Swedish superstores, naked Brits, and fart jokes...welcome to the real Spain!

I think I have finally settled in. That's an incredible feeling, because for the first few weeks, I didn't feel comfortable here in Spain. Now I have a new apartment with supercool roommates in a pretty friendly part of town, and I feel much better about my situation. Let my Spanish life begin!

Saturday afternoon, my friend Biz and I went to a new IKEA on the outskirts of town. We rode the metro to the south end of the blue line, and then took the free shuttle bus to shopping paradise. I had never been in an IKEA before, but had heard other people sing its praises. I was pretty excited, especially because I was planning on buying a lot of things for my new room. However, it is a pretty stinking hard store to figure out. Especially because everything is neither in English nor Spanish, but Swedish. So me and Biz wandered around for about an hour trying to figure out how to buy sheets. Turns out, we were in the wrong section of IKEA, the "exposition" section (where apparently you look but don't buy), so by the time we found the sheets, I just wanted to leave. However, we finally figured out the store's layout, and then were able to find the things on my list. I bought pink and white curtains, a down pillow, a bottom sheet, and a duvet cover and pillowcase set. I bought the duvet cover to serve as my top sheet, because IKEA does not carry top sheets, therefore forcing me to improvise. I also bought a few towels, a rug, and some little cinnamon-scented tealights. So it turned out to be a successful trip after all. I am all color-coordinated now and slowly but surely making my new room my own.

Sunday night was La Noche en Blanco here in Madrid, one night a year where many different cultural events go on from 9pm till 7am. And once again, I wore the wrong shoes. Why do I keep doing that? Anyway, Biz and I went to Santiago Bernabeu stadium (where the super-famous Real Madrid soccer team plays) for the free tour. After standing in a line that wound around the entire stadium for almost two hours (we are both very stubborn) we finally got to go in. It was interesting to see in person what I had only ever seen on TV, but my mind was mostly occupied by the plight of my poor feet. And my camera's battery died, but luckily Biz had hers. I was slightly cheered by the fact that the tour was supposed to include entry into Real Madrid's locker room. However, upon entering said locker room, I was dismayed to discover a sign on the wall that informed us we were to see an "authentic replica" of Real Madrid's locker room. I should have known it was too good to be true. My fantasy of walking into the same room where the glorious David Beckham has strode around without his knickers on remains just that. A fantasy. Joaquin is throwing up now.

After a run-, er, hobble-through, of the trophy room, Biz and I left for her apartment to get me some more shoes. It was about 2:00am, and we had wrongly assumed that the metro would stay open late for the cultural-event-goers to use. Nope, it closed right at 1:30 like normal, so we were stuck in north Madrid without any means of transportation. Me more than Biz, because I couldn't even use my feet. The line for the night bus was starting to wrap around the stadium as well. So I took off my beautiful-but-evil Honduran gold heels, and walked back to Biz's place barefoot, an only slightly less painful adventure than if I had kept them on. I guess people were probably looking at me funny, but I didn't see them because I was keeping my eyes on the sidewalk to prevent myself from stepping on some stray hypodermic needle. Not that there is much drug parephenalia laying around in the open in Madrid, but one can never be too careful when it comes to HIV. Anyway, I crashed on Biz's couch that night, with my bloody, blistered feet hanging off the edge. Good memories.

Yesterday (Monday) was our last day of TEFL, in which we took our final exams. 45 minutes of Children's, 45 minutes of Business, and 90 eternal minutes of theory. So three hours of writing. We did get a break in the middle, but it certainly wasn't long enough. I was pretty irritated with the whole thing when I finally finished, especially since we had to write two essays in the theory part. There were several questions I left blank, such as "What is a collocation?" I think we did go over that in class, but I didn't think it was important enough to remember at the time. I still don't. Better yet, what is a relative pronoun or an appositive? Yeah, I have no clue. If a student ever asks me, I'll make them look it up.

Since there is no more TEFL to worry about, I have begun picking up a lot more English classes. I had three new students tonight, two six year-old boys together, and then a 10 year old boy. What a world of difference four years makes. The two six year olds would not stop moving for one nanosecond. Poor things had just gotten out of school, and then they were subjected to a hour of some weird foreign lady trying to make them sit still when all they wanted to do was burn off some energy. They were completely out of control, running around, yelling in rapid-fire Spanish, bouncing off each other, throwing things around...you know, as much general pandemonium as two little boys can create. At one point, the "better" of the two, Alejandro, sat on the other, Alvaro, and farted in his face. And then about 20 minutes of hysterical "pedo" comments ensued. I had to laugh through my gritted teeth. What can you do? I didn't lose my temper or leave early, and that's about all their moms could ask of me, for the first day anyway. I am going to be prepared for battle next week. Anybody got any ideas?

My second class was with a 10 year-old, also named Alejandro, and he was remarkably better-behaved. And really smart! The information I recieved listed him as "false beginner" and though I am not sure what that means, he is no beginner. He goes to a bilingual school, and it seems to me that he is getting close to fluent. His English is way better than my Spanish anyway. So I had him read a children's book to me to determine his reading level, and except for a few pronunciation errors, he had no problem. He's an only child and obviously his parents have done a wonderful job in providing for his education. Well, they are well-off and live in a fairly fancy apartment complex...rather, apartment compound. I was surprised the guards didn't frisk me upon entering. Anyway, the hour-and-a-half class flew by, with us talking about travel, Harry Potter, and showing each other some card tricks. All in all, he's a very cool kid, and I am looking forward to our class next week.

Well, that's about it for now. I have been playing Brad Paisley's song Ticks over and over again for the past hour because it is just so stinkin funny. And makes me feel at home. I have always said I couldn't wait to get out of the Deep South, but strangely enough, any little bit of the South that I brought with me or that I have found here is a precious commodity. Huh. I would never have guessed it, but just hearing the word "y'all" here is like listening to a symphony orchestra play Pachelbel's Canon in D. It makes my heart soar up into the clouds.

One little white lie...

12:15pm
I hate lying. I really, really hate it. No matter how careful I am in constructing said lie, it always somehow finds a way of biting me in the butt. And now I am in the middle of a big one which has already bitten me several times this week. Thankfully, it will be over in less than an hour, because at 1:00pm, I am meeting my ex-roommate to give her the apartment keys back and retrieve from her a precious copy of my passport. And then I will never have to see her again, because I will be in Alcalá de Henares. Or so she thinks. Let me explain…

It all started about two weeks ago on one lovely Monday morning, when I fatefully decided to get up early and take a shower before my roommate awoke. I tip-toed out of my bedroom into the living room (where strangely enough, my roommate sleeps). And there he was. Some guy in bed with her. Awkward! Oh well, what could I do? I took a shower, tip-toed back into my room, and began to get ready for the day. I heard some bustling in the living room while I was getting ready, and when I came back out of my room to fix a bowl of cereal, here came the demon-woman. She started chastising me in Spanish (which is our common language), and it was all coming out so fast, that I didn’t understand what she was mad about. I assumed it was because she didn’t know I had planned to shower in the morning. And who knows what she was really mad about? I personally think she was embarrassed that I had seen her in bed with her guy, after she had explicitly told me that sleepovers were not allowed, which was perfectly fine with me, of course. The reason for her being mad at me all goes a bit hazy from here. All I know is that I got fussed at several times, even though I was trying my best to stay out of her way, and let her have free use of all the common facilities while she was home. I showered and cooked while she was gone to work, and stayed in my room while she was there. I was neat as a pin, never left dishes in the sink or the bathroom floor wet, and was super-quiet too. So how could there be a problem? Still, apparently I was doing the exact opposite of everything she told me to do. Needless to say, it turned into a very uncomfortable situation. After being down in the dumps for about a week straight, I finally decided to give in to the coaxing of my friends and family, and tell her I was moving.

Here’s where my big fat lie comes in. I wanted to spare her feelings and try to limit the amount of drama that was undoubtedly coming, so instead of telling her that I was moving because she was a psychopath, I told her I had received a wonderful job offer in a little town just east of Madrid called Alcalá de Henares. The commute would be too much for me to continue living in Madrid, so I had to move on account of location. Well, the fact that I didn’t deserve it aside, there was no “congratulations on your new job!” or “this leaves me without a roommate but we’ll work it out.” No, all I got was about 20 minutes worth of the J-word (equivalent to the F-word in English) in all its various forms. I offered to advertise the apartment online and show it when she didn’t have time, but that was futile. I finally just got up, walked into my room, closed the door, and started packing. I called my friend Megan who graciously offered to let me stay with her for a few days until I found a new place. I have been with Megan now for four nights, and I also spent one night with another good friend named Biz. They are both unbelievable people who have fed me, given me a place to sleep and shower, and Megan has even clothed me. Even though I have been homeless the past week, I have wanted for nothing. Even the fact that my things are now spread over three different apartments for storage hasn’t been such a problem. I am incredibly blessed to have met such wonderful people.

This morning, my lie got sticky. I woke up to the sound of my cell phone ringing and with a heavy heart, I knew immediately who it was. Good old roomie-of-the-year calling to badger me some more. I did still have her keys, which I was holding ransom for the return of the copy of my passport that she had. But I had already told her that I was going to be in Alcalá this weekend in order to move into my new apartment, get situated, and that I was going to call her at the beginning of the week. She jumped the gun, though, and told me she was coming to Alcalá this afternoon to meet me and get the keys. However, I was not in Alcalá. I was lying on Megan’s trundle bed about 30 minutes away from the center of Madrid. I did a bit of panicking, and then decided that, no, I wasn’t going to run to Alcalá just to cover up my lie. I was going to make her meet me in Madrid somewhere, by telling her that I was in town for the afternoon in order to pick up some stuff from a friend’s house. She finally consented to meet me at the Puerta del Sol, though she didn’t want to meet at the fountain because she said she didn’t know where it was. I mean, COME ON! It’s smack in the middle of the Puerta del Sol! She has lived here for 5 years and doesn’t know where the fountain is? I didn’t buy that. Then I realized that she is the type of person who has to maintain some control over every situation that she is in. So she suggested meeting near the bear statue (about 20 feet away from the fountain) and I was like, “Yeah, that’s fine. Whatever.” So at 1:00pm, that’s where we’re meeting. I will collect my posse at the fountain and we’ll walk 20 feet to face my evil roommate and whatever backup she has decided to bring. I’ll update after it all goes down.

5:00pm
It’s over! It’s finally over! I am so glad I will never have to see that meanie-head again. Everything happened as planned. We met, made the exchange, and then she high-tailed it out of there, probably intimidated by my group of girls with “just try us” looks on their faces. It was not a big deal, and I was kinda disappointed that I didn’t have the opportunity to tell her off. But at least it’s all over. She has her keys and I have my passport copy. She still has my deposit, but there’s no way in hell or on earth that she would ever give that back to me, even though I didn’t do any harm whatsoever to the apartment. Oh well. Chalk it up to a 180€ life lesson. And my last lie for a long, long (long, long, long) time.

There are weirdos in Spain too! I fit right in...

I taught my first class tonight. It wasn’t great, and it wasn’t terrible, so I am ok about it. The little girls are very sweet and eager to play, but not really eager to learn. That’s ok. I think I have sufficient knowledge now about teaching so that I can successfully trick them into learning next time. The only problem is that the littlest one, Lucia, who I was told was three years old, is actually two. She can’t even speak Spanish yet, let alone English. What the heck can I do with a two year-old? Today, she pretty much just colored a picture and watched her sister play a matching game with flashcards. Adriana, the six year-old, knows some basic words and is better behaved than her last teacher’s final report led me to believe. However, she did take her skirt off half-way through the lesson and wanted to continue in just her underwear until her dad saw her and made her put the skirt back on. She’s sweet though, and I think I’ll enjoy hanging out with her a couple times a week. The dad, Julio, speaks a little English. Their apartment is very nice and clean with fancy Pier-1 type décor. It is pretty far away from the center of Madrid, so it takes me about 50 minutes to get there. I have to take the metro all the way out to the end of one of the lines, and then catch a train the rest of the way. However, I can use my monthly metro pass for the train, and Canterbury is giving me a 3 euro travel stipend per class because of the distance. And I like riding the train because there are lots of windows and I get to see the outskirts of the city. So I am happy for now. Hopefully, they’ll start offering me more classes soon. Also, I am going to apply with other English schools around Madrid to try and pick up extra classes. Heck yeah! English teacher in Madrid! Everything is starting to come together now. It’s just a matter of time before I’m cruising the calles on my purple Vespa with my little puppy-dog’s ears flapping in the breeze.

Last night, I had kind of a rough time. I developed a really bad stomachache, and so spent a large percentage of the night in the bathroom. I don’t really know what the problem was, though it may have had something to do with the entire jar of green olives I ate for dinner. I stayed in bed late this morning because of my lack of sleep and then got up and went to the second half of my TEFL class. Don’t worry about me though. I’m fine now. It was probably just my stinkin’ dengue acting up again. (Just kidding, Joaquin! Don’t get mad…I love you…)

I went to church on Sunday with my friend Biz. She found a small Iglesia Cristiana in another part of town, and so I went with her to check it out. Luckily, the guest speaker wasn’t a native Spanish speaker. He was actually a German missionary working in Mexico, but he spoke in Spanish slowly and clearly, without slang or difficult words, so we were able to understand him fairly easily. We spoke to him after the service, but apparently he doesn’t speak English because he continued to converse with us in Spanish even after we told him we were Americans. It was a nice Sunday morning, and Biz and I stopped for empanadas at a little bakery close to the church on our way back to the metro station.

The neighborhood I live in is very multicultural, like I have said before. However, I thought the multicultural-ness was restricted to South and Central American countries. Apparently it’s not. I have a strong suspicion that I live next door to an aboriginal Australian, because I got ready this morning to the sound of him practicing his didgeridoo. I know you are probably thinking that‘s highly unlikely to be a correct assumption, but trust me. Didgeridoo music is very distinctive. I know the sound of a man puffing up his cheeks and blowing with all his might into a long thick tube of Australian-type wood stuffs when I hear it.

My Moroccan roomy has calmed down a bit since the last time we talked. Some of you already know about her psychotic episodes of absolute nonsense, but hopefully she has lightened up and will remain so. She is having her older brother bring a desk for my room sometime this week, so that will be nice. Her brother also lives here in Madrid, which just follows the trend I have noticed about girls from Muslim families living abroad. Every Muslim girl I have ever met was only able to move to another part of the world after her older brother had already established himself there. I sure am glad my family is not like that, because I have no older brother. So I would either be stuck at home cooking couscous all day, or be disowned and ostracized from my family for shipping myself off anyway.* Thank God for the good old Baptists.

Speaking of other religions, I saw a couple of “Elders” on the metro this afternoon. Poor things must have had to leave their bicycles at home today. I was wondering when I would run into some Mormons, as they seem to pollute every country I have ever visited. Saw a couple in Quiznos in Tegucigalpa, and got into a heated verbal exchange with two in the Tupac Amaru market of Juliaca, Peru a couple of years ago. Well, good for them. I hope they get nice big planets when they die and become gods. And seven virgins. And a 21-gun salute. And their first taste of Coca-Cola. Gosh, it can’t be just a coincidence that the name of their religion is only one letter away from spelling “morons.”

Well, I am a sleepy child who needs her rest and all that. Maybe my roommate’s asleep so I can go sneak and take a shower. Madrid makes my armpits sweat like crazy. And apparently everyone else’s too. During midday, this whole city smells like a boys’ locker room. Not that I’ve ever been in a boys’ locker room. Obviously. Because I am a girl. Ok, then…

*I mean no harm by making gross generalizations like this. It is only for humorous purposes and not meant to be taken seriously. Muslims are generally very nice people. And I make fun of my own religion quite regularly. Those mentioned in the next paragraph, however, I do not wish to spare. Let all laughter at the expense of the Mormons ring loud and free!

I have already used up my supply of creativity for the week, and it´s only Tuesday.

**DISCLAIMER- This blog may contain crude subject matter. However, there is no crudeness merely for the sake of crudeness. Any crudeness in this blog will be present because I feel it necessary to help explain something or expand upon something. If you are not ok with this, go get a sense of humor. **

Life has calmed down a bit for me here in Madrid. I am through my first week of classes, am settled into my apartment, and am learning my way around my new neighborhood. City life is still a bit new, but I am adjusting well, I think. Not only do I have to adjust to city life, but there are also loads of cultural differences that surprise me every day. Sometimes they make me laugh, sometimes they make me go, “hmmm,” and sometimes they make me frustrated. However, they all make life a little bit less monotonous. Here are some things I have noticed that you guys might find interesting.

Spain has a different view on beer and alcohol than the United States does. The first difference is that you can drink when you’re 18 here (as it is in most of the sane world). That’s the law, though it’s not strictly enforced. I have been out to several bars with my friends, and we never get asked for ID. And some of us look pretty young, though we are all in our early 20s. Ok, so no big deal. Go to the bar and have a drink as long as you don’t look younger than 12. Also, grocery and convenience stores everywhere sell beers individually, so if you wanted a quick drink on the run, easy. No need to buy a whole six-pack. McDonald’s even has beer on tap, right next to the Coca-Cola. In the building where I have my TEFL classes, the vending machine will shoot out a can of Mahou (Spain’s most popular beer) for a mere euro, to whoever puts one in and presses the correct button. No age questions there. All you young alcoholics out there, Spain’s the place to be!

I actually learned something just last night that made me feel pretty dumb about myself. In every private bathroom that I have been in (including those in the three hostals I stayed in, as well as the one in my current apartment) there is a little mini toilet-looking thing that I assumed was a foot basin. I mean, walking around the city in your flip-flops or sandals, and your feet get pretty dirty. How handy to have a little sink close to the floor to wash your feet in! Smart people…um, yeah, it’s not a foot basin. Anybody wanna take a guess at what it really is? It’s a douche, or a bidet (spelling may be wrong here) as the dainty French ladies call it. Hello! Yup, I have been washing my feet in a…um…yeah. Ewwww!

And now, let’s talk about food. What a nice transition…so, I’ve been exploring the local grocery stores lately. There are three fairly large ones near my apartment. Grocery-shopping has always been one of my all-time favorite “living on my own” activities. And grocery-shopping in another country is always an adventure. You have to bag your own groceries here, and sometimes you have to pay for how many plastic bags you use, but they are only like 3 cents each, so it’s not a big deal. I have been able to find many familiar foods and even some of the same brands from home. There are a few things that are really, really different though. The milk and eggs aren’t refrigerated here. They are just sitting out on shelves like your everyday box of cereal. I assume that you are supposed to refrigerate after getting them home. After all, who wants warm milk with their Oreos? And unrefrigerated eggs? That’s a foolproof recipe for disaster. A praise report- I finally found peanut butter! None of the large grocery stores had it, and by chance I found a jar in this little Ecuadorian import store near my apartment. It is called pasta de maní, rather than mantequilla de cacahuate, like I am used to saying. It has no added sugar and is kinda separated at the moment, with the peanut oil floating on top. I don’t care! It’s peanut butter and I can finally make a PB&J sandwich! Victory!

I bought laundry detergent the other day because I had loads of loads to wash. Silly me, I just bought the cheapest thing I saw and didn’t even smell it first. So now all my clean clothes smell like men’s Axe body spray. Strongly. We don’t have a dryer and have to hang everything outside to dry, so there is nothing to tone down the smell but the wind. Oh well, there’s nobody here I want to smell good for anyway. Just to be on the safe side though (since I have my classes in a fairly homosexual side of town) I am planning on making a big tag to wear on my chest that says “I like men!” Wait. People might take that the wrong way. How about, “I’m not a lesbian!” Yeah, that’ll work.

So, I am adjusting, bit by bit, to this whole Live-in-Madrid thing that I have gotten myself into. Life’s fun, and my classes and new friends are great. I do miss home though. I called my grandparents this afternoon and they were planning to go down to the lake with my family and have a nice little barbeque thingy. I miss being able to do that. Oh well, if I get too lonely, I can just hop on the metro and go sit by the lake in the park for a few hours. Well, that might actually make it worse. Ok! I admit it. I really miss home! Someone come visit me! Please! Now!

La Freakin´ Tomatina

It has been two days since the Tomatina festival in Buñol and I am still feelings its effects. My shoulders are sore, I have a bruise on the side of my knee, and when I try to take deep breaths, my ribcage and side muscles feel like I have recently been freed from 10 years in a corset. I had no idea that a simple tomato fight would turn into a struggle for my very life…

Imagine, if you can, a small rural town in southern Spain. Mainly industrial. Not too charming or picturesque. Narrow streets. White-washed walls. Dusty and windy outskirts. Now, picture 40,000 people from all over the world descending on this one town for one special day, the last Wednesday of August, every year. These people come with the intent of creaming each other with hundreds of tons of tomatoes for the span of one hour, and then rinsing off and heading back to wherever they came from. One hour of incredible silliness with fellow adventure seekers in a vast pool of tomato puree. Sounds fun, interesting, and quite a bit out of the ordinary, doesn’t it? That’s what I thought ever since I first heard of the festival a few years ago. I continued to think that up until about 52 hours ago when I experienced La Tomatina for myself.

First of all, do you know how many 40, 000 people really is? It’s a whole stinkin’ lot. And do you know how narrow the streets are in small rural Spanish towns? Pretty stinkin’ narrow. And do you know what you get when you force 40,000 people into the narrow streets of a small rural Spanish town? A lot of opportunity for pain.

In theory, the festival works like this: big trucks filled with overripe tomatoes drive through the streets and dump the tomatoes in strategic spots for expectant food-fighters to throw at each other. Everyone must squeeze the tomato and break its skin so that it won’t harm the person who gets hit with it. And there you go. Chaos ensues. However, that is not the way it works in reality. Let me put it all in a timeline so that you may understand better my thought process throughout the festival.

10:30am- We arrive in Buñol in a big charter bus after a 3.5 hour ride from Madrid. Gosh, there are a lot of people and cars along the streets. And we aren’t even in the town center yet. We park at a gas station, get out of the bus, and start following the flow of people to wherever they are going. Hey, they are all heading in the same direction, so they must be here for the same reason we are. We see people wearing goggles, bikinis, tank tops, shorts, and wacky stuff too. Everyone looks like a hippie. I feel like I am going to Woodstock. And my group is dressed pretty much the same. I am wearing a tight, black sleeveless shirt, hiking shorts, and my red tennis shoes, which I think have little chance of getting ruined by tomatoes since they are already red. We are all ready! So where is the festival?

10:50am- Ok, so I have been walking for about 20 minutes, still following the crowd, and it doesn’t look like the hike is nearing an end yet. Oh well, I am with my new Canterbury friends, and we are having a good time chatting and anticipating while we walk. We are all looking forward to heading to the beach at Valencia, about 45 minutes away, after La Tomatina ends. There is a helicopter circling overhead. Maybe it’s the news here to film the festival. Wait…nope, it’s the Guardia Civil, Spain’s police force. Well, that’s encouraging…

11:00am- Still walking. Suddenly, we hear a gun go off. Crack! Signals the start of the festival, I guess. Several guys start running, evidently in a hurry to get to “Ground Zero,” as Canterbury’s director and resident Tomatina aficionado, James, lovingly refers to it. The crowd starts building up as we enter the center of town with its narrow, winding streets and alleys. Well, there’s only one way to continue, and that’s to push our way through. Do I really want to though? That’s a lot of sweaty people and they already smell pretty bad. Hey! Quit pushing me! Wait! Oh man, here we go. I am getting pushed along, and there’s no way to fight the crowd that is carrying me. Best to just go with it, I think. Some guys start chanting “Dónde están los tomates? Los tomates, dónde están?” Me and my friend Biz, who has stuck with me since we got separated from the rest of the group, start laughing and singing along. We are still moving forward as the crowd grows more and more dense…

11:15am- Ok, so… dónde están los tomates? The only thing I have seen thrown so far is water, beer, and sangría. Me and Biz find ourselves near the center of the main street surrounded by so many people, I can hardly believe it. Boy, this stinks. I am pressed up against some guy’s sweaty bare back. There’s no room to move away from him though. I am keeping my arms up in front of my chest so I can push myself away if I need to. Wait…I think I just heard someone say a truck is coming. From what I can tell, the vast majority of the people here speak English. That’s strange…I think I see something coming. Oh yay! It’s a truck! Finally, let’s get this food fight started! Huh. I wonder how it can fit through with all these people in the street. Hey, get your elbow out of my stomach! I gotta get out of the way of the truck. Man, it’s getting tight in here. I can already smell the tomatoes, which I have to say is much nicer than body odor. How am I going to throw a tomato when I can’t move my arms? Wow, ouch, I am getting squeezed pretty hard here. Biz is right behind me, and we are trying to laugh about this situation, but the fact that it’s hard to breathe has kind of put a damper on the whole partying spirit. Oh crap, this really hurts. I will not pass out. I will not pass out. I have plenty of air. I will not pass out. Ok, not cool. Ahhhhh! Oh, God! I can’t…breathe…

11:20am- Whew! The truck is finally past us. The crowd has loosened a bit and it’s easier to breathe now. Wow, that was scary. But we still can’t move. Why didn’t the truck drop the tomatoes? That doesn’t make sense. There were people in the back of the truck throwing some at us, but there still isn’t any for the people in the street to throw. What? Another truck is coming? Oh crap…oh crap…ouch, ow, oh crap…Biz, you ok? Yeah, my ribs are being crushed too. Oh sorry! I didn’t mean to poke you in the eye. I was just trying to scratch behind my ear…

11:30am- Ok, this is officially not fun anymore. It would be so easy to get trampled or crushed to death in this unbelievable mob. But I am determined to survive. Oh #%&*, not another truck! Ah, ah, ah, owww, crap. Please stop, please stop. I want to leave! This hurts so much! Ahhhhhh!

11:50am- Biz and I have worked our way, slowly but surely, to the side of the street, and I am now using my right arm and hip as a brace against the wall to create more room for myself. This poor short Asian girl behind us has pretty much disappeared. There is a fair amount of tomato pulp in my hair now, and my feet are sharing my shoes with about a quart of tomato juice, but I have been nowhere close to being able to throw a tomato of my own. The best I can do is feebly flick off whatever lands on the shoulders of the guy in front of me. Ten more minutes of this madness…

12:00pm- Ok, it’s noon. Let’s get out of here! Why aren’t people moving? Let me out!!!! Come on, guys, it’s over. Leave, so I can have room to leave too. What a stupid idea, this tomato fight. I just want to rinse off, get back on the bus, and never eat another tomato for the rest of my life. Gah! Biz, let’s try to force our way out. Ready? PUSH!!!!!!!

12:30pm- I lost Biz in the crowd and am now walking back to the bus by myself. I don’t see anyone that I know. Man, I am so tired. And I am starting to itch. My hair is crusted over with bits of tomatoes. It’s in my ears, down my sports bra, caked onto my arms and legs…literally everywhere. Freakin’ Tomatina. I’m glad it’s over with. Ok, there’s the gas station. I see some of my friends that have returned and I ask them where I can go shower off. They point at the car wash. I’m like, you’re kidding…

1:00pm- Well, that was weird and a bit humiliating. After inserting my euro to make the water start spraying, and enduring the gross catcalls of the drunk guys who congregated around the carwash to jeer at the wet girls, I am finally mostly tomato-free. My hair is a lost cause though. It is still a tomato helmet. I will just have to wait and wash it off in the sea when we get to the beach. The beach! That is a cheerful thought. Maybe happy times at the beach will lessen my chances of having nightmares tonight, waking suddenly, convinced I am being smothered by tomato people. I settle back into my seat on the bus, and look forward to a perfect, relaxing afternoon by the Mediterranean…

After reliving La Tomatina in the writing of this blog, I am thoroughly exhausted and will have to wait until next time to tell you about all the sand, sun, and boobs that I saw at the beach in Valencia. I need a nap. And a massage…