martín had departed and i had strayed away from madrid and down into the marvelous countryside of andalusia. i wasn’t sure what exactly i would be doing but i had 5 days before i needed to be in morocco and i didn’t want to spend that whole time in madrid. just a couple hours on the train rushing by the rolling hillsides and golden fields had been sufficient proof that i had made the right decision, and i knew i was headed where the music was playing.
i pulled into seville and had a brief wander through the confusing streets before locating perhaps the best hostel i would end up staying at my entire trip, a place called “la banda rooftop hostel.” run by four brits who had long been friends and had a dream of running a hostel in a spanish speaking country, i could see almost immediately that they had created one of the best cultures i had ever seen, not just in a hostel, but even amongst work environments. these guys loved what they did, and people loved being there.
after i got settled in, i went up to the rooftop. since it was in the title of the place, i wanted to see what all the fuss was about. what i found was a wonderfully quaint terrace with a modest view of the cathedral and a small garden that lined the railings. it was a perfect place to relax, and there were a few guests who were doing just that, spread out among the patio furniture, reading books or typing away on laptops. i sat down amongst them and tried to soak in a little of the sun’s warmth. a minute later a young man sitting next to me struck up a friendly conversation. he had long black hair, covered up by an aged worn bowler cap, a la old 1930s america. he had sunglasses on and was slightly unshaven, and had an old troubadour look about him that seemed to suggest he liked stories, whether reading about them or experiencing them. either way was fine by me, and i decided he had an old-fashioned kind of bob dylan look about him, which made me snicker and say to myself “of course!” when he introduced himself as dylan only a few seconds later. dylan was from vermont and he had never traveled extensively before, but had always wanted to go to spain, so he had booked a flight for two weeks in spain with no reservations and had skipped down to seville only two days before. he filled me in a little on the area around us and suggested a few favorites before i left him, making plans to meet up again that night.
i went back down into the lobby and conferred with tom, one of the la banda founders. i expressed to him that there were only two important things i needed to experience in seville: good local-style tapas, and flamenco. tom dutifully pulled out a map and started marking spots for me to try out, while i tried intensely to pay attention, knowing all bets were off once i left the hostel and was lost wandering the streets of old sevilla by myself.
when tom was finished marking everything all over the map, i set out into the streets and started to get a feel for sevilla as i popped in and out of four or five different tapas locations, sampling all manner of different dishes and wines. my favorite of all these places was the last place i stopped, in a little spot called “la bodega de santa cruz,” located just up the road from the cathedral of sevilla. in an unassuming and unfancy building on the corner of the cobblestone road, the place was bustling with life as patrons stood packed around tables and the bar, nursing their wines and beers and hungrily devouring their small plates of delicious fare and talking and laughing loudly while the aromas wafted alluringly above the crowd and out into the streets, attracting people in droves. this place was a party, and i had arrived just in time. i shouldered my way up to the bar and waited patiently for someone to make eye contact with me.