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La Fin de la Semana Tercero: House Parties, Pissed Off Francoistas, Dinner in the Plaza Mayor

7 April 2008

So we had our first apartment party in years this weekend.

I say “we”, though, in actuality, Al and I were merely bystanders to the cigarette-smoke-infused and alcohol-drenched international clusterf*ck that took place in the apartment in which we’re staying. Having been away from the 18-21-year-old college house party scene for a while now, it was a little rough getting back into it, especially given that each of the 40 people whom we’d never met and were traversing the narrow hallways of our piso brought with them the added difficulties of a language barrier and a healthy misunderstanding of American culture (The hits in rugby—though hard—are NOT superior to those in American Football. That’s why they wear the pads. Otherwise they’d all be dead.). It was interesting, however, how quickly a few shots can soothe international tensions.

All in all, the night passed without major incident. We were, however, just slightly embarrassed by the duo of fine American lasses from American University in DC who managed to get completely plastered in record time, prompting one of them to attempt to determine what a bidet is for. She learned quickly that it is NOT for stomach bile. Even more frightening, her only slightly-less-drunk friend felt compelled to tell everyone at the party that she was studying foreign relations while bobbing and weaving like a woozy heavyweight fighter, her eyes focused somewhere between the chins and belly buttons of whomever she was speaking to. And we wonder why the global political situation is in such disarray. Nicely done, girls, your mommas are proud!

The party didn’t really get going till about 11:30p but then kept up till about 6:00a, much to the chagrin of our very angry elderly (presumably, for the sake of the story) Francoist neighbors who not only beat on the door at about 2:00a and told us to keep it down, but returned the next morning at about noon to finish the job. Given that neither Al nor I were the originators nor hosts of the fiesta, we felt no need to either: a) answer the door, nor b) clean up the 2 inches of liquor-and-beer sludge coating the majority of the floors in the apartment. Instead, we took off for Puerta del Sol to go shopping. Damn kids.

Through the course of our escapist afternoon, we did a little shopping, walked around the old city for a bit and happened upon a street fair in one of the smaller plazas featuring food from several of the regions of Spain. After sitting on a bench observing for a while, we moseyed over to a nearby cerveceria to continue people watching over a bottle of wine. Once we tired of playing “GTN” (Guess Their Nationality), we hit the bricks for the Plaza Mayor, where, despite our initial hesitation, we did the touristy thing and had dinner at one of the overpriced restaurants on the far side. The food was alright (again, even bad Spanish food is better than mediocre American chow), but the ambiance is where the money really went. Our server was great (I think he had the hots for Al, as he kept bringing over little tapas that he never charged us for) and there was a band of buskers playing jazz in the center. It was the first time that we did something slightly gratuitous, on the order of a vacation-esque event (being here for 12 weeks with a shitty exchange rate makes us a little hesitant to live high on the jamón), and it was refreshing.

Upon returning to our digs, we found it restored to its prior state (I won’t say clean, because it’s never been “clean”, it’s just that the sludgy accumulations from the night before had been sopped up). Better than the alternative, and we didn’t have to lift a finger. We made a pact to go to bed at a decent hour so that we could get up before 2pm and actually accomplish something today, which, through the power of wine and Ambien, I’m happy to report that we achieved. Up by 11am. Go us.

Wishing I had a front lawn upon which to sit and shake a broomstick at passing teenagers,


2 Comments leave one →
  1. Spirit of 73 permalink
    9 April 2008 6:44 am

    You got my dander up. I’ve watched a fair amount of rugby on Setanta Sports and I enjoyed it, but the hits are nowhere near what you get in football; not with the same frequency at any rate.

    Go to Youtube, type in Zack Dumas, and you will see all you need to see to put an end to this particular debate.

    By the way, you can tell a Fancoist, a male one at any rate, by the thin mustache he wears. Keep a look out!

  2. conison permalink
    9 April 2008 7:05 am


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