Travelogue #34: Colours of Seville.

I think one of the reasons I liked Seville so much was that it was the most colour coordinated city I’ve ever visited. And I am all for colour coordination.

I mean, look at this … perfect oranges in front of a perfectly orange church, ARE YOU FRIGGIN KIDDING ME? 

Yellow, white yellow. I mean, really … you slay me with your matchy-matchyness, Sevilla. 

EVEN THE WHEELS OF HORSE CARRIAGES LOOK LIKE ORANGES. 

The lobby of our rented apartment, which we got for a steal in the centre of town. 

Colour coordinated orange thieves on New Years Eve. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I wish I could say we were drunk. But we were actually just really, really, hungry. So hungry we decided to harvest public fruits. 

xx 

Travelogue #33: Set in Seville ...

After a week of hardcore beach resort time, we headed inland and westbound to Seville.

Life felt like it was cut out of a Woody Allen film - of his European phase - and we were just another bunch of English speaking tourists, sight-seeing with our heavy machinery DSLR, marvelling at everything from the exquisite Alcazar to street side-orange trees so perfect they looked fake.

On New Years Eve, we met up with Pauline and her friend Juliet, who happened to be in Seville for the holidays. We ate grapes out of a tin at midnight on Plaza Nueva as people set off impromptu fireworks around us. We walked around Seville wearing flashing Mickey Mouse ears, while being proposed to by drunken strangers (and saying “yes!”) and drinking champagne with a group of Spanish girls who knew little English. 

Exhaustion kicked in, between intermittent bursts of energy. Things went wrong in the best kind of ways, and each of us took turns in having breakdowns which we would laughed about hysterically after the fact. 

In short, Seville was our version of the Hangover. 

Cathedral.

The Alcazar. Not nearly are grand as the Alhambra in Granada, but of a slightly different style and much less packed. 

Plaza Espana.

There was a large, open, flat surface. There was a fountain in front of a landmark. So naturally, I did the only thing any self-respecting teenybopper would have done in the situation: I JUMPED.

Lauren did not wish to be airborne. 

Anny and I lacked synergy. 

But we got there in the end. Even if I looked like a frog. 

Sunset spammage. 

xx

Travelogue #32: Windows of the Alhambra

Up until I visited the Alhambra in Granada, the Forbidden City had been the most beautiful man-made structure I had ever visited. But compared to the grandiosity and coherence of the Forbidden City, the Alhambra - built by the Moors during the 800 year long Muslim rule of Southern Spain - just has that extra level of intricacy and mismatched style that makes it so stunning, and so worth braving the tourist crowds for.

While I was there, I became mildly obsessed with photographing windows and doors …  

xx 

Travelogue #31: Sound of White

Mijas pueblo is, objectively speaking, a beautiful place. A white washed village perched half way on a mountain, facing the Mediterranean sea. When the sun hits in the morning, the entire town glows like a tray of clean dishes right out of the dish washer. I am told there are more well-moneyed expats living there now than locals, which goes a long way to explain the disturbing cleanliness of the place. 

We headed there on Boxing Day morning, just before the town woke up to the onslaught of tour groups. We wondered around the quiet streets before I walked past an old lady selling her hand knitted nana cardigans out of - what seems like - her living room window.

I motioned that I want one. 25 euros, she says, and elapsed into a string of Spanish words that me no speak. But the message was clear, and I bagged a giant, chunky knit before preparing to leave.

“No no no…” she motioned for me to wait, went into her back room, and came out with a handful of toffees as she stuffed them into my palm. 

I wanted to hug her like she was my nana. 

But soon enough, the sleepiness of Mijas evaporated as the tour groups descended upon the place. We were rubbing shoulders with tour guides waving flags, people wearing baseball caps as fashion statement (WHY?!), and vendors shouting “Japan! Japan!” at me, as actual Japanese tourists climbed onto the “donkey taxis”, a speciality (read: tourist trap) of the town. 

And so it was time to leave with my new cardigan.