It’s 9:30pm, on the eve before leaving for yoga training. Rob and I have just finished eating an early dinner by Spanish standards, and I feel like I could fall into bed this instant. The week has been full and festive, thanks to a lovely visit from a dear old friend. After many tapas and plenty a glass of wine, I think we are all ready for a rest. But it is sad to say goodbye. On top of that, I will soon be saying goodbye to Rob and to this city, and even a few new friends here, and that feels a bit sad too. I know it is not for long, but I feel like I am constantly leaving places these days.

At the same time, I am of course looking forward to this new experience—to learning, to movement, to seeing the Spanish countryside, to eating healthy vegetarian food. I am even hopeful that the weather might permit a few swims in the lovely pool pictured on the retreat website. The temperature has been increasing over the past week or so, to an almost summery warmth during the day (Vancouver summer that is—not by local standards). The evenings are still cool. But judging by the change so far, I have a beautiful spring to look forward to when I finish my course.

I also look forward to settling in a bit upon my return, to finding work, to getting into a routine, to unpacking my stuff and leaving it that way for a while. We have not yet found an apartment that is to our liking. We have decided that it is worthwhile to be both patient and picky, seeing as I already have a place to stay the next three weeks and Rob can stay in a single room rented by the week. Tomorrow we we will get up early to finish packing and move our things to his room, and later in the afternoon I will catch the bus to the small village of Villamartín. There someone will pick me up and drive me to the olive farm acreage on which the yoga retreat was built, where I will begin this new experience, and perhaps a new chapter.

Meanwhile, the rest of the city is celebrating Friday night. A group of young señores y señoritas is laughing and drinking outside our window. Someone had a guitar earlier, playing songs like Stairway to Heaven and Smells Like Teen Spirit while his friends listened with the attentiveness he was surely hoping for. Flamenco seems to appeal to an older crowd than that which has gathered outside our window. We were lucky enough to witness a spontaneous flamenco practice session the other day, performed by leather-jacketed thirty-somethings—long dreads hanging down their backs—in the hip and hipster café area of La Alameda. The really lovely thing was that nearly the whole café got involved, keeping time with loud and rhythmic clapping, some of them even singing, or just smiling and tapping their feet as they smoked their cigarettes and drank beer in the sun. What the Spaniards seem to share is a love of spending time together, of sharing drink and food in the open air, of soaking up the afternoon and evening with a presence that might suggest there is nothing else to do—but not because there actually is nothing, but because this social interaction is just as worthy as anything else on the list, so they give it their all.

My own social interactions this past week were thoroughly infused with the Spanish spirit. Strolling and wandering, enjoying afternoon sweets before dinner, reading in the sun, and hours of drinking and eating—it was a lovely way to catch up with an old friend and to enjoy the Sevillan way of leisure before moving on to a more austere lifestyle over next few weeks. But for now, to bed! Buenas noches.