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-T- 1 Day Until Sevilla Bus Departure. “Y’all down to grab dinner at that bar?” “Yeah, I wanna try the food.” Ry eyes you and Jon with skepticism. “C’mon man, we’ll only have like one drink. It’ll be a chill night.” Ry morphs into a tracking hound. His snout twitches in the breeze as the air particles mingle, tingle, and tango with his nose nerves. A familiar scent sends a cascade of electricity across the Neurological Sea. Its aroma is warm, nutty, and offsetting; USDA certified bullshit. You lead the boys out the hotel, and up the jagged cobblestone. It’s a sidewalk in the way that a drunk can drive. Every third step one of you twists an ankle, and you nearly careen to the hill’s feet each time it happens. “Wait, it’s cerveza right?” Jon queries. “No, cerveja.” “Cerveja, cerveja, cerveja.” You swing open the bar entryway to reveal an empty room decorated by the leftovers of every garage sale. There’s green stools at one table, black fully backed chairs at the next, and a single galaxy-coloured comfy chair in the corner. The fake wood paneling industry proudly proclaims its last stand at hip height on every bit of drywall. “Ola! Amigos!” “Ola Maria!” you respond, “um cerveja por favor.” “Super Bock o Sagres?” “Sagres, obrigada.” She laughs, transferring a pint to your thirsty grasp. Jon chokes and gives you a save me look, “what is it again?” “Cerveja.” “Oh, one, uh, cerveja.” “Super Bock o Sagres.” “Uh, same as him. Obrigada.” Maria giggles. Bounty in hand, you and Jon claim a table as Ry acquires his libation. * ‘we’ll take the bottle” declares Jon. * “Dragon shots, sure] * Well obrigado is suposed to be used by men she says and girl use obrigada Haha we laugh, we been talking like girls * -T-2 Hours Until Sevilla Bus Departure. Your alarm cries like a baby on a flight, and the mornings full weight drops from space. The pile of blankets on the floor emits a “Jesus Christ.” “Oh God, I feel like a sober Irishman,” you respond. Via groan power you slug crawl into publicly acceptable clothes and plow a third of the mess into your bag. By virtue of Holy miracle your legs take you to the street and dispense instructions to your hands regarding the intricacies of hailing a cab. Door slam barks and the engine horses whinnie. The driver engages Mach 24 and you break the sound barrier, careening around corners designed for flesh and blood animals. -T- 30 Minutes Until Sevilla Bus Departure. Upon arrival at the bus station Jon beams vomit on the sidewalk. Ry bolts to the bathroom with a nuclear bomb. You lean your head against a luke-cool pole, close your eyes, and wade through malaise. “We need to go to terminal number 5,” you announce. “Where’s that?” Responds Ry. Each of you scans the station, but it’s unlabelled chaos. An employee strolls by and you flash your ticket. “Com licença, uh, where’s this?” “Sorry my ingles is no.” -T-5 Minutes Until Sevilla Bus Departure. “Fuck it, I think it’s the green one over there.” The shipment of bricks on your back thuds up and down with each running stride. “Sevilla?” The bus driver nods. “Obrigado.”