Seville, Andalusia

By late afternoon, I reached Triana.
Hunger pulled at me. I had not eaten since breakfast.

On the riverfront, I crossed the street toward a wall of chalkboards by the door.
Too much writing. I could not focus on any of it.

I felt lightheaded. My legs were heavy.

Then the smell arrived: olive oil, garlic, salted cod, something frying. It pulled me inside.
I could not tell if it was only hunger,
or just Seville.

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