At least once a week I think about Sevilla. Last November Mollie and I stayed at a wonderful place right on the edge of town. Far enough away for it to be quiet, but close enough for it to be a fifteen minute walk to the action. Enrique was our host and he greeted us with his wonderfully broken English and a refrigerator stocked for a week’s worth of eating. It was old school AirBnB. He lived in the apartment above us. I don’t think Enrique ever got the memo that AirBnB guests are now supposed to get a bare-bones experience often including chores to do before leaving. We were greeted with warmth and an invitation to the corner cafe the next morning. He paid. The whole city seemed to be working on a different spiritual plane. Maybe it’s just the weird Catholicism of Andalusia, mixed with the bullfighting, tapas, and flamenco. Maybe it’s the echos of the old Moors. Maybe it’s just a “warm culture.” Whatever the case, it’s stuck with me and I will be back. I will sit in Parque de Maria Luisa and listen to the horses march over the cobblestones and think about how oddly familiar the magnolias seem while plotting my next tapas crawl.