Call Me Ursula

Buenos días, it’s me again, Mia. This adventure involves a watermelon Fiat, a little baby nugget of Self Discovery and some of the most unsafe driving practices I’ve ever been exposed to in all of my years serving the Fun Police.

Here’s a short history of Seville, according to the encyclopedia of me. The original founders of Seville dug into the earth like carving Parmesan cheese to accommodate the growing population of mice and search for a cooler climate away from the sun. This was a wholly unsuccessful venture but they uncovered a nice river and built some fairly good cathedrals to cover up their embarrassment. That’s why the buildings are so tall. So that the mice don’t get sunburnt.

Around day 2 in Seville I bond with some hostel friends over a classic game of kings cup. We decide to pull a fat carpe diem and spend the following day together. It wasn’t my favourite experience but I did meet a cute little crab that unfortunately did not have a French accent or a friend called Flounder. With sealed lips I’ll leave you with relics of our spontaneous road trip:

  • 14 hours spent with Canadian allies
  • 13 self-timer photos with the Fiat
  • 12 times the speed limit was exceeded by more than 10km/h
  • 11 euros for three hours of parking
  • 10 is a cool number and I don’t have anything for this one
  • 9 too many stories about one particular trip to Vietnam
  • 8 cars tailgated on narrow curved roads
  • 7 tapas plates ordered
  • 6 songs played before the aux cord was confiscated
  • 5 times grateful to be alive
  • 4 explanations as to why I don’t want any supermarket Sangria
  • 3 languages spoken
  • 2 complaints about the music in the car (how is Fleetwood Mac not road trip appropriate?!)
  • 1 very tired human woman disillusioned with youth, astonished by stupidity but nevertheless in awe of Andalucía
I’ll let the photos paint a nicer picture because Ronda & Marbella really do make a nice picture.

Day four allows me a tasty few hours of solitary exploration and more rumination. I’m caught up in the search for the ones who stop every three minutes to spin around like Ariel and soak it all in like a sea sponge. The people who insist on analysing every colour palette and pattern and oddity. And I find them. Not at the hostel or a kitschy bar but preserved in the architecture of the city. In the contemporary art museum, where three idiots hyper aware of their idiocy make art for the sake of fun. I find them in the all-female section of the same museum that’s full of shrewd storytellers and radicals. White rooms are exploding with upside-down perspectives and multi-coloured perceptions.

I see them in stone graves, fallen asleep while reading far too early in the evening. They’re in the half-finished ornamental decor of that building I forgot to grab the name of. They smirk at my art projects surrendered to the weeds of procrastination. My kind have left their ancient stain of anarchy in bull’s blood on the walls of a cathedral.

Calvin Harris knows this is what I came for. The gelato is goddamn good, sangria is plentiful and I did enjoy my time with the Canadians. But I’m more Ursula than Ariel, jaded by the smallest of mishaps and confined to my cave. I like my cave. I get to play whatever music I want and the acoustics are great, plus I get to write bullshit like this. Another self-centred affirmation ricochets around my (large) skull during sunset by the river: fuck I love my own company. I promise I’ll keep trying to make friends (Note that I have been known to break promises in the past). Until next time, Seville-ians.

Frase del día:

Música del lugar: The Barber of Seville, Act I: Overture - Rossini (how could I not)

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