Downhill from Granada

While bohemian Granada had embraced us, loved us, asked us to be one with it, Sevilla turned up its nose at us and scoffed.

Our backpacking outfits that had served us so well in Granada did not blend in with this well-heeled city. Adorable kids dressed impeccably alike. Men in stripy shirts and shiny leather shoes, women with perfect hair, Manolo Blahnik-esque shoes. Everyone's dressed to impress.

This provided the perfect excuse to get our dresses out - and it was hot! Suddenly it was 'muy bonita' instead of scoffs.

Even our hostel was posh. A swimming pool on the roof terrace and all the mod cons in the kitchen. Apart from the eight-bed dorms this place was better than any three-star hotel I've stayed at in France or Italy. Oh, but the eight-bed dorms. Unfortunately they didn't have all-girl dorms in Sevilla. Gone was our little four-bed enclave with a window. Boys smell. And the snore. We decided we'd splash out in Morocco. For what we were paying in Spain we could get a private room with bathroom in a riad - or guesthouse - rather than a hostel. We were pretty excited.

We went on the tapas tour in Sevilla as well, but it was just not good. The first place was very Spanish (read: jamon hanging from the ceiling and not a chair in sight) but the second place was just a tourist haven. They even sold hamburgers! Where had they brought us? Apart from the vast numbers of very loud Americans the tapas tour guide disappeared once we got there. And then that was it. The next stop was a flamenco dance and it was all over. We had to get out of there!