EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJanuary 29, 1999
Huerta Santa Maria
Near Galaroza
A Seville Studio
We’re looking for a Seville Studio. Mariam is helping with the
translation of classifieds. There are many restored and converted Sevillian homes in the
centre of the city available for rent at a reasonable monthly cost.
We are trudging through the city streets. The streets are busy. The
main thoroughfares are bustling with traffic and noisy with motos. The teenagers love to
remove the muffler. Turn a corner and the street is narrow and silent. It’s a corner.
It’s a cobbled, geraniumed oasis. Then one of those tall, heavy carriage-style doors
opens and beyond the street is a courtyard. Behind all of these huge, incredible doors is
a marbled room with no roof. Just the perfect sky and birds and a pool or fountain, plants
and flower pots. Four walls gleam with painted plaster. Plaster painted in ochre, sienna,
white or alizarin. Windows are embellished with ornate iron railings.
The agent takes us beyond the courtyard, to another courtyard. The
second is more tranquil than the first—just a little further from the street. Orange
trees.
A wide marble staircase takes us to a series of doors. Inside is a
small, furnished apartment, a fitted kitchen, bedroom and bathroom, and salon. The top
floor apartments are called Atticos, and most often have a terrace, and plenty of
natural light.
The agents are not keen on our indecisive length of stay, but are
willing to rent to us anyway. When Mariam explains that I am a painter, and would like to
try the city out for inspiration and workability, the agents are casual but receptive.
There are hundreds of foreign painters, writers and language students in the city. It is a
common occurrence to meet requests for light and flexibility.
The three of us rendezvous with Carlos at the studio. Mariam and Carlos
run their architecture office from a small studio at the heart of the Centre. Carlos is
completing his final project for graduation from the University.
We cross the Puente de Isabel II, entering the Triana district,
one famous for art movements and flamenco. There is a little café at the edge of the Guadalquivir.
This café serves dozens of varieties of fish. Only fish. Mostly small, whole and fried.
The café is filled with Sevillians, soaking up this perfect day. Along the riverbank,
workers climb ladders to collect oranges. The trees line every street.
The oranges on these public streets are too sour to eat. This works
well for the city because it keeps the passers by from munching on every promenade.
Instead, the city grows the trees that bear the fruit for the famous Seville marmalade.
The Queen of England buys half of it. The rest is exported to other countries. In spring
the trees bloom with orange blossoms, and the entire city oozes with their fragrance.
I’m holding the little fish but the tail, pleading vegetarianism
with a grumbling tummy. Carlos is impatient with my tentative nibble. "All the way to
your fingertips!" he asserts. I pop the little fried fellow. He and his plateful are
accompanied by fried giant squid, clams steamed in wine and garlic, and baby squid,
complete with heads and ink sacs.
