Running through Seville

You'd think I would have learned by now that restaurants operate slightly differently here than at home.

But as a friend and I ran through the slippery streets of Seville, I couldn't help but laugh at myself and the situation I had just encountered.

Rewind two hours:

After wandering around the shopping streets of Seville with a few friends, our stomachs started to growl, as it was approaching the dinner hour. One member of the group knew of a restaurant with a great happy hour deal--everything on the menu was half off, clearly catering to the tourists, as Spaniards would never think to cenar at that time.

Deciding it sounded like a good place to eat, we set off in search of it, only to get turned around more than once in the city's winding streets.

Eventually we made it, but with only an hour or so before we had to leave to arrive on time to our flamenco show that night. Pressure was on. But we thought, "Hey, we can dine in an hour."

Welp. Maybe in the states you can.

The minutes ticked down. Eventually we ordered out food. Forty minutes to go. It couldn't take that long could it? The place was empty. Our food should come in twenty minutes max, giving us plenty of time to eat and still have time to walk to the show. We chatted. We joked.

Time ticked down.

Twenty minutes until we had to leave. We let the waitress know we were in a bit of a hurry.

Ten minutes until we needed to leave. We asked that the check come with our food.

Five minutes. What do we do?

Zero minutes. Desperate, stressed, we decided we had to leave. The waitress told us the food was on the way, in the oven right now. Could we take it in doggy bags? Yes, of course. And so half of us left, hurrying to meet up with the rest. While I and another friend waited, tapping our fingers in impatience for the food to show up.

Eventually, it did. Two bags full of boxes. We gripped them and stepped out the door, breaking into a trot. Dodging through the streets, hoping we wouldn't get turned around.

It had rained in the last hour, the streets were slick, and as we trotted along the risk of slipping and falling was great.

But we made it to the hotel, sweaty and out of breath. Red-faced, the stress still pounding through us.

Running through the streets of Seville was a much needed reminder that things don't always work the same way here as they do at home.