Sevilla Streets

I bear the family name of one of the small Andalusian provinces of southern Spain. So it is fair to assume that my ancestry would trace back to this region. After walking a few blocks from the bus station, I sat down for breakfast in one of the small coffee shops along the Avenida de la Constitución, just across from the University of Seville. There was a surprisingly number of American exchange students in this area. I walked around the city center for an hour or so and eventually found myself immersed in a residential area where I could no longer hear English. As I walked down the Calle Álvarez Quintero I felt a profound sense of shock as a I caught the face of an old man with a cigarette hanging from his mouth walking towards me. He was starting back at me with the same look of bewilderment on his face. My grandfather passed away a few years ago, but in that instance I was sure that I was staring into his eyes. I didn’t speak. I just stared for a few seconds too long, then smiled as he walked on by me. I had to stop for a moment and collect myself. I am certainty genetically connected to this place I thought to myself.

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