Chelsia Durkee, copywriter & creative

The cobbletoned streets, sprawling plazas, and blue and yellow tiles characteristic of Sevilla haven’t changed since I first landed as a bright eyed college student 15 years ago. Even my old haunt, Los Especialises, the churro stand right at the base of the Triana bridge, looks exactly the same.

There’s something magical about revisiting a place so unchanged, while I was the one to grow up. It’s like a portal into the past, into a previous lifetime. As I write about myself, it almost feels like I’m writing about a different person. My first time in Sevilla I was 20 years old and there for a semester abroad to study Spanish. I had never, ever left the country before, much less alone.

I wore Neutrogena foundation to cover up my acne, not realizing that wearing cheap makeup coupled with the southern Spain humidity would only anger my skin. I had a completely different friend group, different passions, and an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex. I hadn’t even had my first legal drink yet. 

But the biggest difference of all was that I had arrived with my father, the first man that I had ever loved. At that time he was still alive, and demonstrated his love through overprotection, wanting me to have a different childhood than the one he experienced. Though I didn’t know it at the time, he was also my first travel cheerleader. 

At a college fair in high school he encouraged me to study abroad, saying that living in a place will change me far more than just vacationing there. He didn’t like travelling himself, but I respect that he probably could sense my thirst for adventure. His advice would later unknowingly serve me well when I made my comeback (aka glowup) and reentered my era of solo travelling in my 30’s.

The first few days of my first Sevilla trip were spent on getting settled in. It was my first international flight, and back then, direct flights from San Francisco weren’t abundant. We flew from San Francisco to New York, Madrid, and finally to Sevilla. I remembered upon arriving that my dad was so worried about my cell phone coverage (eSims weren’t a thing!). Even though my study abroad program, Cross-Cultural Studies, said they would provide me with a Blackberry, my dad, the ever skeptic, wanted to make sure I really had a proper phone.

He probably felt like he was contributing to my trip by fetching one himself. And so with limited Spanish abilities, we went hunting for one from a tiny phone shop in Sevilla. My dad approached this phone finding mission with the same sheer enthusiasm that other parents planned a vacation to Paris. Doing the mundane tasks was just as important to him as going on vacation. To this day, I still try to remind myself to appreciate the little annoying errands that I get to do. 

That was my father. A steady, predictable force, just like those windy cobblestoned alleyways that remained unchanged 15 years later–and will remain indifferent 100 years from now–the  scratches from years of footsteps revealing everything and nothing. 

Fast forward to January 2026, my trip was short and sweet. I had a few lovely days before departing to the Bachata Sensual World Congress (BSWC) in Huelva. I revisited the Real Alcazar de Sevilla and the Catedral de Sevilla, where I was struck silent by the beauty of religiosity and devotion. My memories of both sites were faint, but I did remember the exact place that I took the photo in the Alcazar. Of course, I took another one for good luck.

In the Real Alcazar, my tour guide said that we needed an interpreter to reveal the meaning of the language etched on the archways. I’m glad a human would devote so much time to studying the language, and that it wasn’t just scanned by a robot. I loved the juxtaposition between the mosque and the church in one palace, revealing the religious conflict that Andalusia had endured. 

With my father, we also visited religious sites. We took a day trip to Cordoba to visit the Mosque-Cathedral. Just like the Royal Alcazar of Sevilla, it was half mosque, half church. It was initially created in 285-786 CE, but then expanded in the 9th and 10th centuries. It was particularly special to visit these sites as my father was a passionate Muslim. A man of few words, I now wish that what he felt in the presence of these structures could be felt within my heart and spirit. I was blown away by the sheer magnitude of it all, but it must be different to visit a religious site when you have a personal tie.

In 2026, I also spent an afternoon wandering around my old neighborhood, Triana. I couldn’t remember the address, or even my housemother’s name, but the essence of this charming neighborhood just 20 minutes outside of the major tourist throngs are palpable. I was dismayed to see that the main street after the Triana bridge was filled with yogurt shops and hipster looking businesses that looked identical to the ones in San Francisco and Brooklyn. But farther along, I saw the familiar sights of older ladies carrying their grocery bags and mothers ushering groups of children home. I stood outside one of the apartment courtyards, trying to see if I could viscerally feel my apartment location. It didn’t come to me, but it didn’t matter. I took in the sweet scent of bitter oranges and snapped a few selfies in front of the Iglesia de Santa Ana church that I passed by on my way to school everyday. 

Here in Triana, energy transcends language. Many do not speak fluent English, and my Spanish no longer rolls effortlessly on my tongue. But that doesn’t matter, as much can be communicated through body language. Hand gestures are frequent, and as I sat in front of a storefront to take refuge from the rain, a woman looked over and pointed at the door, asking if it was closed. The day-to-day tasks of Triana, Sevilla are not steeped in advanced language skills, but rather human connection. Triana thrives on neighbors helping each other out, not on the transactional nature of big businesses. It’s part of the Andalusian charm that I’ve loved.  

After the rain cleared up, I decided to take a well-deserved break and walked into a local tapas bar called Abacería Lio. It was only 5:00 PM, and I still had a few hours before I met my dance classmates at Tablao Flamenco Arenal, the flamenco show my hotel recommended. 

There’s two people already sitting at the bar, and I expected more neighbors to flood in for their aperitivo later in the evening. Apertivo is a way of life; a natural reset that separates the mundane workday into evening festivities.

Abacería Lio is the kind of tapas bar that I love–quitely unassuming, no English, and good prices. I ask the bartender what he recommends, and he gives me a massive plate of tuna, vino verano–red wine mixed with lemonade–and of course, complimentary bread sticks. Like all Spanish food, it was fresh and the fish wasn’t overpowered by relishes or sauces. It was the perfect afternoon snack for this weary traveler. In Spanish, I asked him questions about where he’s from, and we talked about his goal of cutting ham in Canada.

For him, jamon ibérico is a way of life. He cuts the ham straight off the bone in a methodical and precise fashion. His movements were calculated as he arranged the ham in a circle on the platter, and I salivated as I saw the fat glistening. He offered me a few pieces of mouth-watering jamon ibérico, and the taste is buttery and velvety as it melts in my mouth. Orgasmic. 

I noticed a photo behind the bar. He confirmed that it’s of his father, grandfather, cousins, and brothers. That’s the one thing all people have in common no matter where I am in the world: everyone is kind when I show how excited I am to learn about their culture and what makes them light up. In Europe, people are passionate about talking about their food, especially with an eager student like me. Throughout my travels, people on trains, planes, and cafes in France and Spain would tell me which region has the best wine, or oysters, or cheese, or whatever their specialty is. I can’t say I’ve ever researched where my Costco chicken comes from. 

From my Secret Food tour guide, I learned that for jamon ibėrico to be legit, the pig needs to be fed acorns and provided with one acre of land for the last 6 months of their life. This treatment of the pig results in a richer taste than other lower grades of ham, like jamon serrano.  I’ve never liked ham in America, having grown up with a Muslim father and very health-conscious parents. But when I eat jamon ibėrico, I feel nourished and energized in a way I never did with American food. I would go on to experience that same feeling in Barcelona, Paris, Strasbourg, Blue, and London . 

On the last day of my Sevilla trip in January 2026, I revisited Los Especiales. The churros were lukewarm, as they probably were 15 years ago. The fried dough wasn’t the best, but the hot chocolate was just as rich and decadent as I remembered. It wasn’t the best churros–especially after tasting one of the best on the Secret Food tour the day prior—but it was worth it for the nostalgia. It was like eating my first Whopper Junior at Burger King or my first California roll from a grocery deli. I’ll always remember the experience, but that doesn’t mean it’s the best. It’s a feeling worth capturing. 

Sipping my cappucino, with my churros in the middle of the afternoon without a care in the world, I could feel my father’s presence. In a world saturated with things I couldn’t control, I always felt my father’s love. Not necessarily through his words, but through his actions. He picked up the phone after two rings, wore the same gray sweatshirts, and loved eating dinner salad with avocado and lots of dressing. His death would later reveal to me how fragile and unexpected life is, and I would eventually learn how to cope with his physical absence. 

As I sat along the Triana river, I also felt the spirit of my younger self. That I didn’t need to be so hard on myself. That I had time. That I am in fact still a baby experimenting with how far I can push my creative boundaries. At that moment, I felt myself coming back. I know that this is the year that I stop bullying myself for simply being me. I’ve created the life that I wanted based on my values of friendship, community, creativity, adventure, and honesty. I’m a genuine one. It doesn’t always look glamorous. I’m not always  flashing my million dollar smile. I get lonely solo travelling sometimes. But the journey is real and it’s all mine. But before I was able to say it was mine, I can say it was mine and my father’s. 

Have you ever revisited a place much later in life? I’d love to know your stories! Comment below 🙂

For more stories and upcoming solo travel tips, please subscribe!

Even one more reader really helps me out–and I promise I won’t flood your inbox!

XoXo, 

Chelsia