We walk on, arms around each other. I gaze at lurid religious plaques nailed to the walls, at yucca plants spiking through the bars of balconies above us. The sheer exotism of Spain soaks into me, like it did in Seville, only it's indescribably better than Seville because Juan's here next to me. Then a church bell starts to ring, cracked and flat. I laugh, say, "You should hear English bells!"
"Why-- are they different?"
"God, yes! They're...musical. Kind of big and rich and full-throated. It's 'cos we've got a wet climate, it keeps them good. Although thinking about it, I'd go for your crap bells and some sun."
