Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Feeling Perezosa
The last time I wrote a tome in Spanish, I was sitting at the bar of the Flying Pig Amsterdam, solo, with my ibook, in the land of bongs, bowls, and blunts. It was Christmas Eve Eve and I had successfully extended the deadline for my art history final paper. In Spain, all I had to do was ask. But then there I was in Amsterdam, on my own for the first time, getting a contact high, writing (appropriately) about GaudÃ, wanting just to forget the paper, remembering the last four months. And now here I am, wishing I were maybe a little high, writing a paper (appropriately) about the effect of memory, stopping for a second to focus on my own.
Monday, February 11, 2008
When it Rains it Pours
My last vision of Saturday night is an Irish Car Bomb.
"You were so college last night," Will told me the next day. I was lying in Hailey's bed, going through my phonebook, trying to piece together the events that began with an old coworker at a bar and ended with a fresh pile of vomit at the foot of my bed. I groaned for a glass of water.
"Maybe don't let them buy you so many shots next time?" Hailey offered.
This morning started with a bang. The kind of steady, knock-myself-over-the-head bang of a jackhammer pounding outside my window. Instead, I waited patiently, then ran to the sink to turn on my faucet, thankful to find water finally flowing strong.
And it ended with a bang. Our friendly neighborhood firefighters only seem to know one way to enter the building. There they were, five men in suit, pounding on the door next to ours just as we were debating blue cheeseburgers or jalapeno cheeseburgers for dinner.
"You guys again..." I was ready to get my shoes, maybe my purse, a favorite dress or two, when they informed us it was only a leak. When we informed them there was no one living there to answer the door, they got excited.
"We're gonna have to break down this door then." Of course they were.
So we left for the grocery store as the breaking of the door commenced and the security alarm sounded and the guy downstairs opened his door to reveal a waterfall coming from his hall closet and flowing through his living room.
"What about tacos instead?" Hailey said.
"You were so college last night," Will told me the next day. I was lying in Hailey's bed, going through my phonebook, trying to piece together the events that began with an old coworker at a bar and ended with a fresh pile of vomit at the foot of my bed. I groaned for a glass of water.
"Maybe don't let them buy you so many shots next time?" Hailey offered.
This morning started with a bang. The kind of steady, knock-myself-over-the-head bang of a jackhammer pounding outside my window. Instead, I waited patiently, then ran to the sink to turn on my faucet, thankful to find water finally flowing strong.
And it ended with a bang. Our friendly neighborhood firefighters only seem to know one way to enter the building. There they were, five men in suit, pounding on the door next to ours just as we were debating blue cheeseburgers or jalapeno cheeseburgers for dinner.
"You guys again..." I was ready to get my shoes, maybe my purse, a favorite dress or two, when they informed us it was only a leak. When we informed them there was no one living there to answer the door, they got excited.
"We're gonna have to break down this door then." Of course they were.
So we left for the grocery store as the breaking of the door commenced and the security alarm sounded and the guy downstairs opened his door to reveal a waterfall coming from his hall closet and flowing through his living room.
"What about tacos instead?" Hailey said.
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