Our bus (tickets 21€ each) left at 6:30 and we tried to sleep, stopping after a few hours at a rest station which smelled overwhelmingly like flowers, though there were few that could be seen. Derek and I got out to see-saw on the playground (yes, that's right) and did our best to order ham bagels with tomato jam, but were shorted the ham...some things just aren't worth the energy to explain miscommunication. After a 5 hour ride, we arrived in Seville and walked down the street with some hesitation as we learned the road sign placement to Pension Redes, which had probably the last room in the entire town. Semana Santa is no joke - waltzing into town without reservations like we did is not an option, but things seem to be working out for us somehow, in spite of our lack of planning, and we landed a room in a relatively convenient location.
We dropped our bags and were given some helpful advice about the parade route by the lobby attendant, who, seeing by our passports that we are American, told us that we should not be concerned - this was not the Ku Klux Klan. We soon saw why she was worried about our perceptions, as we were passed on the street by a single hooded figure in socks. His tall coned hood covered his entire face, and only small eye holes had been cut. He moved with purpose as several tourists tried to catch quick pictures of him. But there was no reason to be concerned that we'd miss a photo op - there would be many more. We just didn't realize HOW many more!
Wednesday held many processionals, starting at 4 pm. While we waited, we took a stroll down the River Gualdaquivir to see the Plaza de Toros bull ring (for historical and architectural appreciation, because neither of us condone the killing of animals for sport) and the Torre del Oro, both from the outside. This Golden Tower was built by the Almohads in the 13th century and now houses a naval museum.
We headed straight for the train station (where we spend an incredible amount of time throughout this two week journey), and by "straight for" I mean that we were actually distracted along the way by a cart selling nutella-filled churros (impulse buy, don't do it. Wait until you find a bakery in town...don't give into your weaknesses like so many have before you). But, of course, the attendant for Lagos was gone, and its lucky that she was, because we sat down at the nearby EFE cafe for fried calamari and meat with tomato sauce that was phenomenal, and decided to delay our departure another day. The wine and hot weather can effect judgement, and not in a bad way!
We followed the procession blockade and saw a few more rogue hooded figures, and even had our fortunes told to us (unwillingly) by women near the center who force rosemary sprigs into your hand and read the lines on the other, showing you with very obvious motions that you'll be pregnant, with such and such gender, happy, and wealthy, etc, speaking loudly over the top of your continued refusal to pay them, or attempts to escape. Since the parade had still not commenced by 5:30 (we found out later that it had, though not in the area we were in), so we hauled our exhausted selves back to the pension for coke and a siesta.
When we awoke, I was terrified that I had missed the procession, but when I stuck my head out of the balcony to see it passing by just a block away, I grabbed my camera in time to catch throngs of hooded mourners, followed by a gigantic float, so large that I couldn't capture it in the picture as it passed between the streets. We followed the processions all night, seeing float after float of Mary, with painted tears on her face and engulfed in hundreds of candles, and Jesus, on the cross, or carrying the cross, or with Mary. There were 11 total which rounded the city in different areas, which an app outlined in a schedule (a friendly policeman showed us), followed and led by a band and different groups of hooded figures - dressed in black, or purple or white, with cone head covers or sack cloth, no shoes, and huge candles which they used to light the floats when paused for reverence, and which dripped colorful wax coating on the streets and on the clothes of the children who grew tired of holding them consistently. The ceremonies took place every night that week, most nights until 2 am, and some, like Thursday night, until 4 am.
We had Sangria while we chatted with a couple from London on the street as dusk fell, and then grabbed a quick dinner at Cafeteria Rioja (there is no greater tapa than the bacon-wrapped langosteen) amongst the throngs of people. All sorts of people, many very young or very old, out until well past midnight, and we could still hear the band and choral songs creeping into the edges of our dreams.
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