One naively believed that the centre of Seville was for living in. Rookie mistake. The centre is an open-air film set where the resident plays the uncredited role of “background local,” the one who appears out of focus behind the tourist taking the perfect photo beside the Giralda.
You pop out to buy bread and become an obstacle. A group of thirty people wearing headphones listens to a guide raising a closed umbrella like a standard-bearer. You, who only want to reach the bakery, must decide whether to skirt the flock on the left, at the risk of appearing in a TikTok video, or wait patiently for the History of Spain to finish being explained in five languages.
And then there are the scooters, those silent projectiles that overtake you where you least expect it, ridden by people who discovered the city forty minutes ago and already navigate it more decisively than a lifelong taxi driver.
Don’t get me wrong: bless tourism, we all have to eat. But there are days when one would simply like to cross one’s own square without booking an appointment, without appearing in anyone’s camera and without a closed umbrella setting the pace. Days when one suspects that the truly endangered monument is not any stone, but the resident who still tries, with stubborn dignity, to buy the bread.
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