"Drop it like Your Mother Says"

Before I begin, I would like everyone to briefly search their brain for the best Russian/Austrian/German accent they can come up with. True, I am aware that these languages (and countries for that matter) are quite a bit different, but internalizing a flamboyant Schwarzenegger accent will only help in making this story complete.

Lately, I have been taking advantage of inexpensive ways to get my work-out on. Laps at the public (ghetto) pool are now common for summer, happy hour classes at a hot yoga studio here in town, and recently, salsa classes at a nearby dance studio. On a few occasions in New York, I went gallivanting around the city and ended up salsa dancing. Though I truly believed my Latin flavor skills were up to par, I in fact was on the opposite spectrum of what people call "good dancers". Who knew?!? So because earlier this year I had been an element in the belly dancing clique, I thought it time to expand my artistic talents as a dancer and move forward into sexy salsa simulations.

It took some self convincing, (and perhaps a few tequila shots) to finally show up, but I made it and I loved it. My calves ached the next day, I had the dance steps ringing in my head throughout the night, I even downloaded some sultry numbers of my own via itunes. One class under my belt and I am positive I can compete (And win) a dance off in the salsa form. Moreover, this specific dance studio does not solely specialize in salsa dancing, but a number of other heart pumping ways to get your hips shaking. From Cha Cha, to Tango, even Latin Aerobics- guys and dolls from around the city are embracing their inner Gloria Estevan/ Ricky Martin and getting jiggy with it. I, however, have been hearing a lot about a a little number called ZUMBA. Fortunately, the other primary taught and taken class at said studio, is Zumba.

*Quick info* Zumba- "It’s an exhilarating, effective, easy-to-follow, Latin-inspired, calorie-burning dance fitness-party." (www.zumba.com)

There is truly no better way to express the true essence of this out-loud, must release all inhibitions, dance like no one is watching, fun, entertaining, exuberant, salsa aerobics on crack, workout. And it's only 5 dollars per class. Sign,me up!

I figured since I already made it out of my comfort zone to a salsa class, why not go a step further and attempt a Zumba class. Most people are aware at this point, though I have the ability to be reserved and do obtain a few inhibitions, I tend not to hold back. My philosophy is that if one going to be embarrassed, then one should have fun with it. (Or at least that's the feeling towards Zumba). As I arrive for my first class, all seems well; people in sweat-your-ass-off-work-out-gear, water bottle lined walls, a working colored disco ball- you know, the norm... And then the teacher shows up...

"Call me V," he says, "It's short for Ven." (This is where your previously channeled foreign accent will come in handy.)

I've been to Body Pump classes where the instructors push you all the was shouting annoying things such as "yeah, you can do it!" and "c'mon, one more lift!" I've attended spinning classes where over very loud remixes of Paula Abdul, grunts and shouts seem to escape the fatigued mouth of the Nazi spinning instructor. Zumba, however, was extremely new, and somewhat daunting.

V's attire consisted of a tight black polo, translucent-when-moist white "workout" pants, dance shoes, and sunglasses. With just a quick introduction, V says, (das use your accent) "modify how you need, sexy mamas, let's get pumping."

With that, the lights go down, the sexy music is up, and the sunglasses go on. He models a dance routine, complete with high knees, right and left hooks, salsa steps, push-ups, and pelvic thrusting. Every song is as if you're sprinting for 3 minutes. The shades come off, we clap, and do it all over again, for over an hour!!!

Slowly through the duration of the class, Ven manages (as we all do) to become sweatier and sweatier. The result of this perspiration is that those white pants become more like clear pants... and just as he stands in front of me and tells me (accent, please), "Drop it like your mother says!" I do just this, drop it low, as does he. And he follows my get-low-move with, "now drop it like your instructor says!"

In his attempt to show me, I get a full view of his g-string through those transparent pant-a-loons! WTF?!?

And he doesn't care! As soon as V is clear that we can indeed, all drop it low, the Raybans are back on and we get crazy. This man has gone from being boarder line creepy to my hero. He doesn't give a damn about how ridiculous he looks... He just wants to dance!!!

And because of this, I am now a secret (or not so secret) fan of Zumba. Cheesy? Yes! And I don't care!

But please, I'd rather no one see me do this... I look so stupid it hurts- find your own Zumba class!

But I Want to Sit There!!!

Recently, while living the dream, (aka waiting tables) I was faced with an interesting individual who, quite honestly perplexed me. Normally, I have a witty and off kilter comment on standby for the average folk who begin to engage me in conversation while I am at my busiest. I can feed the shameless Friday Night Men (Imagine Baby Boomers in Affliction wear) their crude 'tude right back. Arguing my way around a bill is a speciality of mine, with the end resulting in me asking "what is it you want for free," and the cheap chicken leaving head-hung-low shameful. This day in particular though, I was utterly flabbergasted when a man asked the simplest of questions.

After relaying to him that he may sit anywhere he so desired, it instantly became obvious that I should have clarified that he was able to sit at any TABLE he desired. Looking dumbfounded, the man proceeded to ask me, "But what if someone is sitting where I want to sit?"

In my many moons of waiting tables, I have yet to be baffled in such a way. I gazed at the confused gentleman through my own befuddled eyes, and opened my mouth in response only to discover puttering air rolling off my tongue. There were many unoccupied tables, waiting for guests to rest their tushies and get lit off red wine sangria, but no, this man was solely interested in sitting at this specific table, one in which an elderly couple was exclusively enjoying course 2 of their 3 course dinner.

"Sir", I responded, "you can sit at any table that does not already have people sitting at it. We won't ask them to move for you." Thinking I had cleared up any puzzled thoughts, I was for the second time in a matter of seconds taken by surprise when the man again asked me "but I want to sit there (Where the other couple is and has been for an hour eating drinking) and there are people sitting at that table."

I glared in astonishment, sheer bewilderment, that this man could not comprehend that he was not allowed to sit indeed where he wanted. My welcoming phrase should now be "welcome, sit where ever you want...except at a table that is already occupied...even if that's the table you want...it's first come first serve...and no, you may not ask the early birds to relinquish their seats so you may order a glass of white zin and munch on free bread... Olive Garden is a 10 minute drive up town, they have endless bread sticks, please do not come back here."

The man decided to hit the bar up for a glass of wine (If it had been white zin, I honestly may have sucker punched him in the back of his head) and stood in the doorway, waiting to sit at his table of choice. I walked away, unaware of what to do next. It was like trying to explain to a 6 year old that even though you want to play with the toy trucks, you will have to wait your turn, because someone else is currently enjoying the truck. There were many other toys to play with, but that specific one is off limits until further notice. The fortunate part in illustrating this concept to a young child is that THEY GET IT. Trying to convey a life lesson to a balding 35 year old is like trying to teach a dog to speak. I felt that perhaps if I had utilized my sociology skills (thanks a lot, college degree) I would still have been better off demeaning this man with baby voices and large hand movements.

In the end, the location this man settled on was far from his original scouting preference, nevertheless, a prime location for creepily staring at all who passed by and uttering odd comments about the view from our rooftop balcony. All in all, this is a man I would like to wait on again in the near future; a prime candidate for the loony bin. I can't imagine an evening without such frequent abnormalities, however, in working in the restaurant industry, what exactly is considered normal?!?

Cheers

Can't get by on Your 'Smokin' Hot Looks

Along with keeping in tip-top-shape, trying to be a better person, and other predictable New Years Eve resolutions, blogging clearly leaped out the metaphorical window. I've been thinking in blog since the last time I graced Blogspot with my word vomit. Unfortunately, other than changing my toenail polish bi-weekly, (by painting over and over the other colors- the nails are about 3 inches thick, now), and making my lovely French feline Fifi fat, I had not ventured over any note worthy posts. This was until an energy saving light bulb went off in my 'Waitress Chronicals' head recently.

So the story goes...

In the past few years New Mexico has blown up as far as movie productions go. In particular, Albuquerque has become a haven for the film industry (hasta que Susana Martinez... but we won't discuss politics). The city is constantly on camera, and an interesting product of this would be the abundance of celebrities we have living and visiting here.

Like many people not in the famous spectrum of life, I am interested in the lives of people with lavish multi-million dollar homes and tiny lap dogs (hello People.com 24/7 mobile updates). Living in NYC, I was even fortunate enough to spot a few, this being said, I do find it inappropriate to run up and engage these virtual strangers in my star struck conversations. They don't need to know how much I love their movies, they have the buco- dollar checks to prove how much people enjoy their craft. I find it especially tacky to interrupt their lives when they are at a restaurant enjoying their down time with friends and family. Privacy is a luxury I (mostly) attain, and for this I will not name the particularly good looking actress this story encompasses, so we'll just ll her 'Juliet'.

For Juliet and her friends, everything seemed to be going great: wine was being consumed, food inhaled, laughter left and right. All in all, they were nice and joyous guests. After she and her mini posse had indulged in a few glasses of Sauv Blanc, Juliet kindly asked her waitress if she could smoke. Unfortunately NM law prohibits smoking in restaurants unless specific measures are taken for those non smokers so they can believe they are existing in a world where smoking only happens to hobos and glamorous actresses on television. We, clearly do not follow those constraints and have made the establishment 100% smoke free.

All seemed to be easing by well in the evening- no one had caught on fire (thus far), everyone appeared to be in good spirits, nothing could get us down....
...This was until we turned around and Juliet was Smoking. HOW RUDE!

Seeing that she and her friends refused to not only abide by our house policy of no smoking on the premises and openly shit on NM law, clearly Juliet has allowed stardom to float to her pretty blond head. This, however, I can forgive... with the correct apology and appropriate compensation. (Yes, I'm a literal waitress whore, everything has a price).

I suppose because the night went by so smoothly, it would be naive to expect everything to fall into place; some people call this moment of realization cynicism... I call it painful reality. Poor Juliet couldn't even afford to tip 20%. As a matter of fact, it is obvious that her Yale University mathematical skills are not even up to par as she incorrectly added and her intended mediocre tip was considerably worse after her addition.

(Let's get one thing straight, I'm not judging her based primarily on her lack of numerical calculations, for I too am a delinquent in this curriculum). I am snubbing her largely because if I were an ass hole (correction, famous ass hole) and purposely intended on using my celebrity-ism(?) to rule break, you better believe I'd throw down like a true pimp and tip upward of 50 percent for my discourteous and unrefined behaviour.)

Sure, perhaps some would be offended at a celebrity attempting to arrogantly buy their way to get and do what they want, yet, I'm in an industry where for the correct price, I can neglect to see a little emphysema scandal and perhaps even provide the matches.

Thanks for proving the self-righteous celebrity stats to be true, Juliet.

PS, please sign my apron.

Waitress Chronicles: Be Careful What You Wish For

I've never wanted to use this blog for anything but travel. Talking about my work, in my opinion, would be counterproductive to the purpose of this, relaxing and glorious writing forum. Nevertheless, in my line of work, I often encounter some if the most bizarre, awkward, incompetent, inappropriate, and flat out unique individuals. I have seen it all, complete with the mispronunciation of cocktail names, to bad first dates. I've had the pleasure of witnessing live projectile vomit and old lady snatch. I've been criticized and yelled at, I've been stiffed on a bill, and even had people pay in change, (all 27 dollars worth). Though this is (hopefully) not a personal career choice, through the ugly and uncomfortable, my job, is entirely too entertaining. It is now that I can no longer hold back the hilarity that ensues between the evening hours of 5 pm and midnight at my working establishment... I give you The Waitress Chronicles! It was just last night that I had the sheer pleasure of consoling a woeful party of 8 'over-the-hill' baby boomers when they so irritatingly 'felt neglected'. Clearly, we couldn't quickly enough replenish their 7th round of bottled Bud Lites and sangrias. (Eee a la). In my most sincere attempt to kill them with kindness, I was asked if I could have one of their pink fruity cocktails remade, and to 'not spit in it'... I'm not too sure where these people frequently dine where they are constantly concerned about the spit content of their beverages, but I suggest 2 things for them. One, find another place to dine, and promptly, saliva in sangrias is not okay. Or two, stop acting like dick wads and forcing servers to want to add their own 'personal' ingredient to your drink. *Sidebar* Many a time I have considered doing this and much worse to a persons drink or food, and as tempting as it may sometimes be, I am proud to say that I have refrained from doing ANYTHING nasty to a customers food/drink. (With the exception of a college party where some large chin sank insulted the craftsmanship of my Jell-o shots... she got a beer full of Courtney Beer) ....Back to the real story... Upon returning this newly made 'spit-free-by-request' cocktail, I turn and inform the other waitress of the recent occurrence and to reassure her all is now corrected and well. I then ask the woman how her new drink is... her response of silence baffled me, however, the response of her friend was a bit more alarming. "Be careful what you wish for," is what her friend chirps to me. I didn't know if this was a threat or she was just naming off titles from the Goosebumps series, by R.L. Stein. Obviously, I had misunderstood her and proceeded to ask if she too needed a drink. She continued chanting this phrase to me, and after the third time, I just walked away. Somewhere along the lines of trying to help her friend become content with her beverage selection, this woman decided it appropriate to speak to me in riddles. I promptly added a gratuity to the party, sensing they would the 10% tippers at best. The rest is history, really. A small batch of crazy on a Thursday night is nothing compared to the upcoming, knee-slapping fun I will grace you with in the posts to come. Cheers

International Waitress

Heading into month 3 of 2011, I have finally recovered from the big European adventured I shared with The Man Friend. In my attempt to not remain stagnant in my life, I took on the role of a volunteer at a local food bank. With my New Year's resolution to look smokin' hot by summer and be nearly as fit as an American Gladiator, I have taken on Belly Dancing and continue to practice (suffer through) hot yoga. For the sake of friends, family, and people I work with, I have shaved some hours off of my work week (So the next time some fool pays for their 27 dollar dinner in CHANGE, nickles and dimes, I won't propose they retreat to Denny's and shoot themselves in the foot for being entirely too irritating). Yearning for a little physical change, I went from ballsy brunette to feisty red head.

True, it may seem that I have taken 2011 by the proverbial horns, nevertheless, it appears that I am still a bit...horny!?!? For a change that is.

Since graduating college in 2008, I have done some traveling, some working, writing, reading, and drinking. But alas, the time has come. I feel that no longer am I being challenged by everyday mediocre restaurant goers. In looking for a job, the reality hit me that none of the prospective careers available are paying the 1 billion annually that only I think I am undeniably worth. And true, in my position, I do make a pretty penny, however, I actually asked someone recently "Is that steak good to you?" Seriously, Courtney... Is.That.Steak.Good.To.You? What the hell kind of grammar school did I attend? English for the I dun gooder? It was about this time that I began looking into grad programs. Unfortunately, it was more than complicated to find a masters in "sitting around getting paid buko bucks for nada."

Clearly, this endeavor will be more tyring than I thought. So for the last few weeks, I have been asking myself what I really want to do. The reoccurring image other than me sitting on a beach sipping a big fat margarita was working in some sort of international affairs position. Doing what... currently that is still vague.

So, instead of couch surfing, googling people.com and viewing endless hours of Sex and the City reruns, I perused the Internet for schools offering a MA in International Relations and the like. Furthermore, I rounded up information on the GRE, tuition rates for various institutions, possibilities to travel abroad during my period of study and cost of living from Kansas to Texas, and of coarse, NYC. What will come of the information I obtained today, who really knows, nevertheless, I am proceeding forward. In 6 months I may once again be a student, or I may be knocked up trying to reap the benefits of the State!!! Nothing is guaranteed.

So until further notice, I am on the path to broadening my education...and for the record, though nickles, dimes, and quarters may be legal tender, NEVER EVER pay for your meal with them. If I am your waitress, I will lay out my palm and ask you to ram your face into it; for paying in change is not okay :)

Nourriture Exquise

Welcome to Paris, France mesdames et messieurs!
It is here that I consumed some sensationally divine food. True, it may have been because we were for the 2 weeks previous consuming nothing but cured ham and bread rubbed with tomato; nevertheless, the night we arrived in The City of Lights, the food was exquisite. We began our taste bud journey with a few French Beers, (the names I could not pronounce, the flavors...de-lish). Moving on, Jarred and I split a bowl of French Onion Soup. Curious to the taste, since it originates from said country, I figured who could do it better?!?! NO ONE! Hands down, the best French Onion Soup! Absolutely decadent, rich, and savory. We perused the menu some more, and when Jarred came across the ole' standby of 'steak and fries', he was sold. I, a bit more adventurous, was looking for something more authentic; an item in between snails and cheese, with a raw texture, sure to not make me vomit. Our waiter suggested I have the 'steak tar-tar.' I've consumed raw beef before, and I must admit, I'm a fan. When they brought me a half pound of raw meet, however, my skepticism grew. Fortunately, 2 bites in, I was reassured by my taste buds and nearly licked the plate clean. Licked.It.Clean. (See below) We followed our prodigious dinner with chocolate mousse and coffee. This was the night I loosened my belt by not one notch, but 2.

Back to Spain for a minute, the plate of mini sausages was at a Tapas bar in Malaga. For every round of drinks you order, you get a free Tapa. This was the most scrumptious chorizo I have ever consumed (and I live in NM). Alive with flavor and succulent in spicy taste. The best part is that the photo below it is not an egg, but a bowl of oil and seasonings that the chorizo came in....Yup, we were even audacious enough to sop some up with bread and eat it. Heart attack city, and I do not mind.

A bit lower I thought it would be funny if Boyfriend would faux eat a hot dog picture. He thought it was less amusing than I did, thus making it hilarious that he still did me the honor of posing for the camera. (Thanks, Jarred).

Lastly, this is a picture in a market off of La Ramble, a famous promenade in Barcelona. I was intrigued by the colors, and all the funky looking fruit.

More Spain Pics

After several failed attempts to upload photos via blogspot, and 2 VERY SMALL melt downs, we are now viewing photos from, yet again, Barcelona. Kinda...well, the one in which Jarred and I are bundled up and look less than attractive, we are in Granada at The Alhambra. This place is in the running for one of the wonders of the world (or I have been telling people that anyway). And though it was amazing, and architecturally astonishing, we plowed through it in a matter of an hour and a half. (Sorry, there was wine to be had).

Oddly enough, NYE in Barcelona, they had the Barcelona World Race. Their convention center/ event space had a live telecast of the boats taking off, tapas and cava, and a plethora of pamphlets in Spanish about the days' events. Our events consisted of us taking pictures with the massive Sideshow Bob Blimp flying above. (Ps, that is the Mediterranean Sea behind The Man, and yes, we touched it...and it felt good, really good).

Night time picture is NYE. This is the last picture taken, (and possibly the only picture that will be shown of that night), before eyes became crossed, bottles of champagne were consumed, and public urination took place. I'm fairly certain that along with welcoming a new and potentially prosperous new year, some of our dignity was left in Barcelona on the last evening of 2010.

After some afternoon drinking, Jarred and I stumbled into a mall and found ourselves standing at the foot of an enormous Christmas Giant taking a dump. At first, we believed he only had his pants down (pantsonthegroundpantsonthegroundlookinglikeafoolwithyourpantsontheground), however, this colossal holiday beast was making poo in the Barcelona shopping center; thus, unquestionably, we felt compelled to have our photo taken with it.

Finally, on the evening we ended up wandering around with some random men and the spit-fire Italian girl at 4 am, I thought it was artsy-fartsy to capture out insane beverages on camera. Who knew Gin Gimlets and beer were so appealing?!?

NEXT...Food photos, unattractive mustaches, oh, and a little place I like to call Paris!

EXTRA EXTRA!!! Photos of European Excitement (BARCELONA)

They're here!!!
Photos galore! Barcelona will be our first stop on this exciting slide show adventure. The three daytime snap shots are of Gaudi's Sagrada Familia. This is the Cathedral, having been built for over 100 years, is yet to be completed. My 12 megapixil digital cam could truly never do it justice, but I sure as H-E- Double hockey sticks tried. The night time image is of Gaudi's Casa Batllo.

Ophiuchus, a Possible New Tattoo

Please note, that I will resume European stories shortly. France, filled with berets and Le Big Macs, rain and cheese, will be told through the eyes of yours truly.

Today however, I was compelled to search, via google, about the 13th Zodiac sign, Ophiuchus. A few days ago, I met my mother for an afternoon lunch (or Happy Hour as most people know it), and she calmly asked me, "are you still a Cancer?" At first, I thought she had asked if I still had Cancer, and was a bit thrown off. Post clarification of her true statement, I was more mortified than I was when I thought she had asked me if I had cancer. In the 2 weeks we were on Holiday in Spain, apparently The World decided for the last few hundred years (Pure approximation, calculated by nothing other than my guestimations) we had been close to a whole month off on the astrological calender. WTF, World?!?

Other than high school crushes and bored Saturdays, the horoscope was nothing I followed too closely. Horoscope descriptions, I have always found are fairly vague. Whether reading them in a magazine, newspaper, or on a website, one can usually relate to their specific sign, for example:

"Today is a special day, someone that you know, will do something. This may either elate you, or devastate you. If the wind blows, you will have thoughts, and if the day is a standstill, your thoughts will have you. Lucky Numbers, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9."

Upon reading this (or something closely related), many people (typically gullible), will relate this to their specific Zodiac. "My thoughts might have me, and I do indeed know someone...and I am positive they will do something." C'mon guys, we all know the Horoscope calender is a ploy for Cosmo (The magazine with dirty sex secrets for every occasion) to make money. Every January they come out with the Zodiac issue, where you can see which celebrity you are most compatible with based on how many rose icons you both have in your respective columns. Everyone wants to know how steamy their sex life might be, given the chance, with Jessica Alba or Johnny Depp. Unfortunately for most of us (or perhaps just me, based on Karma and my shitty, sarcastic attitude) I always end up with the sex life most compatible with Tom Hanks or Cloris Leachman.

I don't think I have ever opted out of being some one's friend because they were a Virgo. And I almost never discriminated against any sign for dating (sleeping with) purposes. The only thing that currently perplexes me (and fortunately for me, I was born a Cancer, and because of what my mother calls the stubbornness of my ass not wanting to leave the womb, I still am a Cancer) is the people who permanently inked themselves with their sign, only to have it now changed. It was like the cool people in NM, when the entire state had one area code (505, what what!) and they all tattooed it in Old English across their chest or on the back of their necks, just to have it change 2 years later. (575, boo). How you gunna switch that 0 to a 7, homes?!?

How inexplicable rude of The World to not take into consideration the bad decisions of freshman year and an amature tattoo artist. Finally coming to terms with the blue blob positioned above some 29 year olds hip, having spent years convincing friends and lovers alike it REALLY REALLY was the Sagittarius, she is now facing a devastation in telling her 3 year old it really really is Ophiuchus... the 13th Zodiac sign.

All in all, lesson of the day; someone will have a compatible and steamy sex life with Danny Glover, pending the decision of their Cosmo Magazine's Horoscope.

:)

Helloooo New Years in Barcelona

Friends...

So, 10 days late, but Happy New Year!!!

Hope the resolutions are holding up thus far, and the decisions from an evening 10 days ago are fading. As for NYE in Barcelona, there is much to be said. The hostel Jarred and I stayed in provided a huge dinner (Lot's of cured meats and cheese, yum) and some Sangria. We sat with 2 guys from Milan, or as we now know it as "The REAL Jersey Shore," a nerd alert kid from Colombia, (University, not country), a woman from Japan who became very giggly off of a small glass of sangria, and Steve, a fellow who visited from Sheffield, right outside of London. The eclectic mix of accents and language barriers truly prompted the liquor consumption.

Around 11:30, Jarred and I jumped ship and booked it down to the beach where massive fireworks and "The Countdown" took place. We ran into a very nice gypsy who sold us a bottle of Cava (my favorite) for 5 euros. For Jarred, the rest of the night is history. We waited for a big countdown, and caught it at 6. Having to count up from 1 to 6 in Spanish to know exactly what number everyone was saying put us counting down at 4, and cheering abundantly around what we thought was everyone cheering Happy New Years! Having had Cava AND grapes, a NYE tradition in Spain, there was every reason to cheer!

At this time, we made our way to a bar and celebrated with some lovely women from France. Jarred tried taking pictures of one of the women when she lost her phone, and said "her reaction is priceless to the missing phone." It was then that I realized he had the CRAZY in his eye. Clearly, I am far too familiar with this look, as I often see it staring back at me in the mirror or later in photos after debaucherous evenings, so I made the decision then and there that instead of potentially getting arrested in Spain for, It was better if he and I trotted on home. On the way, as a 5 year old child would, Jarred whined that he needed to use the bathroom. And since some of us know, he enjoys peeing on things, we ran to an off street so he could pee behind some trash cans. (Fabulous way to start the new year off, eh, Jarred).

We made it home in one piece, truly the beginning of our European adventures. The next morning, we flew, (Rested for me, hurting for him) to Malaga in southern Spain. We ended up in a nice hotel after wandering the streets for an hour with overloaded backpackers' backpacks, and looking very much foreign. Since we woke up in our hostel that morning with the stench of old feet and booze, a clean, private room, complete with fresh towels and a double bed, life seemed as if heaven opened it's doors!

Filling you in on Malaga to Granada, back to Malaga, and to Paris is preparing for another day- meaning everyone should prepare themselves for 87 pictures of Jarred and I in front of the Eiffel Tower. More to come...

Cured Meat and Cava

Hola a todos, y bienvenidos a mi Blog, via SPAIN!

Jarred and I made it hear alive...close to a week ago. Clearly. my New Year´s resolution of keeping up with my writing forum has already fallen to the wayside. Writing a few things every day would have been much more productive than cramming 3 pages into a blog of a 7 day experience; chalked full of New Year´s decisions, (good and bad), 5 € bottles of Champagne, a cabbie getting into a car accident in Granada, the ultimate search for Spain´s official dish of Pallea, tales of Ryanair and the European teeny-tiny Airbus industry, a hostel where (And I quote from a previous reviewer, and in what I imagine to be a Brittish accent), ´´The owners are directly from Woodstock, and walk around in YOUR bloody bathrobe.´´

What I will do is give you the bullet points and skip the boring details. And since the BF is now using the phone and not s¡itting next to me, I most definitely can regale you with his hammered stories...After all 4 beers.

We first arrived in BARCELONA on the 29th. Got to hostel, checked in, brushed up on my ever so clever Spanish speaking skills, and went for a walk. We ended up wandering around for about 12 minutes before I decided it was time for a cocktail. Sure, it may have only been 8:45 in the morning, but it´s EUROPE for crying out loud. And then we stopped for some cava, local sparkling wine. The wine plus the jet-lag, plus a non-sleeping flight, put us directly into sleep mode. Night was pretty uneventful, other than some more cava, the beginning of our cured meat eating frenzy, and some more wandering.

Day´s 2-4 were mostly filled with amazing sight seeing expeditions, Segrada de la Familia and other Gaudi works. (ALL AMAZING). In addition to the beautiful architecture, we had beautiful afternoons full of wine, beer, sangria, cava, and naps. Around day 3, Jarred made the distinct observation that locally, other than a few dishes specific to the region, cured meats, cheese, and olives were the cuisine of choice. Personally, I could live the rest of my life off of raw salted meat and bowel obstructing cheese, complete with marinated olives, apparently however, I´m easy. Being from Texas, and this truly being the first time he had traveled over seas, Jarred was more than ready for a medium grilled steak and a larger than life baked potato drowned in sour cream, ranch dressing, cheese and bacon bits.

Post afternoon siesta, (where our naps the first few days went from early afternoon to early evening) the 2 of us went for what we thought was going to be a ´´nice´´ dinner. We showed up to a little restaurant, and were told there were NO tables inside. No problem, being that we did not make reservations, and really, for me, dinner was about the cava. So the waitress let us sit outside where we had the wine and brought us the finest Tapas. Spectacularly fresh Ahi tuna, seared rare, and an egg carrpachio dish. Oh yes, we consumed the hell out of some raw egg. (No worms to be reported...yet). This night turned into a night to remember when we walked across the street after our 56€, 2 tapa dinner and got lit off beer and Gin Gimlets. We ended up and a quaint part of Barcelona that the both of us don´t believe really exists (None of the streets we remembered were even on a map) and we found ourselves walking around with a few guys and a very tini Italian girl with too much to drink, and attitude taller than she. She spoke English very well, and at 4 foot 8 inches tried to fight with a massive man who wouldn´t give he a cigarette. We absolutely loved her. At one point she demanded Jarred´s phone number and after he gave it to her, she tried calling. (Boy is she going to love looking at that cell phone bill in a month and realizing at 330 am she made a loooong distance call to New Mexico). We ended up lying our way out of going to an after hours bar by saying we had an early flight...and after getting into a cab and searching for food at 4 am, ate a raw hot dog.


Considering I´ve only tapped into the beginning of the trip at this point, I´ll post more later, allow everyone the time to consume and adjust once again to ´´The Blog.´´

Be on the look-out for New Year´s eve blog, as the stories only become...more colorful.

Salud!