…privacy (in the streets)

Some things are typically done in the privacy of your own home. Most people don’t strut around in their underwear with the world watching. Studies have shown that people are less likely to smoke and overeat when there are people watching, too. Generally speaking, we act a little more decent (if only reserved) when we think we are on display. There’s something naturally healthy about that. We act the way that we want to be known for being – and that often brings out the best in us.

Jump across the pond, if you will, and take a walk down the streets of Seville. Upon first impression, the city is full of proud debauchery. The mind takes what it knows and instantly constructs what should then presumably be true. The American mind sees the streets of Seville and jumps to the presumable conclusion – and then retreats in almost shameful fright. To an American, reality is an iceberg with just the top portion floating in public and the mass of the mess sunken beneath the privacy of self-constructed walls. Everyone knows this to some extent, so presuming that what happens in the streets is just a hint of what happens behind closed doors seems justified. The problem with this conclusion is that the rules of reality are fluid, and vary greatly from one culture to the next.

In Seville, what would typically happen behind closed doors is happening all over the streets. Spaniards don’t usually go to another person’s house, even if they are dating. That means everything that would happen in American living rooms happens on Sevillan streets. American bars that tend to exist as their own little world behind thick doors are unheard of – Sevillan bars literally pour onto the streets into the early hours of every morning. The public displays of affection that make Americans roll their eyes or mockingly gag would be a welcome sight amidst the groping and tonsil hockey. Smoking – especially when the paper is filled with something a little, eh, greener than traditional cigarettes – has become a secluded, embarrassing habit in America. It’s a habit that Sevillans readily admit is bad for them as they light the first cigarette from the second pack of the afternoon. Public drunkenness waits for the cover of the American night to rear its inebriated head in a blissful shout, but the Sevillan sorrowfuls come staggering down the streets as the killjoy saunters to work.

In a way, this complete lack of shame is shocking, especially considering the Spanish are a prideful people. Their language literally allows for them to say, for example, that the plate broke itself rather than saying that they broke a plate. Yet the broken bottles and cigarette butts slipping into the cracks of every street show the habits on which most people would draw a curtain. There is something confusingly wonderful about this approach to life, though. The inherent authenticity that goes with displaying the best and worst of your life leaves the cards on the table for everyone to see. There is little privacy, but there is a lot of life in the streets.