Every major city has more than a few quintessential features. Often it’s the sights that are some of the more memorable ones, perhaps because they stick in the mind better than the taste of a good glass of wine or the sound of a street band. To my mind, it’s the unexceptional sights that really help to mark a place; things so commonplace as to seem unpictureworthy, but which in the end help to shape our memory. In most cases, these serve as a point of pride for locals and as a reminder to visitors that they are in a foreign place. From Chicago, I can recall the checkered bands of police hats. From San Diego, it’s the sight of wetsuits drying in the sun. In Seville, the most pervasive facet of this sort is the ubiquitous impression of “NO8DO” on every street, street corner, monument, gate, lamp post, staircase, police car, manhole cover…the list goes on.
The use of the phrase supposedly dates to the 13th century, when King Alfonso X “el Sabio” (the Wise), responding to the city’s decision to offer him safe refuge against a rebellious army of nobles led by his son and eventual successor Sancho IV, declared no me ha dejado” – literally “It has not left me.” If you think this strange, consider the motto of the English Knights of the Garter: honi soit qui mal y pense - “Shame on him who thinks it bad taste” – uttered in Old French by Edward III after making the chivalrous and somewhat bold move of picking up the fallen garter of a lady of the Royal Court.
Proud of its distinction and royal favor, the city government (ayuntamiento) of Sevilla has made use of the phrase for centuries, adapting the original spelling into a rather simple abbreviation. The middle syllables were substituted for a crude depiction of a bundle of yarn, or madeja in Spanish; what most people now mistakenly recognize as either the infinity symbol or the number 8. In fact, NO8DO reads “no-madeja-do.”
In short, NO8DO is one of the more conspicuous reminders of where I now live. To offer an idea of how extremely pervasive its use of has become, I have include a sampling of some of the more curious places I have found the motto in the pictures attached to this post. All were taken at various sites around the city.
Last Friday I left Sevilla bound for the capital of German Bavaria (Bayern) to meet my college roommate and very good friend Rodrigo. It seemed not so long ago that we drove up the California coastline along Highway One to meet his (as it so happened German) grad school buddies in San Francisco. In Europe on business, Rodrigo had finished a long list of investor meetings and site visits in and around Franks due in no small part to the fact that we were in afurt that week and was looking forward to a break from his frenetic pace. Having traveled out of Seville earlier that week to visit archives in Carmona and Écija, I too was looking forward to a change of pace. In this respect, perhaps we both failed. Of course, this wan awesome city with more beer gardens that we had meals to eat and enough museums to make even my head spin.
I left Seville midday and after a layover in Madrid made it into Munich at around 7pm. That evening we went to the Augustiner Brauhaus for sausages, spatzl, and a healthy half liter of beer. Like many of the Munich breweries, the Augustiner Brauwerie has been in the business for quite some time, since 1328 to be exact. If only historians were given expense accounts, I would have tried to pass this off as drinking history. From there we made our way to the Hofbräuhaus for a few maßkrüge (1 liter glasses) of Russ’n – beer mixed with lemonade (too sweet!) - and Hofbräu Original. The locals were in festive form dressed in feathered hats and lederhosen for a regular night out on the town complete with a live brass band. Older patrons passed by us to retrieve their personal beer steins kept under lock and key in the “members only” corner. Whether or not our stomachs could have stood more, the bar closed for the evening and we had to be off.
I started the next morning with a cup of kaffee and a berliner, a kind of jelly donut made famous by JFK whose limited command of the language left some Germans a bit perplexed when he declared “Ich bin ein berliner,” that is, “I am a jelly donut.” (In any event it seems the Soviets knew what he meant.) We spent much of the morning in the Glyptothek, a museum of Greek and Roman history, where Rodrigo, who studied abroad in Greece, kept rounding corners with the exclamation “that was in one of my books.” From there we went to the Residenz, the urban residence of the Hohenzollern kings. An interesting mix of architectural styles from various periods of construction, much of the building was damaged during the Second World War and painstakingly rebuilt. For lunch, we crossed into the Englischer Garten, Munich’s immense park space, to the Chinesischer Turm for brats ‘n brew. Though at arrival I was a bit perplexed why a Chinese pagoda served as the focal point of one of the city’s most famous beer gardens, several drinks later the consternation wore off. It took a long walk back to the city center to recuperate. Along the way we made it to Marienplatz and ducked into a few churches, including the cathedral, now fully sober.
For dinner we went to Donisl Wildmoser for crackling pig, dumplings and several glasses of Hacker-Pschorr. Out of view, another brass band could be heard playing upstairs. Afterwards, we headed north of the museum district to have drinks – Löwenbräu Dunkel in this instance – at Alter Simpl. More than a century old, this bar once played host to writers Herman Hesse and Thomas Mann. Supposedly, the name of the place derives from a literary magazine published by bar’s patrons in the 1920s and 1930s before succumbing to Nazi censorship.
Sunday morning we went to the Deutsches Museum of science and technology. As it turns out, this Museum served as the inspiration for the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago, which both Rodrigo and I
knew well from our time in Chicago. Determined to visit another beer garden before I had to go to the airport, we boarded the Unterbahn for a ride by subway away from the city center. Though we managed to get a little lost by the Nymphenburg Palace, we did find the Königlicher Hirschgarten, Munich’s largest beer garden equipped with a red deer enclosure. Sadly, by this point the rain caught up with us and we had to dine indoors. A civilized helping of venison and two or three Augustiner Hefeweisen later, the idea of managing three airports to get home became a little less of a monstrosity.
Today marks the end of my second month in Spain, nearly three quarters of that time spent in Sevilla. Needless to say, I’ve begun to settle into a sort of routine.
My first cup of morning coffee made at home was a bit of a challenge. Drip coffee machines are not used in Spain, or really in Europe for that matter. In their place, Spanish kitchens are usually equipped with a moka pot (see photo at left).Water is placed in a container below the pitcher where it heated by stovetop to produce steam. This steam then passes through a tray of ground coffee beans in the middle of the machine and then condenses in the top compartment where it is ready for pouring. On the whole, the process is exceptionally fast and produces espresso for mixing with milk to make a few cups of cafe con leche. My toaster (see photo at right) was also a bit challenging at first with its exposed coils on both sides, but I’ve now figured out how to use it without burning myself every time. On my toast, like a good Spaniard I’ve developed a taste for aceite con azúcar (olive oil with sugar). At first I was a bit alarmed by the way Spaniards smother their toast in olive oil, especially considering olive oil is used to cook nearly everything here, but the taste is much better than butter. Good extra virgin olive oil I’ve found tastes somewhat nutty but smells like fresh tomatoes.
On days where I get a slow start, I sometimes head straight to the archive and take a mid-morning break para desayunar (eat breakfast). In place of my rather Spartan choice of olive oil and sugar on my toast, the cafes usually offer olive oil, blended tomato paste, and salt. Even more of a treat, the occasional tostada con tomate y jamón serrano (toast with tomato and cured ham) serves as a great start to the morning. Of course, by far and away the very best way to start the morning is by chocolate con churros. That’s right, imagine the Mexican fried dough that is such a staple at street fairs and select dining establishments in the U.S., and you’re not far off from the Spanish varietal. In Spain, churros are served without the heavy coating of sugar common in Latin America along with a large cup of creamy chocolate for dipping...and
drinking.
My days usually begin with a trip to one of several archives in the morning. Like most Spanish businesses, the archives close promptly at 2:00pm for siesta. Also like many businesses, the majority do not reopen, at least not to the public in the afternoon. The singular exception to this rule has been the archive of the Archdiocese of Sevilla in the Palacio del Arzobispo, which reopens for three hours on Wednesday and Thursday afternoons and serves as the only means to satiate what locals have described as my American work habit. Although on some days I manage to go for a run, Seville is definitely not a place for runners with its windy streets and narrow sidewalks. However, the riverwalk or to the Parque de Maria Luisa with its former pavilions from the World Colombian exhibition of 1929 (see photo at right).
Beyond Sevilla, at this point I’ve made it to the beach in the province of Huelva near the Portuguese border for the first three day weekend in October to mark the double holiday of “La Fiesta de la Virgin del Pilar” and “El Día de La Hispanidad.” As is customary, most coastal towns carry their local statue of the virgin by way of religious procession to the beach for a benediction on the Sunday of the Virgin. This tradition provides good cause to leave the major urban centers to flock to the coast for one of the last warm weekends in the year. It’s the cultural equivalent of Labor Day weekend in the United States. El Día de La Hispanidad, always October 12 to celebrate Christopher Columbus’s arrival in the New World, features a military parade in Madrid presided over by the King. Although I arose early to watch the telecast, an interesting reminder that Spain is a constitutional monarchy, it seems the parade is a virtual non-event for most Spaniards.
The following weekend I went to a romería, a sort of day-long rural pilgrimage, for the Virgen of Valme. My friend David invited me to see the return of the cavalcade to the parish church in Dos Hermanas. We skirted by car along the outskirts of town in the evening trying to find the festivities in transit to the church, but for much of the time only managed to find drunken revelers encircling bonfires who found it only too funny that we missed the passage of the parade by hours. Giving up on the idea of catching the celebration mid-route, we went into the downtown area to wait. The procession included around thirty oxen drawn carts decorated to the hilt and surrounded by revelers on horse and by foot in traditional Andalusian dress - Flamenco dresses for women and horse riding gear for men. The last ten or so oxen drawn carts were literally mobile bars on wheels dispensing freshly cut slices of jamón serrano, beer and manzanilla. The triumphant return of the Virgen to her resting place within the town church featured fireworks and a tolling of the bells to mark the end of the trek. Sadly, because the trip was rather spontaneous, I forgot to take my camera and so I have no pictures to share.
I’ve also made several day trips to neighboring towns within the Province of Sevilla to visit local municipal archives. I think it best to leave those trips for a future post. Next weekend I’m off to Munich, Germany. I should have photos of the Bavarian capital to share shortly after my return.
that they are in a foreign place. From 
cover…the list goes on.
centuries, adapting the original spelling into a rather simple abbreviation. The middle syllables
were substituted for a crude depiction of a bundle of yarn, or madeja in Spanish; what most people now mistakenly recognize as either the infinity symbol or the number 8. In fact, NO8DO reads “no-madeja-do.”
