The dark desert night retained hints of navy blue sky. White painted homes lined winding paths like bleached seashells against volcanic sand. Philip marched like a soldier relieved of his pack. His stretched gait set a blistering pace as he led Hunt, Maria, Nick and Ana Marta over a bridge spanning the Guadalquivir River. They headed into the city, crossing several boulevards, sticking to the narrow offshoots. Cobblestone walkways opened to larger squares, bronze lanterns illuminating the sandstone buildings in golden light. Philip relaxed his tempo when the group fell behind. He bowed his head, smoothing his yellow shirt. “My apologies,” he said to the women. “We’re nearly there,” and he continued toward Seville’s center at a gentler stride.

They passed through a plaza and turned onto a street bordered by middling orange trees with lush green leaves and well-trimmed branches. A white horse dragging a black carriage trotted past. On the stone sidewalk, sherry barrels acted as tables in front of a restaurant resembling a medieval tavern. Patrons picked at small plates of tapas while drinking beers and mixed drinks in fat glasses. The tavern had two wide windows, one of which displayed a child’s wooden ride-on car. Philip ushered their group inside.