Sevilla: Post-Election Reflections, Bells, and the Transcendent Power of Flamenco



Returning to the U.S. post-election brings a mix of emotions—anticipation, reflection, and, let’s be honest, a bit of stress. This time, I sought solace in Sevilla, a city that proved to be as enchanting as it is exuberant. Sevilla wraps itself around you with cobblestone streets, vibrant azulejos tiles, and the scent of orange blossoms. It’s a place that speaks to the soul—though sometimes a bit loudly.  


Take the *bells*. At first, they were enchanting—a charming, melodic reminder of the calls to prayer I’d heard in Istanbul, Egypt, and Morocco. Those moments made the world pause for reflection. But by Day Three in Seville, the enchantment had morphed into something else entirely. These bells *never stopped*! They rang at dawn, during siesta (rude), and even in the dead of night. Suddenly, I was a one-person campaign for peace, mentally drafting a letter to the city council: “Dear Sevilla, can we talk about a *reasonable* ringing schedule?” Armed with an imaginary decibel meter, I was ready to rally behind the hashtag #BellControl2024. 

Greg, ever the pragmatist, smirked and quipped, “How American of you.” We laughed—because it’s true—but those bells really do test a person’s endurance.  

Seville, after all, is the land of 125 churches packed into every nook and cranny. You can’t walk 500 meters without bumping into another holy hotspot. And the bells? They’re the city’s unapologetic theme song. The Seville Cathedral flexes with 24 of them, chiming away like it’s a competition. Medium-sized churches join the show with 2–6 bells, and the smaller chapels toss in their polite “ding-dong” as if to say, “We’re trying our best!” Together, they create a 24/7 symphony of clanging—a relentless reminder that siesta is a state of mind, not a guaranteed reality. 

Quiet corner? Forget about it. Seville’s bells will find you, whether you’re praying or just trying to nap.

Fortunately, Sevilla knows how to soothe even the most stubborn grumps. Each evening, we found ourselves on a rooftop bar in the heart of old Sevilla, cocktails in hand, as the city performed its most magical act: sunset. From our perch, the rooftops of Santa Cruz stretched out like a storybook scene. The terracotta tiles glowed in the golden hour light, and the Giralda tower stood watch, silhouetted against a fiery Andalusian sky. The chatter of the city softened, the day slowed, and the bells—for once—added to the symphony rather than dominating it. With every sunset, the stresses of the outside world melted away, leaving only gratitude for the moment.


Over tapas one evening, we struck up a conversation with a couple from England who were navigating their own post-Brexit reality. “It’s like our entire lives got turned upside down; we had homes in Germany, France, and England. We had to give them up because of the bureaucracy of no longer being part of the EU. We thought Brexit was an outlier, but here we are living it.” they recounted the chaos of changing visas, rethinking retirement plans, and grappling with political whiplash. I nodded in sympathy, sharing some rollercoaster feelings around our election. Before long, we were joking that the U.K. and U.S. should form a support group for politically exhausted citizens. Bring your tea; leave your trust in politicians at the door.

Later, I found myself in a deep, sometimes hilarious, and other times disheartening discussion with a Spanish native about the resilience of the human spirit. He told me stories of Spain surviving 34 years under Franco’s horrific fascist, authoritarian regime. “Thirty-four years,” he repeated to ensure I didn’t miss its sheer magnitude. I nodded, wide-eyed, as he described how the arts flourished underground, how communities thrived in small acts of defiance, and how Spain eventually rose, full of life and promise, once again. “See?” he said with a grin. “If we survived Franco, you can survive four years of whoever this is.” Touché, Sevilla. Touché.

And then there was flamenco. One evening, we ventured to Triana, the historic heart of this transcendent art form. Flamenco was born here, shaped by the intertwined lives of Andalusian Gypsies, Moors, and Sephardic Jews—a mosaic of cultures that forged something enduring and soul-stirring. In a small, intimate venue, we were swept into its world. The haunting guitar, the rhythmic clapping, and the dancer’s impassioned movements transported me. Flamenco is not just a performance; it’s a living story, raw and timeless. It gave me faith in the power of art to rise above time, politics, and even the relentless grind of the mind. The bells and the noise of life faded for a while, leaving nothing but connection and humanity.



As our journey wound down, we spent our final evening at a humble tapas café tucked away near a laundromat. While our clothes tumbled, we lingered over jamón ibérico, olives, and sherry, soaking up the quiet rhythm of the neighborhood. Distant bells chimed, the sound softened by the warmth of the evening. I laughed, thinking of my imagined “bell reform” crusade, suddenly grateful for those little disruptions that make Sevilla uniquely Sevilla.


This city, with its sunsets, flamenco, bells, and simple joys, gave me exactly what I needed: a reminder that amidst the noise of life, beauty is always there if you pause to listen. As I head back to the U.S., Sevilla’s rhythm stays with me, and next time the bells ring—literally or figuratively—I’ll remember to let them. After all, life, like flamenco, is about leaning into the rhythm, no matter how unexpected it might be.




JSF

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