¡Ay, amor // Oh, love
que se fue y no vino! // that left and did not return!
Guadalquivir, alta torre // Guadalquivir, high tower
y viento en los naranjales… // and wind in the orange groves…
Lleva azahar, lleva olivas, // Take orange blossom, take olives,
Andalucía, a tus mares. // Andalusia, to your seas.
¡Ay, amor // Oh, love
que se fue por el aire! // that vanished into the air!
— Federico García Lorca (1898-1936)
from “Poema del Cante Jondo”
Seville, May 22nd 2025
Poolside, abba Sevilla Hotel
This will be the trip that is entirely journaled by the fucking pool. We are two hours further to the northwest, having ridden by bus from the mountains of Ronda to the plains of Seville mid-day today. Last night was amazing. I slept hard and woke just before dawn, tried to get out of bed and onto the balcony without waking Lindsey, probably failed. Sitting outside in the early morning chill, I worked the scene handheld, taking long shots and panoramas with camera propped carefully between my lap and the railing. Ronda is unbelievably beautiful before and after its mid-day hubbub of tour buses and tour groups, and I’m glad we decided to stay overnight, though there were many other places in Andalucía we could have gone. I look out over miles of landscape and it’s all so quiet, but for the wind, and some songbird I don’t recognize. The sun comes creeping up behind me and splashes light onto the mountains, then the hilltops, the little line of trees on the far ridge. It’s magical. After climbing back into bed and falling asleep again (both of us having a very slow start to the day), we roll out to a terrific hotel breakfast (fresh fruits, yogurt, local cheeses; Lindsey introduces me to pan y tomate). We take another walk around the Old Town (browsing shops of textiles and trinkets) before collecting our bags and walking the kilometer to the bus depot. Lindsey stops in a print shop along the way, acquires an ink etching of Ronda made by a local artist.
The intercity bus ride, that lovely thing I both have and haven’t missed from my younger years. I doze off next to Lindsey although the incredible views beyond the window - the passing landscapes, the checkerboard pattern of the olive groves, the mountainous valleys of the region, the little steepled villages that would evoke New England if they weren’t so stereotypically Spanish - try their best to keep me awake. I keep telling Lindsey I wish we could get off and walk around some of these places we’re passing by in a blur - they look so peaceful, so banal and beautiful. I’m a soul in wonder - or is it wander?
In Seville, it’s a hot afternoon as we step out of the bus station at La Plaza de Armas, and we opt for a pricey taxi ride around the periphery of the city center and then onto narrow winding streets to our hotel, located centrally in the Plaza de la Encarnación, a huge square towered over by Las Setas: large, oddly geometric, mushroom-shaped installations that light up at night and cost fifteen euros per person to ascend for a skyline view. Thankfully, we have an equivalent or better view of the city from the rooftop of our hotel, another solid (joint but Lindsey says we’re doing it so we’re doing it) decision. One figures if we come up to the rooftop pool every day this week (four days in a row), that’s basically thirty euros saved each time. The cost of the hotel room seems paltry after some basic multiplication and subtraction. We’ve just finished taking a long walk through Seville’s historic center, down as far as the impressive gardens at the Parque Maria Luisa and the architecturally spectacular Plaza de España. Two days into our joint trip together, and we’ve shared some fantastic meals and seen some very cool places already. My goodness, the tomatoes. The tomatoes. Already I’m picking up inspirations - and outright recipes - that I want to try recreating at home.
Seville’s historic center is distinctly cosmopolitan, even compared to the posh seaside airs of Málaga. The awning-shaded streets, the twisting winding alleys, the bars, the shops, the window displays. This is a city you could get happily lost in for hours by just picking a cardinal direction and walking. The last time I shot this much architecture, and partook in so much street photography, was probably in Guadalajara, age 19 going on 20. “That was how I learned to love a place,” my poem from that summer reads; it’s taken me awhile to rediscover the feeling. The jacarandas are in bloom, the orange trees fragrant with fruit, the bougainvilleas colorful and beautiful and perfectly entwining on stucco walls and archways. Between the crowds of shoppers and strollers and tourists and city folk just lounging around enjoying their Thursday in a way that is almost hard to imagine through work- and time-obsessed American eyes, Lindsey and I move around, taking it all in. Lindsey chides me for walking too quickly on the way home (“Your American is showing,” she says from a few steps back); I tell her it’s hot and I have an evening date with this rooftop pool.
Nearly sunset now by the pool. The light looks beautiful on the cathedral, its tall bell tower. The swifts are circling overhead, whirling through the air as dusk approaches. Like them, we’ll need to find dinner somewhere in the city down below. Not yet. A few more minutes.
Seville, May 23rd 2025
Poolside, again, abba Sevilla Hotel
I’ve been thinking recently about love as a guiding force in my life. Truth is, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t in love with something or someone. An inveterate romantic, I’ve been continuously in love, had a serious crush, and/or in a committed relationship as far back as I can trace. At age nine, I proposed to a classmate with an actual diamond ring (my parents played along; must have found the whole thing exceedingly hilarious) and married her at our elementary school’s annual carnival day. After we got hitched and had our photos taken at the wedding booth, her friends and mine donated tickets to throw us a reception with pizza (by the slice) and soda (by the cup). At age eleven, the person I would consider my first love. At age thirteen, a series of pen-pals halfway around the world (the advent of the Internet) who remained platonic, but whom I loved nevertheless as friends and adoptive siblings. At age fourteen, a long-term girlfriend. At age sixteen, I met Jane; ten years later, married her. And I probably had many little crushes before nine, and have certainly had bigger crushes since adulthood. All to say - there is a core of yearning for connection that has existed as a through-line since childhood, and I have never been able to adequately explain it. It doesn’t come from a place of loneliness or fear of being alone, although there have certainly been lonely times. It doesn’t come from a place of insecure attachment or insecurity of self; looking at myself from the outside, I feel very loving and caring of this man, and very proud of the kind, complicated, thoughtful idiot he has become. Goodness knows it doesn’t come from sex or physical desire — I increasingly identify as demisexual, especially as I age. So I don’t know why it’s there. All I know is that the love seems to multiply, seems to flow and overflow, the older that I get and the more life experiences I rack up. I have tried to transmute it into many forms and direct it into many channels through the decades, through my roles as a father, a husband, a palliative care physician, a mentor, a concerned citizen, a trusting friend, a gatherer and teller of stories, a seer and revealer of art. One could say that love has driven a lot of my life-work, and the lion’s share of any success or accomplishment. And still, always there is more. Sometimes it comes through in an expansive, peaceful feeling. Sometimes it feels like this mortal shell could burst. Right now, a little bit of both.
Lindsey’s parents joined us this morning, fresh off their transatlantic overnight flight. I’ve never met her dad, and I haven’t seen her mom in nearly five years - although it feels like I’ve known them for awhile. In-person, they’re goofy, kind, and generous - like Lindsey. After breakfast (I had some real trouble waking up this morning), they drop their bags off in our room, and we take them for a saunter around the city while they await their check-in time. It’s another sunny, bluebird day here in southern Spain. We range down to the Torre del Oro on the banks of the Guadalquivir River before cutting back into the alleys and courtyards surrounding the royal palace, her dad slowly melting into a sleepy sightseeing pile. We head back to the hotel; they’re hopefully catching up on sleep downstairs now.
The sun is impressive today, and our tiny round rooftop pool offers nowhere to hide from it. I’ve been jumping in every so often - oddly enough, Lindsey and I are the only ones up here right now, in the heat of mid-day - letting the cold saltwater wash away my thoughts and clear my head. I used to have this problem where I couldn’t relax, even on vacation. The checklists, the stratagems, the intricacies of modern working life would keep on coming, always reminding me of the next thing, the real world, this break from reality. There was one solo staycation in Massachusetts, in 2022, that I ended two days early because I couldn’t stand it any longer. That has faded a lot recently, and I’m not sure what changed. Life is just as busy and complex as it ever was. Maybe I’m getting better at letting go. Maybe I’ve finally completed my transformation into the emotionally available robot, able to compartmentalize and rest and re-tool and re-execute on a dime. Or maybe love dwarfs many other things in life, makes them seem kind of smaller, and sweeter, and silly. Whatever it is, I’m blissed out here on this fucking rooftop. God, was this worth it.
We’re falling into a familiar pattern now, la vida tapa. Up late, doing little, savoring everything like wine. My skin is beginning to revert from New England pearl toward its younger swim-team bronze. A few hours here, then a shower, and rest. An evening walk later. Dinner maybe.
