Sevilla is one of those small towns you’d had never heard of if your lovely cousin hadn’t so heartily recommended it. You arrive on the Spanish Christmas day – a day where all the shops are closed, and the streets are littered with candy and roaming Spaniards. As soon as you arrive you feel instantly relaxed being away from a capital city and those pesky tourists. You check in, buy some smokes (4 Euros!!!) and go for a walk around the winding streets. Hungry from a day of trains, you stop at a restaurant and sit down to traditional Spanish tapas: potatoes with aioli, a salad of peppers, cooked spinach and chickpeas, and a flamenco roll for Mik – ham wrapped in chicken. After drinking your red wine with lemonade, you dive into the delicious food at hand, pausing only to savour the tastes in your mouth. Despite this feast, you can’t help but buy homemade gelato from the tiny shop next door. You have a traditional Sevillian gelato made out of sweet bread and olive oil, and a scoop of fig cheesecake ice-cream. Salivating yet?
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You’re travelling to Spain; a land of culture, food, music and wonderful architecture. On the train from the peak of Spain to Barcelona, you are stuck for one hour and a half with an Australian family from Queensland. You begin by chatting with the husband and wife, before their hellish 3 year old son pipes up. What starts out to be adorable banter between you three, soon turns into an hour and a half of loud, piercing chats with a spoilt child. Whenever his parents ask him to kindly keep his voice down, the little brute resembling Damien from The Omen, would lash out his fists at his parents, and tell them to be quiet. The experience further reinforces your objection to motherhood.