Andalusia.
You leave and you barely left when you feel like you belong.
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.
It's Andalusia.
You thought it was the euphoria of a first trip,
the freedom with no strings attached
and a very instagrammable existence.
the freedom with no strings attached
and a very instagrammable existence.
But maybe it's more than that.
Maybe it's the central market and its loaves of warm bread for 35 cents.
Maybe it's the abuelitas who call you guapa, reina or corazón
— words that, coming from strangers, had until then meant street harassment.
Maybe it's the abuelitas who call you guapa, reina or corazón
— words that, coming from strangers, had until then meant street harassment.
Maybe it's those nights you come home too late and the mornings after, drinking too much coffee to make up for it.
Maybe it's stepping out in shorts after work,
in those last days of October when the clouds have left the coast,
and walking along the seafront, facing an ocean that shimmers as if summer were still here,
along the beach where,
more than 10 years ago,
you were drinking Malibu straight from the bottle and Cruzcampo from cans at 50 cents.
in those last days of October when the clouds have left the coast,
and walking along the seafront, facing an ocean that shimmers as if summer were still here,
along the beach where,
more than 10 years ago,
you were drinking Malibu straight from the bottle and Cruzcampo from cans at 50 cents.
And ironically remembering that's precisely why you don't drink Malibu anymore.
Maybe it's the late lunches,
the flat (but cheap) beer,
the siesta hour when shops are closed and streets are silent,
the evenings reading
— in Spanish —
under the warm sun,
until the sky turns orange
and the clouds at the end of the pier catch shades of scarlet pink.
the flat (but cheap) beer,
the siesta hour when shops are closed and streets are silent,
the evenings reading
— in Spanish —
under the warm sun,
until the sky turns orange
and the clouds at the end of the pier catch shades of scarlet pink.
Maybe it's watching the sea pull back each evening to reveal the dark shadows of algae-covered rocks,
while from the waves that rolled over the pale sand all day, nothing remains but still,
quiet pools of water,
in which the burning horizon casts its warm reflections.
while from the waves that rolled over the pale sand all day, nothing remains but still,
quiet pools of water,
in which the burning horizon casts its warm reflections.
Maybe it's the sound of the wind lashing the palm trees against the black sky,
when you lie down facing the stars,
unable to close your eyes for fear of losing sight of them.
when you lie down facing the stars,
unable to close your eyes for fear of losing sight of them.
Maybe it's the feeling of being welcomed, and the butterflies it stirs deep in your stomach.
Maybe that's it.
Maybe that's it.
So when the day of departure creeps dangerously close,
to forget that these are the last moments,
you push yourself to live them
harder, slower, more intensely.
to forget that these are the last moments,
you push yourself to live them
harder, slower, more intensely.
So you have nothing to regret.
Eventually, you pack.
Stomach tight and heart heavy with the bitterness of all the last times.
Stomach tight and heart heavy with the bitterness of all the last times.
You know you'll come back.
Some places stay with you long after you've left them. Andalusia is one of them.
This image isn't trying to describe a region — it wants to capture that moment when a culture speaks for itself, through what it has that is most powerful and most true : its people.