The sweet smell of fresh baked bread emanating from the panederias.
The broken, narrow sidewalks.
The melodic, sing-song Spanish of the locals.
The house keys that resemble the skeleton keys from the movies.
The crowds of guys gathered around a restaurant’s old TV to watch the fútbol game.
The delicious dinners starting at 11pm.
The fernet laden nights out that last until 6am.
The inevitable question “De donde sos?” immediately after I start speaking Spanish.
The soda water and small cookies served with every tiny coffee.
The mates with mi amor on the apartment balcony.
The comically horrible wax napkins.
The liters of Quilmes shared amongst friends at an outdoor cafe.
The kiosks on every corner.
The amazing meat filled pies affectionately known as empanadas.
The antique cars cruising the narrow roads, barely avoiding a fender bender at every signless intersections.
Yep, I’m back in Córdoba.