Desensitivity may have set in.

I went to Seville last weekend with some friends. I don't know what it is, but I was relatively unimpressed by the place. I could recognize all of its intensity, its allure, but I couldn't get myself to actually feel anything. This makes me nervous. Am I now immune to the enchanting and intoxicating effects of European cities? Is Granada stealing my heart away from the rest of Andalusia?

We arrived early Friday and went straight out from our hostel to see what the city had to offer. Our hostel had something quite different to offer us: a naked elderly woman in our dorm room. That may also have been a leading factor in why we rushed into the city.

Soon after arriving, I began to feel exhausted by all the commotion, by being a tourist. There is nothing wrong with tourists; they fund some of the greatest places on earth, and I have been one many times here. Every time someone tries to talk to me on the Granada bus and I stutter out a broken response, I am born again a tourist.

But usually I am the tourist who is totally awed by everything, gaping upwards with an idiotic expression on my face. Here, I felt like the tourist who has been trudging along for days and is completely uninterested in everything. The pope himself could be handing out free blessings around the corner and they'd still want above all a cold beer and a big, comfy chair.

So that first day we saw the Alcazar, an ancient Muslim palace, and the Plaza de España, an impressive arena built for the 1929 Fair of the Americas (which was a bit of a bust thanks to the stock market crash).



Saturday, we went to see Italica, an ancient Roman city - and by God I just perked right up. I'm not sure what it is but I just love Roman ruins. Their society is much like ours is, or was arguably until recent years: a well-oiled machine of a civilization. It is humbling and disconcerting to see their grandiose in shambles - crumbled and silent.



The site contains some twenty mosaic floors in the ruins of the thermal baths. I couldn't help but imagine steam rising off those very floors and bare feet walking along them two thousand years ago... no doubt on their way to the vomitorium. Those crazy Romans!



Saturday night we were conned into a pub crawl organized through our hostel. Well, it was actually our own decision to do the pub crawl, but it makes me feel better to believe that I was tricked into it. Morocco was not a fluke; I still deeply reject group tours and all that they stand for.

At one bar, I felt an odd sense of deja vu. Where had I seen a place like this before? Ah yes, middle school - league of nations style. The smoky, techno-infested room felt awkward and forced, and you could clearly make out the country borders. The Portuguese dancing in the middle there. The Germans lined up along the wall, stiff and motionless. This particular middle school dance, however, had the not-so-subtle undertones of sex and alcohol - which made it a good deal more creepy than when we were all twelve, despite the lurking gym teachers.

Sunday - our last day - we went to mass at the Cathedral. Being surrounded by towering stone arches built six hundred years ago and hearing a mass in Spanish, a language that to me sounds ancient and sacred, it kind of makes you hope that there is something more out there. It would be quite a waste of stone otherwise.

It really is a beautiful city and I did enjoy it. I would recommend it to anyone. But I do worry I am becoming one of those hard-to-impress, pretentious travelers. Those people suck. I hope I was just tired in Sevilla.