Marchar

The fifth installment of my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas.

13 Ene. 05, 19.00

Attention fictional readers: There is every likelihood that this entry will be my only one for the day, because tonight, ¡voy a marchar!

What does that mean, exactly? Well, simply put, to marchar is to act like the debauched 21-year-old that I have never once been—partially because I’m only 20, but mostly because I’m a prepubescent girl. You see, while I don’t wish to go all Dr. Felipe on you, Allah’s honest truth is that I’ve never consumed even a dollop of alcohol during my two-plus decades of daily dalliance. As such, I believe I owe it to myself and my friends to get hammered at least once in my lifetime, especially if I’m going to continue sarcastically criticizing others for doing so. Plus, I’d rather get smashed in Granada, Spain than Brunswick, Maine, so what the hell, right? (That said, if I turn into a wanton wino after this little excursion, let it be known that I intend to blame everyone but myself for said corruption of character.)

My worst nightmare -- intoxicated patronage of the swanky and uber-expensive Granada "Diez" discotheque

My worst nightmare -- intoxicated patronage of the swanky and uber-expensive Granada "Diez" discoteca

For those of you invested in my corporeal and existential well-being, rest assured that I’ve carefully weighed and snorted all the potential consequences of this decision, and cool, dispassionate reasoning leads me to assume that it will be much easier finding my way home in a foreign country after getting stumbling drunk. Likewise, I’m sure that oodles of two-meter-tall gringos in obnoxious camisas tropicales patronize Granada’s bar scene, so I shouldn’t draw any unwanted attention to myself, either. My only fear is that, at some point during the night, someone will get the bright idea to scamper off to the local discotheque after my resolve has been weakened by the odd drink or seven (though I admit to having this sneaking suspicion that, under the proper inebriated circumstances, I can dance like a mofo). But enough speculation. Qué será será, so hasta mañana señores y señoritas. Here’s hoping I create some fond memories tonight, some of which may even remain in the morning.

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