Remembering spring

I had forgotten the smell of Georgia in the spring. Going for a walk last week nearly brought me to tears as a lifetime of familiar sounds and smells surrounded me.

Living in Spain, I longed for fall. Fall is my favorite season. All the fall festivals and fairs, football games, hot apple cider, friends, Halloween and bonfires. It’s all just my very favorite. But the first year living abroad, I discovered that Spain doesn’t welcome fall quite the same way. There are no fall festivals, no bonfires, no Halloween, no cooler weather, just a little bit less of the high, high summer temps. And I longed for fall. More than fall, I longed for home. That elusive place that I had left willingly, but missed greatly. Fall represented the very best of what I left behind.

For the first (and probably even the second) year, I was pretty miserable. I was too sad to even notice spring. Looking back on that first year, I probably recognized more people were out, people were smiling, and there was a different feeling in the air. But I didn’t completely catch it. The second year I caught it. Spring in Seville is magical. And I don’t say that lightly. It’s actually magical. The orange blossoms burst forth from their winter slumber. The fragrant aroma fills the sleepy sleeps streets of Sevilla that are slowly starting to wake up. Warm sunlight falls on every corner of the city. Fería arrives, and with it a host of beautiful dresses, handsome suits, joyful children dancing in the street and a rebujito in every hand. It’s a throwback to days gone by in Seville and the richness of Spain’s history. Spring brings people back outside who’ve been bundled up for the winter. It brings warm days with a bit of a breeze. It brings tourists. It brings students. And brought me right out of my slumber. Maybe it wasn’t a slumber, maybe I was depressed. Maybe I was lonely. Whatever it was, I was asleep and spring time in Sevilla woke me up.