The Winner Of The Coveted MFSCITW Award. . .Sevilla

We have been to a lot of great places in this world, and there are a lot more to see.  In 1984, doing my semester abroad in London, I fell in love with both York and Edinburgh.  York edged Edinburgh as my favorite small city in the world.  In 1989, two months spent working in the blissful, beautiful small city of Perth, Australia caused it to supplant York. 

Our 2001 visit to Seville during Semana Santa, and our first trip overseas with the girls ever (Torie was three, Maddy six, and Julia eight years old), Seville took its place as MFSCITW (My Favorite Small City In The World).  Let me know in the comments what your MFSCITW is – if we have not been, we’ll try to get there!.

(Sidebar: Someone asked scornfully after our trip in 2001 – “why go that far away, they won’t remember this trip.  My response – “yes, but we will remember going there with them, and for Carol and I, that’s what counts.”  To their credit, they nodded their heads and admitted it was a good reason.)

Back to present day: after we got settled, we went on a walkabout through the maze of streets, led by our intrepid tour guide, Torie.  We stopped at her favorite bar for a late lunch/early dinner (linner, as it was more dinner than lunch).  Our recollection is that it is named Mamole’s, but Torie will correct us if wrong.  The food was great, and it was nice to be set.  Torie showed us more of Seville (she had already been there around two months on her study abroad program).

Then we headed out again, and, near the cathedral, we ran into thickening crowds, which meant a procession was happening.  I’m not sure why, but it seems the crowds are much thicker now than in 2001.  (Editor’s Note: Uh, Glen, perhaps population growth.  Blogger’s Note: Oh.  Okay.  Go ahead and use logic!).

Different brotherhoods (although women and children are now allowed to march) process through the streets as groups of penitents generally ending up at the Cathedral.  They often consist of horsemen, brass/drum bands, penitents carrying candles, big crosses, or without accouterments, and the pasos, which are heavy floats carried by very strong men (that would not have been me). 

The Brotherhoods wear varying colors of robes – some wear black, brown, purple, red, blue, some mix of two colors (tops and bottoms) and yes, unfortunately, white.  Back in 2001, taking pictures of the first procession we saw, it was prior to the days of digital, so I was using film.  The penitents were dressed in white.  As I shot pics, the only thought that kept running through my head was that the African American women who processed the pictures at our Route 1 Wal Mart were going to think I was at a Klan rally.

To varying degrees, these processions happen all over Spain, but Seville is our favorite place to see the processions (to be fair to other parts of Spain, we’ve only seen them else wheres in Cordoba, Granada, and Madrid). 

Somehow I do not find the procession boring.  The slow, stately march.  The somber or stirring music.  The artistry of the pasos.  The anonymity of each penitent, some short, some tall, some younger, some older, some kids, some women, some men.

Somehow in 2001 we were able to get right up in the front row to watch our first procession.  This time we could not get close until we started using the city’s system against it (we’re Americans after all).

At major crossroads (well, major for Seville with the small alleyways) they had two long walkways set up, one for pedestrians crossing over, and one for pedestrians coming back.  That way, when they halted the marchers to let people cross, it wasn’t two blobs running into it each, but an orderly crossing process.

I started going down like I was waiting to cross, would take pictures, and then hang out.  Eventually Maddy joined me, and finally Carol and Torie.  The latter two are such rules followers they seemed certain that we would be arrested and thrown in a dungeon somewhere for not crossing, thus breaking the social contract.  I bet if you asked them today they would nod and say, “yes, we’re relieved we were not arrested, but really Glen should have been arrested just to teach him a lesson.”

Oh, every so often the police would come along and tell us to move (actually just me, they had fled at the first sign of the cops).  I would move, and then go right back.  They had their job, and I had mine.

By the way, when you walk with throngs through an ancient city’s streets, it is incredibly moving.  You feel transported back in time.  I remember walking at night past the Roman Coliseum with a bunch of angry Italians.  I was in college and had trained down to Rome (among multiple stops) as part of a month of hitch-hiking and training in 1984 after my semester in London.

Liverpool had just defeated Roma in penalty kicks to win the FA Cup or some such hardware.  I had watched the match at the old chariot grounds, and afterwards, many of us streamed past the Coliseum.  Goosebumps.

(The next day proved great to be an American traveling in Europe.  Italians, thinking I was British, would hurl curses at me.  I would protest “Americano!”  They would apologize, and look for an actual Englishman to beat the crap out of.  It’s always been a life goal of mine to avoid having the crap beat out of me by angry sports fans, although I’ve tested that goal from time to time.  My brother Rod is thinking of angry Patriots fans in Cincinnati on the eve of the second time the Giants beat them in the Super Bowl.  Some were laughing at my funny taunts, but others were not amused.  And, well, suffice it to say after reading the mood of the table, we beat a hasty retreat.) 

Anyhow, then the second Brotherhood came through. . .