Summer in Seville
Episode Two: Lost in Translation
The flight to Seville was long, but Danielle didn’t mind.
She was still in a daze, floating somewhere between grief and freedom. It had only been three weeks since the layoff, but something about packing up her house in Franklin and putting everything on pause had stirred a deeper kind of courage in her.
She wasn’t running—she was surrendering.
To herself.
Or at least, that’s what she whispered as the plane touched down.
The sun in Seville was louder than she expected. It wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl of fire, making her linen pants cling to places she hadn’t prepared for. The air smelled like citrus and old bricks—like stories she hadn’t been told yet.
She scanned the crowd.
“Danielle Carter?”
A man stood with a crooked sign and broken English.
She smiled with relief. “Yes, that’s me.”
Even her voice sounded unsure.
The Airbnb was cute—charming, even.
Tiny terrace. Terra cotta tiles. Whitewashed walls with splashes of cobalt blue. It looked exactly like the pictures online, but real life had a way of smudging fantasy.
The toilet didn’t flush right. The AC was temperamental.
And the host? Only spoke rapid-fire Andalusian Spanish with a cigarette dangling from her lips like a comma.
Danielle tried to explain she needed help with the air.
“No hay problema,” the woman said, waving her hand like a magic wand and lighting another cigarette.
But it was a problem.
So was ordering food at the neighborhood café.
So was buying a SIM card.
So was asking for directions when Google Maps led her down a cobblestone alley that turned out to be someone’s private courtyard.
This wasn’t the flamenco fantasy she’d imagined.
This was real Spain—unfiltered, loud, deeply rooted in its rhythm. And Danielle? She felt like a jazz singer trying to keep up with a salsa band.
By day four, she was exhausted.
Her Spanish classes had started, but even those felt like swimming upstream. Everyone else seemed to know more than her—like they had studied abroad or taken language classes back in college. She was starting from scratch, and every time the instructor called on her, her tongue froze.
“You have to practice outside of class,” her teacher advised gently.
But how, when every interaction felt like a pop quiz she was failing?
Danielle thought this experience would be life-changing—but she didn’t know she’d be skipping orientation and heading straight into combat.
She’d known it would be hard. She didn’t expect ease.
But she thought if she showed up open and willing, things would fall into place. That the Universe would respond to her leap of faith with miracles.
After all, that’s how it worked in business:
Do the work. Show the results. Repeat.
But this wasn’t a boardroom.
This was life, and Spanish wasn’t giving in.
By the end of her first week, she wanted to quit.
She couldn’t believe she had booked this trip on impulse, caught up in the magic of a Travel Channel special. The food, the culture, the romantic streets—it had all looked so effortless on screen. But here she was, floundering.
She pulled out her journal and scribbled:
Why am I here?
She stared at the question for a long time.
She’d come to learn Spanish—but she could’ve done that on an app, wrapped in a blanket at home.
She wanted to travel—but this wasn’t a vacation.
After the layoff, this had become a mission.
She wanted to open a B&B—but why Spain?
Why not Arizona? Or Florida?
And more importantly…
Why did I pack up my entire life and move here without baby-stepping into the process first?
Her severance package gave her eight months.
Eight months to figure it all out.
And here she was, five days in, overwhelmed and already second-guessing everything.
She glanced at the clock.
4:44 PM.
Another sign.
She sighed and whispered, “Okay, I know I’m supported and protected… but can y’all give a sista a damn map?”
She dropped the journal, walked over to the window, and let the city buzz outside her glass. The sun hit the rooftops like honey. She inhaled deeply.
“Well… I’m here,” she said out loud. “I guess that’s a start.”
After a hot shower and a fresh mindset, she sat down at her laptop.
She remembered she had joined an expat network called Internations a while back, just in case she ever made a move abroad.
She logged in and saw a message:
Meetup tonight at Tradevo. 7:30 PM. Casual wine & tapas.
Without thinking, she signed up.
She got dressed in a red boho-chic summer dress that kissed her curves and made her skin pop. She added a long necklace, big hoop earrings, and swept her curls into a high bun, leaving a few strands to flirt with her cheekbones. She smelled like fresh jasmine and grapefruit—bright, soft, and slightly rebellious.
And yes, she wore heels.
Because even in a foreign country, style was non-negotiable.
She had come to Spain to learn a language and explore a dream. But tonight, she just needed to breathe. To be around people. To remind herself that she still knew how to be… her.
It wasn’t a solution.
But it was a step.
And that was enough.
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