It’s the Feast of Corpus Christi, and in Seville, Spain, a procession of statues and icons on floats is — or, given the time difference, already has — snaked its way down the narrow streets of that wondrous city.

I like to think about the places I’ve been, and this is the day I think about Seville, the air scented with orange blossoms, temperatures near scalding (I almost passed out at the Alcazar), the warren of streets around the cathedral. 

We walked to the top of the Giralda, or bell tower, where the city was spread at our feet. It was two years ago. It could have been yesterday.