Spain.

Spain began truly as an adventure, to say the least. Arriving in Sevilla mid afternoon, the breeze of an early spring washed upon our frigidly accustomed, pervaded bodies. Grey and brown filled our vision with streets that looked to be outside of new york perhaps, or even in a suburb of the US. The air whispered of a secret, a world to find beyond these seemingly barren streets. All we had to do was find it. We ventured onto a bus, heading to a vague name we pronounced differently every time we attempted to say it. Getting off after a small bout of confusion, we passed an immensely long street bordering the city’s botanicals. I buy a small bag of my favorite candies I knew I would find here, to the shouts of my mother who was aware of my recent sugar intake. We continued on through streets brimming with crowded restaurants somewhat reminiscing only to myself of the coastal towns of California.

We reached something new. The streets broke out and expanded into a small piazza, swarming with tourists milling round every direction. Cameras clicked, shop doors chimed, bicycles darted through gutter paths, elaborate church doors stood, unmoving as ever. Narrow alleys and cobbled pavements resembled each other, reflecting an old and new Spanish beauty together, I admired every moment on a lane, not realizing how important the knowledge of these streets would be later on that night. We stopped for food, dining in not so Spanish style at only 7 pm, yet living up to its standards through an enormous glass of sangria, with some surprisingly delicious tapas to go along with it. I felt the need to explore. We entered a church, stopping abruptly once we arrived, as the inside wss clustered with Spanish people, lighting candles in the solid dark of one of the most grandiose churches I’d ever been in. after a few minutes of observing what was in front of my eyes, I couldn’t escape the feeling of wanting to wander. I left the church, promising to my mother to return within ten minutes, just to look around the surrounding streets. I quickly left, striding rapidly along tourists, secretly pretending I was a Spanish native, ever so eager to pass the streets that were falsely mine, as if the foreigners were just people to get by and around.

I turned. I entered a street I hadn’t seen earlier and continued to the end. I recognized another, as it lead to another that connected to the piazza. Ignoring my internal feeling, my intuition I might call it, I turned onto a different street, away from my fleeting familiarity and into a new realm. I became captivated by a few commodities on my path, and continued on the route to the unknown. As soon as I could remember where I was, I looked around myself. I knew I had to turn back, but I didn’t know which direction. I went on and on, believing I was heading back to where I started, but only to come to another street completely unrecognized. They all looked the same. Starting to panic, I ran back in the direction I came. Alley after alley, block after block, passing people who would never know me and weren’t aware of what was happening to me. More people began to pass me. Too involved in my huddle of perplexity, I sped around in circles only I knew I was roving.

The amount of people surrounding me began to increase with each turn. Beginning to panic, I considered asking someone, yet I remembered I was no longer in a country where I spoke the language. I had left Portuguese behind and been thrust into a somewhat familiar yet still completely foreign world of Spanish. I quickly lunged onto an enormously prolonged street, with tall voluptuous trees and a wide, strong central path lined by outdoor shops and tourist venues. My legs slowed down as my mind attempted to absorb the sights witnessed in my state of being half overwrought with amazement and half dazed by the avenue itself. I left my whirlwind of panic and worry aside as I morphed into curiosity every atom had to offer. The clusters of cobblestones were buzzing with people venturing to grab the classic Spanish atmosphere whatever that meant to them. I decided it would be here that I would sleep the night should I fail to find the route back to the cathedral.

Toward the ends of this seemingly endless street, an absolute mob of people crowded around in a sloppy form of a circle, standing, talking, moving, and mostly huddling. As I tried to get through a section, all of a sudden, I saw two rows side by side of black- hooded clad figures lighting erect white candles roughly about two and half or so feet long. I had crossed into their threshold without realizing it. I noticed by that time I had entered into the parade of the Semana Santa, in other words holy week. I looked for a way in which to retreat but I was only to be blocked in every other direction. I walked forward slowly between the two rows, careful not to catch onto the fire from the candles being lit, avoiding looks from the crowds of people standing aside. I felt as if I was part of the parade, or the making of it somehow in a dazed sense of imagination. As if I too, a lost specimen caught between discovery and fearful bewilderment belonged to those celebrating the established catholic tradition in the streets that had grown used to the same ordeal each year. The sky began to darken, and I felt a surge of nerves bubble at the base of my abdomen.

I brainstormed ideas as to where I would sleep that night if worst came to worst. To my surprise, I wasn’t too worried about later on for the sake of myself. It was only my mother who I worried for, as I had been gone hours and could only imagine what spiraling thoughts of fear her mind could possibly be forming. I reached another plaza lit up in lights packed with people and decided I had to scrounge up what old Spanish lingered in my brain. I run into a spacious and bright-lit ice cream shop on a corner crowded inside with toddlers and their middle-upper class mothers clad in pearls and cashmere. Two young women rushed around behind a grand wooden counter, blathering so fast their words seemed to dissolve into one train of letters, sounds, syllables. I stood, merely watching, wondering how to begin, mind slowly going blank. I approach the counter and blurt ‘’estoy perdida.’’ One of the women, slim, tanned with short blonde hair looked at me for a split second and erupted into laughter. I said nothing and took out the flamenco dance pamphlet that included a vague map on the back. Her laughing ceased. Pointing to a part of the map, leading me to take this way and that, knowing inside that I was going to have to depend on someone or something else. I stumbled out of the ice cream shop, tears arising but still having faith that the night would figure itself out.

On and on, block after block, trying to absorb whatever I could from the ant-sized map in my hand. I ducked into a small market, where a heavy middle aged woman in lots of makeup stood, watching television from behind a small counter. ‘’Buenas noches’’ I murmured as I walked in. She looked me up and down, already sensing I was not any normal customer. I broke down and told her story, broken Latin American Spanish mixed with strong alfacinhan Portuguese. Another man soon walked in. She immediately began to tell him her version of my story. I then remembered I had taken a few photos of the location on my camera. They were dark and quite undistinguishable, but nonetheless evidence of some sort. Just then a group of young men in their mid twenties came by and stood outside the shop. Two came in together to buy a bottle of alcohol, and thus the woman called their attention and told them both my tale. I handed the camera to one of them, who immediately recognized it, and claimed it was close by. He spoke to me in English and told me in some detail how to go. I quickly set off into the dark of the night in the direction he said. I still remained lost and utterly confused.

I walked by an old couple standing in the center of a dark intersection where narrow streets connected and a few people for the Semana Santa parade continued to mill in every direction, all going to completely different routes. I asked the couple, who seemed willing to help. They told me it was close. As they guided me in the right direction, he said something that made a light-bulb go off in my head. ‘’Hay una farmácia?’’ I quickly asked. The elderly man widened his eyes and nodded. I then understood where I needed to be. I thanked them and continued on my way. On and on through the aftermath of the festival in the darkness of this freshly discovered Spanish city finally let up. I passed the pharmacy, only to still remain feeling as lost as a youngster from Oklahoma would in the big apple. I crossed my fingers as I headed on down to another lane. I stuck to the straight route, continuing through until something appeared on my side view that quickly caught my eye. I stopped. On my left across the narrow cobbled street was a tall golden structure, plain but for an immense iron gate carved and coiled in a classic Seville style. Inside was what seemed to be a garden, lush with tall green plants of various shades, surrounded by a marble ceiling close enough to brush the clouds and columns just as high. A fountain, whether it be my imagination or not, give the impression of existing as well. I normally would have passed, maybe stop to admire on a calmer night, but I remembered it so distinctly from the afternoon I first glimpsed the streets of Seville. And as I remembered, I knew that the church was merely minutes, maybe even seconds away. I began to run. Everything blurred, tired families and tourists lingered, barely noticing I was sprinting past them. I abruptly spotted the cathedral, but didn’t stop running until I heard my name suddenly called out from the distance. I stopped, slid, and looked out. I turned circles to see where the voice came from.

Practically right in front of my eyes sat my mother. She was sitting, alone, smoking a cigarette at a circular table outside in the plaza. I lunged in for a hug doused in nerves, letting the warm sense of relief spread throughout our embrace. We remained sitting, where I told her everything. I sat gaping at her surprise and lack of knowledge of the Semana Santa parade, as of all the unceasing hullabaloo it was. Ironically, it was my mother’s plan in the first place to see the parade. Nonetheless we ordered a few tapas and kept talking. My mother had apparently spent half of the time I was lost at the church service, half forgetting I said I would come back in fifteen minutes. Overall, although the memory soon become foggy, I remember being lost for more or less three hours into the night. We returned home to even more ludicrous pandemonium. Apparently a soccer match was in full swing whilst the evening of holiness had been assembling its tradition. It ended by the time we reached our hotel. The exiting of fans from the stadium resembled what I would imagine if the world tried to evacuate all of a sudden, to not merely a single destination, but a few various locales. Music blared, cars honked, singing commenced for those victorious and simply yelling whether victorious or not. A mess to say the very least. I sat on the balcony of our building gazed at the massive wave of people. I could only laugh at the fact that there were probably more people at the football match than there were at the churches. So much for God and the sake of the Catholic religion. I lay down on my bed, covered in books and clothes I had somehow managed to pack. All I had to do was lower my head to the pillow, while gathering my legs underneath the lightly sorted white sheets, and I was fast asleep to the sound of laughter and thrill, a stimulating energy to my ears, that finally blended into silence and the dark of night.