by a hearty ¡Viva! 

“¡Y Viva Triana! ¡Viva Triana! ¡Viva Triana!”

Salida del Simpecado Rociero

 

Everyone around me erupted into song as petals were thrown from the roof of the church. While El Rocío has a steady dose of hedonism, the true root of the festival lies in soul-stirring devotion. I felt moved in the same way that Semana Santa touched me. People stopped shoving and began to cry, crossing themselves as they proclaimed that only in Heaven is the Virgen del Rocío more loved.

Want to read more about the festival? I attended the Pentecost Sunday activities –¡vestida de gitana! – in 2012.

Tapa Thursdays: Gazpacho

I have never been one to stand up to the hot summer sun in Seville. I made the poor decision one year to cycle home from my friend Stacy’s house at 3pm. In August. Trying to beat the Sevici’s 30-minute limit.

I was shaking by the time I got home, and the Novio had to stick me in the shower, clothes on, so that I’d cool down. After that, it was a cold glass of gazpacho and I felt immediately better.

When the temperatures start to rise in Seville, I find that my only defense are cold showers, the AC in our living room and an always full glass of gazpacho.

What it is: A cold, tomato-based soup made of little more than tomatoes, green peppers, cucumber, salt, garlic, olive oil and vinegar. It’s not only a simple dish, but it’s simple to make! Often, a garnish or onions and cucumbers is sprinkled on top, and some choose to eat the dish (well, drink it, really) with croutons on top, too.

Where it comes from: Gazpacho is said to have been invented by the Arabs, but it’s now a staple in Andalusian gastronomy, thanks to the hot summer days. Variations are numerous, including gazpacho manchego, which I tried in Calpe, or by substituting tomatoes for anything else. My favorite? Watermelon gazpacho!

Goes great with: The Novio and I usually use gazpacho as a primer to just about anything we’ll eat. It’s also perfect for practicing the Spanish habit of hacer el barquito, or mopping up the remains with a piece of bread.

Where to get it in Seville: I prefer to make my own gazpacho, though I have fond memories of my first few days in sweltering Seville, drinking it by the glass full in the original Bodeguita Romero on Antonia Díaz.

Are you a gazpacho fiend? Have  certain go-to tapa, or want to see something featured on Sunshine and Siestas? Leave me a message in the comments!

Seville Snapshots: The Village of Osuna

There’s nothing like the open road and the feel of torque under your feet (feet, because I drive stick shift now!) and a new destination to tick off your must-sees list. Hayley, my Spanish media naranja, and I agreed to meet halfway in between our respected cities for lunch in Osuna and a bit of Saturday sight-seeing.

Que Dios bendiga las girlfriends.

The village of Osuna lies midway between Seville and Antequera, a little burp of civilization built upon a lone hill. Fun fact: its flag and coat of arms bears, well, two bears along with a topless woman. This pueblo and I would get along fine, even though it’s better known for being the last place where Julius Caesar fought in person (and the town’s name comes from Urso, ‘bear’ in Latin).

The whitewashed town, crowned by an old university and sprawling church, was sleepy for a warm Saturday, but perfect for a few hours’ lunch over Camino and business plans. It’s not hard on the eyes, either.

Oh, and here’s a bonus one of me and my car, El Pequeño Monty, a 2002 Peugeot 307. Bought my first coche at the ripe old age of 27-and-three-quarters!

Love your little rinconcito of Spain? Sunshine and Siestas is looking for guest bloggers for the busy summer months of late June – mid August while Cat is galivanting in Galicia at summer camp and walking the Camino de Santiago for charity. If you’re interested, send an email to sunshineandsiestas[at]gmail[dot]com with your ideas, photos and stories.

Seville Snapshots: The Horses of the Feria de Abril of Sevilla

“Cat, estamos en Feria, ¿vale?”

Luna, the Novio’s god-daughter, is not quite three and already a declared feriante. We were sitting in a horse carriage, her teeny hand stroking the ruffles of my traje de gitana. In Spanish, “I’ve been to three Ferias. ¿Y tú?” Six, I replied, getting a puzzled look. Before I could explain, she drew in a deep breath and pointed at the team of horses pulling us along the fairgrounds. ¡Mira, Cat! ¡Un caballo!

photo by Hayley Salvo

There are so many things that are muu d’aqui about the Seville April Fair – the drinks, the dance, the dress (not to mention the etiquette). While it’s not for everyone, Seville’s social event of the year celebrates Andalusian beauty of all sorts, including its Jerezano stallions. Horses, riders and their carriages are allowed to circulate the fairgrounds until about 8pm, paying nearly 80€ an hour for the official license plate. Seeing the pale grey stallions, women dressed as amazonas perched on top with their legs dangling off the side and a crisp sherry in hand, adds an air of the past.

The caballos get gussied up for the event – their tales and manes are braided, balls of yarn and bells hang from their  bridles. I actually prefer seeing Feria during the day and admiring the creatures, as my family has always owned a horse and I’ve known how to ride since I was a kid.

Are you a horse lover? I’ll be going to the Feria del Caballo in a few weeks with my guiri friends – a whole week dedicated to horses and sherry!

Seville Snapshots: Who’s That Nazareno?

Smell that? It’s incense. Feel that? That’s some sevillano whose trying to push his way past you.

Yes, amiguitos, Holy Week is upon us, the stretch of time between Viernes de Dolores until Easter Sunday where sevillanos dress in their finest, women don enormous combs and black lace veils and pointy capirote hats dot the old part of town. The faithful spend all day on their feet, parading from church to Cathedral and back with enormous floats depicting the passion, death and resurrection of Christ.

I’m not much of a capillita, but ten days of religious floats means ten days of travel for me.

That said, I’m off to Dubrovnik, Croatia and the Bay of Kotor, Montenegro, country #30 on my 30×30 quest. Where will you be during Semana Santa? Do you like Holy Week, or would you rather get your fix in a Holy Week bar?

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