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Today I bumped into Barack Obama. The morning started off normal enough. I sat on the terrace for breakfast - stale churros and mud coffee - staring into El Plaza de Encarnation; a famous square in the city centre that holds a special place in Sevillian history. The ancient plaza, situated in the heart of Old Town, had passed hands back-and-forth between the Christians and Moors for centuries, before Napoleon came and conquered and declared it a food market (of course), and now the ‘Plaza of Incarnation’ is dominated by modern German architectural influence. Cloaked in fog, I marvelled at the giant futuristic structure dwarfing the plaza. According to the back of my map, El Metropol Parasol, or commonly known as Setas de la Encarnación, is the biggest wooden structure in the world. ‘Setas’ translates into ‘mushrooms’, as the monument apparently looks like large-scale fungi. I couldn’t help but wonder if the architect, Jürgen Meyer, may have dabbled in a few mushrooms himself, because to me the undulating construction resembled a massive wobbly psychedelic umbrella, or milky balls of wax melting in a lava lamp. People stood atop of the landmark taking selfies, their faces obscuring the shrouded Sevillian skyline behind them. Although grey skies lingered, the rain had stopped, so I went downstairs to hang up my wet clothes when I noticed a sign that read: ‘Do not hang clothes on the balcony – it is against Sevillian law’. Interesting, that explains why the backstreets are so beautiful, but that didn’t really help me right now, so I ventured down to reception on the off chance they had a tumble dryer. They didn’t. A young Spanish woman approached, tall and thin, with typical Andalusian tanned skin and jet-black hair. She was wearing a radiant smile and tangerine poncho with matching umbrella. “Walking tour?” she asked in a polished voice with slight accent, rolling the rrrrs. I looked around confused. A group of eager ramblers were huddled in the lobby sporting waterproofs and laminated maps. “You want to join?” she insisted. I hesitated for a second, weighing up my options. Yesterday’s exploits had left my feet blistered raw, so I was intending to spend the day eating tapas. On the other hand, despite walking about all day, Seville was still such a great mystery to me, so steeped in history, so enchanting. Plus, I’d never taken a walking tour before, and exploring the city with a local guide could provide some much-needed reference points, hitting one bird with two pebbles. “Si,” I replied. “Okay great, I’m Clara,” she said stretching out a hand. “Vamos. Let’s go.” We set off, picking up other stragglers along the way until there were about twelve of us in total, a hodgepodge of different ages and nationalities - though I must have been the only Brit as everyone else came garbed in thermals and I dressed in swimming shorts plus two damp T-shirts. Our merry band meandered through the mazy city, dodging street blockades and detouring around cordoned off roads as processions of police motorbikes whirred down alleyways, their neon-blue silhouettes bouncing off the walls. A helicopter hovered above. People gathered in excitable clusters. There was a buzz about the place. Something was stirring in the city of Seville.