an update of e p i c proportions

I should be watching a film about the reunification of Italy, but since my professor isn't present today nor does the film particularly pertain to the name of the course (Social and Political Movements in SPAIN), I will regard this film with as much relevance to my blogging as the film does to my course. Though I must tear myself away for a moment, as it appears an Italian version of Scarlett O'Hara is shrieking on a chaise lounge. What is it about hoop skirts and ringlets that make women so damned dramatic?

At any rate, I feel compelled to comment on my past few days here, as I have been treating this blog with about as much care and maintenance as the leg hair on my kneecaps. I just don't go there. There are tights for those kinds of things. Though unfortunately, a few yards of nylon can't conceal the fact that I have been remiss on updating my single follower on the goings-on with Spanish Sav. But don't worry, Mom, I won't be referring to myself in the third person for the duration of this entry...

Thus I will begin with Monday's minutia. I began it quite abysmally by completing perhaps the most asinine assignment of my life, wherein I had to comment on the different "systems" present in a specific area of my host city. I was told to choose a "busy" place where I wouldn't be disturbed. No, it made no sense to me, either. Given how confusing the assignment was phrased, I wanted to respond with an equally choppy and contradictory essay, however ultimately I decided that a good grade is worth more than good conviction, ergo I abstained from challenging the system in favor of writing about its numerous manifestations in a park setting. Pick and choose, I suppose.

That said, my efforts were soon rewarded with a cold beer and chorizo sausage, so I suppose the few hours of academic enslavement were worth it. I can only imagine how the slaves greeted their forty acres and a mule. At any rate, I consumed said concoctions with a Gregor, a Scot with whom I share two classes. He is funny and attractive, though made more so as he paid for the two drinks I guzzled prior to class.

Said class comprised of yet another absent teacher and a subsequent substitute, at which point in time we were told to rewrite the classic story of Cinderella (this was supposed to be, as I learned after completing the assignment, a mere test of our knowledge of the indefinite past, past-perfect, and imperfect tenses) and share them with the class. In mine, I decided that the lazy prince really loved the fairy godmother as she could produce social justice and an ideal welfare state that didn't crush the GDP all with a flick of her wand, and that he only wed Cinderella because he found out that FG once had questionable ties with a communist kingdom nearby and thought that, with his rosacea and all, he looked absolutely horrible in red, so it was a definite no-go. Meanwhile, he saw Cinderella from the corner of his eyes, sweeping up some soot, and figured that marrying a plebeian would demonstrate his political ingenue and general humanitarian interests well enough to appease the frustrated serfs in his kingdom so they wouldn't, at least for a while, stage a rebellion. So then the Prince married Cindy and they lived happily ever after/tax free. Only a few people understood my story. But so it is.

That night was also a landmark for me, as I decided to use my stove for the first time in my 40-some days of being here. The dish? Frozen green beans. No, it's not the height of gastronomy, but given that my cooking capacity until this point both started and stopped with a clean spread of jam on a piece of bread, these green beans may as well have been lobster thermidor. Though having never used a stove before, I decided to proceed with utmost caution. I watched a YouTube video, then meticulously applied what I had learned to my own stove. I turned to knob from "off" to the flame symbol and placed my pot on the burner, patiently waiting by the open window. Five minutes later, there had still been no change in temperature. And then the tidal wave of realization hit: I probably should have lit something. So, I quickly grabbed a lighter and placed it underneath the burner, only to watch in astoundment as a large blue flame spread over the entire counter for a split second before it proceeded to go back to normal. It only occurred to me as I was enjoying my green goodies that that was how some of my personal greats had killed themselves. Which made me wonder if maybe all of their deaths had been misunderstandings. Perhaps after dedicating so much of their time and brain capacity to other things, they too had forgotten how to use one of the most basic kitchen appliances, ultimately resulting in their demise. Though how unfortunate it would be for me to die in such a way without having a book of controversial poems, or at least some kind of addiction, first.

But I digress. Moving backwards in time, my Sunday was spent with two of my favorite vices: gluttony and sloth, respectively. You see, I was recovering from a night that didn't end until the morning, and what better way to recuperate than with a bed and thinly sliced lamb, chicken, a fried egg, and vegetables all wrapped into one pita about the size and weight of an Olsen twin? Yes, I started the day with a shawarma. Afterward, I felt a bit guilty so I spent the rest of my afternoon reading about the UN and NATO Resolution of 1973. As entertaining as that is, however, I really miss reading for pleasure (hint, reader). Though I royally pissed myself off after the thought "Damn it, I can't read; I've lost my charger" actually escaped my mouth.

In case you were curious, I was recovering from my Saturday night. It began in the evening with tapas with Guillaume, though unfortunately he brought two of his boring friends who were leaving the next morning for an equally boring country, Poland. Suffice it to say I had little desire to stick around to hear the monotony of their travel plans (Poland will be cold. Poland will have museums. Will it be cold? I think so. Too cold for their museums? I don't know. Depends on how cold it is, etc, etc), so I apologized to Guillaume (who later apologized for bringing the walking dead with him on our Saturday plans) and to the others, saying that I completely forgot that I had to meet up with some others and was running late. And that furthermore, I was a bit sick.

Which wasn't entirely untrue; I did have plans with others, and I was running late. And I was sick. Sick of their conversation. Anyway, I had heard earlier from Veronica (sweet Ecuadorian) and Gregor that there was supposed to be a massive house party in the albaicin that night, and that I shouldn't miss it. And as I had no desire to discuss Warsaw, I figured the albaicin, despite the uphill trek that still makes my quadriceps squeal like a pig in the slaughter, was worth it. In a bit of a hurry to meet up with them (we were to reunite at a Brazilian's apartment), I rushed into the nearest chino to purchase my usual beverages: vodka and orange juice. Pointing indiscriminately at the closest bottle of clear liquid, I thrust a few wads of cash at the clerk and made my way over. It was only after I arrived and began to mix my drink that I thought of my grandfather all of a sudden. And then I looked down to my bottle, and saw that, to my malaise, I had purchased gin and not vodka. He always used to drink gin and tonics, and I guess I just associate the smell of gin with him. I figured that a liking of gin could indeed be hereditary, so I gave it a shot (pun very much intended). It was terrible. But really, all alcohol is terrible. It's only not terrible if you're an alcoholic.

At any rate, once my throat was sufficiently burning like that of a fire-breathing dragon, we made our way to the party. I didn't drink enough to not notice the incline of the hill, and therefore was casting aspersions and imagining various anvils and grand pianos falling on the Portugese prick who decided that taking a 2 euro a person cab fee was just too much. Oh well, we can't always get what we want or something. The party was, for a lack of a better term, insane. The basement, where it was being held, was only found after heading down a labryinth of passageways and stairwells. From the top of the stairs, I could see a room that seemed to be the size of my house, and heads nodding up and down to the rhythm of a Pitbull song. Speaking of, there were dogs wandering through people's legs as well. My gin was quickly usurped from me by an unknown party guest, but for all intents and purposes I wasn't too upset. I wanted to keep my wits about me, especially in this setting. To do so, I ended up spending some of the night taking advantage of some of the unfortunate drunks by leading them to say very stupid and hypocritical things to make my calves feel better, as well as dancing with those whom I deemed fit. And there were quite a few of those.

However, the night ended, yet again, with me feigning illness in order to escape to a warm bed. This time, I was convincing enough to have a taxi ordered for me (sidenote: I cannot even begin to describe how elated I was to see Mr. Cheap puking his guts out over the balcony upon my exit; I felt as if I had won something) by Gregor, who made sure I got into my apartment alright among other things.

I'm afraid I'm going to have to take a pause now as my fingers are cramping up and the lights are coming back on in the classroom. It's time for our halfway break. Surprise, Italy is still divided. Surprise, woman in curls is still shrieking.