Memoir Writing- Final Draft, "Our Sevilla"

It was swelteringly hot. 

The bright Spanish sun showed no mercy on our pale, Midwestern skin as Lobo and I, tired, sunburned, and thirsty, plopped down on a curb in La Plaza de la Encarnación.  Pushing her dark hair away from her forehead, Lobo gave me a look that clearly said, “So this is Sevilla.” 

I sighed.

We had arrived only the day before, and already our adventurous spirits were dwindling.  It was my host mother's insistence that we experience true Andalusian culture, which had really brought us here.  We just couldn’t go back to the U.S. without first rounding out our gap year as Rotary Exchange students with a quick trip to Sevilla.  

Es una cuidad preciosa.  It's a beautiful city, she had told us.

No se puede faltar.  We couldn't miss it.

So we went.  Although Lobo-- whose nickname is a play on her full name (Laura Bowers)-- and I were two American teenagers with almost zero experience planning economically savvy, culturally engaging, and food friendly trips, we got on a plane and came to Sevilla in hopes of finding some new, exciting element of Spanish culture the eastern side of the country was lacking.  At the very least, we thought, this trip couldn’t be worse than our recent “getaway” weekend 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.  At first Lobo and I resisted my host mom.  
But we're going to miss our class end of the year party, I told her.
We don't know anything about getting around in Sevilla, Lobo argued. 
But my host mom was persistent. Venga. You’ll love Sevilla, she said.

So we gave in.

In all fairness, Sevilla was beautiful.  With its hundreds of gothic style cathedrals, lavishly decorated monuments, and lush tropical plazas, it truly is a sight to behold.  But with over 2 million tourists a year, that’s exactly what Sevilla has become: a sight to see.  Looking for a truly ‘Spanish’ experience was proving to be extremely difficult when surrounded by gringo families posing for their next Christmas card photo, munching away on the Pringles or Doritos they had brought from the hotel, and wiping their grease stained fingers across their khaki cargo shorts.  We wanted to be surrounded by Spain, not by a bunch of Americans, Germans, and Dutch ooo-ing and ahh-ing over it.  Or perhaps on some other level, Lobo and I were ashamed to fraternize with other tourists.  So deeply in love were we with Spanish culture, that try as we may to dress in Spanish brands, eat Spanish foods, and throw around Spanish slang like it was no one's business, amidst our own kind we were afraid to be spotted, or even worse, to feel comfortable.    
Our displeasure increasing, Lobo and I had plopped down on a curb as far away as possible from a couple bickering in English.  Pulling a damp, wadded bill out from my pocket, I bought a couple of Coca-Colas from a small, round man whose cheeks were as rosy red as his sidewalk cart.  He smiled at me as I collected my change carefully saying grácias with the appropriate, perhaps exaggerated, Spanish lisp.  
Gra-th-as. 
Cracking open the drinks, the 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 burst of flavor.  
This is what we came all the way to Sevilla for?  Lobo asked, finally voicing our mutual concern.  To dodge tourists and drink Coca-Cola?
I sighed in agreement, unaware at the time of the irony in drinking a Coca-Cola and complaining loudly in English about how much we loathed foreign tourists.

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

The next few days passed in a haze of group tours, expensive tapas in American sized portions, and my 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 returning to our host families and to be once again immersed in the culture we’d come to love. 

On our last morning in Sevilla, however, Lobo and I decided to get up early, determined to give the city one final chance and find some real "Spanishness," whatever that means.  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 little Spanish oasis in the middle a hundred touristy restaurants, souvenir shops, information booths.
It was practically beckoning us to come and enjoy ourselves.

So we did.
A basket of warm breads overflowing with buttery, flakey, golden brown croissants, glazed pastries, and toasted sesame rolls appeared on our table, the warm steam curling upward and slowly dissipating in the cool morning air.  It was accompanied by a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and a side of homemade marmalade which we were told was la especialidad de la casa.  In a city famous for its citrus, it was no surprise that the marmalade was superb.  Tart, tangy, and sweet, la marmelada spread atop a warm biscuit was like biting into the naranja bigarade itself.  

Our tazas of café con leche arrived next; 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; and with it, our entrées: two perfectly scrambled 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.  The eggs were light, fluffy and cooked 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.  Cielo.

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.
To us, this was Spain.  This is what we had been waiting for. Perhaps to a Spaniard, the musician would have been too much, or the rolls not soft enough, or this 'oasis' not far enough off the beaten path, but to me and to Lobo, this was our moment.    

Lobo and I began to 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, and --in our opinion-- truly Spanish moment in Sevilla.