Kids running through the midday mist emerging from the square of Alemeda de Hercules
I was suspicious when the cabdriver dropped my stuff in the middle of the cobbled lane. Graffiti scrawled all over the buildings, dog crap piled everywhere, and the sweltering heat didn’t help my mood. The words of a fellow traveler kept echoing in my mind “when you book online, you never know what you are getting until you arrive.” I had visions of being duped into booking a flea bitten room in the middle of the dumpiest part of Sevilla.
The hotel online claimed “brightly lit courtyards” and rooms decorated in “authentic design and Spanish tile.” That sounded good. It got positive user reviews, only a ten minute walk to the city center, and priced reasonably. What else could a person want, I thought? Possibly not to be in Sevilla’s only ghetto, were the thoughts running through my mind now.
I sighed, and started lugging my bag across the square, narrowly missing the piles of poop. When I arrived in the lobby, the concierge greeted me with overwhelming enthusiasm and friendliness. This was the most spirited person I had seen in a few weeks. I felt like a friend of a distant cousin that he treated with as much love as his own mother. Well that was promising. He told me there was a vegetarian restaurant a couple blocks away. “It’s called, ‘Vegetarian Restaurant,’” he said. I laughed and started dragging my luggage across the three courtyards to my room.
I timidly entered. Marble tile, a window overlooking the courtyard, and no bugs in sight. I breathed a little easier. The room was modest but clean. That’s all one could hope for, really, at $60 a night. So what if the safe was just for looks and the desk was broken? That added to the adventure and character of the room, I reasoned.
Yet, if someone would have predicted that I would end up relaxing into the culture of the barrio of Alemeda and eventually even falling in love with it, reluctant to leave for Barcelona, I would have been very skeptical. However, that is exactly what occurred.
I started to sense the power of the square of Alemeda de Hercules around dusk (about 9:30PM) when I left the hotel for dinner. All of the cafes and restaurants which were locked tightly and had their metal shields rolled down snugly when I had arrived, suddenly popped to life. I had no idea there were so many businesses (close to sixty) hovered around the square. People were spilling out of the cafes, tables were set up on the edges of the squares, the chatter so loud I felt like I had walked into a crowded bar, instead of the street.
As I continued walking, I noticed a small playground in the square with children laughing, chasing each other, giggling. Mothers lounging on the concrete benches talking about their day or who is dating whom. I can only imagine. I don’t actually speak Spanish. The morning cafes, which transformed into gritty bars after siesta, were nestled right next to the fine dining restaurants. As I was finishing my meal at one of these establishments, I heard voices and music as if through a loud speaker. I noticed that an old man was setting up a projector screen in the middle of the square. My interest was perked, but first things first, it was time for dessert.
After fumbling my way through ordering two scoops of gelato in Spanish (I noted the quality was superior to half of the ice cream I had in Italy), I walked towards the people gathering around the impromptu movie screen. My heels clacking on the stones, I visibly noticed heads turning. Apparently, this was not the part of town where heels were popular on a Thursday evening.
Teenage couples and grandmothers and middle age men all crowded together on the concrete benches and folding chairs that they had brought along. Beer and wine flowed freely. The man finally figured out how to work the projector and a black and white American classic (dubbed in Spanish) starring Anthony Quinn came into focus. People laughing, sharing quiet moments with each other, sipping wine in the warm evening. I could have stayed there all night, had I not been distracted by the commotion on the far end of the square.
Where only an empty space had been there this morning, now there was an outdoor stage, paper lanterns strung over the edge of the square, tables strewn about to accommodate guests of an outdoor restaurant and even a vendor selling candy. Couples on dates, mothers walking with their children, passerbys of all kinds stopped what they were doing and seemed to be magnetically pulled towards the stage. Admittedly, I was. A woman crooned the vocals of a well known flamenco song, stopping every once in awhile to practice a few dance steps, which the crowd loved. Her band in the background, the guitarists and drummer, egging her on. A male flamenco dancer entered stage left. He moved his feet tirelessly, flirting with the singer by shaking his long curly hair and open and closing his vest. I felt like I was watching the courtship dance of a pair of birds.
That night, I laughed as I laid in bed reading the guidebook for the first time since I had arrived. Apparently Alemeda is the former redlight district of Sevilla. I smiled as I closed my eyes, the music and delight of the crowd filtering in through the courtyard, lulling me to sleep.
The next morning I started my day as usual, with a visit to the café next to my hotel. I felt that the barista and I had bonded over the week, although neither of us spoke the other’s language. He always smiled brightly when I drew a stool up to the bar and more importantly he knew exactly what I meant when I said, “Un café con leche y pan con tomate.” Just to cement our acquaintanceship, I always left him a tip, no matter how small my order. This was the day I planned to spend my hours in the part of town everyone expects you to be in when you tell them you plan to visit Sevilla. The barrio of Santa Cruz.
Having spent some time in Santa Cruz, California I already have a natural affinity to the name so I figured it would be nice. And it was. The streets were cleaner, the buildings whiter, the architecture more interesting. My day included finding my way through the narrow, winding alleyways to a hidden Arab bathhouse and strolling through the endless expansive public gardens and parks. There was one private garden, a “secret garden” I labeled it. Only secret, to most, however, because it is one of the few gardens you must pay to enter. Who would pay when there were so many beautiful free ones around the city? As I walked passed the secret garden, I couldn’t help but notice how high the ivy-covered walls were. Why did you need walls that high for a garden? What other secrets were coveted in that space? How easy would it be to climb those walls under the cover of the night?
This wasn’t the night to find out. I had a date with my café and my restaurant and my square waiting for me back “home.” As I winded my way back through the curvy lanes, passing the clubs filled with tourists and the restaurants with English menus, the chatter seemed to fade. There was this brief space between Santa Cruz and Alemeda where there was no one. No cafes, bars, restaurants, or shops. Just quiet lanes. Just the shuffle of sandals (no heels) and clothes rustling. I turned a corner, and the brilliance of Alemeda de Hercules astounded me. These were just people going about their normal activities; would they know that each one of them contributed to the power of this space?
The beauty of the square is that it so seamlessly brought together the young and the old, people of all different segments of the community who used the square in their own way and who respected each other’s space in the square. This is what had been missing from my day in Santa Cruz. It was this microcosm on the planet, this little bit of the world that was so alive, that I had fallen in love with. If this is what life was like in a (former) red light district, then sign me up.