This city has style. I dont know how else to describe it. Obviously, the cathedral (largest of the gothics and holder of Columbus’ bones), the Plaza de España and the Real Alcázar are wonderous masterpieces of their relative architectural styles. Furthermore, and in this case more extemporaneously, the mens’ fashion here is exactly what I have always been looking for. Though, to be fair, little of it is on display, outside of shop windows, at the moment for even thought it is in the 60’s F here, most of those woolen sport coats and forest green sweater vests are buried deep beneath down jackets and, to my eye, completely unnecessary scarfs.
It makes me wish that I was both stable geographically and that I was in the shape I currently aspire to, so as to warrant the purchase of a bunch of new clothing here. I mean that’s not to say that these target tee-shirts, and the Nike tennis shirt I got in 8th grade those 20 something years ago, aren’t comfortable. Far from it. They are comfortable in the way the neighborhood bar in which you piss away your paycheck in is comfortable. They know you, they remind you of older, perhaps simpler times, but to remain in them too long is to risk the delay of real advancement. It’s not that I feel clothing maketh the man. Rather, that making conscious decisions about what garments one adorns one’s self with seem, to me at least, a sign of a level of maturity I have thus far not ascended to.
Nor is it because I would potentially look like some sort of socially approved gentleman. Lord knows that’s not it. For I can say with certainty that at no point in my life, have I given much, if any, of a fuck about what society deems I should look or, for that matter, act like. If you don’t believe me then ask those who have seen me dance. Those poor bastards who had to work with me when I was a line cook and would regularly take over the stereo only to blast Daft Punk or some Donald Glaude house mix I had uncovered can testify to this. Patrons of the State Street Bar can also testify. The ex, whom among others, watched in disbelief at what was displayed, said more than once that my hip gyrations were “aggressive” and may have even once called them “violent” ( She also said one of my paintings was “agitating to look at”. It’s important to note that I wasn’t upset by any of these comments. I actually found them to be absolutely hilarious. Just as I do now. Seriously: I’m cracking up as I type these words. ). Oye, I digress. I don’t care about society but I feel like dressing with intent is a good thing and I intend to dress in the style I have seen in the shops here. Enough said.
There is something deeper than clothes and old buildings however. Something subtle and likely impossible to discover or define in a brief 3 day stay. This city that was once the center of the western world; This ancient and beautiful city made trichotomous by the river Guadalquivir; This cluster of humanity that gives the Irish a run for their money with the love of potatoes (seriously keep it up though, I have rarely had so many delicious potatoes); it is a wonder to behold.
Rossini wrote one of the great comedic operas about a barber in this grand old city. When I was somewhere around the age of 19, I went to see a performance of this musical masterpiece. As a highlight reel of my life would either be a tragedy or a comedy (let’s go with the latter for levity) it seems appropriate that even though I don’t really need a haircut at the moment: tomorrow I shall go and see a Barbero en Sevilla! Por Rossini y por mi familia. Adios.
This track may be a song written by some hippies in San Francisco and then covered by one of the great American jazz guitarists, but I think it has a distinctly Spanish feel. Disagree if you want but I love this song.
And if you are still going after all of that, here is a gallery of goodies from Sevilla.