The eleventh installment of my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas.
Jueves, 20 Ene. ’05, 18.30 (Thursday, January 20, 2005, 6:30 pm)
There was a surprise waiting for me in my dormitorio when I returned home from school today: ¡Una cama nueva! Apparently while I was gone, my señora and her daughters had taken apart one of the beds in the rear bedroom and reconstructed it in my room. I’m not sure what size it is—slightly smaller than a queen, I’d say (and I’m not talking about Sir Elton John, either)—but it’s even bigger than my bed at Bowdoin, así estoy muy contento. I’ll have to remember to do something nice for my familia española the next time I’m here alone. Maybe I’ll salt their bed sheets or steal the silverware. You know, something original and from the heart.
In addition to pretending to attend to my scholastic pursuits and admiring my new sleeping surface, I also had time today to check out the centro commercial down the block, which I had been told was the Spanish equivalent of Walmart, complete with bins of cheap, crappy DVDs, but minus the soul-sucking, devil worshipping, impersonal mega-conglomerate overtones. I had originally ventured over to do some legitimate shopping, but any objective outsider observing me this afternoon would probably be more inclined to label my actions as “wandering around in daze.” (Although that prompts the question as to why this pervert was watching me in the first place. Maybe he was admiring my newly toned gams, teasingly displayed in a fetching pair of khaki-colored cargo shorts.) In any case, the only thing I actually bought after an hour-and-a-half of listless shuffling up and down the aisles was a box of chocolate donuts—although I was sorely tempted at one point by a super hip Spongebob Squarepants shaving kit.
Speaking of smooth transitions, I shaved for the first time in months today with a real razor. My face is so silky soft it makes me want to rub a baby’s bottom all over it for comparison (and for other, less honorable reasons). It’s true that I look like I’m 12 now, but that’s still old enough to buy booze in Spain, so no pasa nada.
Miscellaneous Observation: Fermín, my Gramática y Composición teacher, said something in class yesterday that I feel is worth passing on to the general public. His off-hand comment, delivered during the course of a random class discussion about the American presidency, was thus (more or less): “Prefiero tener un presidente que le gusta el sexo que un presidente que le gusta la guerra.” Loose translation: “I would rather have a president who likes sex than a president who likes war.” It’s something to think about anyway. (Or maybe it’s not, as this is the same man who managed to work the term “erotic pajamas” into a grammar lesson on the imperfect past tense. I’ll let you decide.)