On our last night in Seville, Zahra and I went out for a farewell dinner in El Rinconcillo, the tapas bar where I had first been seduced by Spanish food.
It was the night of the opening of the Feria de Abril and there was a festive atmosphere in the bar. The Sevillians were all dressed up to dance. The women were in frills and ruffles and polka dots, and the men looked like bullfighters in high-waisted trousers and waistcoats. Even the children were dressed up in mini flamenco costumes. And all around the bar people were singing sevillanas and clapping compás with glasses of sherry balanced between their fingers.
This time Zahra and I didn’t hesitate before ordering our favorite dishes, and I tried not to look sad as I ate my vegetarian fish and meat. “Only in Spain,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted but not getting close. The knowledge that my time in Spain had come to an end hung over me, and I couldn’t even enjoy our final dinner together. I felt like weeping into the bread basket.
Over the six weeks that I’d been in Seville, I’d taken all the rules that had held my life in place in Sydney and replaced them with “only in Spain.” Only in Spain did I get to dance flamenco every day. Only in Spain did I drink milk and eat white bread and chocolate and fried squid. Only in Spain was sleeping for two hours in the middle of the day not only acceptable but encouraged. And only in Spain could I dance sevillanas until dawn.
I’d gotten so used to living this way that I didn’t know how I was going to go back to the life I’d left behind. The swipe card and black suit and the 422 bus and First-Class Service Rules. The quiet streets, smoke-free bars, wine at ten dollars a glass, and I could forget about live music.
And then there was that kiss.
That damn wonderful kiss. I kept reliving it over and over in my head, the way that he had held me and gazed into my eyes. What frustrated me was knowing that it could have been that way from the beginning if I hadn’t been so shy! But how could I have known that the impossible was possible? How could I have guessed that the man I was dreaming of was also dreaming of me? Now there was no time left. I was counting down the hours like Cinderella watching the clock, knowing that soon her carriage would turn back into a pumpkin.
We finished the last of our wine, and I told Zahra that she could go to the feria without me. I just didn’t have it in me to go out and celebrate. All I wanted was to go to bed and cry.
The waiter came to collect our plates and asked if we were on our way to the feria. Zahra told him that she was but that I was going home to bed. He stared at me for a moment, dumbstruck.
He carried our plates away and came back moments later with a bottle of liqueur and two shot glasses. He poured out two shots and waited expectantly. I took one and swallowed it down. Then he pushed the second shot toward me too. I lifted the shot glass and drank it.
“Ahora quieres bailar?” he asked. Now do you feel like dancing?
“No.” I shook my head.
The waiter filled up the shot glasses again. I took one and gulped it down. “Ahora?” he asked. Again I shook my head. He pushed the fourth shot in front of me, and I obediently tipped it back.
I closed my eyes and felt the world spin. It was my last night in Seville and I wanted an early night: What was I, crazy? Had this time in Spain taught me nothing? The night is for dancing, not for sleeping!
“Okay,” I said, a little dizzy. “This is my last night in Seville and I’m going to the feria.”
“Olé, mi niña!” the waiter cried, pouring me another shot for luck. Then he tapped his watch and told us it was already eleven thirty. The feria would open at midnight with the alumbrado, the lighting of the lights. If we didn’t move fast, we were going to miss it.
Our plan had been to jump in a cab, not realizing that every taxi in a fifteen-mile radius of the center had been prebooked for the occasion. So instead we ran. We ran as fast as two girls in heels could run. We ran through the old streets of the Macarena, chasing each other around corners and in between orange trees. We raced down streets lined with flamenco boutiques. Zahra faltered in front of one window with a mannequin in a couture flamenco gown with cascading ruffles. “Vamos, chica!” I said, and she tore her eyes away and kept on running.
We ran down Zahra’s favorite street, a little alleyway that always smelled of azahar and fried fish, and out across the plaza, past the cathedral, dodging women in flamenco costumes pushing baby carriages, and through crowds of men dressed up like bullfighters and drunk on sherry.
We raced past the bullring and down to the river where hordes of people were making their way to the showgrounds, carrying open bottles of whiskey and wine, beat-up guitars, and boxes they used as drums. We ran and ran and ran until finally we reached the entrance to the showgrounds.
There was a crowd of thousands of people waiting for the lights to come on and the gates to open. We stopped, panting for breath, just in time to hear the tolling of the bell. It was midnight.
“We made it, chica,” Zahra whispered.
On the twelfth stroke of the bell a giant fan unfurled in lights in the sky, followed by another, then another. The crowd erupted into cheers as the three gold-and-red fans twinkled in the dark night sky.
The gates were thrown open and the crowd surged into the showgrounds. But Zahra and I just stood there staring up at the beautiful sight of the three fans created out of light in the sky. The fan is the perfect symbol for Seville. It’s just like the city itself—fun, flirtatious, outrageous.
I couldn’t help but wonder again at the strange timing of my trip, how I had booked my flight back home for the next day. It seemed almost as though the lights had been turned on for me: I was meant to be here, I was meant to see this.
Doesn’t everything happen for a reason? I need to believe that it does. I don’t do random; I see too much magnificent synchronicity in life to believe that it’s all just chance. I was on a journey that had started when I opened that copy of Harper’s Bazaar, and I knew that my adventure was only beginning. My return home was just a pit stop, I told myself. There were still thousands of flamenco nights ahead of me.
Standing there, I made a promise to myself. “I’m coming back,” I said silently. “I’m coming back, I’m coming back, I’m coming back…”