Leaning back in the thick, wicker terrace chair, letting my tired bones and muscles relax from the morning journey from Madrid and afternoon sightseeing, I breathed in the still, warm air. Despite it being overcast and every moment on the brink of rain, it felt like summer, a wonderful feeling in the middle of March, especially since Burgos was still cold, rainy, and required a winter coat. After indulging my senses for a few moments, I directed my attention to the matter at hand: lunch. Being part of a group of six people, I agreed that tapas would indeed be the easiest solution to ordering. Minutes later, our jolly Andalucian waiter brought out plates of olives, fried fish, calamari, gazpacho, paella, and cheese. Dribbling drops of fresh lemon onto some fried bacalao*, I wanted to stay in Seville forever.
Following the overly hearty lunch and obligatory turrón** ice cream, I made my way to the bank of the River Guadalquivir, where the breeze cooled the air slightly and ruffled the trees, tousling their leaves. I put on my cardigan. At six o'clock, I boarded a tour boat that took me on a leisurely, one-hour ride down the river. I did not pay attention to the pre-recorded, multilingual, robotic voice that was narrating the tour. I leaned over the rail and watched the motor churning the water, creating swirling foam patterns. I did not think about anything particular as I stared into the horizon. Same people, same feelings, same thoughts.
The day turned into dusky evening as everyone returned to the hotel to rest and get ready for flamenco later that evening. A couple of hours later, four dressed and coiffed girls exited the hotel into the dark streets illuminated orange by the street lights and faint glow of old, brown buildings. What began as an enjoyable stroll to the flamenco venue quickly evolved into a frantic dash through the streets of old Seville. The guidebooks say that one of Seville's charms is its crooked little streets that you should get lost in to truly experience the atmosphere of the city. Personally, I do not elect to get lost in any kind of street when I have to be at a performance in ten minutes, but that is exactly what happened. Realizing we would be incredibly late, we started sprinting, nice clothes be damned, yelling permiso*** to the crowds in front of us, diving in between people. As luck would have it, not only were none of the people we asked for directions from Seville, but the street we were looking for had no street sign, which is quite normal in Spain. Typically, the street you are looking for is always the one without a street sign (why is that?). I do not quite remember how, but we finally arrived at the old synagogue, panting and sweating, where the entire house staff was waiting just for us to begin the performance. All I can say is, now the Spaniards know what it feels like to wait for other people.
*cod
**nougat
***excuse me
Following the overly hearty lunch and obligatory turrón** ice cream, I made my way to the bank of the River Guadalquivir, where the breeze cooled the air slightly and ruffled the trees, tousling their leaves. I put on my cardigan. At six o'clock, I boarded a tour boat that took me on a leisurely, one-hour ride down the river. I did not pay attention to the pre-recorded, multilingual, robotic voice that was narrating the tour. I leaned over the rail and watched the motor churning the water, creating swirling foam patterns. I did not think about anything particular as I stared into the horizon. Same people, same feelings, same thoughts.
The day turned into dusky evening as everyone returned to the hotel to rest and get ready for flamenco later that evening. A couple of hours later, four dressed and coiffed girls exited the hotel into the dark streets illuminated orange by the street lights and faint glow of old, brown buildings. What began as an enjoyable stroll to the flamenco venue quickly evolved into a frantic dash through the streets of old Seville. The guidebooks say that one of Seville's charms is its crooked little streets that you should get lost in to truly experience the atmosphere of the city. Personally, I do not elect to get lost in any kind of street when I have to be at a performance in ten minutes, but that is exactly what happened. Realizing we would be incredibly late, we started sprinting, nice clothes be damned, yelling permiso*** to the crowds in front of us, diving in between people. As luck would have it, not only were none of the people we asked for directions from Seville, but the street we were looking for had no street sign, which is quite normal in Spain. Typically, the street you are looking for is always the one without a street sign (why is that?). I do not quite remember how, but we finally arrived at the old synagogue, panting and sweating, where the entire house staff was waiting just for us to begin the performance. All I can say is, now the Spaniards know what it feels like to wait for other people.
*cod
**nougat
***excuse me
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