That evening I had the rooftop meal with everyone else and met Bob, this guy from Tennessee, who said 'Hi, my name's Baaaaab' and I had to suppress the urge to try and talk like Mata from Cars and fail horribly. It was Bobs 'first time in Europe', a phrase I was unfamiliar with up until then but soon understood its significance with all the Aussies, Americans and Canadians coming through. I felt like a lot of the bonding had been made at the bars the night before and watched from the sidelines for the most part as 'and do you remember when...?!' bounced back and forth. I was invited to go and see the mushrooms, these giant wooden constructions which were of some purpose, but when we got there they weren't lit up like they should have been. I accompanied Bob, two Canadians and a Manchunian GP back to the hostal and stayed up until 3 as Bob formally educated me (in the most informal sense of the word) on the ins and outs of homosexuality. Despite being absolutely exhausted, I went to bed with my eyes very wide open.
The next morning I woke up at seven, despite being very tired, and I couldn't get back to sleep so I went down for breakfast. I sat down opposite a very hung over Australian who was waiting for her Blabla car driver to take her to Granada I think. She was one of those large chested alpha females who drinks like a fish and gives as good as she gets. Over a mountain of toast and tea we dissected the drivers rather friendly what's app messages and correlated it with her busty-7lb lighter messenger picture. The conversation lead on to my uncomfortable couch surfing experience early on in my trip and as more sleepy eyed guests joined the breakfast table, I realised I was commanding a bit of an audience and shrank into my mug of tea. It's not something I've written about, I'd find it hard to create the upbeat spin I've managed to maintain for most episodes, but I do tell the people who ask if I've had any bad couch surfing experience because it might help someone make better choices than I did.
After Scot, another Aussie, had chaparoned the slightly apprehensive alpha dog to her lift, we organized to go with a Tazzie couple and an English girl to the Alcazar. We were a very merry band, imitating peacock mating calls to try and encourage the bird down from its lofty lad pad, and I was even able to arrogantly critique the styles of columns from my two years of dossing Classical History Alevel.
Upon returning to the hostal, we made a really nice salad and I managed to persuade the crew to join me on a day trip to Decathlon. Turns out they don't have Decathlon in Australia and I filled their imaginations with reasonably priced canoes and sportswear on mass when all they needed was a pair of socks. My shopping list was a bit longer; I'd managed to pack the swimsuit from when I was 12 and my socks were in such an abominable state that even after washing they were pretty crispy and odouros. I located a store on the outskirts of town and we set off in the late afternoon. After half an hour of walking, we were definitely not in tourist town anymore; we passed by the splendid remains of the faria and when Kate discovered that we were only half way, I felt that the general team moral was lowered. I realised I was more like my father than I thought, dragging groups of unwitting foreigners to the edge of a map for a cause only apparent to myself. When I saw a sign with 'Sevilla' with a line through it, the satirical nature of the entire situation struck me and with forced gusto I lead the group along a train track to the hailed industrial pack where our final destination was marked. I think everyone realised something wasn't quite right when they saw the size of the car park; it was tiny and ran around the edge of the monstrous building with a similarly out of proportion door. As Levi rang on the buzzer, I got that fuzzy feeling in my face and feet that you get when you realise what a fool you've been. The receptionist of this Decathlon distribution centre looked very confused as four bedraggled foreigners crawled into the foyer and one explained in broken Spanish that they only wanted socks. We rehydrated with the water dispenser and I am so lucky that I had chosen three such good natured traveling companions who saw the hilarity of the situation and could be comforted by the promise of a Mcdonalds beer on the way home. We arrived back at the hostal just in time for dinner, and after a few drinks and an unorthodox game of Jenga, the profoundity of the fact that we'd only met at breakfast hit us when someone asked how long had we been friends.
The next morning we reunited for an expedition to the Plaza de Espana, which I hadn't planned on seeing. We arrived and I lost all my breaths. It was absolutely incredible, this vast semicircular palace, cupping a stream with pleasure boats and bridges, and a fountain in the centre. I found my voice but it came out as ecstatic squeals. Aesthetics like these are really important to me and the way I feel, and Sevilla went beyond the call of duty on this matter. Isabella's park, which ran up to the plaza, was similarly magnificent and you could rent cycling buggies in groups and careen around the park's paths manically. We discussed the possibility of touring Europe on one fitted out with a battery and solar panels, which stimulated many tangents and possible buggy accessory ideas, and reminded me of a Quentin Blake book I used to read to Deveraj. We went to the bus station for Kate and Levi to book their tickets for Conil for their work away and then returned to the hostel for lunch before all three of them left, Scott was going to house in Valencia. The last lunch had to be disbanded as time had run out, and as I waved the intrepid explorers off, feelings of an empty nest crept in and I plonked myself down in the living area downhearted.
Here I met Zach from Lincolnshire (like the sausage) and two Canadians, a thoroughly drunk Kevin and a forbiddingly knowledgable Joules. Zach, I admit, I had already boxed in, with his DIY singlet, heavily sunned glow and hair-of-the-dog hangover prescription. What the box was exactly I don't know, I don't think anyone really understands their prejudices, but it wasn't, as I later found out, a highly talented student of art at Edinburgh. He was lovely and honest in a way I had never thought to be, openly confessing his uncertainty in traveling for the first time on his own and gratitude for the experience of Kevin and Joules, who had adopted him in Malaga.
That evening I did another walking tour, this time of the more recent history of Sevilla. It was the same erratic Moroccan, whose manner I found less humorous and more grating the second time round. I had also acquired a fairly serious German friend, who said he had lived in Sevilla before, but seemed to know nothing about the city, and after the tour we were joined by two sets of Americans for some Tapas. One group were from Miami, and I found them so clinical, particularly the guy, everything they said seemed so empty they must have been thinking of something else. The other group were two guys who had been studying abroad in Italy. One of them chastised me for eating ice cream in Spain 'you've never had ice cream until you've eaten it in Italy' and the other started educating me on how the underground in London worked. They were so presumptios it was depressing, the type that only ask you a question to answer it themselves. Sometimes I get scared to start walking again but I felt like my star was telling me pretty loud and clear that it was time to move on. I only ordered a starter and made my excuses to leave, desperate to be alone.
My last night in Sevilla I ate on the terrace with everyone, comforting the Tenesse cousins for the their traumatic bull fighting experience and internally rebuking the two American students whose blood lust after the performance was tangible. Eli appeared, an American student who had been studying Arabic in Moroocco, posturing like a peacock in a clean jacket and authentic leather sandals. There was a mysterious guy who looked like Jesus, with frighteningly blue eyes, who had just done the Northen way, and we spoke for a while about walking. I felt that he was probably better suited to my task than I was, a lean striking prophet, captivating individuals with his soft hill billy tones. He fixed me before I left for bed; 'keep on walking'.
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