He Who Has Not Seen Seville, Has Not Seen a Miracle (1/2)
The miracle witnessed by one who could not see Seville.
“No Hay Virus!”
There is an old Spanish saying.
“Quien no ha visto Sevilla, no ha visto maravilla.”
— He who has not seen Seville, has not seen a miracle.
In Madrid, a storehouse of art, I was drinking in freedom. People laughed, saying “No hay virus” (There is no virus), under the blazing sun. But I could not settle for that freedom. I wanted to verify that ‘Miracle’ (Maravilla) with my own eyes. That single sentence led me to Seville. Expecting music, color, and miracles pouring down like a festival, I boarded the bus.
But the moment I arrived, the world’s switch flipped off. ‘Estado de Alarma’ — State of Alarm, that is Martial law, was declared. (Of course, it was the first martial law of my life. And I thought it would be the last.)
On the day I arrived, the bars that had been clinking glasses of sangria over tapas bolted their doors. Soldiers with guns stood in the squares where children used to play, and silence settled over the crowded streets. I came expecting to see a miracle, but I ended up trapped in the prison of my accommodation.
My plan to sit elegantly on a terrace reading a local newspaper while sipping coffee was shattered. But humans are animals of adaptation. Following the advice of a local resident, we knocked on the shutter of a closed café.
The Most Beautiful Spring Gifted by
the City That Locked Us In
Thump, thump, thump!
“Two lattes, one Lungo!” I shouted in clumsy Spanish.
A moment later, the shutter cracked open. The owner scanned the surroundings once, then handed over the coffee. A cup of latte, grasped like contraband in a drug deal. I couldn’t sit in the café, but I can never forget the taste of that latte, drunk standing in a back alley. Even in that chaos, the latte art was beautiful—a single cup of devotion, poured in breathless silence. From that foam, I drank not the collapsed daily life, but the breath of Seville, which was still warm.
In the air, whenever we stepped out for a brief moment, scents that even strict security couldn’t block wrapped around us—orange, lime, acacia, and all kinds of flowers, full of Seville’s warmth.
We fled to the guesthouse rooftop. The fear of confinement only made us stickier. The owner released the remaining alcohol at cost price, and we played music and danced all night. When food ran out, the ‘Mercado (Supermarket) Expedition Team’ was dispatched.
Shelves gaping like missing teeth. We couldn’t afford the luxury of choosing ingredients to match a recipe. A bizarre ‘World Cooking Contest’ was held every night, inventing recipes to fit whatever ingredients remained.
Some left in fear, but we who remained were comrades. Outside, the city was frozen in silence, but our nights were hotter and louder than any festival.
Perhaps that heat was the spark that finally drove us to cross the line..
(End of Part 1. To be continued...)
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