Manana no existe

Sunday July 8, 2007

I have not been keeping up with my entries… I suppose I’m starting to become jaded with this place, so completely at home that I have ceased to see it with child-like eyes. Then again, this week… by waiting… I have a story to tell that would not have been a story if I had taken everything day by day.
It began at the Clam – the modern, sleek teahouse-bar in Alemeda de Hercules. The day was sweltering beauty with a cup of tea serving as the perfect relief. The day, spoke of newness of creativity. The day of hinted of beginnings. We never had been so wrong.
At the Clam, we happened to chance upon acquaintances we had met in Alemeda a few nights before. They kissed us on each cheek, as is the custom in Sevilla, and we made small talk and promises to reunite in Alemeda once more. In and out, we half spied all the Alemeda regulars that we had grown to love, though we were so consumed in our own affairs we failed to notice.
We asked for our check around eight o’clock. Our waitress was one of our favorites… a thirty something year old hipster inclined to give sparkling smiles and speedy service. “Billete” we said.
She stopped and gazed briefly into each of our eyes. Her response was something so unexpected, our language skills completely fell apart.
“Manana no existe”, she said. Her eyes tranquil and sad. Was the store closing? What of our bill? What exactly did she just say?
Noticing our confusion, she broke into melodic English – “There is no tomorrow, no yesterday, just the moment.”
She walked away… our tea was free for the day but something had definitely changed.
On the way home, we went over all the theories possible, and settled on the dark fact that she likely was quitting… The Clam had changed dramatically since we had first frequented it. All our beloved waiters had been disappearing… we blamed long vacations and illness… They were gone for now but soon to return … Whatever our notions, the word “quit” had gone completely unuttered for weeks… Her dramatic farewell had changed our minds.
Manana no existe… Manana no exite... It drifted in and out of our mind throughout the rather uneventful next few days…
By Friday, it was time for Aterciopelados, a favorite Columbian rock band that was to perform in Sevilla. I got my hair cut… quite short. I robed myself in brand new clothes I had bought in Spain. I wanted this night to be a change, a break from the past and a new future. I was right, in the worst of ways.
We paid the bargain price of 5 euros, and made our way to the Festival of Culture - the site of the concert… Eating kebabs and curried chicken we sat along the Guadivilir river, dreaming of Morocco to come, excited for the concert at the moment, and nervous about the Clam…
The concert, was beautiful… all sadness had been thrown out of us. The lead singer told stories of her child, of war in Columbia, and of love. We swayed desparetly clinging to the spiraling melodies. All the tents at the outdoor festival were glowing like lanterns, and the river breathed a chilly sigh that competed with the summer heat… It was undoubtedly one of the greatest concerts I had been to in some time…
We planned to botellin in Alemeda afterwords… Botellin… I expect you do not know the term… Its drinking in the streets… a Sevillan custom for generations… only within the last few years had it been limitied… Alemeda was one of a handful of places where botellin was legal.
We raced to our home away from home, to the sparkling roman columns, and sleek exciting bars… It was time to drink in the streets, to reunite with old friends, to kiss the ground where hippies met college students met professionals met intellectuals. We went to Alemeda de Hercules but it wasn’t the Alemeda we had always known. Police lined the streets…. People were forelornely scurrying about with unopened bottles of rum and sacks of ice… There was an aura of fear and extreme sadness.
The city had rushed a vote to outlaw bottlellin… in effecting killing the Alemeda we had always known.
Tears come to eyes to write this… I have only been here for two months, but Alemeda was everything I loved in Sevilla… everying.
Manana no existe… Manana no existe.. Her words finally made sense… Tommarrow, Alemeda wasn’t to exist. The Clam and its comforting staff were fleeing. The hippies who used to juggle fire were no more. The bars lost their luster without the hundreds contently milling in the street. My home, had been burnt to the ground.

* * * * * * *

I had craved for something new… the concert, my haircut, the atmosphere of the festival, all hinted at new beginnings, but with all beginnings something must come to a close…Why must we destroy the past in the name of progress? Why must Alemeda die for something new to begin…



I honestly feel like its my time to leave Sevilla now… I’m only going to be in the city for eight more days… I’m spending four days in Morrocco and two days in Granada to total two weeks left on my program… And then my parents, my cousin, and I are to travel across Andalusia and Portugal for a week and a half… Life is a pattern. A tapestry. It took me about eight days to find Alemeda… and eight days before I leave Sevilla… Alemeda has left me…

“In this world, there is a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we’ve left behind and dreaming ahead. At least I think that’s so.” –Angels in America, Tony Kushner

Theives and existential ramblings

I saw a movie at the cinema today… I ran inside barely catching my teacher who had reserved the tickets early. As usual, I was running on Spanish time - five minutes late.
The film was called – Ladrones or thieves…. It was awash in religious symbolism painted in grey somber tones, sung in Gothic chants, flowing through brilliantly smooth transitions... I understood about three- fourths of the words in the movie. But, the primary plot was obvious, and the art direction was so crystal clear if I did not immediately understand a word, a phrase, a gesture… it became readily apparent in the minor details… It was set in the grey area of life… somewhere between good and evil... there was a mannequin, an untrustworthy antique dealer, a confused lovesick girl, and a lonely lonely boy. The director drew pickpockets in a hazy reality and then inversely made clear details unreal. He threw in a Virgin and Child motif, there were hints of jailing, and red preordained a bloody demise. At face value, it was all thieveries but deep down it was much more.
Completely thought provoking and a little melancholy, the film was exactly what I needed at the moment. For whatever reason, not being a part of the world around you – being a foreigner – reveals the symbolism in life. Gestures become words, words become nationality, and nationality becomes fitting in somewhere. And usually that somewhere isn’t where you are. You learn to deal with… You find the world a strange wonderful reality of impossibilities, absurdity, and magnificent beauty. That had been my time in Sevilla… an unreal beautiful world where I spoke little but heard more than the natives … At least, it was that way at least till the last week.
I suppose at times the cleverly arranged façade falters and you realize that you are indeed alone… feeling as a stranger. It’s startling. From the top down the symbolism in life fades. Gestures cease to become words, words loose connotation with nationality, and nationality is a meaningless term. Its not homesickness or awkwardness… The closest word to it is in the spirit of an Arabic word… Feeling like a stranger longing for his native land… However, having the feeling of a stranger, not necessarily BEING the stranger. As if you are longing for a place that doesn’t exist. A place in your mind… in your heart… in all those patterns you imagined around you. The sense of the world.
I’m rambling into existential nonsense… I guess… discarding all my above analysis… the film rekindled the magic I felt here. The graffiti in the alleyways became horoscopes again. The Clam became a funky coffeehouse instead of a room full of uninteresting strangers. I lived in a ship, sailing above the city, instead of a tiny room on a dusty rooftop patio. I was in the Spain I loved again, and all that dull stuff was left behind….