nights and days

Saturday


After a brief 16 hour nap, I decided to greet Granada with my roommate. We wandered through the Albayzin, where she purchased me a cup of Egyptian tea, she herself ordering fresh squeezed orange juice. From Valencia. Though, despite how fragrant they were, she made sure to do a quick inspection for maggots, as the last time she ordered fresh squeezed anything it came with fresh squeezed maggot bits. I had a bit of an internal discourse with myself for a moment, wondering if maggots in oranges make them more organic, and therefore more fresh, or vice versa. At any rate, the only thing floating in my tea was a bit of mint that had managed to pass the strainer.

Onward. Her name is Loren, and she is part Brit, part Basque. She is an atheist, enjoys street music from the UK, and smokes quite a bit but is, strangely enough, in favor of smoking bans. When Bellarmine's smoking ban took place I was surprised not to see the scornful eyes of smokers turn red and emit blood like those of angry horned toads. But I digress. It was pleasant to see a person who has a vice and recognizes that they are not things that should be catered to. Though I must admit, it is kind of comforting coming home and vaguely smelling tobacco from behind her door (don't worry, mom, she's opened a window).

Later that night, after I reciprocated her purchase of an eccentric and exotic treat with frozen carbohydrates and cheese, we went to several bars together. We left at around 11:30, which, in the few weeks leading up to my own departure, was around the time I'd be REMing and dreaming most likely of Benjamin Bratt. I have to admit, with some of the prices, they are almost goading you on to become an alcoholic. Certain places like La Chupiteria (in English this equates to The Sucking Place, but doesn't it sound so much more pretty in Spanish? You could say some of the most vile things to someone in Spanish and they would still smile at it...maybe that's why I enjoy it so) charge only 1 euro per shot, and there is a list of over 100 shots ranging in strength from which you should try. And with each shot you purchase, you receive a coupon. If you save enough of these coupons, you're eligible for prizes like graphic shirts and sun visors. And cirrhosis. I had some blue concoction that turned slightly green when the alcohol was added. I don't know what it was. It was just number 43, and I like that number. At any rate, we soon left that bar as it tends to be armed with Jersey Shore extras at all times, and went to a few others. One was called Playmovil and it was Lego-themed. I found it ironic that so many macho men went to a place like this, puffing their biceps and downing beers, while under the flashing lights of tiny plastic toys. The last place was just a hop across the street, and was also where I had the pleasure of telling a Moroccan man that just because his Moroccan girlfriend wasn't physically at the bar did not mean that he wasn't physically bound to her. But maybe that just makes me a prude and no fun. Either way, he must have had halitosis. Moroccan maiden can have him and his litterbox for a mouth.

Sunday


This day was a rather uneventful one. Thanks, god.

Monday


That day, I trekked around the city some more, taking in the sights and sounds, and making the path from apartment to international building to school a certain amount of times so that I can soon start charging others for rides on my back. It's all pretty close together. I wandered to the Albayzin, to the Gran Via and then finally to the Federico Garcia Lorca Park, where I read some pretentious literature for a bit until I decided I would rather eat yet another pizza than another short story by Nabokov. The pizza was a great choice. Later that evening, I pondered over going or not going to the free salsa lessons at a nearby pub as if I were contemplating the just war theory. Regardless, I found a safe middle ground and decided that if I did not leave the apartment that could be far more dangerous than actually leaving. Walls get small really quickly, sometimes. And so I left, tights getting wet in mud and construction grime, arriving at the 10 pm session. The later, cooler one. Or so I told myself.

I quickly made an ass out of myself by saying that I had never heard of the Czech Republic to a Czech girl (when the truth was that the music was too loud...I thought she said she was from Checker's, in which case I was about to talk about how much I enjoy their seasoned french fries). I'm sure she thought I was stupid, but so be it. Another girl named Isabel approached me (I think I have inherited the comforting, smiley face like my mother). We didn't have much in common and she blushed every time she spoke, almost as if it were some kind of rosy morse code. But I wasn't cruel. We're all in the same boat, anyway. Turns out she's studying at the same faculty as me. It also turns out she's studied in Russia before and has spent an extensive amount of time at the Peterhoff Palace and St. Basil's Cathedral. It also turns out I burned her turquoise blouse to a crisp when I breathed fire from my incredulity. I've got Anastasia on DVD, so it's more or less the same, anyway.

Soon after, I mosied over to the dance area. Quickly began to stab my feet into the ground as if I were fighting a rogue army of fire ants, and apparently was so entertaining that a group of Colombians came over and tried to teach me how to properly salsa. While I never acquired that ability, despite their constant reassurance that I was doing well, I did come out of it with cocaine and coffee. Kidding (mom!). They all seemed rather nice, and we actually had a lot in common. Their names are Nicolas (good teeth, knows how to rumba), Miguel (he's petite and has dreadlocks), and Juan (or as he calls himself, Gordo) and are all studying Fine Arts. They hate Shakira and don't think that the two most popular Gabriel Garcia Marquez books are his best. Go figure. I much prefer Kelly Clarkson's underground EP, too. Regardless, they seemed very friendly and vastly more interesting than some of the other people there (re: bros wearing sweatpants and double-collard shirts, fist pumping to anything with a semblance of a beat). They're all bilingual with the exeption of Gordo, so the pact (we will see if I ever see them again, though I think numbers were exchanged) is for me to help them with their English and for them to help me with my Spanish, as it turns out Colombian Spanish is one of the cleanest dialects of them all.

That's all for now.