A plaza in Sevilla

I am standing in a small plaza filled with orange trees. The trees grow out of small square openings in the cobbled ground, filling the air with the smell of sweet blossoms. The surrounding buildings are warm shades of yellow and ochre. People are lounging at small tables, sitting on fanciful white metal chairs, sipping a drink, nibbling a tapa. A man is strumming a guitar.

Sevilla.

This is the feeling of Sevilla I remember.

We spent most of our time searching for a bank and food, and chatting with some Canadians preparing to work at Expo 92. We were lucky to get the beds we did for two nights as the hostel was thereafter booked for weeks with the impending opening of the international exposition.

Our visit to this plaza was brief. We were simply passing through. But I wanted to linger there: to sit on one of those pretty chairs, listen to the acoustic music, breath in the orange scented air.

Alas, we had a train to catch. Onward, to the next destination.

This is one entry from my 1992 European backpacking trip with my friend Sarah. If you want to start at the beginning, please check out The journey starts in Nice.