Michelle Zimmerman ’21 shares a poetic description of Cádiz.
Your toes sink deep into the sand. It is soft and warm here. The wind carries an ancient lullaby from the ocean in its voice. Your friends sit with you and even though the mint in your gum is long gone you don’t even notice. Even your sunglasses cannot dull the golden reflection off the waves.
You walk through the old city. The streets are loud and impossibly intricate. You buy the best cherries you’ve ever had from a fruit stand, and try not to lose your friends in the twists of the narrow boulevards. It only takes two days for you to have them memorized like the lines on your hand.
The gelato vanishes on your tongue. It is quiet but for the cars driving and the faintest murmurs of people walking by. You walk with your friends back home and watch as the sky melts to the same dark color as the dark chocolate ice cream. The stars do not wait for the moon to dance, and when you see them you remember the myths of this small city.
These are the moments that hold on to you, peach flavored Fanta staining your lips and memories, although you remain grateful for the teachers and friends, all those who led you along the way. Everything here has so much history — if you listen, you can hear the walls whispering their stories. Your favorite songs on repeat, which will remind you of this forever. Your tongue starts to get used to the rolling r’s and soft ll’s. It’s not so hard to understand when the people on the bus speak to you. You even dream in Spanish sometimes. It is not what you thought, but you are forever thankful.