What Time is it Where You Are?

It's 11:11 A.M. in Barcelona, Spain.

Ever seen a postcard with the words "Wish you were here!!!" scrawled across the back? Excessively enthusiastic punctuation aside, I've never been much of a fan of the time-tested platitude. You see, when I take vacations, I'm trying to get away from you. It doesn't work so well if you're here with me. Vacations should be a time of reflection, meditation, and of course, room service. 

So, for two days, that was Spain. I lounged in a luxe hotel room: the photograph to the left is the view from my balcony, and, yes, if you look closely, you'll see a green icon at the street's end denoting the entrance to the American Embassy, which is, in some circles, known as Starbucks. I ventured out into Barcelona, slowly but surely, enjoyed some truly fantastic carbohydrates, and began blazing a trail for my comrades-in-coffee, Max & Cody. I was enjoying my own company, thanks very much. 

Then, everything changed. I had the pleasure of taking a thirty dollar - I'm sorry, thirty euro taxi to another hotel where our CEA orientation was to be held. Within minutes, Max & Cody interrupted my enjoyment of Sydney Bristow's butt-kicking (she lives in my laptop) to rub their freshly unshowered bodies all over me. This was truly sick/nasty, but probably not in the way it sounded in the sentence above. I was, if begrudgingly, truly glad to see them. 

For the next few days we enjoyed, but, at least together, the process of having our personal freedoms slowly stripped from us by the friendly CEA staff. They herded us around like cattle, or worse, like the junior high set at church camp for hours upon end, mostly warning us not to get too plastered. So far, we have succeeded in their eyes by avoiding the two evils: death-by-tequila, and speaking-too-much-English. 

After our fantastically fun orientation, we were escorted to our tres chic apartment, which we call, simply, The Pug. We have given the apartamento this designation due to the similarities it shares with the canine of the same name, that is, it's so completely unfortunate-looking that we can't help but love it. Pictures to come. The shower spews water all over the floor, and, by proxy, all over the apartment; we're at least twenty minutes from our classes by way of metro, and the charming air shaft, upon which our windows open, smells like a sweaty cigarette with an untreated foot fungus. But, The Pug, well, we loves him. 

Wish you were here. 

-A.