Election Day

Our first night in Sevilla, Cristina, our host mom, launchs immediately into the state of the world. We frantically sift through her words, picking out the ones we know. We share sympathies for the state of the global economy. She says that it is as bad as 1939.

Supper, several days later. I lose the word for envelope. She points to one on a side table for clarification. It is the envelope that contains her ballot for the upcoming provencial elections on Sunday, June 7th.

We venture out on Sunday, comfortable in our sneakers (dress is more casual on Sundays), uncertain about the culture of election day in Sevilla. It is quiet, slowly awakening after the customary extended Saturday night social life.

Evening falls on our wandering, and we make our way home. We pass through Plaza Nueva. The ayuntamiento, the town hall, anchors the east side of the plaza. It is festooned with greenery. Media cameras hover as a crowd fills in. Ah, we think. Election results! We continue toward the Catedral, following the trail of people. Ah, we think. It is an election parade! We stop when we hear the band, marching slowly, emphatically, sans Sousa, along the parade route. I think of the Alamo, a small chill of understanding surrounds each pounding of the drums. We stand, transfixed by the ponderous music. As the band passes in front of us, the spell breaks. Band members wave and smile at friends and family as they wait for the next note.

We continue on and find ourselves swallowed by the crowd, swimming upstream. Slowly,we find a sidestream that appears less congested and escape. It is not an election parade; it is another saint; it is La Esperanza de Triana.

From Antonio Pizarro, El Diario de Sevilla.



At lunch on Monday, we ask Cristina about the election results. She says that the party leaning to the right won, no triumph in her voice.

1492, or As The Inflatable World Turns

1492. Another date imprinted in memory. The cadenced mnemonic about Columbus flashes in recall. The known world expands to the unknown world. Las indias! 1492. The Spanish world contracts, hardens, expelling the Moors and the Jews from Spain, consolidating errant kingdoms and languages under Isabella and Ferdinand; a superpower is born.

Plaza de Toros

It is Friday afternoon, and the Archivo de Indias (the archive of Spain´s interactions with the Americas) closes before we arrive. Dregs of time remain for the Catedral and Alcazar hours. So, to the Plaza de Toros.

It is Friday afternoon but there will be no death this day. The corrida de toros is Sunday evening. We visit, images of what we see on television still fresh, of toreros in failed paso doble agony.

This day, it is quiet, small in size and in the emptiness of the 14,000 seats.







The ring is swept clean, replendent in the yellow sand and brilliant red paint, the colors of Sevilla. On Sunday, through gates now closed, there will be an explosion of people, toreros, picadores, banderilleros, horses and bulls.

In the quiet we walk past stables, rooms where toreros dress and chapel where they pray before entering the ring. Paintings and displays in the small museum trace the early development of the corrida from games similar to tournaments to the present day spectacle.







High on the wall, the heads of famous bulls project from the wall. We see ears! They are the mothers of bulls who have killed toreros, killed, we are told, to keep from producing such dangerous offspring again. It is interesting that temperament of the bulls is assigned to the female.

Sealed in display cases, the costumes justify their high price. Gold trim and intricate surface design create dress appropriate for this ultimate dance of death.





How different it all will be on a Sunday evening.