Semana Siete: Irish Pride

11 March ~ 17 March 2011

Not much happened this past weekend because half of my crew decided to be rude and go to England without me. I think I watched “Just Go With It” which was hilarious. I then stared at the white walls and counted the tiles on the floor.

The real excitement came on Tuesday. I started my week out by slipping on dog shit on the sidewalk and sliding into an impressively balanced split. It all happened so fast; one minute I was talking to Ashley, Lauren and Liz about something, and the next I’m trying my best Evan Lysacek impersonation on an improvised skating rink. Did I not already complain about the ubiquitous dog crap earlier? It was only a matter of time—just one lapse of concentration. Evidence of my accident was even there the day after when I was on my way to school:

At least we were en route for our usual Tuesday lunch, which would hopefully shake me of traumatizing experience. Emily decided to take us to one of the cafeterias of the main university. Walking into the cafeteria brought memories of high school flooding back, but in a good way. After waiting in line to buy our 3 euro ticket, we had to hop to the other line to actually queue up for our food. This was some serious bang for your buck: a baguette, small glass of wine, chicken paella, beef stew, and fresh strawberries. Not only was it a lot of food, and cheap, it was amazing! It made me so jealous of the vast majority of students at the CLM who live with madres (moms) that cook all of their meals. This is what they get to eat every day. Grrr.

Wednesday in geography class we were all entertained by some guy who was reliving one of the craziest night of his life which resulted in him waking up the next morning wet, in the shower, and with a black eye. Elissa heard otherwise: “What? He woke up in a shower with a black guy?” No, a black EYE. Now THAT would be a crazy night worth forgetting, potentially.

After class, I joined Elissa’s group again to finish up their tapas project. The first place was pretty decent, but nothing spectacular. The second place was a kabob shop which I did not know did tapas, but apparently this one did. The place seemed kind of sketchy, primarily given the worker’s hesitation when we asked if they had tapas. We took a table in the back all to itself and discussed all of the horrible things that could possibly be served to us. Surprisingly, we had really good kebab roll-ups and French fries. The remaining time at the kebab joint was a blur. There was a bug. I think it was human-sized. It may have even had wings and fangs. Well, it came dashing at Chante, whose bug tolerance is on par with mine, and she bolted out from behind the table. It was time to call it a night.

The next day after class Elissa and I walked/hiked/panted up the Albayzin to a plaza with an incredible, sweeping view of Granada and the Alhambra. 

Apparently circus auditions were coming up soon as many there were sharpening their skills; however, this was no anomaly as the place was full of the hippie/oddball sort. We sat down to eat our lunches and tomar el sol (catch some rays) since it was a beautiful day. My bliss was soon interrupted by a major creeper of a dog. The thing suddenly appeared hovering over my shoulder watching my bocadillo tortilla intently.

 I stood up to see to whom this creature belonged and then understood why the dog was the way it was. Its owner was a woman practicing her unique dance “skills” all alone in her own corner of the plaza. This must be the cool thing to do here as there was another man who was doing his own dance number which culminated in him bending over…and staying in that position for a solid seven to ten minutes. 

Elissa spotted two people she knew chatting with the reject society and was debating whether to get their attention or not. I strongly opposed such actions as that would inevitably mean the carnies would come too and I was not prepared to engage in their activities.

We, and by “we,” I mean Elissa, decided to go to this one tapas bar because they apparently had these amazing fries with a special sauce as well as a ham and cheese on garlic bread sandwich. On the way down passing all of the quaint white-washed houses Elissa pointed out a pretty accurate observation: “I know the metal bars (on the windows) are to prevent you from being murdered in your sleep, but they’re pretty.”

The tapas bar had a very interesting style; it can only be described as the outcome of a duel between King Arthur and Kesha. The place was outfitted in shields and armor everywhere while gold glitter was splashed on all of the walls and countertops. After finishing our quite tasty tapas, I began to drill Elissa with questions about Guinness since she was the so-called Irish expert. We figured the only way to convey the difference between Guinness and any other beer would be to go to Hannigan’s (the Irish pub) and get a pint. This was an oddly successful decision as it so-happened to be St. Patrick’s Day. We then got Irish flags painted on our face to feel more Irish as neither of us remembered to wear green. The even better outcome was my new-found love for Guinness. I thought it was supposed to be “the mother of all beers,” which entailed an acquired taste, but I actually prefer it to anything else I had tried up to that point. It was probably the most authentic St. Patrick’s Day experience I had ever had: an Irish pub with Irishmen, a pint of Guinness, an Irish flag, and an Irish girl.

After the pub I went home because I had to make a last-minute return that I had been putting off for quite some time. I completely forgot I had an Irish flag on my face, but was quickly reminded by two girls waiting in front of me at Zara. Seriously, if you’re going to poke fun at someone, you could at least manage to be less discrete: turning around and looking at me, then turning to your friend and whispering something that causes her to look back, and then you both giggle is so NOT cool. I mean, at least it was an Irish flag given it was St. Patrick’s Day and not a Mexican flag. I didn’t have time to think about this too much as I was leaving for Morocco the next day and had plenty of worries already to deal with:

Will I fall off of the camel?

Will the camel fall?

Will the camel and I both fall into the ocean?

Will I get diarrhea?

Will the camel have diarrhea?

Will the camel and I both have diarrhea?

Will the camel and I both fall into our own diarrhea?

What if Aladdin doesn’t exist?

Un saludo,

Bryce