In Spain in the Brain

In the Spring of 2005, I spent four months in the fiercely awesome bosom of Granada, Spain. Hoping to one day pen a bestselling memoir about my time there, I did my best to keep a journal describing the various events and adventures I bore witness to and, occasionally, even initiated. Though it gradually dawned on me that no publisher and his or her right mind would buy the rights to a book written by an ordinary student spending an ordinary junior semester abroad (no matter how hilarious or insightful said book turned out), I never gave up my dream that, somehow, someday, I too would be able to bore large groups of people with stories having nothing to do with them. Thanks to this weg and a recent literary drought, that opportunity has finally arrived.

As such, it is with great Pride and Prejudice that I present to you, my wrathful readers, the first installment from my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas.

January 9, 2005, 6:30 a.m., Eastern Standard Time

Mom said it was silly of me to walk around with my sunglasses on my shirt since I wouldn’t actually need them till we reached Paris the next day. I disagreed. Not only did it look cool and automatically identify me as someone to reckon with, I had no other place to put them.

It took me less than eight hours from the time we left Boston to lose them. I set them down in a bathroom at de Gaulle,[1] remembered them approximately 90 seconds after rejoining my friends, and found them gone despite my hasty return to the scene of the crime.

Speaking of de Gaulle, my first impression upon setting foot within was that it smelled like a woodchuck’s asshole. And not in a good way. I’m assuming it has nothing to with the frequent bathing habits of French citizens, however.[2] Fortunately, the smell soon dissipated and I was able to see the airport for what it really was: a moronically gargantuan exercise in confusion. One feature that I was particularly smitten with was the presence of various designated smoking areas located throughout the terminal. I thought it ingenious how the French kept the smoke from bothering the other passengers by erecting a few small glass partitions around the perimeters of the area. As we all know, in France, smoke is incapable of going around corners or rising higher than eight feet into the air.

1:40 p.m., Paris Time – I finally get to see the Eiffel Tower. From 4000 feet. It is not impressive. I am unimpressed. It makes little impression on me.

8:20 p.m., Spain Time – Although I have been awake for more than 26 hours straight, for one brief shining moment, I felt more alive than at any time in the last couple of time units when my computer picked up a powerful wireless network within range of my new bedroom in my señora’s apartment. Alas, that sweetest of electronic ambrosia was snatched from my grasp moments later as the signal proved too elusive a quarry to capture alive.

[1] A.k.a., Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, France. (Us world weary travelers need only use the middle two words of its full name, thus proving just how weary of the world we are.)
[2] That’s a little socio-political commentary for all you espousers of “Freedom Fries” out there.

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2 Responses to In Spain in the Brain

  1. Stephen Barry says:

    I thoroughly enjoy this.

  2. Todd Ehlers says:

    I’d want more of this narrative, too.

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