Face to Face

by Catherine Byrd (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Spain

Coming to Seville, I believed that it would be a sweet southern city like Granada— gently humming with people, cars, and buses but with a roar that would dim in tune with the sunset. Granada had shown me how lovely it could be to do nothing at all except exist; I rationalized that Seville would reaffirm this same lesson. Riding through the city streets, I came face to face with Seville for the first time, her aura obscure, chaotic, and loud. Roads were blocked off everywhere, my charter bus screeching to a halt. In a daze, I stepped down into the street. Scorching sunlight beat down on my shoulders—it was a heat that only Seville could ooze, her walls resting close to where Spain bleeds into sea. I wheeled my suitcase behind me, sweat already rising on my forehead. Granada had been steaming; Seville wouldn’t be outdone. A shrieking cry echoed in the air, resounding through the canal and the streets. Two fighter jets cut through the sky, demanding your attention, all heads snapping up and feet going still. In that moment streets were stagnant, radiating with pride, and as the jets passed out of view, the roads rose from their trance back to life again. The weekend I had come to Seville was the start of a grand military holiday, and Spaniards from across the country had gathered in the city to celebrate. The people of Andalusia knew how to throw a good party, and this energy would flood every home, every alley, every crevice of Seville. The city had only one stretch of space devoid of people, cars, buses—the river. At the river I hoped to find a moment of peace away from the jets, vespas, and street cleaners. As I sat on the edge of the Rio Guadalquivir, the light of the setting sun began to transform the surface of the water into a glowing blanket of red, orange, and gold. The palm trees were swaying with the gentle breeze. Locals walked their dogs across the river on shaded pathways, the smell of tapas and fresh seafood hanging in the air. Parents strolled on the bridge with their children. With watercolor paint in hand, I started to sketch the view in front of me, hoping that its calm warmth would sink into my skin. Cheers, whistles, and shouts echoed in my ears, clapping hands reverberating from both sides of the canal. I lifted my head to look at the water. A flat boat cruised through the river, Spanish flags snapping back and forth through the air. The boat stretched across most of the canal, figures dressed in dark camouflage with guns resting on their shoulders standing at the boat’s edge. In the excitement of the moment, I abandoned my watercolor to shout with the crowds at the boats gliding into the canal. Like my slice of serenity, the blanket of sunlight on the water was cut in two by the wake of the cruiser. When I left the river, the sky was the color of ink, but on the streets there was no inkling of darkness. Sitting on our hostel’s terrace with a few friends, I could only make out a few stars that punched through the city’s glow. Someone turned on their iPhone, a soft melody resounding through our little terrace. It dominated over the clatter of car horns, helicopters, fighter jets, hoofs on cobblestone, bicycle bells, and loud, beautiful, drunken voices singing on the streets. I forgot the heat and the ache in my back and the party exploding in the alleyways beneath me; all I could see were the stars that began to appear the longer I stared, the constellations that pieced themselves together before my eyes. In that moment I absorbed what it meant to exist in Seville, what it felt like to be a part of Spain, what it was like to discover that that there is a peace inside yourself even in foreign places, even in forms you have not come to know. That night I came face to face with Seville for a second time, and this time I knew her.