Seville, Andalusia

By late afternoon, I reach Triana.
Hunger tugs; I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

On the riverfront, I cross the street to a wall of chalkboards stacked by the door.
Too much writing. I can’t focus on any of it.

I’m lightheaded. My legs feel heavy.

Then the smell: olive oil, garlic, salted cod, and something frying. It pulls me inside.
I can’t tell if it’s only hunger,
or just Seville.