The nineteenth installment of my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas.
Lunes, 7 Feb. ‘05, 13.30 (Monday, February 7, 2005, 1:30 pm)
I suppose it could be the Patriots underwear that I haven’t changed for almost two days, or perhaps it’s that banana I threw under the bed last week and never retrieved, but for the moment, I prefer to think that the delectable aroma floating around me is the sweet smell of victory.
Almost two dozen CUNI kids packed into Granada 10—the discotheque turned sports pub—for Superbowl Sunday Monday last night/this morning. And while the game may not have ended until a little after 4:00 am local time, it was worth every Castillian minute. Yes, the entire event was broadcast in Spanish, and yes, we didn’t get to see a single commercial, but by the time the dance lights and disco balls had been turned back on and Granada’s hip young crowd had begun to filter in for some pre-dawn gyrations, none of that mattered. The Patriots were once again champions of the world, and I was once again some dude who had watched them accomplish such a feat.
It would appear that Granada is an Eagles’ fan, however, because as the game ended, the sulking skies opened up and pounded the outgoing revelers with literally the first serious rainstorm that the city had experienced in months. Dashingly debonair gentleman that I am, I walked Liz D. (a.k.a., “Bebeagua”) home before heading for my own bed, all the while basking in what I privately referred to as the “gentle ablutions” cascading about my head. I was home by 5.00 and asleep by 5.30 for a glorious two-hour repose before class.
Backing up a few sunsets, allow me to mitigate my Patriots jubilation with some brief carping about Saturday night’s festivities, which I have dubbed “The Day the Music Died” (my apologies to Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and The Big Bopper). A group of us consisting of Alex C., John-cito, ‘Steban, Nicole, Krystin, Mandita, Jyesssssssssss, and myself met up in La Plaza de Toros for a little botellon-ing, where I stubbornly consumed an entire Nalgene bottle’s worth of piña con vodka. Every drop inhaled was a vile exercise in perverse persistence, but by the end of the liter, I was at least feeling noticeably…what’s the word…lighter, for a change. It was then that someone suggested we all show off our intoxicated vocal prowess by strutting our stuff at the nearby karaoke bar, so off we went. Alex immediately put in a request for that Guns & Roses standby, “Sweet Child of Mine,” while I diligently pored over the vast music selection until finally settling on “When Doves Cry” by Prince, a noble choice that probably would have made my college roommates Bruce and Tauwan cry as well (with pride, that is). Unfortunately, a few minutes after making my request, John—my much maligned partner-in-shots—got himself kicked out of the bar for bringing in outside booze, and Amanda and Jess left with him to keep him company. I waited patiently for my song as drunken Granadino after drunken Granadino took the stage to mangle what I’m sure were all famous Spanish classics that I’d never heard in my life.
After some time had passed, I asked the supervisor if my selection was still in the queue and he assured me that it was. In the meantime, I was treated to some powerhouse versions of “New York, New York” and “My Girl” by my boy ‘Steban, and a smooth little Beatles ditty by Alex. Prince, however, failed to rear his amazingly flawless middle-aged head. I asked one more time around 3.30 if “When Doves Cry” was still on the list, but Turd McGurdle told me it no longer mattered because they were closing and we had to go. I trudged dispiritedly back to my apartment with Alex, mired in despair as I mourned the bevy of beautiful señoritas who undoubtedly would have showered the stage with various articles of slinky undergarmentry after my swoon-worthy rendition of one of the sexiest songs by one of the sexiest men en el mundo. Between assigned-seating movie theaters and unreliable karaoke bars, Granada’s numerous entertainment venues were beginning to cheese me off. And frankly, I was finding it a bit grating. (Ba-dum CHING!)