I went to Seville with one goal in mind — I planned to eat as many tapas as possible.

I left Seville with a new understanding of the history of America and a bevy of new Spanish friends. This beautiful city in Spain’s Andalucia region is home to some of the warmest, most charming people I’ve encountered anywhere. There’s a certain magic to Seville. Maybe it’s all the Flamenco dancing. Maybe it’s the birds singing or the sun shining or the bitter oranges hanging ripe on the trees.

With a population of 700,000, Seville is Spain’s fourth-largest city, yet it feels like a small town — especially if you stick around the older sections, like Barrio de Santa Cruz, where the maze of narrow streets and tiled courtyards are exceptionally fun to explore. You’ll get lost, but that’s all part of the adventure. The nearby Guadalquivir, the only navigable river in Spain, runs 56 miles to the Atlantic Ocean. It’s the reason Seville for 200 years held a monopoly as Spain’s gateway to the Americas. Christopher Columbus planned three of his four trips to America at the Alcazar Palace, sometime-home to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. And Portuguese explorer Ferdinand Magellan sailed from Seville in his bid to circumnavigate the globe.

My traveling companion (my cousin Jan) and I set about exploring, hitting the main sites including the ornately decorated Alcazar Palace built in the 12th century by Moors — Seville was once a place where Arabs, Jews and Christians lived peacefully — and rebuilt beginning in the 14th century by Christian kings. After Ferdinand and Isabella came to power in 1492, they expelled the Jews and Moors and forced those who remained to convert.

We also visited the city’s landmark cathedral, the third-largest in the world after St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome and St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. It took 120 years spanning the 15th and 16th centuries to build the cathedral that houses 44 chapels, the largest main altar in Europe, and the tomb of Christopher Columbus.

The joke told by locals here is that Columbus traveled more in death than in life. At the time Columbus died near Madrid, one of his sons was governor of Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic. The son had his father’s body buried on the Caribbean island. Columbus’ remains were later transferred to Cuba and, in 1898, returned to Spain. Researchers from the University of Granada currently are examining DNA from the body held in the tomb in Seville. They are comparing it to DNA from one of Columbus’ sons, also entombed at the cathedral, to see if it is truly the body of Christopher Columbus.

Attached to the cathedral is the Giralda minaret, all that remains of an old mosque on the site and today the most recognized symbol of the city. Nearby at the Archivos de Indias, we were fascinated by a display of documents and maps including papers signed by King Ferdinand for Columbus’ voyages.

Satisfied we had done our history thing, it was time for nourishment.

We landed at Bar Giralda, near the minaret. Sitting at outside tables, we dug right into jamon de bellota, (probably the best cured ham you’ll ever eat), fried sardines, avocado and shrimp salad, crunchy picos crackers and Manchego cheese — a feast that cost us about $18. Ya gotta love Spain.

Another day we followed the crowd to Casa Roman in Barrio Santa Cruz, where we stood chatting at the bar, standing under hanging hams, with a bunch of men whose wives and children were seated at nearby tables. Much to their amusement, we asked in our broken Spanish what to order and were advised to go with a plate of ham, a delicious bean dish and fried cod. One fellow introduced us to his godchild. We felt right at home.

Then the magic of Seville really took hold. Jan had been talking about a shop she had visited 20 years before where she and the shopkeeper, Maria, got to talking. Very simpatico, they had dinner together then lost touch. In a weird coincidence as we wandering the streets, I spotted a shop that looked cool and suggested we investigate. Jan, who was looking at the handmade cloth handbags, asked the shopkeeper who made them.

“I did,” replied the woman. Looking into one another’s eyes, they realized, sure enough, the shopkeeper was Maria — same woman, different shop. Much hugging and kissing followed. We vowed to meet next evening back at Bar Giralda around 8:30 p.m. (the earliest a respectable Spaniard will dine). Maria and her friend Miquita did the ordering, including a dish which, roughly translated, was “important potatoes.” Delicious.

Maria spoke virtually no English; Miquita spoke more than she would admit. My Spanish is weak. Jan’s is OK. Still, one of the major lessons of travel is if you have the opportunity to interact with locals, do it. Sign language works when all else fails. After dinner, Maria and Miquita took us to a cool spot, La Carboneria, a former coal factory that’s been turned into a gallery/music hall. The featured artist, leather jacket resting on his shoulders and cigarette dangling, greeted us in English and showed us his odd paintings. We chatted with some college students from the Netherlands — the University of Seville attracts a lot of international students including Americans. Performers hit the stage at around 11:30 p.m. — a guitarist and singer, both young guys with flowing hair, accompanying a Flamenco dancer wearing a bright blue dress, her movements both seductive and determined. We were mesmerized.

The next day, Maria and Miquita decided to introduce us to, well, everyone they knew in Seville, so we found ourselves meeting various friends and relatives as we hit several cafes and tapas bars before landing at Miquita’s apartment. An older fellow, an opera-loving sheep farmer named Pepe, stopped by to chat. He scored points by telling us he had a friend who was a friend of Picasso. Of course he did. This is Spain.