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Try as we might, we couldn’t make Morocco happen. Overpriced hostels, no available Couchsurf hosts, and I was coming down with a nasty sinus infection or something. When we discovered the outrageous hassle and expense that would accompany the process of obtaining permission to reenter the country (since I’m still awaiting my residence card), we decided to let this one go and opted instead for a quiet weekend in Sevilla. I adored the place when I visited during my France-Spain jaunt with Lindsey, and Levi had yet to see it.

Sevilla is a lovely city, full of that old European romance and charm that rarely exists beyond the silver screen. It’s the kind of place I always pictured when I was entirely ignorant of what really exists in Europe: colorful buildings lining a wide river, church steeples, elegant bridges and busy sidewalk cafes. The whole city has a romantic, dream-like quality to it. It’s a hard place not to love.

It is also, however, the most unnavigable city I’ve ever visited. Streets are born and die within a block, and those that eek out some extra life invariable bear six or seven different names, another conquistador hero honored in every half kilometer. We struggle for hours to find our hostel and the various tourist spots, and it’s only by accident that we eventually stumble upon the shopping district we’ve been looking for.

Nighttime find us weaving through those contortionist streets in search of the small, dark sort of bar we’re always drawn to. We pass the crowded corner pubs full of study-abroaders and the techno-pounding clubs with velvet-roped queues until we come across the perfect place, a dark wooden spot that can only be described as miniscule. Five or six barstools crowd around an oak bar barely long enough to accommodate three. The place has a delicate, Victorian sort of décor; burgundy stripes accent the baseboards and sepia-toned photos hang in ornate frames on the walls. It all clashes oddly with the body-builder bartender, whose immense bulk is complicating his movement behind the tiny bar. He’s speaking English to the only customer, a rotund Arab man in a grubby grey sweat suit. We order a round of beers and tapas and listen in for a while. Before long, we’re consulted on an English word and join the conversation.

The customer introduces himself as Ahmed Rassad, which he explains is Arabic for “Servant of the Most Merciful Allah.” He’s Kuwaiti, a well-traveled, educated thirty-something, eager to hear about our home and even more eager to tell us about his.

He tells that as far as the Middle East goes, Kuwait is a reasonably progressive, liberal country. Compared to their Saudi neighbors, the very thought of whom send Ahmed into scowls, they’re practically Utopian. Although the social influence of conservative Islam has tightened in recent years, women are still treated fairly, non-Muslims are not persecuted, and the constitutional monarchy is largely secular. Gays, however, are still driven underground, and although there is a lively secret gay scene, homosexuality is socially unacceptable. He scans our faces as he shares this information, carefully reading our reactions.

Once we’ve told him enough about ourselves for his comfort, he dives right in.

“You want to know why my country hates America?”

I’ve had this conversation more times than I can count. Frustration with the United States runs so deep that no one can resist once they’ve learned I’m American. They feel me out for a few minutes, comfort themselves that I’m not a bullheaded nationalist, and then whip out that too-familiar question. My answer is always yes, so I’ve learned some interesting, albeit discouraging, things.

Spain hates us because we supported their fascist dictatorship. France hates us because our culture has infiltrated and overpowered theirs. Great Britain hates us because they feel we use our ‘special relationship’ to control their leaders. Canada hates us because we’re socially backward. Sweden hates us because we’re backward on clean energy. Brazil hates us because we’ve imposed prohibitive visa laws on them. Argentina hates us because we supported their fascist dictatorship and turned a blind eye on the tens of thousands of murders it committed. They also think we’re arrogant bastards. Tibetans are pissed that we’re so beholden to China, Israelis think we’re morally bankrupt, and the Swiss see us as undereducated and dangerously conservative.

Superlatives, of course, and mostly based on conversations with a just few young backpackers from each country, but the general sense of aggravation is overwhelming. German and Irish friends alone, in what I can only assume to be beer-inspired camaraderie, have told me that their societies are generally pretty cool with America.

Ahmed has one I haven’t heard before, but it doesn’t surprise me too much. Kuwait, he says, and the Middle East in general, hates us for our support of Israel. He says we will never be welcomed in the Middle East so long as we’re backing this artificial nation. He thinks the religious and cultural criticisms of the US are footnotes and distractions; the real issue is our hated ally.

But politics are wearying as the beer does its work, and we veer back to gay life in Kuwait. In what sounds more like a confession than anything, Ahmed tells us that after three failed marriages, he’s finally admitted to himself that he’s gay. It’s impossible to be truly out in Kuwait; his close friends and younger relatives know, but he keeps his mother in the dark. He proudly shows us pictures of his nieces, two grinning teenage girls in Western clothes. “They know and they don’t care,” he says with a smile. But it’s a hidden life of underground nightclubs and constant lies. There’s no legal persecution of gays in his country, but the social consequences of exposure would be crippling.

“I really do wish I weren’t gay,” he says, picking at the label on his beer bottle. “I know Allah hates me.” We insist that’s not true, and he tearfully thanks us for the support.

He tells a story he heard in his childhood. He says Mohammad once told it.

A devout religious woman spends her entire life following the Quran to the letter. One day a cat is irritating her with its mewing, so she locks it in a room and lets it die. She goes to hell. An unreligious prostitute comes upon a small amount of water in a vast desert. She sees a dog nearby, nearly dead for thirst. She lets him drink first, taking only a sip for herself. She goes to heaven.

He takes personal comfort in this story, hoping his good heart will save him from damnation for his sexual preference. I’m happy to see a soft, forgiving side of a religion so often portrayed as hateful.

A noisy thunderstorm has kicked up outside. We order another round and wait for the rain to ease up.

The bartender is looking bored. He tells us he owns the place. Three customers isn’t a great Saturday night, and in this rain it’s unlikely there’ll be more. His voice startles me; from somewhere within his 300lbs of muscle is emanating a high, dancing sing-song. He tells us he’s been to America a few times. On the most recent visit, he went to San Francisco with his boyfriend, where he entered, and won—you can’t make this shit up—the International Bear Contest. I have no idea how this happens, but a few minutes later he’s whipping off his shirt to show us his tattoo, four-inch Gothic lettering across his upper back. It’s his name, Cossío.

After this, our presence seems largely superfluous, as Ahmed has launched into an assault of shameless flirting. The rain lifts at last in the early hours of the morning, and we exchange email addresses with our new friends and head to the hostel, stopping off for some much-needed Burger King on the way.

The next day we walk some more of the sites and find a tapas bar near the river. It’s a good 10°F warmer here than it is in Zafra, so we sit at a table on the sun-drenched sidewalk. The waiter doesn’t even try Spanish, opting to launch into flawless and unmistakably New York English.

“Where ya from?”

He’s wearing—forgive me, I just can’t put this any other way—a gangster suit. Silky bluish-black with tiny white pinstripes, the vest, the mirror-shined shoes, rings on his fingers, slicked hair. He’s a portly Al Pacino. His name is Jesús.

I tell him I’m from Illinois, Springfield to be exact. This usually gets an “Ohh like the Simpsons?!?”

Not here.

"What the fuck're ya doin here?"

We laugh and tell him we're teachers living north of Sevilla.

"Springfield, eh?" Jesús scowls a bit as he nods. “I had a buddy in Brooklyn who lived in Springfield for a bit. Spanish guy. He came back here to Sevilla and got himself shot.”

It’s Levi who throws it out there after a moment of silence.

“Umm…how?”

Jesús shrugs. “He was a bastard. What can I get yous to eat?”

It’s the best meal in my recent memory. Potatoes smothered in light, herby aioli, fresh paella with rabbit and prawns, and pork loin in a whiskey sauce with lemon-roasted garlic. If you’re ever in Seville, seek out Bar El Toro.

The Spanish don’t usually tip, but we can’t resist leaving a few euro for Jesús.