I was with a lover in Paris, with two in London, and in Seville, three. Not simultaneously, for the damnation of ambiguity. And I hope you read Paris with an accent: Paaarrriii; and read read as reeed, not riiid. Never mind.
A young woman, she told me, 'After Barcelona, there's no other city,' and that the most romantic place is Paris. True, there's only one Antoni Gaudí. False, the most romantic place, by my soul, is not Paris.
In Seville I was threatened that the car would be stolen if I didn't get to pay a certain fee. In Seville I was robbed for a frugal meal with beer, but the bill wasn't filled with any illegality.
Yet all it takes is a walk in Seville, a glance at the inner courtyards, with a pool in their centre, and luxuriant ceramic pots; the tiles that colourfully betray the freshness of the place, and which prepare the mind as it gets freed by the many options that are open from the courtyards, the doors to all the rooms in the two-storey houses. I feel I'm in the centre of the centre of the world. And there are many worlds as that one, in Seville.
I need to live in a city that has mighty oceanic waves nearby. Probably I'd be mildly happy if it was close to a sea, or even a lake, as long as it's large enough to merge with the sky on the horizon. Seville becomes thus a not unreachable, lazy, sprawled out dream, deformed by the heat that rolls up out of gentle hills laden with olives and oranges; the Alcazar rooms echo Sheherazade's voice, their cool shades invite us to sleep before you can say, 'Guadalquivir,' and the centenarian trees around the Alcazar make an Oasis out of Seville.
Can you say, 'Oasis, Alcazar, Guadalquivir,' without feeling predisposed to sensuality?
These nuances of Seville announce many romances, and not even necessarily my own. That's why I'm compelled to tell you that the most romantic city is the city that gives you a similar thrill, and not Seville. But probably it's Sevilla.
