11 March 2011

Anniversary

If Spain were a person, we would wake up next to one another in a plush bed lined with quality goose feathers and have loud morning sex on a regular basis. We would drink cafe con leche and sample pastries and laugh until we vomit up the pastries on the unique rug we purchased together in Northern Africa. We would stroll hand in hand through the Albaicin and ignore the frequent whiffs of dog urine. We would summit mountains together and drink La Rioja wine along the way, and Spain would frequently seduce me just by speaking to me in Spanish. Cheers, mi amor.
Today marks the two month anniversary of my relationship with Spain. I can assure you that we're very happy together, and it's time to officially use the A-word: amarse. Te amo, España. Siempre. I will never leave you. Except when I legally have to do so because my Visa expires in July. BUT UNTIL THEN, it's you and me.

I had a three hour long class the other day and by hour number two, I was on the verge of desperate, bored tears. To occupy myself, I drew a recurring doodle-character named Bread Baby, who is a hybrid of a loaf of bread and a baby, taking its first steps; drew a bathtub; wrote Spanish words like "POR QUE??" (WHY??"), and MISERIA (Misery); and discreetly studied my map of Granada underneath the table. After class, I met a guy who looked kind of like a pirate (but a kind pirate). He told me that I was an angel, and Maura told him that Al Capone was her father.

I don't think my new host mother hates me after all, though she may have only been nicer than usual today because she liked the hat I was wearing. I've found that Spanish mothers like me better when I don't look so dirty. For example, Pepita (Host Mom #1) once walked into the kitchen as I was preparing my breakfast, approved of the skirt I was wearing, and proceeded to swat my butt and comment, "What a nice ass you have!" At this point, I'll take what I can get. (Another noteworthy Pepita moment is that the first time she did my laundry, a black thong was temporarily lost and she brought it to my room in the palm of her hand, impeccably folded, three days later. All I could do was awkwardly mutter, "Gracias," as she watched me put it in my drawer.) I accidentally ate a lot of fish bones the other day.


My second morning of new host-family life, I was sitting at my desk reading for class when I heard, from a nearby apartment, rhythmic moans. At least I wasn’t with Elena while this was happening. Hearing people fuck is not the kind of bonding activity I would choose to experience with my new host mother within forty-eight hours of living together. Four to six weeks—fine—but for now, so uncomfortable.
Living in an apartment with just Elena is a strange arrangement. It's like I have a roommate. Who happens to cook for me. And has three grandchildren.

A few of us ventured to Carnaval in Cadiz last weekend. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced-- people, drinks, costumes, the Atlantic coast, lightning, stolen glances, shattering glass, a bouncer at the door of Burger King. Oh, and an impromptu East Quad reunion!:
East Quadesses

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