Memoir Writing- Rough Draft

One day in early June 2009, my best friend Laura Bowers and I awoke to find ourselves in a small backpackers hostel in southern Sevilla.  We had arrived the day before at my host mother's insistence that we experience true Andalusian culture before moving back to the U.S. 
Sevilla es una cuidad preciosa.  It's a beautiful city, she had told us. 
No se puede faltar.  We couldn't miss it.

Lobo and I were both somewhat hesitant to take another trip as we had just spent a few hundred Euros on a mediocre getaway to Mallorca (three nights of rain, paper thin hotel walls, and British influenced Spanish cuisine was not my idea of fun—although the beaches were absolutely fabulous).  Plus, Lobo and I were by no means travel experts.  We were just a couple of American teenagers who knew almost nothing about planning economically savvy, culturally engaging, and food friendly trips around Europe.  So you can see why we might be hesitant to embark on another Spanish adventure.  We preferred to stay right where we were, comfortable in our homes in Barcelona.

But my host mom insisted.  Venga. You’ll love Sevilla, she said. 

So we went. 

The flight from Barcelona to Sevilla was quick, only 40 minutes or so, and before we knew it we were touching down in the flamenco capital of the world.

The first day was swelteringly hot. 

The bright Spanish sun showed no mercy on our white, Midwestern skin as we trudged slowly through the numerous plazas, monumentos, and catedrales.  By noon we had soaked through our clothes.  We were sunburned, tired, and thirsty.  Pulling out a damp, wadded bill from my pocket, I bought us a couple of Coca-Colas from a round, jolly man with a red sidewalk cart.  Lobo and I plopped down on a curb in La Plaza de la Encarnación and cracked open our drinks.  Sweet syrupy bubbles immediately fizzed over the top dribbling down the sides and onto our fingers.  The icy soda seemed to burn my tongue as I sipped it slowly, enjoying each deliciously refreshing pop.

This is what we came all the way to Sevilla for?  Lobo asked me.  To drink the same Coca-Cola we could have gotten in Barcelona? 

I sighed.  Lobo was right.  We hadn’t even been here for a full day and we were already dunzo. 

The next few days passed in a haze of group tours, expensive tapas, and teaching Lobo to play chess with a board we’d found in our hostel.  Although we did make it out to several flamenco shows, which were truly quite impressive, Sevilla, for us, had not lived up to its name.  By the time our stay in Andalucia was coming to an end, Lobo and I were more than happy with the thought of going home.   

On our last morning in Sevilla, however, Lobo and I decided to get up early determined to give the city one final chance.  We meandered through the narrow cobblestone streets, getting lost on purpose among the bright yellow, white, and red buildings.  We had been walking for some time and were starting to get hungry when suddenly the narrow path opened up and we were standing in a lush, green garden listening to the gurgling sounds of fresh water trickling through a fountain.  On the outskirts of the garden there were little mesitas set up for breakfast, and a smartly dressed waiter pulled out a seat. 

Señoritas, he said gesturing to the table.

Lobo and I looked at each other grinning, then back at the table. 

Grácias, I said taking the seat.

The waiter ushered Lobo into the chair opposite me, placed napkins on our laps, and rushed off to prepare the first course. 

Lobo and I were in giddy shock.  We couldn’t believe we had found this place, this oasis in the middle of nowhere, practically beckoning us to come and enjoy ourselves. 

So we did.

Glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice appeared on our table alongside a basket of warm breads bearing buttery, flakey, golden brown croissants, glazed pastries, and toasted sesame rolls so soft, so good that the accompanying dish of homemade marmalade was almost unnecessary.  Almost.

Then came our tazas of café con leche; bold European espresso mixed with frothy steamed milk, a blend so perfectly delicious I don’t understand why it hasn’t caught on in the U.S. 

Next our entrée arrived.  Two perfectly cooked eggs layered over a bed of caramelized onions, and garnished with fresh dill, served with a piece of sweet, orange cantaloupe wrapped in Italian prosciutto.  Divine.  Delectable.  Delightful.  These are the words I would use to describe this combination.  The eggs were light and fluffy, scrambled to perfection; the onions beautiful, translucent, sweet, yet savory; the cantaloupe was juicy and firm, the fine layer of prosciutto wrapped precisely around the melon giving a kick of sweet, savory, salty goodness in every bite.  The meal was divine. 
Just as we thought we were finished, our waiter brought out two flutes of bubbly champagne, and cued his compañero to begin playing the harmonica. 

Lobo and I began to smile, and laugh, and laugh some more, until we were clutching our stomachs so full of good food and happiness that they ached, but we couldn’t stop laughing and the harmonica man kept playing and the fountain kept gurgling, and nothing could mar the perfection or steal the joy from this wonderful, beautiful, preciosa moment in Sevilla.