Seville, Spain. Sevilla. 11:30 p.m. Or should I say 21:30? It is a Tuesday. Martes.
I am in a small, yet tall red house in a tight neighborhood with narrow streets. Orange trees line the sidewalks. A few small cars of brands I’d never heard of line the roadway outside.
I am surrounded by only tranquility and peace, aside from the occasional yip of my host family’s petite dog, Bonnie, a Yorkshire Terrier who prides herself in greeting every neighbor who walks by.
Within a walking distance lies a whole other world. Ice cream shops, busy restaurants, loud bars, and recently closed stores echo with the sound of Spanish chatter.
I am in Triana, a barrio characterized by its pastel houses and deep-rooted history of Flamenco. The neighborhood parallels the river, El Río Guadalquivir, that separates the quiet, historical community from the bustling city that marks the capital of Andalusia.
The giant river is both a tourist hotspot and the home of many local rowing teams. Helena, the girl I’d grown to refer to as my “host sister”, often noted the river to be “smelly and quite gross.”
I will always find it to be beautiful, much like the European country in which it resides.
Spain is often known for its cities of romance and unprecedented nightlife. However, my love for Spain comes from my very own home-away-from-home, and the people who live there.
Twenty-seven Calle Regla Sanz is the address of Gil-Iglesias family, which consists of Rai and Veronica Gil-Iglesias, and their two daughters, Ana and Helena. And–for the time being, my roommate, Lauren, and me, whom they had generously welcomed into their home.
For this, Lauren and I both were exceptionally grateful–especially on this particular night. It is our last Tuesday in Spain and our last night with our host family.
The four of us–Veronica, Helena, Lauren, and I–all sit on a medium-sized, grey L-couch in their cozy, warm living room, or salón, as they call it. Ana left for a party about an hour before, and Rai had already gone to sleep.
Lauren and I have exam review in the morning and likely should have joined Rai in an early bedtime. But–we have lost track of time.
Veronica has just popped fresh popcorn in olive oil over the gas stove and serves it with a side of warm-but-not-yet-melting white chocolate squares as we, once just strangers, curl together to watch Harry Potter, which ironically, is broadcasting on the Spanish channels.
Helena has the remote, selecting Spanish subtitles for the English movie.
We begin watching the movie in short-lived silence as we all distract ourselves from our thoughts. This night is an unspoken goodbye. In 12 hours, we return to a life 4,000 miles apart.
Veronica briefly answers emails on her laptop, while Helena types away at a Word Doc that contains a novel she has been writing for some time. Lauren scrolls her TikTok, while I tape polaroids into my scrapbook.
Eventually, with a comedic movie scene and an even more comedic comment from Helena, laughter erupts, and the script of the movie falls background to the dialogue of our Spanglish.
As we all babble, Veronica begins to speak a little more softly than she has before, catching the attention of us all.
“My girls,” Veronica says with a smile and a tear of bittersweet joy slowly making its way down her cheek, “I have my girls.”
Her statement is followed by the resemblance of a four-person hug–a hard one to let go.
It is at this moment that everything feels right–like I am in the right place, and I am where I am supposed to be.
In an unknown world, I have found a place where I belong.
Suddenly, all of the late nights studying, embarrassing conversations with my speaking partner, and untranslated tours of the city are worth it.
Three weeks prior, I was struggling with the Spanish-only classroom policy at school, and I had still needed Helena to translate at the dinner table. For weeks, we had been barely communicating. Now, we sit together, babbling as friends and as a family.
These people have become my people, and this moment is etched into the scrapbook of my memories.
