Tomorrow is the first day of school and I’m not exactly thrilled about my alarm going off before 11. Why can’t we just go to school 12-6? Perhaps that will be my first suggestion at the staff meeting at 8:45 tomorrow. I’m going to revolutionize public school, I think. I’ve decided to go business casual, as according to my mother, most of these hobo teachers will be arriving in sweat pants. I’ve considered the possibility of encountering fellow hot male teachers, but looking back on my own grade school experience I feel like “sexy elementary school teacher” is an oxymoron right up there with “jumbo shrimp.” Unless of course, you’re talking about the PE teacher…but let’s face it, where are those guys really going with their lives? Who majors in physical education, I mean really? By the way this is a personal note to everyone reading this blog: if at any point I am identifiable by my wardrobe as a teacher, I’ll be holding you personally responsible for performing a swift intervention. Given my fascination with the textiles I feel as if the likelihood of this happening is slim to none, but you never know. The first time I buy anything featuring an apple, pencils, an American flag, or a removable turtleneck I’ll need someone to bitch slap me. As my father already graciously pointed out, I can’t wear any of my “boob shirts” to work, but I’ll be damned if I let this job suck the style out of my life.

 I’m relieved to say that the children won’t actually be there tomorrow. I’ve been trying out several mantras in order to reduce stage fright, but none of them are going too well. For example, I’m pretty sure the technique of “imagine them all in their underwear” sends me straight to jail, sans the $200 or passing “GO” even. I’ve tried reminding myself that children are like spiders: more afraid of me than I am of them. To this day I can’t bear getting close enough to a spider even to step on it, so fuck that theory too. Speaking of no children, this also gives me two days to practice my professional non-sailor vocabulary. If only there existed a device that would allow me to censor myself, and we could avoid that inevitable Janet Jackson Superbowl moment when I accidentally say “shit” in front of a classroom of children. Granted, exposing a nipple ring may be slightly more offensive, but given my low tolerance for pain I don’t really have that option.

 After a few days of intense inner struggle, I finally decided to order the agenda I saw in Tiffany. I realize $125 is an outrageous amount of money to spend on a notebook, there are starving children in Asia somewhere and blah blah blah… but goddamnit I had to work on New Year’s Eve so those kids can suck it. As I got online to place the order and most likely overdraw on my checking account, the clouds parted and the monitor glowed with the awesome discovery that the price had been cut in half. I guess most people buy their day planners before January. As it turns out, the early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. Party on. I can’t wait to again live in a world where buying shampoo isn’t a major investment. As of right now I am able to mentally spend my first 3 paychecks before I’ve even started. (I suppose it’s just a gift I have.)

Today I started preparing for my new job as an elementary school teacher. I figured since I start on Monday I should probably develop some sort of theory on education other than “I’ve BS’ed my way through school my entire life.” For inspiration, I headed to Half Price Books (New Year’s Resolution #2: Read more books) to look at the Spanish text books. I found some interesting ones, including Language Teacher games, some Dr. Seuss books in Spanish, and a badass Spanish/English dictionary. The game book will probably come in handy, considering it might not be a good idea, in retrospect, to let blindfolded kids take turns beating a pinata.   If there’s one thing that does make me enthusiastic about the new job, it’s back to school shopping. After all, I’m in a position of authority now, and I can’t be looking like a raggamuffin in front of my subjects… I mean, students. So I went to the Zappos store to find some work appropriate shoes. Nothing puts a girl in the mood for school (or the in mood for anything else, for that matter) like slipping on a pair of Stuart Weitzmans at 50% off. I ended up only buying 3 pair (New Year’s Resolution #3: Remember the Zappos store and return more frequently), and none of them are appropriate for work. Some may consider this trip a failure. I’m going to chalk it up to “practice.”

 The principal called me the other day to let me know that he had ordered me a desk, and file cabinets. What in the hell am I going to put in a file cabinet? I’m pretty sure my qualifications have been hugely inflated and overestimated in this case. Having spent most of my professional life surrounded by drunks and STD patients, I know very little to nothing about children and how they operate. I suppose I was one not too terribly long ago, but alcoholism tends to make memories slightly blurred. A personal believer in the theory of “give it what it wants  until it shuts up,” I haven’t the slightest clue on how to discipline children. My voice only gets higher in pitch with emotion, and I generally find that very few are intimidated by a chipmunk in heels. My mom bought me a bell to sit on my desk yesterday, accompanied by the suggestion that I ding it when the class gets out of control. I had my reservations on the effectiveness of this plan, but the bell is also covered in pink rhinestones…so I took it.   

Looking back on it, 2009 was something entirely different. Several different jobs. Different apartments. A slew of roommates. A couple of countries. Various men and failed relationships.  I guess I’m pretty different, considering. It was the first year of my life not spent in school, and I would be lying if I didn’t say that I had a hell of a good time for most of it.  While the majority of my friends spent their time being engaged, getting married, and forming serious relationships to people whose birthdays I will have to start remembering, I spent mine being 22. And while that was rather lonely, and a good majority of it was spent under the influence, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t change a thing. The holidays are just so fucking depressing, and a month spent surrounded by a stressed out family while the shadow of death hovers above Tiny Tim can make a girl forget- that a year that started off with a bitchin ice storm and a mouse in my apartment yielded some pretty good times. And while I may not be any closer to the man, or the job, or the waist size of my dreams, I feel like (through process of elimination) I’ve weeded a few things out. After all, it was an adventure- and I’m always down for that.

Today was a day devoted to art. First I hit up the Reina Sofia, which is a contemporary art museum that is home to works of Dalí, Picasso, Miró, etc. Guenica is there as well. I’m going to go ahead and say that contemporary art and I are in an on-again/off-again relationship. Overall, I’m a fan. I just find modern work more interesting, thought-provoking, and usually more aesthetically appealing than the art from eras past. That being said, I think sometimes it can go a little far. I mean c’mon, anyone can paint a canvas blue and say that it represents the basic simplicity of color blah blah blah. In all seriousness, Gordon could do that (and he’s not the brightest crayon in the box…bad pun intended). And then of course you always have the works of a canvas, painted a solid color, with a number written on it. Or someone took a paintbrush, flicked some drops onto a piece of paper and calls it “untitled.” Riiiight. I guess the true purpose of art is to hold meaning for its creator, but (and this is just my opinion) art hanging in a museum should hold some kind of significance for others as well. But then again, who am I? As sure as I’m typing this there’s probably some bastard out there buying an international calling card to phone home and say “you won’t believe this incredible blue canvas I saw in Madrid today!” There’s the beauty of art for ya.

Aside from Guernica (which is fantastic, PS) an exhibit which I found particularly interesting was “Rodchenko and Popova: Defining Constructivism.” Basically each room of the exhibit followed these two Russian artists (Rodchenko and Popova) throughout their careers to show the evolution of their work as the social and political environment changed during Soviet takeover of Russia. I apologize, this is starting to sound like a goddamn book report, but it was just fascinating to see how they started off with exclusively abstract paintings, and then (in order to keep art alive in the culture) tried to integrate it into so many aspects of Soviet life. Clothing designs, an advertisement for cookies, buildings, lamps in a café in Moscow, whatever. After all,  Stalin was kind of a douche bag, so it’s not like a lot of communist money was going to be thrown around for art in giant poverty-stricken Russia. And you can wake up now, I’m done. As Brandon would say, “I guess you had to be there…”

After that, I took 2 metro trains and a taxi to go to the Museo del Traje  (Museum of Clothing). It was absolutely worth it. The museum started with clothes from the 17th century and went all the way up to the present day. It was totally dark inside, save for the dim lights that illuminated each exhibit. This is of course, to protect the clothes. I almost shed a tear when I got to the 20th century and walked through the giant room of Balenciaga couture. They also had Chanel, Alexander McQueen, Dior, Versace, etc. It was perfect. Definitely one of my favorite experiences abroad.

I spent the rest of the night walking around the city, saying goodbye. Madrid is pretty fantastic, and I plan to come back here some day. However, I am super exciting to be leaving Spain and getting back to life. I can’t wait to see Big Tuna, and to drive my car, and to not feel like I’m floating around in the purgatory that is this experience. Of course I’ll come back to Europe, but probably not to live.As it turns out, it’s just not my bag. Glad we got that mystery solved. And I would’ve gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids. So adios, Spain. Thanks for the memories, even if you are kind of a bitch.

FYI, Lorca was a gay Spanish poet from Granada who was BFF with Salvador Dáli and wrote some of the most important/influential poetry of his day. He was murdered by the Nationalist government in Spain at the beginning of the Spanish civil war in 1936 and his body was never found. The park contains his summer home, where came to write poetry. Visiting the house was kind of sad, actually. It is now a museum of course, but from the outside it looks like a normal home, in perfect condition. It’s like they’re keeping up with things, just in case he ever decides to come back. Also, there are about 200 stray (emo) cats chilling outside in the landscaping. Of course, this caught my attention. Someone (aka a crazy cat lady) has made dozens of little cat homes out of plastic storage bins, which are dispersed around the gardens like a damn condominium resort for cats. This is crazy cat lady behavior, large scale. What can I say though, go big or go home. Feeling particularly emo, I took out my iPod, turned on some Death Cab and took a walk around the park. I noticed several people writing (poetry, no doubt…don’t worry, I’m not that bad) and several shirtless old men sitting around. They may have been homeless, but I prefer to think they were just tanning. That night my roommates took me out for tapas and to say goodbye. By the end of the night, the conversation inevitably turned into one I’m all too familiar with. Someone literally said “got any jokes?” (in Spanish, of course) and we spent the next hour sitting around, telling jokes. If that’s not a sign to come home, I don’t know what is.

Today I woke up unreasonably early (around 9am) when José started knocking on my door. He was leaving for work, and wanted to say goodbye. I must admit he did look pretty cute, freshly shaven and wearing a suit… nice try, but if a Spanish man in a suit were all it takes I would’ve never left the US.  So I finished my packing and weird roommate Marco (whose name I just discovered today is Marco, not Marcos…ah, so little so late…) drove me to the bus station. Did I mention how much I hate travelling by bus? Madrid is a 5 1/2 hour drive away from Granada. Just a little geography lesson for ya there. Also, the drive is particularly non-scenic. I feel like the people of Spain know this though, because every hour or so they have erected a giant black billboard cut into the shape of a bull. Just to keep people stimulated, I suppose. My travelling companion today was a crotchety old woman (yes, I just used the term crotchety…) who before we even left the bus station in Granada was poking at me to move my bag, because it was touching her leg. Right o. When we started the drive the TV in the bus came on with some (riveting) safety announcements, followed by a movie. The movie happened to be High School Musical 4. This was my cue to go to sleep. It would’ve been a pleasant slumber too, except for the old woman next to me REALLY wanted to watch High School Musical 4, and apparently her volume control was not working properly. Therefore, when she wasn’t busy producing phlegm (we’re talking at least a gallon here people) she was fucking with the volume controls, which happen to be right next to my ass in between the seats. It was quite an unpleasant journey.

When we arrived in Madrid I got off the bus, and was left standing alone on the platform with all 200lbs of my luggage. At the bus station, there is no one to help you do anything. Including wheeling 3 huge ass suitcases down a huge hallway and up one floor where you have to go outside to hail a cab. You would think there would be an easier way. You would think. “No no fellas, no need to invest in luggage carts this year. We should just put up some more of those bull billboards in the desert, I think they’re really doing the trick…” So I basically decided to man up, and made it all the way upstairs and into a cab by myself (with all 3 suitcases. at the same time. yeah, I’m the most bad ass person I know too). The cab drove me to the “hotel” I had reserved online, threw my bags out onto the curb and drove away.

For the record, “hotel” will henceforth be defined as “building with bellmen.” Apparently this “hotel” I had reserved is kind of like a hostel, masquerading as a hotel on the internet. Basically, my feet will most likely be sawn off my body in my sleep tonight. (Which at this point might be ok, because that would mean one less suitcase full of shoes.) I hauled my suitcases onto the elevator (which more closely resembled a litter box, in both size and smell) and took them to my room. I broke every single one of my nails today, for the record. The “hotel” isn’t that bad really, I have my own room and my own bathroom with my own questionable plumbing. It’s actually kind of interesting… I’ve spent the last 40 minutes or so free styling to the beat  of a leaky faucet. I happen to be pretty gangster, just in case you didn’t know.

Other than that, Madrid is fabulous. All of the art/theater/fashion/culture I was expecting to find in Spain is here, as opposed to any part of Andalucía. I went to the Prado tonight, which was fucking fantastic. I was literally standing 2 feet away from Las Meninas. They have pretty much all of Goya’s paintings. Unbelievable. Tomorrow I am going to see Guernica, the Clothing Museum (super excited), and shopping for things I can’t afford before I come home to poverty. Ah, life is good again.

Today I went out in search of a device to weigh my suitcases. I had to pay $150 extra to get them over here, and I´ll be damned if I give those airline pirates any more money than is absolutely necessary. I mean let´s be serious, 1 suitcase that weighs 50lbs (excuse me, 23 kilos) for an international flight? Bitch please, my shoe bag alone weighs more than that. When I arrived at the store I wandered around for a while before asking for help from an employee. Apparently he had never heard of the thing they have to weigh  suitcases, so he suggested I just buy a regular scale. So I went off in search of the bathroom electronics aisle. On the way there I got lost again and ended up in the dreaded Spanish bed sheet aisle. So I had to ask for help again. Shocking, I know, that someone as health conscious as myself doesn´t know where to find a scale….  

I´m pretty sure this country knows that I hate it, which is why it continues to literally defecate on me at every given opportunity. Yes, Spain is coming back with a vengeance. Yesterday I arrived home to discover that one of those bastard Spanish dogs had pissed all over my (brand new) pink luggage, and my white coat. The luggage, ok, I can deal with. But the trademark clothing item? Now it´s getting personal. It wasn´t a substantial amount of pee, so I´m blaming the little ugly one. He´s the one I hate the most anyway, so it´s going to be his fault regardless. I thought about teaching him a lesson, and maybe hiding his food bowl for a few days….but then I reconsidered.  I mean, it´s a dog. You can´t teach it lessons. What was I thinking? Clearly there is only one solution. I´m just going to have to kill it. I´m not sure how, or how I´ll dispose of the body afterward, but I feel like I´ve solved more complicated problems than this one. After all, I´m sure that bastard can´t weigh any more than 23 kilos, and at this point I´d be willing to pay that extra money… Just kidding. But seriously, I hate that dog.

Last night I was at home in my room José knocked on my door and asked me if I had a blank CD. I gave it to him, and then he told me that he was DJ´ing at a club and invited me to come watch. Given the fact that almost every single one of my close friends is a performer of some kind, and having been to enough Justin Lewis/Grinstead/Marc Wantland shows before, I know the importance of an audience. So I agreed to come along. Apparently, Spanish boredom (the worst kind!) has actually debilitated my ability to say ¨no¨ to any offer of any activity, no matter how inappropriate or uninteresting it may be. I should´ve known what kind of situation I was getting myself into when José saw what I was wearing and said ¨wow, that´s really white to wear to such a dirty place.¨ Alrighty then.

So we got into the car and on the way there José told me about his days as a DJ in 1992. Ah, dreams. I decided once again not to spoil the moment, and kept it to myself that in 1992 I was 5 years old. When we arrived to the gypsy neighborhood where the club was located we drove around looking for parking. Seeing as all the spaces were occupied with carts and donkeys (ha, I jest… they were actual cars) José decided to park illegally. Being somewhat of a seasoned veteran at getting my car towed, I almost advised against it, but that same part of me admired the risk taking. Also, I forgot how to say ¨tow your ass¨ in Spanish.

We walked up the uneven stony road to the bar, where I saw exactly what I had gotten myself into. The entirety of the club´s patrons consisted of myself, Jose´, the bartender, a bald and amputated female mannequin hanging on the wall, and 5 hippies with scary dreads gyrating around in patched up pajama pants. It´s the kind of place where you don´t have to bother with taking your hash into the bathroom to roll it up, you can just do it right there at the bar. José informed me  that he likes this place, because it´s the kind of disco where you can come in your sweat pants. Yes, definitely my style. However, I was determined to make the best out of the situation and to have fun. Seeing only one road to this solution, I decided immediately that the first thing to do was obvious: get drunk. I started off drinking beer (it´s ok, I don´t know me either) and then moved on to gin. I  made friends with a few of the hippies, and at one point one of the girls pulled a bag of candy from her purse and offered it to me. Completely ignoring my instincts that the candy was most likely laced with something, I thanked her and ate a gummy worm with my 3rd cocktail. Not gonna lie, best meal I´ve had since I´ve been here.

In the middle of José´s ¨set¨ (which was just a series of random beats with no real rhythm or development) I got up to go to the bathroom. As anticipated, it was filthy and covered in graffiti. I don´t know if it was the sentimental side of me (assuming that one does in fact, exist) or if it was just the gin (more likely), but I suddenly got the urge to leave my mark on Spain. After all, I´ve flushed $6000 down the toilet to get here, so they might as well know about it. So I took my house key out of my pocket and carved my name into the stall door. I tried to use the girliest handwriting possible when writing my manly name, so people would know I had actually been there. I even drew a heart in front of it. So basically, either people will think that I a)love a man named Alex or b)am a man named Alex, who snuck into the girls bathroom. C´est la vie. I was going to go all out and just carve ¨Alexandria,¨  but I didn´t want it to run into ¨PATRICIA=IDIOTA.¨ Obviously, someone felt very strongly about that message (note the CAPS). It deserves it´s space as well.

I came out of the bathroom to find that the hippies had all gone home, and I was left alone with the amputated mannequin, the bartender, and a midget wearing a white t-shirt that said ¨TRASH¨ (note the CAPS). Right-o. We left shortly after that, and after dominating a hot dog in the kitchen (sans bun, or plate even) I put my drunk ass to bed.

Assuming he isn´t busy, my roommate Marcos (who is never busy) has offered to drive me and my suitcases under 23kilos to the bus station Miercoles, so I can make it to Madrid. Super excited. Basically, 75% of the fantastic life changing art I have been studying my entire life resides in Madrid. Dáli, Goya, Chanel, Vuitton… Of course I can´t afford to actually buy anything (given my sweet and recent habit of quitting jobs), but it´s always fun to window shop.

And for the record, hash is not that amazing.

With all this extra time on my hands I finally got around to seeing La Alhambra (which is the only reason any normal person would come to Granada). The Alhambra is an ancient Muslim palace on top of a hill that somehow has survived, despite thousands of years, Christian takeover, and all of Napoleon´s tom foolery. The powers that be are actually considering including the Alhambra in the official ¨wonders of the world¨ list, and I´m not gonna lie, I can see why. It´s pretty frickin fantastic. While waiting in line to enter the palace, I started up a conversation with a fantastic gentleman next to me. He´s from Australia, and is super sexy in that rugged Hugh Jackman sort of way. He is the only man I have ever been attracted to wearing Crocs. He will most likely also be the last. At this point you can´t ignore the cruel irony of it all. I decide to leave, and here come all these hot men out of the woodwork, like ¨coast is clear guys, but let´s just tease her a little before we go.¨ I mean WTF mate? Maybe I´ll just stab myself in the throat, and wait around bleeding for my soul mate to show up right at the last minute. ¨Oh hey, um, this is kind of awkward, because you´re covered in blood, but I´m in love with you and want to buy you huge diamonds. And actually, red is kind of your color.¨ That would be my life. Anyway, I digress.

The Aussie and I wandered around the palace together taking photos and avoiding the field trip of screaming middle school children running about. At that point I was thinking it would be nice just for a minute to go back in time to when the palace was actually inhabited. Muslim soldiers from the year 900 would never tolerate that kind of behavior. They would take those little bitches out. Ah, history. After the tour we parted ways, and I figured it was for the best. I could never live in Australia anyway. I watch too much nature TV for that. Go ahead and check it out, you´ll see what I mean. Take a look at the list of the top 10 deadliest snakes, most dangerous animals, most gigantic spiders that can eat your face off. Numbers 1-8, they all live in Australia. No  thank you, mate. (And because I just can´t resist: Crikey! What a bloke! Put another shrimp on the barbie! Fosters, Australian for beer.) RIP Steve.

I took a bus down the mountain from the Alhambra and while I was on it I noticed a familiar sound on the radio. I couldn´t quite put my finger on it, and then it hit me. As soon as I got home I ran upstairs to consult my iTunes library, and sure enough there it was, on a party playlist from the days at my apt. on Red Mile. Do yourself a favor if you´re up for a laugh, and download a song called ¨Ayo Technology¨ by 50 Cent and Justin Timberlake. Now gather your dignity from the floor, and do something else: imagine that same song, in the style of Jason Mraz/John Mayer/Jack Johnson (etc). That´s what they´re playing on the radio here, and it´s a huge hit. Not even being a fan of rap music in particular, I´m still going to have to speak out on this one. So 50 Cent (who has been shot like, 9 times, PS) has a song that is edited, censored, etc…but now this guy has it and it´s a great love song playing everywhere sure to pass the test of time? I´m sorry, but ¨why don´t you sit down on top of me¨ means exactly the same thing coming from some misunderstood white boy with a guitar. Or does it? Gangstas really do get the shaft. I´m beginning to understand gang violence.

In other news, this morning in the shower-mid wash- I discovered a short black curly hair (that grows nowhere on my body) nestled inside my loofah. I´m sorry, but some things are just not community property. Oh well, one less thing to pack.

About 5 minutes later, the doorbell started ringing furiously. I knew it couldn´t have been the cat (he´s too short, and what´s more lacks the opposable thumb required to pull off such a maneuver) so I went to the door and asked who was there. All I heard was some raspy mumbling (in this hideous dialect I don´t understand anyway) so I cracked open the door to find the crazy cat lady of the neighborhood. I couldn´t understand what she was saying, but I got the basic gist. She was pissed because the cat was outside and (clearly) wanted in. As I tried to explain to her that he couldn´t come in because these dogs were out for vengeance, she began to scream and throw her body against the door, trying to open it for the cat. A word of advice: never underestimate the strength of a crazy. Ok, so it´s just one little old woman, I should be able to detain her, you say? Nay my friend. Nay. She was like the Incredible Hulk of crazy cat ladies. Sure, she may look old and fragile, but who do you think lugs that 20lb bag of cat food home from the Mercadona every week? That´s right. She´s been training for this fight for years. The dogs began to go crazy, barking and howling (no doubt the smell of cat wafting around in the air) the cat was still crying, and this crazy old bitch was still screaming at me to open the door. I finally got it closed, and went back upstairs, hoping she would take the hint and go away.

For the record, mammals in Spain don´t take hints very well. The old woman continued to go bat shit crazy, screaming, banging on the door and ringing the doorbell. If I wasn´t so freaked out it would´ve probably been  hilarious. When my roommate got home I told him what had happened, and he just kind of shrugged. Like I had just told him there was some left over chicken in the fridge if he wanted any. Um, hello? (Excuse me…. Hola?) Ok, so I suppose this behavior is acceptable.

When my roommate Vivien got home she came into my room and started yelling at me as well. Apparently the crazy cat lady has been mean mugging her as well, and since I brought the cat here I need to do something. Excellent. So I grabbed a can of mushed lamb out of the kitchen, scooped up the cat and took him back to the parking lot where I found him. I cried all the way home.

Today I was walking down the sidewalk (in the ¨nice¨ part of town) when the man in front of me stopped abruptly. I almost ran into him, but thank God I didn´t because he was apparently pausing to take a piss. In the middle of the goddamn sidewalk. When he was through he gave it a little shake, tucked himself back into his running pants and continued on his way. I think I´ve just about hit my limit for the amount of Spanish penis one girl can be exposed to in a year. And not in a good way.

Did I mention how lovely this place is? I am so ready for Madrid.

The other night I went out with some girls I met here to a Halloween party in a bar inside the bull fighting arena. I didn´t have a costume, so instead I opted to wear some of the more ridiculous items of (legit) clothing I already own. This may be the only time my headband with the giant poofy flower is appreciated by anyone other than myself and Patrick Martin. Halloween here is slightly different from in the US. At home, girls use Halloween as an excuse to wear their underwear in public. Here in Spain, girls are not concerned with looking cute. Everyone is dressed as something scary. I didn´t see one slutty cop, sexy nurse, or Catholic school girl. Good thing I`m not a guy, or this holiday would´ve been hugely disappointing. On second thought, some girls wearing just their underwear at home might be scary too… but I doubt that´s what they´re going for.

At the party, I met the Spanish grim reaper version of Atticus. He knew every word to every horrible Black Eyed Peas song that came on, and when they did (because of course they are obligated to play every.single.fucking.one.) he would start screaming, pull me out onto the dance floor and start singing. We danced all night, drinking and swinging glow sticks around. At one point a  beautiful man approached me at the bar, and we started talking. I don´t remember many details of our conversation (including his name), but I do remember vividly when his mother came back from the bathroom. He introduced her, and then she demanded I give her back her chair. Couldn´t get out of that seat fast enough. Thanks again, God. Props to you. Keep ´em coming. Once again I had worn some pretty unreasonable heels, so I had planned ahead to take a taxi home. It was only when I went to leave that I discovered I had spent all of my money on gin. Ergo, looked like I was walking home. It wasn´t that far to my house, but about 3 blocks later I was at that point of considering hitch hiking. Instead I did the unthinkable: walked home barefoot. Yes, I was that drunk. On the way home I was followed by a creeper for a few blocks. Don´t worry, he was the non-threatening kind. Just some old dude with a Ralph Lauren sweater tied around his neck, who kept telling me to take his shoes. While old man loafers? No thank you. For the record, pretending you don´t speak Spanish will only further intrigue the average weirdo. Strategy fail. Finally after several blocks of ¨here, put on my shoes, I´ll walk you home beautiful, etc¨ I somehow (even in my condition) managed a swift pivot and told him I would call the police if he didn´t leave me alone. That did the job. When I got home my feet were as black as Saddam Hussein´s heart, but my shoes survived.

Speaking of hearts… I´ve been doing a lot of thinking while I´ve been here(mostly for lack of anything else to do) and I´ve decided to share with you a few things I´ve learned. Not to get all philosophical and shit, but I´ve discovered a few things.

1. How to use a potato peeler. (Go ahead and laugh, but these things always  confused the hell out of me before…check me out now, peeling potatoes. Like a boss)

2. I learned that I´m very good at being alone. On one hand, being a person who values my alone time (aka a time to do things naked-you know, clean, read, see if I can actually walk in those shoes, etc) I already knew this about myself. On the other hand, this scares the shit out of me.

3. Sometimes, even if you don´t even realize it, you aren´t the same person anymore. You´ve changed, without anyone noticing, including yourself. Yes world, apparently I´ve changed since mapping out my life in the back of AP English. Who would´ve thought?

4. The old guys are hotter in America.

5. God is one sneaky bastard. There are signs, all the time, that (if you are like me and think you can control everything) you will ignore.

6. Sometimes, what you thought you wanted- for years, even- isn´t what you want anymore. Sometimes it takes an ocean before you realize what really makes you happy.

7. Sometimes, the mistakes we make are really expensive,  which is why it´s always good to keep the following in mind: it´s cheap to fly on Friday the 13th.

After I made my purchase I started to walk home when I came across a little cat in the parking lot. It was all alone and crying, with no family and no food… Those of you who know me can pretty much tell how this part of the story ends. I turned around, put my iPod headphones back in, and walked home.

It was kind of a long walk, but the cat didn´t mind at all. When I got home my roommates and I gave it some food and a litter box (with materials left over from a previous cat) and started discussing what to do with it. I started to think of names. One possibility is ¨Rafael,¨ like Rafael Nadal. After all, they´re both dark and Spanish, and we´ve got some cat cojones here the size of tennis balls. Ok, so granted, they´re closer to golf ball sized. But I just refuse to name a cat Tiger. It´s so cliché. The cat was super calm and really well kept, so we assumed he was probably someone´s pet. Marcos (silent studious roommate) offered to go with me today to the vet´s office to see if the cat had a microchip. Apparently, everyone puts a micro chip in their pets here. Right, because owning a dryer would just be absurd, so we´ve got to stay practical and put computers in all the animals. Good work. So the cat stayed the night and this morning we took him to the vet.

In other news, Rafael Nadal  has mites. At least that´s what I think the guy said, I was too busy trying not to throw up, so all I really heard was ¨tiny insects.¨ WTF, Jesus? It´s been nice working with you too, hope to do it again some time. High five! … I mean, mites? Really? This has got to be a fucking joke. Perhaps I´ll call the cat ¨dirty disgusting infested foreign cat with no damn microchip who slept in my room last night with mites.¨ It´s got a ring to it. So basically, I am most likely going to get some variety of Spanish cat swine flu and die here in this miserable place, full of bad fashion choices and Fanta. 

After this news, I went home and immediately took another shower. I then stripped everything off my bed and went to wash it. This required moving José´s laundry from the washer to the roof on my own, which was probably crossing some kind of roommate privacy line…but hey- desperate times. And just in case you were wondering, José wears boxer briefs.

I´m pretty sure the other night he may have actually brought home a hooker. He introduced her to me, and left us alone while he took the dog out to pee. Suddenly I found myself alone in the dining room with a hooker (and with nothing to say- if you can imagine). I told the hooker I liked her boots, and that I couldn´t say much more because ¨my Spanish is really bad.¨  José came back, and they left to go eat kebabs. (Foreplay?) I felt bad about lying about the boots, but I couldn´t help it. I felt sorry for her… in a few hours she was going to be having sex to really bad techno music. 

As far as my social life goes, I´m (kind of) starting to have one. One of my students who attends the University here  and is the same age as me invited me to come with her and her friends to a Halloween party on Thursday. Yes, I´m fully aware that Halloween is not until Saturday, but I´m willing to overlook it. I almost feel like I´m in that episode of Seinfeld where one of them keeps getting asked out for dates on a Wednesday night, because (apparently) that´s when you ask people out who aren´t quite good enough to occupy your weekends…. but c´est la vie. My roommate Vivien has also invited me to a party on Saturday night, as well as an outing on Saturday afternoon to go horseback riding. Viven is really nice, and is always suggesting things I could do in my spare time here. She mentioned last night that she has a friend who owns a flamenco dance studio, and that I should take lessons.  … I´m not sure what exactly it is about me that screams ¨I love athletic activity!¨ Perhaps it´s my huge ass, or the fact that all of my shoes have heels over two inches high, or maybe that my top hobbies include sleeping and napping and tanning (with my eyes closed)… Those would definitely be some good indications of a person who can´t get enough sports. However, I was grateful for the invitation and I didn´t want to seem rude, so I accepted and will be going horseback riding on Saturday. If the Spanish cat swine flu doesn´t kill me before then (or if I don´t just get it over with myself), this certainly will. I´ll be sure to send you all lovely postcards from the hospital.

It´s too bad ¨The Dating Game¨ isn´t still around. I´m shaping up to be one hell of a contestant… ¨Alright ladies and gentleman, now we have bachelorette number 3. When she´s not in remote locations translating emo books, having suicidal thoughts or dreading physical activity, in her spare time she enjoys bringing home dirty stray animals who may in fact give you mites. Everyone say hello….¨

And PS, I thought it was funny that since the time change, I had to reset the time on my US cell phone manually to the zone of ¨Indiana, USA.¨ This is my life.

Just finished my private classes for the week, getting ready to start again tomorrow. My super rich family of 5 children all have exams in English tomorrow, so it was like a super fast review with each of them over an hour. The most interesting by far is Iñigo. Iñigo is 15, and thinks he´s a total pimp. Hell, maybe he is. More than one girl called him while we were reviewing for his exam, and he had to tell each one that he loved her, and that she is ¨guapa.¨ Ah, girls. Instead of reviewing for his English class, he told me about how he is going to get his nipples pierced when he turns 16, for two reasons: 1. his parents won´t be able to see it, and 2. (apparently) girls here think that is sexy. Keep in mind, we´re talking about 15 year old girls…but still. Nipple rings=not attractive. I tried to talk him out of it, much to no avail. A funny thing about Spain is that among other things (such as the dangers of second hand smoke) they don´t believe in ADD. If you are ¨that kid¨ in class, they either just decide you are stupid and fail you, or they pass you blindly. There are no drugs, no timed exams…no consideration taken whatsoever for a learning disability. Bad news for Iñigo, because he´s got an attention span of about 3.4 seconds. Every other minute he is pulling out his cell phone so I can tell him what some horrible song means (ex. ¨Hey There Delilah¨).  Ah, the life I lead.

In other news, I broke it off with Mohammed. When I went to tutor him yesterday he had obviously been cleaning for hours, was wearing nice clothes, and was cooking something for me in the kitchen. He was also blasting classical music out of his computer speakers. Give me cancer now, God. The only things missing were candles and fava beans with which to eat my liver. I told Mohammed I had a really busy schedule, and couldn´t tutor him. Then I refused his offerings of food and drink and got the hell out. He hasn´t called since. Game over.

Last night on the phone with Lauren I discovered exactly where I am. I am somewhere not of my own choosing, with weird people, in a poor city with nothing to do. I am  in the Indiana of Spain. Now all I need are some pumpkins, a church and some fireworks. Journey complete.