My bus has landed in Seville. I've been here before, which fits nicely in with my connect-the-dots circumnavigation. Though, it only serves to connect Gijon with Barcelona, Faro and Porto, none of which is not especially useful.
I recognise and remember this bus terminal, but it's not the one I was expecting. There's no signs pointing to the centre of town. Ten minutes ago I was certain I knew the way to the centre of town from the terminal, but this isn't that terminal. For the apparent lack of accurate memory, I can only choose a random direction. I could ask, but I like all real men, I hate, hate, asking for directions, most especially when should know the way.
Twenty minutes later and a few degrees hotter, it crosses my mind to question whether I've actually been here before. Maybe, I've confused it with somewhere else. Valencia? No, I've definitley been here.
Eventually, I stumble across a square that I recognise vividly. Towards the cathedral, it all comes flooding back. I remember the river, the bull ring, Arianne 4, the sports bar, and Ben and Matt and Catalina. I should be able trust my own navigation to find the hostel.
Another forty minutes later and I realise I should never have trusted myself. This place is an impossible labyrinth of alleys. I can't remember the hostel. I remember everything else in near-perfect detail. I'm racking my brain as hard as I can to picture any part of it, but I've got absolute zero. Something truly awful and disturbing must have happened to in that place.
Naturally, Tourist Information is closed on Sundays. Presumably, the Spanish don't expect we're here on Sundays, or perhaps they're just not too bothered whether we are or not.
By luck rather than judgement, I come across a generic hostel two short streets later.
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