Your pigeon I was, Sevilla

by Alaina Shah (Canada)

Making a local connection Spain

“I’ve been thinking of you. Can you wait a little longer?” “I’ve been thinking of you as well. No, I can’t wait any longer.” This dialogue from Jostein Gaarder’s 2003 novel, The Orange Girl, had been swimming through my head. I was sat at the back of a taxi on my way to the residencia. Foreign, yet familiar, the city of Seville zoomed past my window. I’ve been waiting so long, I thought to myself. And I’m finally here. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. I came across Gaarder’s novel in 2013. I had been in the middle of my board exams, still living in my hometown, Islamabad, Pakistan. The Orange Girl focuses on a letter received by a young boy from his dead father who tells him of the enigmatic ‘Orange Girl.’ However, a very minute incident in the novel caught my attention: a young girl goes to Seville to study art. Since then I had been enamoured with the idea of studying art in Seville and in Seville only. Six years later, I find Islamabad no longer my reality but rather a memory, as I grapple with my new life which is lived suspended between Montreal and Toronto, Canada. As I struggle with my notions of what ‘home’ is being challenged, I am met with an opportunity to study art over the summer in Seville. *** “Isn’t it so romantic?” I coo, exploring the charming city with a group of new found friends who were also in my art program. With this motley crew of friends, I found myself all over the Iberian Peninsula. Within a week of meeting each other, we were cramped up in an overnight bus to Portugal, finding ourselves enjoying the sunrise in a McDonalds in Lisbon; walking through Madrid’s El Retiro Park; chasing Spanish cats under the Torre del Oro; dancing in the streets of Seville at 1am; getting lost in the ancient streets of Cordoba; and sharing the sort of intimate conversations that can only take place at 4am in hotel rooms in Granada. Despite this variety of adventures all over Spain, I couldn’t help but look forward to my return to Seville. I found Seville lodged deep in my heart. She played mercilessly on my heartstrings, as if my heart was nothing more than a guitar to be strummed relentlessly. One evening in Lisbon, my new friend, Arshee, asked, “Which do you prefer? Lisbon or Seville?” Her question elicited a chorus of thoughtful replies, the majority leaning towards Lisbon. I found myself steadfast and stubborn. “Seville,” I said. “Always Seville.” I found myself feeling about Seville is the way I used to feel about Islamabad, a city on another continent with an ocean in between. Having lived nearly all my life in this city, I was positive that there was no other city in the world for me. Should I have taken a trip to Pakistan’s other cities like Lahore or Karachi, no matter if I was surrounded by friends and family, I’d become extremely anxious to return to Islamabad. I could not rest until I was back home. Upon moving to Canada, this feeling shifted dramatically. I had barely lived a year in Montreal and a year in Toronto when I had had enough and wanted to move entirely to another city. However, when I was in Spain, the only city I wanted to be in was Seville. Amidst my enjoyment, I’d catch myself feeling anxious, counting the days for when we were to return to Seville. In Seville, I found an odd sense of comfort. I had been yearning for this city for six years, and now I was finally here. I found Gaarder’s words unraveling before me as a reality that can only be described as one beyond my wildest dreams. Stood in the Cathedral’s orange courtyard, I was like the characters in Gaarder’s story. In that moment, I realized home is not a location, but rather a feeling; and right here, amongst strangers turned friends by the courtyard fountain, I found home in a small city in the south of Spain.