The Rain in Spain
I’m sitting in a tiny chair in the police station, trying to pull my gangly limbs in close while staring frightfully into the eyes of a rather large, intimidating Spanish police officer. (Who is this tiny chair supposed to hold anyway?!) It’s taking all of my concentration to understand what he is saying and to string together some embarrassingly bad Spanish in response. I’m filing a police report and trying to remember all those adjectives from Spanish class to describe the perpetrator of my mugging. Okay, okay maybe “mugging” is a strong word. Pick pocketing. Honestly, even “pick pocketing” is pretty strong. But we’ll get back to that.
The Catedral de Sevilla before the downpour, and the “mugging.”
Right now I’m terrified because the pick-pocketer took not only all of my money and my debit card (my only way to get more money…), but he also took my ID and the keys to my Spanish host family’s house. My Spanish Mama is NOT going to be happy about that. Sure she’s a foot shorter than me and only 95 pounds, but like most Spanish women, she is fierce! I have no way of getting a hold of anyone for help, because it was (gasp!) before the age of international cell phone capabilities or any sort of messaging.
I’m also ashamed this even happened to me. After many months of living in Northern Spain, I fancied myself such a Spaniard – I was experienced, I knew the lingo, and I didn’t look like a tourist, how did he even know I would be an easy target?! (Looking back, my 5’11” frame, pasty white skin, and open purse pocket may have had something to do with it…)
Amidst all this fear, self-doubt and trauma (what? it was traumatic!) I catch my best friend Shannon out of the corner of my eye – wait is she laughing!? Why is she laughing? Oh no…she’s flirting. With the police officer who is NOT taking my claim very seriously. My frustration starts to fade as I realize they both know what I am only just starting to see – filing a police report for a whopping 28 dollars worth of value and a nearly empty debit card is probably not going to be super successful. I watch them flirt despite the language barrier and even join in on the laughter as the officer assures us that he’ll be in touch.
a rainy Plaza de Espana
Shannon and I head out of the police station and into the rainy nightlife of Sevilla. (pronounced: Seh-vee-ya. I know, I know.. I’m one of those annoying study abroad kids, but that’s what it’s called in the native language and I think they get to decide!) Well, really, it’s just the evening-life at this point, which is marked by (slightly) less wine and (slightly) more children. But the feeling is the same, the relaxed, jovial feeling of “sobremesa” – the time that people in Spain spend with their loved ones after a meal, relaxing at the table, drinking, laughing, loving each other and life. It can’t be beat. And Shannon and I want in.
But there’s one problem. . . we have 30 euros between us and that has to get us both back to our respective homes tomorrow, me in Northern Spain and Shannon in Scotland. Like true college kids, we had planned this weekend getaway down to the dime and there was no margin for error (or pickpocketing.) Our backup plan had been my Spanish debit card…
So we stroll around the plazas and patios of old Sevilla, dodging the rain when we can, listening in on snippets of conversations and choruses of laughter. Even when we don’t recognize the words, the joy is evident. We finally find our own spot for sobremesa on a budget. A Doner Kebab. For those of you who know, you know. For the rest, it’s a hole-in-the-wall gyro stand, meant for drunk food but passable for cheap dinner. At least by 21 year olds’ standards. We splurge on a box of tinto de verano – red wine and Sprite – for a few Euros to wash down the gyros. We’re nothing if not classy. As we sit on the bench, dig into our feast and people watch, the feeling we just walked through washes over us too.
Bellies full and immersed in that easy rhythm of best friends on an adventure, we head back to our hostel for our early morning departure. The unpleasant feelings about the pickpocketing and spending a big portion of our time in Sevilla trying to solve a crime in the rain have all but evaporated, and we are filled now with the kind of confidence that only 21 year olds full of red wine can have. We’ll be fine getting home and we’ll have a good story: intrigue, romance, Doner Kebab, what more can you ask for?
Our author’s savior, Shannon, beside the Guadalquivir river.
The next day Shannon would put me on the bus to Santander, pay my fare, and shove all of her remaining money into my hands. “I’ve already got my plane ticket,” she would say, “I’ll be fine.” (did I mention she is the BEST friend?) Later, after reaching my Spanish home and settling back in without incident, I would find out that Shannon arrived at the airport and was told her bag was too big and she needed to pay 20 euros to get it on the plane. She flirted, she begged, she cried and told our sob story, but to no avail. Faced with the risk of losing her possessions, she chose instead to take out all her clothes, piece after piece, and put them on her body until the bag was small enough. She was the last person on the plane, promptly stripping off the 27 extra layers to a round of applause and roaring laughter from the other passengers who knew exactly what must have happened. She would make it home safely too.
I don’t remember many of the must-see spots in Sevilla. I don’t remember any times that we were dry the whole weekend. But I do remember the heightened emotions of getting into a scrape, getting out of it with barely a nickel to spare, and the gratitude of having Shannon with me for all of it. Even years later, I’d go back to that day with my best friend in a heartbeat.
