Sevillian charm

July 11-July 13, 2012

For those that have never been to Sevilla, go. It is a city that has grasped the idea that tourists and locals can enjoy eachother´s company. Remarkable architectual beauty that serves as insight into the ancient histories of Muslims and Christians.

We love our hostel. It has a rooftop pool. Enough said. Quickly making new friends, the inevitable question is posed about our ages. We discover that our new french friends are 21, aussie: 25 and Belgian girls: 17. And it is these girls that break out in a giggle when we reveal our age. For the first time in my life I feel old. 

Together we parade into a neighborhood bar and order extravagently adourned Mojitos with sparklers that the bartender lights just before serving. Next is an outdoor discotecha which, on par with traditional Spanish nightlife, is open until sunrise. We dance among Spaniards listening to top European house hits from a swedish house mafia DJ. He takes note of our american presence and spins an appropriately timed conglomeration of the best biggie, tupac, snoop dogg songs. The crowd clears as we break out our most gangster dance moves. A night spent dancing for 4+ hours is a night well spent. We retire just before the sun comes up.

The next day we rent bikes and tour the Sevilla cathedral, la plaza de España and ride bikes through the unforgettable Parque de María Luisa situated in the middle of the city.

In the evening, we inquire about flamenco and set off into the darkness across the river where we are told there is a free flamenco show. We arrive to an empty bar and a bartender that informs us that they do not perform these shows during July and August. Our heads hanging he tells us there is a place call Lo Nuestro where we can also see this beautiful dance. Again, we encounter an empty bar, but this time there is a trio of musicians playing flamenco music. Our decision to stay is probably the smartest thing Maria has ever suggested. We order a drink and sit to enjoy the music. A slow trickle of people into the bar brings a group of 10 young spanish girls that begin flamenco dancing. We stare, admiring their grace with envy. I decide that it's time  for us to dance, so I ask one of the señoritas for lessons. Like flood gates are opening, they immediately begin passing us around, teaching us hand movements,  counting steps, correcting our form, and laughing together as we fumble through the sensual dance steps speaking only spanish. They leave, more spaniards step in to pick up where our friends left off. The bar is full, all eyes on us, a permanent smile on my face as locals eagerly step in to welcome us into the art of flamenco. Unlike my friend María who picks dance moves up quickly, I struggle to learn the first set (out of 4) practicing hundreds of times and i discover something quite shocking about myself and my now apparent dancing inabilities. I can NOT turn left. My last dance partner of the night, luckily a patient young man with a sense of humor, laughs at and with me as I incorrectly turn  right at the end each set without fail. Over and over and over again. ¡Olé! Finally a success!  

Towards the end of the night, a group of American guys make their way into the bar and we befriend them. They explain that they were hesitant to enter because they couldnt dance, but the bartender said "don't worry, there's a bunch of American girls dancing inside and they can't dance either." Pleased that we made such a name for ourselves we hand out besos to all our new compañeros and head for home. We plan to wake in the morning to hire our rental car, destination unknown. That night, I dream of beaches.