Behind the Orange Trees: Sensitivity Readers Wanted.
Seville, te quiero. But your story needs a rewrite.
TLDNR: Come for the oranges, stay for the Roscón de Reyes, but leave before the Epiphany Parade.
Nothing tells a better story than an old-style city preserved with rich culture and history. Seville is a city that’s full of surprises. The all-year-round orange trees that scatter the sidewalks. The rhythmic clip-clop of horses and carriages parading through the city. The flamenco dancers that let you sample their performances in the street. Its architecture was used to bring the fictional worlds of Star Wars and Game of Thrones to life. It’s a real life fantasy.
It's January 2024. We're here for a winter city break. The apartment is on the edge of the city centre beyond the Puente de Triana. Each morning, we wake to the rising sun and the sound of the horses and carts marching one by one into the city. At night we see them returning home after a long unpaid day at work. I have no desire to get onto a horse and cart. I don't like the thought of animals being treated like slaves for entertainment. The city's bullfighting industry is alive and well. That tells me everything I need to know about the state of animal welfare here. Despite myself, I fall into a routine of admiring them from the window.
On New Year’s Eve the city shuts down. We drink Lidl sparkling wine in our 4th-floor Airbnb. We fall asleep before the countdown, casting aside our 12 grapes and the promise of a year of good luck. But thst
On the fifth, we explore the Palace of Royal Alcázar. We spot a lone cat exploring the sunny gardens. He seems to know to leave the peacocks alone, but everything else is his. He looks our way before disappearing into the branches of a lemon tree and the child in me wants to follow him.
Later, we find a flamenco bar along the riverside. It's a small room with 15 or so plastic chairs along the edges. There's a bar serving beer, sangria, and tapas. A singer, a flamenco dancer, a guitar player, and a tall, wiry-framed boy, squeeze onto a small stage at the end of the room. They wear a uniform of mismatched yellow polka dots. The performances are messy and chaotic in an intentional charming sort of way. Towards the end, the wiry-framed boy stands and launches into a tap dance. He steals the show.
On the sixth, we set off early evening to find a good spot for the Three Kings Epiphany parade, la Cabalgata del Reyes, to join in with the last of the Christmas celebrations. We stop for a slice of sweet brioche Roscón de Reyes at a night-time bakery. The Spanish version of Jingle Bells follows us down the street. We walk among the crowds and find a space next to a family clutching empty rucksacks. They're getting ready to catch the mounds of sweets that are about to be lobbed at us by cheeky schoolchildren riding on carnival floats. Carnival floats that could out-Disney Disney at a Disney parade. We're excited about what we're about to see.
It starts. And then, a hundred or so people in blackface march through the parade towards us, sprinkling sweets into the cheering crowd. They’re dressed like Balthazar, Spain’s alternative to Father Christmas. We look at each other, wide-eyed. This part hadn't popped up in any of our Christmas in Spain searches. It was not in the Three Kings trailer. What the f*** is all we can think.
In a bar afterwards, we find traces of outrage online. We read an article that says blackface is used to preserve and celebrate the origins of the story and Balthazar’s African descent. Like the horse and carts and the Plaza de Toros in the story of Seville, blackface is a prop. Any old, big guy with a beard and red suit can play Santa. Any man with paint and a crown can play Balthazar.
As we walk back to the apartment, the sticky residue of hard-boiled sweets clings to the bottom of our shoes. Street cleaners appear in unison to wash away the remnants of the evening. The spell the city put us under lifts, and I'm reminded that the preservation of stories comes at a cost.
Written by Michelle | AntiSocial Marketer
