Our final stop on our trip through southern France and Spain took us to Sevilla (“Seville,” in English), the capital of the Andalucía region. We were warned ahead of time that Sevilla is the unofficial epicenter of Semana Santa, with the most elaborate and extravagant celebrations. As a couple local gaditanos (which Google informs me is what you call people from Cádiz) explained to us on our train ride up, perception of Semana Santa by locals hinges pretty sharply on your spiritual leanings. For those of Christian faith, it’s a massive event eagerly anticipated all year long, on par with Christmas. For the local non-Christians, it’s a week of road closures and general chaos. As people just passing through though, it was fascinating. 

Most of our first day we were confined to quarters thanks to a torrential downpour. We emerged in the evening once the aqueous assault had abated, surprised to see the streets abuzz with people. Erin asked someone passing by if this was normal; he explained that people were out in droves for Semana Santa, and that the granddaddy of the parades was that night at 3:00AM. Naturally, I was intrigued to see what the hype was about, but my plan for the following morning was to head over to Plaza de España before sunrise for some good photo ops, so staying up past 3:00 seemed hard to fathom. Later that night, I headed to bed to rest up a bit before trekking out. 

Around 3:30, Erin stirred me to call attention to what was happening. The muffled, but unmistakeable sound of a chorus of trumpets was resonating from outside. I lay there momentarily, mourning the death of sleep, but ultimately convinced myself that I needed to see the scene that was playing out in the streets. I quickly got dressed, slung my camera bag on, and ventured out, not fully knowing what to expect.

The whole thing was strange from the get-go. My worries that I’d have trouble zeroing in on the location of the sound were unfounded; I exited the apartment to find a steady flow of individuals walking purposefully in one general direction. To walk out, a few hours before sunrise on a weekday, and find people milling about like it was Friday night, was surreal to say the least. I followed the passersby, and quickly noticed as I peered down the tangent streets that people were lined up along the next street over. I sought out a place to situate myself ahead of the direction of the approaching cacophony, and settled on an intersection a few blocks down. The immediate area was lined with hundreds people, some apparent locals, others clearly tourists like myself, and this repeated itself as far down as I could see. A procession of Nazarenos (see my previous entry for context) was passing slowly, as a huge, gilded paso followed closely. Trailing the paso was a seemingly endless Roman centurion marching band, blaring a solemn strain with their drums and brass section. 

A large group of young men on the sidelines stripped their upper-bodies down to what looked like undershirts, and crowned themselves with distinctive headdresses; I later learned these men were costaleros, the largely unseen muscle that moves the pasos along the lengthy processions with nothing but sweat and determination. From what I read, each costalero bears roughly 110 pounds of pure paso on their shoulder and neck for about eight hours, hidden away entirely beneath their paso. They set the pasos down every block or so for a couple minutes or so, but it looks pretty intense.

It was wild absorbing it all; young children up and dressed at the dark hours of morning, police at every intersection regulating pedestrian traffic, and full camera rigs and boom microphones hovering overhead, like it was the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but with less Snoopy and more Jesus. I wanted to stick around longer, but after 30 minutes or so of the procession, retired for the night three hours so I could hit up Plaza de España shortly after.

Around 7am, I woke up again to set off for Plaza de España. The plaza, while not as historically significant as some of the sights we saw, is beautiful and adorned with some fantastic ceramic tiling. The words of our train companions from Cádiz proved prudent, as I found the many road closures had made getting a taxi anywhere remotely near the city center to be impossible, even with a cab-hailing app that’s usually been reliable. After hoofing it for 15 minutes, I finally reached a bus depot with a cab stand. Even arriving at the plaza a few minutes later than the sun, I had the entire plaza nearly to myself. It’s a good thing I came early too, as it was only about 30 minutes before the first tour group arrived, and only moments longer before vendors started setting up shop, sabotaging the view and the atmosphere at the same time. Know what’s less romantic than tchotchke-covered blankets in the middle of an architectural gem? The sound of souvenir-hucksters thwacking castanets with no sense of rhythm every minute or two.

I returned to the plaza later in the day with Erin and Emilia so they could see it for themselves. Afterward, we attended a flamenco performance at La Casa del Flamenco. Before we’d come to Rome, Emilia had been learning some introductory flamenco as part of the Flamenquitos program in Portland, so she was excited at the prospect of seeing professionals dance in a city known for its flamenco prowess. The show was fantastic; a small, intimate venue with no amplification provided (or needed), and a skilled pair of dancers, a singer, and a guitarist. Dance is a medium that I’ve never been overly enthusiastic about, but there’s such a wonderful energy and fierceness to flamenco, it’s hard not to be drawn in.

Even with all the amazing culture and architecture we’d been treated to, Sevilla had more treasures up its sleeve. It was full of tasty tidbits for us to indulge in. Just a couple blocks away from our apartment was a casual restaurant that in addition to some solid Spanish staples, sold all sorts of churros out of a window in the front. Chocolate-dipped churros + proximity = danger.

Let’s talk ham for a moment. Italians are no lightweights when it comes to cured pork products, but the Spaniards have it figured out. Jamón ibérico — Iberian ham — is the champagne of hams; hampagne, if you will. Melt-in-your-mouth delicate, the perfect balance of salty and sweet, I could’ve eaten it with every meal (and wasn’t far off from doing so). I won’t be soon forgetting all that porcine goodness.

For our last day, we toured the Real Alcázar de Sevilla, a royal palace that was built in the 14th century (its current incarnation, at least). With the Alcázar having substantial Moorish influence, I was wondering if having visited Morocco might diminish the experience. Those concerns proved unfounded; the “wow” factor was in full force. The Alcázar was also used as a filming location for several Game of Thrones sets (primarily the Water Gardens of Dorne), so that stoked the nerdy beast within, too. I’ll let the pictures do most of the talking for it.

Once we wrapped up at the Alcázar, we recovered our bags and headed to the airport to return home. Thanks to Ryanair’s legendary customer service, we waited in the check-in line for over an hour somehow. Might have had something to do with only having 2–3 employees processing several hundred passengers, and each of those employees casually wandering off for 5 minutes or so at a time. You get what you pay for, I suppose. We saw a bunch of Sevilla FC’s players at security, but I don’t follow soccer closely enough to know any of them, so it was cool in a, “Look! People who do that thing that people like!” sort of way.

All said, it was an amazing trip. Saw some amazing sights, ate some amazing food, didn’t die in a shower of glass shards on a bus in France, and witnessed exactly one more massive, week-long, religious festival than I had anticipated when we came to Europe. I hope to have a chance to explore Spain further someday, as I think it’s my second favorite European country we’ve explored so far (behind Italy, of course). Until then, hampagne wishes and caviar dreams, my friends.