Three Trials, One Theme

Seeing as how its Friday, I´ve gotten several requests for an update. As I told my best friend Tomas: until some sweet Corporation swoops in and starts sponsoring me to go to an internet corporation, or even better, buys me a lap top, updates will have to wait till I´m at school, I´m not in class, and I can hang around until all the college kids stop chatting with their boyfriends.

Its Friday afternoon here and the place is now deserted. I´ve got a big test next Thursday that I really have to hunker down and study for. So, of course, I´ve going to the beach tomorrow and the Alahmbra in Granada on Sunday. This decision making is emblamtic of my constant struggle between the virtues of study and the virtues of fun.

You see, I was on top of the Giralter Tower at the Seville Cathedral last Saturday. The highest point in the city with magnificent views of the entire city and the river that serves as its border. At first, I was amazed by the grandeur of the scene before me. But, after awhile, sweating balls on top of this ancient tower, I couldn´t stop staring at one particular sight: A rooftop pool not 100 yards away where I could clearly see one fat balding dude in a tight Euro suit, arms and legs splayed in the pool all by himself. Sure he was a stones throw from the largest Gothic Cathedral ever built. But at the same time, I was just as a far from what looked like a sweet way to spend the afternoon (did I mention the bar? there was totally a bar). So really, who had the better deal? That´s when I came up with a name for my struggle:

I need to Do Spain before Spain Does me.

Now, as some of you have surmised from previous posts. I kind of live with a crazy person. He´s got a lot of good characteristics. For one, he´s rail thin, so doesn´t take up much physical space in our small apartment. Secondly, he cooks all my meals and is of the opinoin that ¨there´s always room for bacon¨ (Pasta? Bacon! Potatoes? Bacon! Jamon Serrano? Bacon!)
Thirdly, he is the only actual Spanish person I talk to other than my teachers and really does a good job of communicating with me and talking thru words I don´t know.


But, there´s also clearly a lot wrong going on. First, I´m not really allowed to have anything in the fridge or the cupboards, but I´m also not really allowed to take/eat anything that´s already in there. I have to wait until its all given to me. In the beginning, I found my utter lack of choice to be annoying. But now, its kind of fun to wonder ¨will i get an apple today? or maybe some yogurt? only time will tell!¨ I think I also got criticized last week for how I spread my butter. Apparently I stab too far into the container, and don´t exploit the whole surface of the butter tub. I´m also essentially forbidden from having any company, or expressing any preference about what´s on the TV.

¨How can you live under such conditions?¨you may very well ask.

And its kinda like this:

You know how when you are at Duke Basketball Campout, and you are sitting around in portable chairs in blistering heat and chilly sleepless nights for three days? And you know how on the last muddy night, when you are 30 beers in and still staggering along and your buddy Ken boots and rallies over the side of the beer pong table while Scotty Dub points and laughs from 10 feet away....while peeing on his own tent? Well, its kinda like that.

And also:

Its kinda like that time last fall when my ¨friend¨ Mike Kim tried to kill me by taking me ¨rafting¨in west virginia on the coldest, wettest day of the year. We slept three dudes to a 2 man tent, got tossed out of the raft into a river of ice and were then ´rescued´by a guy who proceeded to smack me in the face with an oar and then pull my shoulder out of socket. (and I didn´t even get the worst of it. Some guy who looked like the result of a three way between a Viking a Redneck and a Biker got stuck under the raft about 10 seconds into the trip) The only time it stopped raining was when we were packing up to go home on the last day and were all huddled around a pre WW I Craftsman Stove, waiting for the 10 lbs of bacon to finish cooking.

So, you get back to your house from adventures like these and leave your clothes drying under the fridge. After your shower and your nap, your toe accidentally touches your wet, cold, destroyed jeans and you shudder: ¨how the fro did I enjoy that?¨

Well, my living situation now is kinda like that. Except without the cold and without the rain, both of which I´d kidnap a baby for, right about now.

Its Spain, Its Seville, I ain´t working, so its all good, right?

Well this tale of human adaptability took a sharp left turn when Hobro yelled at me for using my fan.

That´s it, too much. As Cameron Frye would say ¨Its time to take a stand.¨

And take a stand I did, writing out an honest to God page of reasoning, in Spanish, as to why I should sole discretion of over the when and where of my fan usage. It was a great talk we had. It ranged into the politics of conservation, social responsibility and the casual nudity on Spanish network television (all three of which I avidly support, btw). In the end, we agreed that the point of his anger wasn´t the actual cost in dollars of using the fan, but the cost in global karma (I literally did at one point draw and use a ¨Yin and Yang¨as a visual aid during this discussion).

The end result being that I was given a DIFFERENT fan. One with a timer on it. So, I can have my precious fan turned on every night as I go to bed, but which will shut off within an hour to conserve energy. And, if I TRULY AM uncomfortably hot, I´ll simply wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and crank the timer back for another hour of sweet circulated air relief.

Done and Done.

But guess what Dear Readers? The savvy old Deegster figured out a way to BY PASS THE TIMER. That´s right folks: Punk´s Not Dead, Bitches! Suck it, Al Gore!

So, in the spirit of Doing Spain, I´m leaving Seville a month early for Barcelona. And in Barcelona I´m going to live with a French student I met in class here (Ben Wa? I can´t really pronounce the dude´s name, so why should I know how to spell it?) and, who happens to work as a cook for some fancy pants French restraunt back home.

So what if they don´t really speak Spanish in Barcelona? And so what if, for all his faults, my hobro has been my best source for Spanish conversations, and invaluable practice? Its like 10 degrees Celsius cooler in Barcelona, and if I want, I can Buy Some Freaking Ice Trays.

Owning Ice Trays and Not Speaking Spanish. Now THAT´S Doing Spain.

Have a good weekend. You know I will.