By Francesco Bianchini
Before the pandemic drastically narrowed everyone’s horizons, the world was my oyster. In February 2019, I spent a bit of time in Seville to teach Italian at Hispalense University. The city is famed as one of the hottest in Europe, but I didn’t expect daytime temperatures in the high seventies. The taxi driver wedged his sedan through the narrow alleys, determined to drop me directly at my doorstep, a rental apartment in the Santa Cruz neighborhood. I was blessed with a rooftop terrace—which at first had seemed superfluous—but soon I was lolling there, overlooked by colorful domes, snacking at lunch or snoozing on the wicker sofa, while the nearby flamenco school kept a steady beat. At seven in the evening, with the sky tinged a soft shade of eggplant, I’d savor an aperitif.
The first impression of ancient bougainvilleas spilling over convent walls; trees laden with oranges lining squares and streets; the bold colors—ochre and white against the deep blue of the mostly clear sky—the strumming of guitars on street corners, or the splash of water echoing in palace patios, felt disorienting in the heart of winter. It was akin to being transported onto the make-believe set of Carmen or The Barber of Seville. Yet, Seville’s true nature is operatic, and moving from the little piazza with Rosina’s balcony, to a baroque church interior; from a garden spilling over a high wall, to a park constantly crisscrossed by horse-drawn carriages, is like changing backdrops in a melodrama that might come alive before your eyes at any moment. Like the emotion of the mother I saw, hands clasped to her head, calling urgently for her daughter, lost in the crowds filling the scenic plaza de España.
White, ochre, and a clear blue sky: Seville’s Plaza de Toros
Four days per week, I crossed my neighborhood to get to the university, housed in the old royal tobacco factory, a massive 18th-century building second in size only to the Escorial. It was, of course, the setting for Carmen’s squabbles with her fellow cigar-makers over men. On my way, I passed the café Las Teresas, which quickly became my lunchtime haunt. Although plainly named after its location, Calle Santa Teresa, I pretended that the manolas, dressed in layered skirts and fringed shawls—displayed in shop windows around the city, and worn by local women every Feria in April, and for the Semana Santa—were commemorated thus when the café opened in 1870. Like any good theater, the place has several levels of seating: you can perch at the bar under a line of jamón ibérico de bellota hanging to cure (where you can chat with other customers and exchange banter with the bartender); or for a bit of solitude nestle at a tiny table by the windows; or seat yourself outside on one of the street-side tables, to take in the passing crowds. Even when the café was packed at lunchtime, the waiters never missed a beat or forgot a single order. I watched in admiration as one of them expertly filled a thin-stemmed, narrow glass on the table, holding the foot delicately between his fingers while pouring the pale, aromatic Palomino grape wine from a dizzying height without spilling a drop.
The Royal Tobacco Factory, aka the University of Seville
Manolas take a break from cigar making. Palea de cigarreras by José García y Ramos
The tapas at Las Teresas were the best I’ve ever tasted in Spain: ham more than rich, transcending mere pork to evoke oak forests; spiced chorizo with paprika, fried calamari, marinated shrimp, Cantabrian anchovies, Galician octopus, tuna with onions, prawns with garlic, and delicious side dishes of spinach and chickpeas, or roasted peppers. Also, the salmorejo, an Andalusian gazpacho garnished with chunks of ham. At first, I paired my tapas with Cruzcampo, a local beer advertised everywhere as Seville’s own. But eventually I devoted myself exclusively to manzanilla from Sanlúcar de Barrameda, or to Tío Pepe fino from Jerez, whose dry, resinous flavor elevates the richness of the bellota ham, the briny olives, and the incomparable fried dishes. In Seville, I also discovered a passion for certain sweets that can only be obtained by knocking on convent doors. At the cloistered monasteries of Santa Paula and Santa Inés, through a grid or an ingenious turntable, I procured almond pastries and honey fritters; at the San Leandro convent another concoction, yemas, made from sugar and egg yolks.
Bellota ham above, banter below: the bar at Las Teresa’s café
During that stay, I trained my eyesight to catch beyond gates and grates the flowery perspectives; porches, fountains, scenic cul-de-sacs, where it was easy to imagine operatic tableaux, flamboyant scenes in vivid colors, even singing from behind the walls. My enthusiasm for the city led me, Dan, and our cat Arcadio, to return to Seville a few months later where we housed ourselves in a former convent, just under the high walls of the Alcázar. I had walked past its gate every morning on the way to the university, around the corner from the plaza with Rosina’s balcony, and where the shadow of a crenellated wall projected on the white expanse of an adjacent house made me think I was traversing yet another stage set. Our convent was ranged around a courtyard of laurel hedges and citrus trees, where we’d gather fallen oranges, tangerines, and grapefruit while Arcadio sniffed fervently and examined every plant like a botanist. It was mid-December, and along the streets and squares the bitter oranges were falling to the ground in droves, releasing their pungent scent. On the narrow calle that separated the patio from the Alcázar’s garden was a gated aperture that framed the fountain at the center of our courtyard. Passing tourists paused there because a singer would sometimes perform in the niche. As L’amour est un oiseau rebelle warbled through the morning air, Arcadio contented himself lazily with his morning toilette, stretched languidly in a patch of sunlight.
One of 50,000 orange trees lining the streets of Seville
Shall we call it Arcadio’s garden?
