“Solo in Seville” – Part Two

12 minute read

Previously in Part One of “Solo in Seville” – Talking about the ending of a relationship, observing the differences between travelling solo and travelling as a couple, reflecting on life, both the celebrations and the potential for regret, plan B becoming the new plan A, and, I mean, it was a pretty deep opening chapter, so let’s see what happens in part two

Day One – Monday

It was just after midday as I sat down in a coffee shop opposite the Metropol Parasol, better known locally as Las Setas (or The Mushrooms).

Las Setas is a giant wooden structure with a latticed canopy resembling honeycomb. And it’s a breath-taking landmark that offers an array of shops, bars, and restaurants underneath; along with an observation deck that provides incredible views across the city.

I thanked the waiter as he placed a coffee down in front of me, and I was suddenly aware of feeling unsettled, although I knew I’d be okay.

I was just experiencing a few of those first day wobbles, as I like to call them, when you arrive someplace new and are yet to become orientated.

I’d got up at 2.45am and had showered, packed, and went straight over to the airport, where I made my first fuck-up of the trip.

It had been a number of years since I’d travelled with carry-on luggage only, and although I’d checked all the rules regarding bag sizes and what items I could and could not carry, I still managed to get it wrong.

Having observed the rule of carrying liquids that did not exceed 100ml in size, I’d missed the part about only being able to carry so many. Long story short, I ended up having to dump almost half of my items, only to have to re-buy them from Boots after I’d made it through security.

I mean, that’s great for Boots, but it was a bloody pain-in-the-arse for Elliot.

And for his wallet.

As I stood in security tying up my shoe laces and running my belt back through the loops in my jeans, I muttered quietly under my breath, feeling victimised about how airport security always picks on me, asking myself, “what is it about me?”

But perspective soon arrived in the form of a young woman who began complaining to her partner about the very same thing, her words echoing mine almost word-for-word. And as I listened in on her complaint, which went way beyond what I’d experienced, I soon realised that she’d had it far worse than I had.

Yet we don’t always see this at the time, do we?

We often believe that it’s always us that has everything tough and that we always get dealt the shitty hand, whereas the reality is that there are always people that are worse off than ourselves.

But it’s amazing how comforting it was in that moment to hear somebody saying the same thing as myself. To know it’s not just you. To know that you’re not alone.

And I realised that this is the reason why I write as honestly as I do on this website, because if I’ve felt something in my life, then I know that others have too. And hopefully, by sharing my own thoughts and feelings, it will help others to feel seen, and to also feel less alone.

And I like that thought. I like that a lot. And I believe that it’s something that we can all do for each other.

The flight from Stansted to Seville was fairly uneventful, although I remember being sat next to a very elegant lady who was travelling with her young daughter.

She wore a pretty summer dress and a pair of heels that were sized just right for the occasion, and her jewellery was beautifully understated. Her perfume was intoxicating, though not too strong to be overpowering, but light enough to entice you.

As she spoke to her daughter, she did so with a balance of tone that was disciplined, yet tender; demonstrating a strong yet delicate femininity.

In contrast to this was the stewardess, who I came to affectionately nickname ‘the snake’.

I call her ‘the snake’ because she had a tendency to emphasise her words with an elongated hiss.

“Anybody for drinkssssss?”

The pitch of her hissing was so strong that as she moved her way down to the far reaches of the cabin and her words were no longer audible, I could still hear the hissing part.

In many ways it reminded me of when your granddad falls asleep in the armchair after Christmas dinner. You know, like, when he begins to snore and there’s always that whistle when he exhales.

Later on, as the snake made her way back up the cabin, her hisses had now merged will the letter aitch.

“Has anybody got any rubbishhhhhh?

Honestly, with the stewardess using shhhhhh every now and then, it was like there was a snake in the cabin that was telling me to keep quiet.

When I’d exited the airport, the usual jitters had taken a hold.

Where do I go? Would I get transport okay? When will I know I’ve reached the city centre?

But it turned out to be incredibly easy and there were even yellow paving slabs that led me to the bus, like I was following my own version of the yellow brick road to the Emerald City.

After the bus reached Seville bus station, I prepared my backpack, took a look at my map, and then set off on foot.

Although there are many things that I could criticise myself for, my sense of direction is not one of them.

Generally speaking, I can set off from somewhere and then take in the landmarks, street names, points of interest, and have a general sense of how far I’ve walked and in which direction. As a result, it’s very rare that I get lost and am always able to navigate new places without too much trouble ⁽¹⁾.

And sure enough, in no time at all I found myself in the courtyard in which my apartment was located, and then I slowly scanned the building names, eventually finding a familiar placard that matched the logo on my Air BnB booking confirmation.

Although it was too early to check-in, my host let me drop my bags off early so that I could head into Seville to grab a coffee, which is how I found myself sat opposite Las Setas.

I took out my phone and sent a couple of texts to friends back home, and then I sat and reflected on this for a moment.

At one time, when I went away travelling, I’d cut off from home and see any kind of contact as a weakness; like I somehow had to toughen everything out alone.

But not anymore. And now I just see that as silly.

I still like to avoid social media when I’m away, but staying in touch with the people I’m closest to has become important to me.

It doesn’t take a hero to navigate life alone. It takes strength, and it takes courage, but it’s not something to aspire to.

It’s good to know that you can thrive by yourself, because it begets confidence. And some degree of solitude is incredibly beneficial, and I will always need some degree of that in my life. It’s in my nature.

But life is undoubtedly better when it is shared, and with each passing year I come to need that more and more.

A life alone is not something to aim for. It’s simply something that you should feel confident that you can do, if you have to do it. And that, is like a superpower.

The Real Alcazar is considered to be one of the most beautiful buildings in the world, and it was also used as one of the set locations for Game of Thrones.

The 14^th century palace and gardens are breathtaking on screen, and seeing it for myself was a top priority for this trip. And with another hour to kill before checking into my apartment, I decided to venture to the Real Alcazar and pre-book a ticket for Wednesday.

I paid for my coffee and walked outside into the hot midday sun, and after getting my bearings I ventured south, checking off the street names before finding myself opposite the palace gates.

There was a sign that appeared to be advertising tickets, and so I followed it through a small set of gates and into a courtyard, where I could see that a crowd of people had gathered in the distance. I walked over to join them, assuming they were there to buy tickets also.

But, a few of them were holding flags and banners, and there were a number of Spanish words painted onto them that I couldn’t understand. It took a moment for me to realise what was happening, and that these people were gearing up for a protest!

I also caught sight of a couple of large video cameras that appeared to be filming them, perhaps for the news, but then out of the crowd appeared a big man that was waving frantically at me, and who started ushering me backwards.

After being moved away from the crowd, I took a moment to process what had just happened. And when the realisation hit me, I suddenly started laughing.

Because after hearing one of the camera men scream out a word that I didn’t understand, the crowd suddenly dropped their flags and their banners, and then stood talking quietly amongst themselves.

I can only assume that the word he shouted was the Spanish word for “CUT!” and that they weren’t news cameras after all.

Because it turns out that, yes, you guessed it; I’d accidentally walked onto a live movie set.

I blame security.

“How was your afternoon?” Asked Olga, my Air BnB host.

I explained that I’d had coffee and had taken a walk to the Real Alcazar, but the confused and slightly suspicious look on her face told me that my story about the movie-set had gotten lost in translation.

Quickly changing the subject, I asked how the mini-safe worked, as I was keen to lock away my valuables.

Olga explained that the key code was 1234 by default, and that I just needed to turn the knob to the right, key in my own unique code, press B, and then close the door. The safe would then lock itself, and the key code would be whatever I set it to.

“Thank you.” I said, and then Olga gave me her number so that I could message if I had any problems during my stay.

After getting unpacked, having a shower, and getting ready for the evening, I decided to lock everything away.

Placing a number of items within the safe, I turned the knob to the right, typed in key-code 6666, because I was feeling extra devilish ⁽²⁾. Get it? ⁽³⁾

I pressed B, closed the safe, and then I heard the mechanism begin to whir as the deadbolt slid into place. I put on my shoes and opened the apartment door, but then I suddenly felt my pockets and realised that I’d left my wallet in the safe.

Heading back over to the wardrobe, I slid back the door to reveal the safe, entered code 6666, and then tried to turn the knob.

It wouldn’t budge.

“Hmmm” I muttered, “I must have put the wrong code in. Let’s try again.”

And so, I pressed the ‘clear’ button, entered code 6666, and then I tried the knob again.

Nothing.

“Oh fuck.”

I suddenly felt sick. Here I was, in a brand-new city, and all my valuables are locked away and I can’t get to them. My heart began to pound and I started sweating. It was day-fucking-one and I couldn’t get access to all my most important things. What the fuck was I going to do?

Panicking, I reached for my phone – the one thing I hadn’t locked away – and I sent Olga a text letting her know that the safe had malfunctioned and that I couldn’t get my items.

“Hi Olga. I have a problem with the safe and cannot open it. Can you help?”

To her credit, Olga replied quickly, but in broken English.

“You put code in him?”

Him? I hadn’t realised that the safe was male, but the gender of the safe didn’t matter. What did matter was that I couldn’t get my money, my passport, or any of my keys.

“Yes. I put the code in him.” I replied, ensuring that I was gender specific. “Then I pressed B, closed the door, it locked, and now it won’t open.”

A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead as I waited for a response, and then Olga replied, telling me that she’d come and take a look; but now I was truly panicking, because if the code didn’t work for me then it wasn’t suddenly going to start working for her either.

So, what happens then? Would we have to get in a professional safe-cracker? Would we need to set detonators like they did in Oceans Eleven? Could this even be done quickly?

What the fuck was I going to do!?

I sat on the edge of the bed in full panic mode, but then I looked at the safe and wrinkled my brow quizzically.

“Surely not.” I muttered to myself.

I got up off the bed, approached the safe, and then I started pressing some buttons; or more precisely, I pressed…

1-2-3-4

…and then the safe made a whirring noise and the door pinged open.

“I don’t believe it.” I said to myself, realising that I’d simply failed to change the code properly. “Elliot, you absolute twat.” I cursed.

I reached for my phone and text Olga.

“It’s okay. I’ve got him open. Please don’t come.”

Olga replied. “Jaja no proeblems.”

I was sat in a restaurant that offered me another wonderful view of Las Setas. Having just finished some delicious tapas, I sat back, crossed my legs, and sipped on a glass of red wine; still chuckling about my fiasco with the safe.

The first day wobbles had begun to subside and I felt myself starting to relax. Maybe it was the warmth of a beautiful October evening in Seville, maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the sense of settling into my surroundings; but whatever it was, I was beginning to feel good.

But that’s often when life offers you the biggest curve balls, and it’s when life will kick your feet from under you.

Because as I sat looking around me, taking in the beauty and the bustle of my surroundings, I spotted my ex-girlfriend.

Whenever you go through a break-up, your senses become heightened and you become hyper-aware of emotional triggers.

Every song that you hear suddenly has lyrics that remind you of your heartbreak. You watch scenes in movies that speak directly to the pain that you’re feeling. You notice every little thing. Every little nuance. You even smell their perfume.

And sometimes, you see somebody that looks just like them.

Of course, the lady that I saw was not my ex-girlfriend; but she had her hair, she had her body, she had her style of dress. And for just a moment, I actually believed that it was her. That somehow, she was here in Seville.

I watched the lady as she turned around and walked towards her partner and their two children. And after kissing him on the cheek, she took the hand of both their children, and they began to walk away.

I watched until she disappeared into the crowd, and I became aware that the smile had left my face and that my heart was beginning to sink.

I suddenly felt painfully alone, and tears began to gather in the corners of my eyes.

Needing to get out of the restaurant as quickly as possible, I approached the waitress and paid the bill, and then I hurried back to the apartment.

As I lay in bed that night, I could hear the sounds of people out in the courtyard, still socialising and having fun.

Sounds that are normally heart-warming suddenly became a form of torment, and it was a reminder of all that I didn’t have. It was a reminder that I was completely alone in Seville.

Yet it wasn’t supposed to be this way. There should have been somebody lying beside me right now. And what happened outside the restaurant had been a reminder of exactly that. And it was a painful reminder that I still had a long way to go in my healing.

I don’t know how long I lay awake with these thoughts, but at some point, I managed to drift away into sleep. And thankfully, I was at least able to end the night knowing that the main reason for the trip was going to be taking place the very next morning.

Because tomorrow, I’d get to experience the Caminito Del Ray. 

Click here to read Part Three of “Solo in Seville”

FOOTNOTES

⁽¹⁾ Yet ironically, as I sit here typing this up onto my website, I very recently managed to get lost when on-foot in Manchester. I mean, on this occasion I’m going to blame Google Maps and the outdated iOS software on my phone. But then again, a worker always blames his tools, right?

⁽²⁾ I didn’t really use this code. I mean, you didn’t really think I’d tell you what code I use when I travel, did you? Don’t be silly.

⁽³⁾ You see, the number of the devil is 666, so if I add an extra 6 then you get…ah, you know what, just forget it.

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