Some days are the epitome of mundane, forcibly resembling Bill Murray’s hellish Groundhog Day. The movie sold well not because we were so happy to see Andie MacDowell finally change her mind about her obnoxious coworker, but because everyone has their own Groundhog Days. Mundane, boring, sameness, doldrums.
Today was not once such day.
Everything was fantastically different, from a delicious two-euro veritable tankard of tinto de verano to the plaza de España (google image search; it’s worth it) to my new roommates from Arland (otherwise known as “Ireland” but I only figured that out after I asked where exactly that was and received the politely puzzled answer, “Over, you know, next to England?”). Then it was—as my father likes to say—“nose to the grindstone” all day long on our first day of class.
The golden city of Seville, however, has not noticed the sudden change of pace in my life.
Seville is a strolling city, after all: a strolling, sauntering, laughing city in which I went for a short walk tonight. As I strode through the streets, I couldn’t help wishing my own novio was around (and not just because I was extremely lost and he knows the city). Everywhere I looked, people were linked arm and arm or hand in hand or heads bent together in conversation. Mothers, daughters, brothers, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, all care-freely celebrating the holidays the way no American I’ve ever seen has done.
It was even more captivating than the plaza de España. And I do believe that’s saying something.