Truco o Trato....No. No. It's Trick or Treat. You're doing it all wrong.

Day 21

Sleeping in is an act of rebellion. It takes effort, it takes mental focus and it takes dedication to maintaining the position of restful slumber. If the Spanish economy falls through it will not be because of the street cleaners. There is not a SINGLE morning that they are not dressed in their neon yellow jump suit manning large trucks full of water to purge the streets of the waste left over from the sinful nighttime pursuits of the youth. Behind the baptism team comes the trash truck to pick up the piles of gunk that pools in corners and dips in the road. Every morning the street is erased of the boisterous night life, greeting the sun with a deceivingly innocent decorum, but the moon must whisper to the rising sun the deeds of the street in the dark because by 12 pm the sun glares down punishing the black pavement, café tables inch closer to walls and under overhangs to escape the temperamental wrath of the day. But from 7am until 10:30am, the street cleaners have their way with the city and they make sure to idle below our piso, as if it were an especially troublesome spot. And so, this is why sleeping in takes determination. You must make believe that the beeping of the truck as it backs down the street, the whoooosh of the hose spraying water and the crash crash crash of glass breaking in dump trucks is all part of the dream you’re dreaming. You must pull up out of the archives of memory the sound of silence and let it resound in your ears. Or you give up and lie with heavy eyelids, begging 5 more minutes before they’re asked to blink all day long.

Today was forecasted to bear the onslaught of heavy rains and forceful winds. The winds must have blown the rain away to the next city because it’s shining bright sunshine, with dark clouds lagging on the horizon, indecisive of where to go. The wind though has no trouble deciding its direction. I can’t fathom why it blows so angrily, but it does. Going for a walk on the beach, I feel like an out of place blind basset hound, keeping my head down, my eyelids almost shut tight, and I lean forward to walk into the wall of wind that carries grains of sand on its back, seemingly forgetting that humans are not impermeable, so I’m socked with tiny beach residents on my stroll. But on the way back it feels like the winds are rushing me home, pulling my hair forward, tugging at my shorts and my t-shirt, scooting me off its shores. Needless to say today was a no earring day.

Deciding that since it was Sunday, and all the touristy things were free and I had nothing better to do, I’d play tourist. Especially since I got a new camera. If only I had a fanny pack, I’d look like a German sightseer right off the cruise ship. Not wanting to start small with trite museums I head for the Alcazaba and el Catstillo de Gibralfo. Waking the body up with a pretty much vertical climb to the top I repeat to myself, “the view will be worth it, the view will be worth it.” After all, couples with 70 years on me were hobbling up, as well as backpackers with packs like those of Northern Virginia kids prepping for their 800 AP tests. So I grunted it up. And what can I say, but the obvious, it was worth it. The entire city layout around the Castillo. They clearly understand the admonition of location location location. Way to claim the best spot to watch a sunset. Like a dutiful tourist I snapped some shots that seemed breathtaking, we’ll see if it translates through the film. Turning to me myself and I, we concur that it was a pretty good idea to hike up, pretty awesome city. But then I get too eager and get lost among the turrets, even getting down into the dungeon. So fed up with where the heck I was, I try and back track, looking like all the other fools walking sideways so as not to slide on my butt the whole way down. Beauty should be pleasureful, but this whole Castillo experience had begun to irritate me. The whole form over function issue was rearing its tired head. Killer architecture. And sure, top notch defense. I can’t imagine as an invading army wanting to do wind sprints up this hill, I’d be dead asking for a drink of water by the time it came to knock down their door. And talk about a walk of shame. I could only imagine knights tip toe-ing down the black diamond grade path. Oh Spain, always so silly.

Later that night, on Spanish time, Chris and I head to a dinner that other language assistants in the area are throwing. Invite says 8:30pm, but we don’t come till 8:45. And we’re the first ones. No matter how much it sucks living by yourself abroad; there is always the redeeming fact that you can eat dinner whenever you want. Having grown up good ole American, dinner was at 6pm. My gastronomical clock is hardwired to start tummy grumbling by 8pm if I haven’t eaten. And so as I make polite small chat with new strangers I would probably in other circumstances care to meet, all I can think about is how I wish they would just serve the damn dinner. It’s 9:30pm. I’ve failed to remember any names because lord this is crazy, lunch was a day ago. How can Spain actually enjoy the tortuous process of waiting until 10pm to eat dinner?? I was miserable during the pre-dinner mix and mingle bullshit. When I eye a bowl of odd looking vampire gummy teeth I claim the whole bowl. Least I can do is spike my blood sugar levels so I can fake being a functioning human being for 15 more minutes. If I time it right, my sugar crash will coincide with the presentation of dinner. Having learned the tricks of the trade in the art of listening as a therapists daughter, I ask my fellow conversationalist a question that gets him to talk about himself and what he loves, he goes on and on and on, like any other self-adoring man, while I chomp chomp chomp on gummy vampire teeth. Sure, they’re fake raspberry sugar flavor is almost enough to make you gag, but they sure beat the taste of just bitten finger nails.

And awesome! It’s pasta for dinner! Only the one thing I NEVER want to eat again after Bike and Build. I don’t know that my stomach is even able to process noodles anymore because I’ve reached my noodle max for life. And one other point, I know that the hosts were American, but PLEASE, we are in Spain, they do not eat spaghetti, can we at least fake a Spanish tradition and eat paella? Why do Americans ALWAYS have a spaghetti dinner when it involves large groups of strangers? Other food is just as cheap. And isn’t laden with strong memories of not quite all the way cooked vats of pasta and generic sauce from the can.

I’d never be so rude to write the whole night off as a failure, because the girls who hosted were more than generous and remarkably friendly. But it was a helpful kick in the butt for me to get moving on meeting Spaniards. If I’m ever going to learn the language and get away from dreaded American cuisine, I must integrate myself into a different crowd. If only there was a vegetarians’ anonymous group in Spain, then I might actually meet someone who doesn’t have a stage 1 cardiac arrest when I say no thank you to ham.

Quite a different way to spend Halloween I’d have to say. I hope all of you are ravished with sweets, having walked the town staring at eccentric costumes and adorable babies in pumpkin outfits.

Eerily yours, boo.