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"Muy tranquillo" says my taxi driver when he hears I’m staying at Hotel Byblos. Shooting past southern Spain’s new toll road and thirty minutes west of Malaga, we turn north towards the Sierra Nevada. The Mediterranean is left behind as we weave between two golf courses. The spring bloom of orange trees sweetens our approach to Costa del Sol’s whitewashed, terracotta-tiled, palm-rimmed Hotel Byblos.

The flamenco guitar renders sweet, tender tones. The dancer’s elegant hands sculpt origami silhouettes as her arms snake above her arched back. No ersatz smile, eyes half closed, she concentrates. Stomp. Her feet break out in a syncopated rap-tat-tap. Other dancers clap a counter rhythm. The singer’s voice erupts, husky with anguish. Surging-slowing, surging-slowing, the emotion builds. Hands-feet-skirts fly at blur speed. Olé! Olé! we whoop. With a fierce cry, the lament breaks, the passion’s released. Now sensuous and defiant, our dancer proclaims her power.

Pulling away from Fort Lauderdale’s dock, the Seabourn Pride’s March crossing began with a  long, low moan from her horn. A sound filled with such yearning and promise, I felt a pang for those left onshore. As Florida’s lights ebb below the horizon, free time stretches before me - a rare, precious prize. Eleven days will pass before I see land again. Then, after the Island of Madeira, it would be seven more days until we sailed up the river to Seville stopping to visit Casablanca and Cadiz. I anticipate filling my days with reading, writing and exercise.

There’s plenty of time to get acquainted with Jörg Lehmann, the Seabourn Pride’s Chef de Cuisine, on our seventeen long, luxurious days from Fort Lauderdale to Seville. "It’s always been food with me" says Jörg. He’s wanted to know what’s cooking, ever since he was small. "Daddy gave me this little wooden chair so I could run after mother and see what was doing on the table," he remembers.