One month in Seville

Tag: travel

Rediscovering the Magic of the Alcázar

Seville’s Alcázar is easily my favorite place in this city. I finally visited it again yesterday, holding off so I could include a stop at the royal apartments, which required booking a special tour.

The cathedral may be the city’s most massive monument, but the Alcázar is the site that, in my mind, best captures Seville’s layered history. The building’s origins stretch back to the tenth century, After the Christian reconquest of Seville in 1248, successive rulers chose not to destroy the complex but instead to expand and adapt it, building directly atop earlier Islamic foundations.

The Alcázar, as it exists today, reflects the Mudéjar style—a Muslim architectural language adapted to Christian tastes. This was less an aesthetic choice than a practical one: Muslim artisans remained in Seville after Christian rule was reestablished, and their techniques, materials, and visual vocabulary continued to shape royal architecture.

Unlike the cathedral, the Alcázar is best appreciated for its intricacy rather than its scale. Delicate stuccowork, horseshoe arches, glazed tilework, and carved wooden ceilings reward slow looking. Its interwoven indoor and outdoor spaces invite wandering, lingering in the shade, and noticing how light moves across patterned surfaces. I could sit in the Patio de las Doncellas (Courtyard of the Maidens) for hours. The star-patterned, domed wooden ceiling of the Sala de Embajadores (Ambassadors’ Room) remains a marvel.

One painting in the opening galleries that I return to again and again is The Virgin of the Navigators, in which Mary extends her protection over Spanish explorers as well as the Indigenous peoples of the Americas. It’s often cited as the earliest European depiction of the Americas in painting, but what that encounter wrought—plague and other forms of devastation—remains hard to stomach.

The Alcázar also remains an active royal residence—the oldest in Europe still in use—and serves as the home of the king and queen of Spain when they are in Seville. Touring the royal apartments was fascinating, though photography was not allowed. Within five minutes of the tour, someone had already sat down in one of the living room chairs. The guard accompanying us was not amused.

Arched entryway into the palace

The Virgin of the Navigators

The Room of the Ambassadorsrs

Tilework

January 13, 2026
ConTenedor: Still a Favorite in Seville

Living in New York, I’m used to businesses turning over quickly. Every time I return to Chelsea, where I had my first apartment, the stores and restaurants seem completely different—old favorites gone, new ones taking their place.

I’m grateful that Seville hasn’t changed too much since my last visit in 2019. I’m especially relieved that my favorite restaurant, ConTenedor, is still open and very much thriving. Located on the northern edge of Seville’s historic center, it offers a memorable “slow food” experience. Long, leisurely dinners may be easiest with a group—as they were on previous trips with my husband, Donald, and my parents—but the staff have made me feel just as welcome during my two recent solo meals.

The interior is contemporary yet warm. There’s no fixed menu; instead, a server brings a large chalkboard to your table listing the dishes of the day, sometimes perched atop a chair (or two). The wine list is impressive, and the staff are genuinely happy to make recommendations.

After nearly two weeks of indulging in classic but predictable local staples—jamón ibérico, salmorejo, fried fish—ConTenedor feels refreshing, offering deeply rooted regional cooking with a creative, modern twist.

When I visited last week, I over-ordered. Craving vegetables—which can be surprisingly hard to find on Sevillian menus—I chose a hearty salad of sweet potato and bitter greens alongside a crunchy rice with duck. I felt guilty leaving part of my entrée uneaten.

Last night’s meal was even better—and more surprising. I began with a tomato and mango tartare over ajoblanco, an Andalusian garlic soup, followed by black cuttlefish rice with shrimp and an algae sauce. The sauce’s vivid blue color was a shock, unlike anything I’d ever encountered on a plate. (“Is that glitter?” Donald asked after I sent him a photo. “That doesn’t look appetizing,” my mom said.”) One bite quickly put any doubts to rest. It tasted like the sea and, like everything else ConTenedor serves, very fresh.

I’ll be back at ConTenedor before returning to New York at the end of the month—and next time, I’ll try to leave room for their homemade desserts.

The menu of the day

Sweet potato and bitter green salad

Crunchy rice with duck

Salmon and mango tartare, over ajoblanco

Black cuttlefish rice with algae sauce and shrimp

January 13, 2026
Church Fatigue and San Salvador

Have you heard the term “church fatigue”? No? Maybe it’s a phrase my husband, Donald, and I coined during our travels. In many European cities, there’s a long checklist of churches you’re told you should see—this one for a Caravaggio, that one for an El Greco, and yet another for its groundbreaking architecture.

I was feeling a particularly strong case of church fatigue today while visiting the Church of San Salvador. It’s the second-largest church in Seville and an important one, but after spending hours in the city’s massive cathedral a couple of days earlier, I could have used a longer break from sacred spaces. (I apologize for not being at my best, San Salvador.)

Like many Catholic churches in Seville, San Salvador was built atop a former mosque after Muslims were expelled from the city in 1248. (One of my favorite history books, The Ornament of the World, by the late scholar María Rosa Menocal, describes how Muslims, Christians, and Jews once created a culture of tolerance on the Iberian Peninsula.)

It’s a church worth seeing, though. The interior is organized around a wide nave with side chapels lined with gilded altarpieces. At one point, light from a high stained-glass window fell across the altarpiece of Our Lady of El Rocío; even church staff paused to take photos. The church also houses important works by Juan Martínez Montañés, one of Spain’s most celebrated Baroque sculptors, including figures that parade through the streets during Seville’s famous Holy Week processions.

The main altarpiece, massive and densely packed with sculpted figures, anchors the space. The church claims it as one of the last great Baroque altarpieces.

Outside this quiet space, the plaza was crowded and noisy, full of people enjoying the weekend. I snapped out of my fatigue and grabbed a quick beer amid the crowd before heading back to my apartment.

Our Lady of El Rocío altarpiece, bathed in stained-glass light

Virgin of the Waters altarpiece

St. Ann and Mary

Justa and Rufina, patron saints of Seville

The plaza outside

January 11, 2026
The Quiet Archives of the Spanish Empire

I’ve now learned how to avoid the weekend crowds in Seville—by seeking out the lesser-known places. After grabbing my customary morning coffee at Moin Café, I set out to explore two such sites: the Church of San Salvador (more on that later) and the General Archive of the Indies.

Though largely off the tourist track, the General Archive of the Indies is one of Seville’s most significant historic institutions—and one of its few UNESCO World Heritage sites. It sits quietly beside the city’s cathedral and preserves the documentary record of Spain’s global empire from the late fifteenth through the nineteenth centuries. That story begins nearby: Spain’s involvement in the so-called “New World” took shape in this region of Andalusia, where Christopher Columbus set sail on his first voyage across the Atlantic, beginning centuries of expansion and extraction.

Established in 1785 under King Charles III, the archive brought together millions of pages that had previously been scattered across Spain—correspondence, decrees, maps, and financial ledgers that once governed an empire stretching across oceans and continents.

These documents are housed in what was once the Casa Lonja de Mercaderes, a Renaissance structure designed by Juan de Herrera. The pages, carefully bound, line the walls, their spines indicating categories of trade and administration. The building itself—austere and meticulously maintained—feels more monumental than the artworks and artifacts on display, which include portraits and busts of Columbus, Hernán Cortés, and various other power players associated with the age.

The real experience lies in taking in the sheer space of the archives—the weight of history on shelves carefully guarded behind glass, and the quiet reminder of how much power Spain once held, now preserved in near silence.

Building exterior

Staircase sign

Shelved documents

Staircase

Courtyard of the archives

January 10, 2026
A Church of Maddening Scale

With most of the holiday crowds now dispersed, I made my way today to arguably Seville’s most famous building: the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the See. Before construction began in 1402, the city’s clerics, according to local lore, set an ambitious goal: “Hagamos una iglesia tan hermosa y tan grandiosa que los que la vieren labrada nos tengan por locos” (“Let us build a church so beautiful and so grand that those who see it finished will take us for mad”).

Mission accomplished. By any measure, Seville Cathedral is the most massive Gothic church in the world, and a Guinness World Records plaque displayed proudly inside certifies it as the largest cathedral by volume.

Its scale is matched by the excess of its contents. Spread across roughly 80 chapels is a dense accumulation of art, sculpture, and architecture spanning centuries. The cathedral’s audio guide offers more than forty stops, though locating them can feel like its own form of pilgrimage. Dominating them all is the main altarpiece—the largest ever made—a vast, gilded wall of carved biblical scenes that took a succession of artists more than forty years to complete and functions less as a single artwork than as a visual argument for the power, wealth, and ambition of the Church at its height.

You find the greatest concentration of visitors crowded around the Tomb of Christopher Columbus, whose voyages from this region to the Americas brought Spain enormous wealth and power. In this theatrical monument, the explorer’s coffin is carried by four larger-than-life figures representing the historic Spanish kingdoms of Castile, León, Aragón, and Navarre. (The remains interred there might actually be those of his son. A box of bones labeled “Don Cristóbal Colón” was found in the Dominican Republic in 1877. Whoops.)

I had forgotten how many remarkable paintings are scattered throughout the cathedral. Goya’s portrait of Justa and Rufina, patron saints of Seville, hangs in the Sacristy of the Chalices, the light from the room’s only window seeming to merge with the light in the painting itself. Numerous scriptural scenes and portraits of saints by Murillo appear throughout; my favorite is The Guardian Angel. And in the Chapel of Saint Peter, you encounter a massive altarpiece containing several paintings by Zurbarán, its central panel a commanding depiction of Peter as pope.

Next to the Cathedral stands its bell tower, the Giralda, one of the only visible reminders that this site once housed a mosque (a fact the audio guide also conveniently glosses over). Built originally as a minaret in the late twelfth century, its lower portion retains its Islamic character—brickwork and geometric patterning—while the Christian additions appear toward the top: a Renaissance belfry crowned with bells, cross motifs, and a towering bronze weather vane representing “The Triumph of the Church.” Given the long wait, I opted not to climb to the top this time, though the view is spectacular.

Tomb of Christopher Columbus

Guardian Angel (Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, c. 1665)

Saints Justa and Rufina (Francisco Goya, 1817)

Chapel of the Immaculate Conception

Main altarpiece

Zurbarán alterpiece, Chapel of Saint Peter

Chapter House

Chapel of the Virgin of the Star

January 7, 2026
Standing Room Only

One of my lingering anxieties about spending a month in Seville has been dining alone. In a city where eating is so social—often done standing shoulder to shoulder at tapas bars—it can feel awkward to take a table by yourself. I’ve made a few solo reservations and eaten well enough, but unless you bring a book, there’s a lot of empty time to manage.

After visiting the Palacio de las Dueñas on Monday, I stopped for lunch at Casa Román, a well-regarded tapas bar around the corner from my apartment. It was still early, so I assumed there would be space.

There wasn’t. The place was full, with a forty-five-minute wait for a table. I said I’d stand and have a couple of tapas and a drink.

Standing at the bar turns the meal into something else entirely. From there, you see the system at work: waiters weaving past each other in the tightest spaces, plates moving swiftly from kitchen to counter, glasses washed and rehung. I couldn’t do it for an hour, much less a full shift.

I ended up directly across from the ham carver. Carving jamón ibérico is treated as a serious skill in Spain, and it was absorbing to watch him work—thin, precise slices. When the leg he was carving ran low, he began preparing a second one simultaneously.

Time passed quickly, and by the time I finished eating, I was reminded that the bar was the far more exciting vantage point. It was a front-row seat—to labor, to rhythm, to the small competencies that keep the place running. You’re briefly inside the machinery of it all.

January 7, 2026
Palacio de las Dueñas

Even on my fourth visit to Seville, I’m still discovering new and remarkable things. Today I spent a couple of hours somewhere I’d never been: the Palacio de las Dueñas, the Andalusian residence of the House of Alba.

I’m not sure how this palace, built in the late fifteenth century, escaped my radar, or why it seems to have escaped everyone else’s. On a winter afternoon when Seville otherwise felt crowded, there were only about thirty visitors wandering the grounds.

The gardens are striking, as is the architecture. Elements of Mudéjar—a style developed by Muslim craftsmen working under Christian rule, characterized by patterning and an emphasis on surface rather than imagery—are woven throughout the complex. A geometric wooden ceiling above the main staircase, tilework lining the halls, and a series of spacious courtyards organized around fountains.

The history of the House of Alba is its own kind of spectacle. The current head of the house, Carlos Fitz-James Stuart, 19th Duke of Alba, lives a relatively private life. His mother, Cayetana Fitz-James Stuart, 18th Duchess of Alba, did not. Described as an “unconventional aristocrat” in her New York Times obituary, she was recognized by Guinness World Records as the noble with the most official titles in the world—more than forty. She was a direct descendant of Mary, Queen of Scots, and a childhood playmate of Queen Elizabeth II. As the Times also notes, she also drew attention for her cosmetic surgery and her fondness for hippie-style hats and brightly flowered dresses—and she held the right to ride on horseback into Seville Cathedral. Good for her.

Touching mementos appear throughout the palace. Family photographs of the House of Alba and their famous visitors—including Jackie O., Prince Rainier, and Grace Kelly—sit casually atop tables.

As a dance lover, I was tickled to learn that the Duchess of Alba enjoyed flamenco and had a small stage built inside the palace for her to practice and perform. The stage, and her flamenco dresses, are on prominent display.

Gardens

Palace entry from the gardens

Chapel

Photos of Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier and Jackie O.

Family photo

The Duchess of Alba’s flamenco stage and costumes

Tilework

Mudéjar ceiling

January 5, 2026
An Afternoon with Murillo

My first few days in Seville have been gray and rainy—an unfamiliar version of the city for me. I’ve only ever visited in high season, but even under thick clouds and steady drizzle, Seville remains warm, charming, and beautiful.

I also completely underestimated how many tourists would be here in early January. School holidays may explain some of it. I made the mistake of not booking tickets in advance for some of my favorite sites, like the Cathedral and the Alcázar. Those will have to wait until next week.

Fortunately, it’s almost always easy to get into Seville’s Museum of Fine Arts. Housed in the former convent of La Merced Calzada, the museum offers airy courtyards, cool stone corridors, and galleries filled with luminous paintings.

The first galleries trace the beginnings of fine art in the city, spurred by the ambitious construction of Seville’s Cathedral—the largest Gothic cathedral in the world—in the fifteenth century. These rooms are worth lingering in, especially for early paintings by the Seville-born Diego Velázquez, but the curation is modest at best. There’s little context to connect the works on display to broader artistic trends or themes in the development of Spanish art. There’s also a striking—but completely out-of-place—portrait by El Greco of his son, presented without explanation. (El Greco spent most of his career farther north, in Toledo.)

A visit to the museum eventually leads into what was once the monastery’s high-ceilinged church, where the scale shifts and the most arresting canvases are displayed. The paintings seem to respond to the space they now inhabit. You pass a succession of religious scenes, including one of Francisco de Zurbarán’s iconic depictions of Christ on the cross.

Finally, as you approach what was once the church’s altar, comes the highlight of the museum: a room dedicated to Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, one of the most underrated painters of any age. I spent more time in this room than in all the others combined. Murillo’s work has a warmth and emotional immediacy that sets it apart from everything else in the museum. His figures feel human rather than monumental, tender rather than severe. Even in religious scenes, there’s a softness in the light and an intimacy in the expressions that make the paintings feel deeply grounded in lived experience.

Murillo, who was born and died in Seville, was famous for his many renditions of the Immaculate Conception, and there are two marvelous examples here; they also appear in other museums, including the Prado. But in this gallery, you appreciate his full range: the vividness of Madonna and Child of the Napkin, the quiet tenderness of Saint Anthony with the Christ Child, and the grief of his Pietà, one of his darker compositions. Even this lapsed Catholic found himself returning, again and again, to Mary’s upturned eyes—not only for their sadness, but for the sense of compassion and humanity Murillo manages to hold there, suspended between sorrow and grace.

Madonna and Child of the Napkin (Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, c. 1666)

Immaculate Conception (Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, c. 1668-1669)

Saint Anthony of Padua with the Christ Child (Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, c. 1668–1669)

Pietà (Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, c. 1665-1666)

January 4, 2026