I'm worried.

On the drive from the airport into Seville, en route to covering the U.S. vs. Spain Davis Cup final, I find the urban expanse eerily similar to that of Houston or Atlanta. Not only are we zooming along on the oddly-named Kansas City Boulevard, but huge signs blare familiar messages — Coca Cola, Ikea, Beefeater and (would you believe) Striptease American Style. Then, as the press van comes to a halt, I shudder at the sight of the media hotel, a bland box that makes Soviet architecture seem enchanting.

But not to worry, thanks to a last-minute miracle, I’ll be staying elsewhere.  My new hotel — La Casa de la Juderia — is a wonder. Essentially a cluster of intimate ancient houses, the enclave dates to the 13th century, 200 years before Seville’s most famous character, Christopher Columbus, set sail.

Here inner courtyards thick with ferns frame blue fountains whose subtle waters insulate the senses. Narrow walkways open to alluring alcoves shaded by palms, as long vines link twisting back stairways.
But, after too many hours of travel, my mahogany bed invites. Yet eclectic sounds, amplified by narrow lanes, invade. Parrots, then doves, audition. A hearty baritone vocalizes with shameless bravado, sturdy church bells announce the hour while a band of chatty neighbors, strolling arm–in-arm, scatter curious conversational remnants in their wake.

Near my room wide chests — weathered brown — suggest salty journeys to distant ports brimming with riches and tribes of unsuspecting folks who (“oh-happy-day”) are about to be “civilized” or subdued. For two centuries, Seville was the command center of a vast empire of fearsome power and unimaginable treasure.

Want to sail that tiny boat of yours across the mighty waves? Or maybe you hope to build a jungle school near Lima or a road into Mexico City?  Better yet, do you hanker to squash an Andean uprising? Well, no matter what your New World plan or whim, you better get the green light from the man in charge, “the man” in Seville.

Yet, despite all, this is a romantic town of faith and poetry. North of the river that unites, then divides, Seville evokes attitude. The diverse destinies of Moor and matador, mason and gypsy blend into flat rose walls sculpted by the winds of uncounted days.

Elegant archways, brick grottos and ethereal gardens touch the spirit as the wanderer sheds nagging burdens within the Mother of All Mazes, a tangle of cobblestone alleys and lost enclaves.

In Seville, more than anywhere, the searing call of Flamenco shakes the night. Fierce and unsparing, expressive and lean — a passing glance, staccato stomps — the dance delivers a singular message, proud and severe.

All the while, a timeless lady — gray hair, red lace — and her man — stooped under his black beret — amble by a Roman wall, offering but a sigh. For in this place history rarely smiles. Unmoving tiles recall grim plagues and the excess of Inquisition, the pain of plunder — crime, corruption, collapse. Once a boomtown like few others, Seville lives with its memories of gold and silver bounty, tempered by a thousand cautionary tales.

But never mind. On this breezy evening, clouds of memory fade. Tonight romantics rush to embrace and (“girls just wanna have fun”) teens sporting pink high heels speed their scooters through back lanes oblivious to nearby sanctuaries where, behind unmoving walls, white-robed sages — wafers in hand — offer songs of redemption.

But of course, wouldn’t you know it, right across the street from the world’s largest cathedral is the secular cathedral of our day, a Starbucks, dispensing its own form of communion.

All the while, around the block and just a minute away, America’s Davis Cup team —– jocks from Austin, Camarillo and the Flordia flatlands — are “puttin’ on the Ritz” as they dine amidst the marbled opulence and piano bar refinement of Seville’s grand hotel, the Alphonso XIII, an old-school showcase of rare tapestries and unapologetic wealth.

But I’m not invited, so I cross San Fernando Boulevard to hang out near the university in a lively cafe sporting a vintage Marlboro Man vending machine. Here, yet another generation of fresh-faced wannabes chat freely, sharing free-form gossip about yesterday’s lovers and tomorrow’s exams.

Still, my imagination drifts. Recalling the old passions of this town, and I wonder if we will ever mine a new treasure, driven not so much by the age-old desire for gold and glory, but by the hope for a kind of serenity, the serenity of the fountains of Seville.