I cannot tell you what it means, or the strange paradoxical thoughts that run through my head every time I fly in and out of Seville. It holds such a special place in the recesses of my heart, somewhere that creates longing for things that will never be, and longing for things that of course, shouldn't be. Let's be honest, Seville is close minded, slow moving, stagnant in many ways, enchanting to the masses only because it is historically rich and culturally flamboyant. The way my old Spanish host brother speaks about it is reminiscent of what I said about my own Texas suburb when I was young and could not wait to break out of the cookie cutter brick houses and checkered roads to explore other parts of the world. He, like me, feels the burden of his hometown. Things are always romanticized by the foreigner around for the long weekend, while the true realities on the ground are apparent only to those with a long-term and more permanent view of the place. This is to say, I do not belong there forever.
Still though, Seville has its allure for me, both permanent and impermanent, like some distant, vague, second home now with a family that accepted me years ago and does again each time I come back. The brothers are like brothers, cousins like cousins, mother like mothers, and for brief moments of extravagance, it feels like I grew up there amidst them all. I find this remarkable because it embodies all I did to become apart of something so remote and foreign, which I say not to toot my own horn, but to state a fact about my existence. The articles for traveler magazines that write about food and flamenco and the old churches along the Guadalquivir and warm summer nights under the stars say nothing about what it takes, all the sacrifices you make, to call something like that your own in a language no one understands back wherever the hell you were before. "When are you going to move here, rent a flat, marry a Sevillana, and start a family?" one of the cousins asked me this time around. "We could be neighbors again," I responded smiling, and sometimes that seems like the best idea in the world.
The hardship is the reminders of course, that come in various shapes and sizes, that I'm not and never will be Sevillano, and the realization that in fact, I wouldn't want to be either. I will always come back, maybe for long stretches at a time, and go to clubs with Carlos and look at all the lovely people, none of which give a damn where you are from. I'll continue learning new words that probably aren't even understood north of the Andalusian border, but that generate a giggle each time they are said. I will take runs along the Guadalquivir and drink by the water on Calle Betis. I will talk in English with the newest American student living in my old bedroom and tell him how great his situation is and how much he could do with it even though we all know he will leave soon and forget everything. I'll take that Spanish girl to lunch again and again and toy with the idea of what if because it is fun and excessively irrational to think about, our own personal episode on "Espanoles por el Mundo," even though the table between us might as well be here to the moon. The view from the rooftop, or las Setas, or the highest church tower. The view from the river, or the bedroom, or a table out in front of Miami at night, peering down San Jacinto. So many views from so many different angles, and so many memories from so many different stages of life all rolling over onto one another.
I love these things but am utterly frustrated by these things. I believe after all these years that the allure sits in that paradox alone: I'm there truly, as much as I'll ever be, as much as I think someone in my shoes can be, unique, exotic, superb, but it all remains something just out of reach. For every beautiful moment of success, of recognition, of fluid adaptation, comes ten in rapid succession that bring you back down to Earth.
But that one moment is worth it every time. And that's why I'll always come back again.
