Feria de Jerez- A Sherry Fueled Journey to the Depths of Southern Spain...

How can I explain feria?

Imagine running around an unfamiliar town in a heavily ruffled flamenco dress and increasingly painful high heels for four days straight, surviving on very little sleep, a steady diet of fried fish and endless amounts of sherry. You continuously weave your way through the dirt floor of the fairgrounds to visit the endless rows of makeshift bars set up for the occasion, each time you cross the road you manage to narrowly escape being crushed by the horse drawn carriages that repeatedly cruise by, filled with more sherry-guzzling revellers. The large flower in your hair is begining to itch and your earlobes are killing you from the weight of the giant gaudy earrings they made you wear, but you are too busy staring at the packs of people that fill the bars dancing methodically in pairs to the wildly repetitive yet strangely addictive Sevillanas music that blares away endlessly in the background : that my friends is just a mere glimpse at what the thoroughly exhausting yet wildly exhilarating Spanish phenomenon of feria is all about...

Feria, is in fact a series of huge celebrations that take place every year typically after Easter in many of the towns in southern Spain. Each town hosts its own individual feria , the most famous taking place in the largest cities of the Andalusian province: Seville and Jerez de La Frontera. Although Seville’s feria is probably the most well-known outside of Spain and tends to attract the most tourists, it is known for being extremely exclusive and difficult to enjoy if you are not lucky enough to be invited into the private tents by any of the locals. Visitors don’t get to truly experience the real party, as they are often left on the street trying in vain to peer through the barriers even if just to get a quick peek at all the locals boozing it up in the members-only tents called casetas. The feria in Jerez may not be as famous as Seville's in foreign circles, but it is definitely more friendly since almost all the casetas are open to the public. You can rub elbows with the natives and feel like you are really a part of the action.

Lucky for me, my sister Melissa’s boyfriend (Alvaro) happens to be from Jerez, so this year we had a perfect opportunity to experience feria first-hand with the added bonus of having a native Jerezano and his family as our hosts.

Seeing that Melissa, Ade and I had never been to feria before, we spent the weeks leading up to the event trying to learn what to expect by bombarding Alvaro with questions at all hours. Melissa and I even went so far as to subject the poor man to impromptu fashion shows in order for him to give us his opinion on different outfits and deem whether they were appropriate or not to take with us for the days we wouldn’t have to be decked out in full flamenco regalia.

Tourists that go to feria don’t usually wear flamenco outfits, and those that do are often ridiculed mercilessly behind their backs by the locals (as Alvaro confessed sheepishly to us) since most of the rental dresses for tourists are so out of style they look as if the person came straight off the set of a low-budget 1950s bullfighting movie. However, Melissa and I were not your typical tourists, since we were always accompanied by a large group of locals dressed in traditional feria gear we were of course expected to do the same and assimilate as much as possible. Prior to feria we literally spent weeks scouring Madrid looking for some nice rental dresses and accompany us to the different rental stores, at first I thought it was out of his love for the tradition of feria but later I began to suspect that it was in order to ensure that we wouldn't show up in something that would convert all of us into social pariahs.

After all, feria fashion is a HUGE deal in the south- there is even a special flamenco fashion week held every year to dictate the trends for the upcoming year! Flamenco dresses are typically worn by local women, although they definitely don’t wear them for the entire week of partying. For one, flamenco dresses are extremely expensive- if the average woman is dropping a few hundred euros or in some cases thousands on each new dress, they most likely are not going to purchase more than one new one a year . That being said, no local woman would be caught dead wearing the same dress more than once in that same week of feria- it is considered a social faux pas of sorts, of course I have no idea what would actually happen if someone did do it: the dresses seem like they could potentially be really flammable with all those ruffles , so maybe the fashion offenders are tied to flaming bales of hay by the local flamenco police in fiery revenge for their refusal to diversify their dress choices? I kind of wish someone had done it and been publicly ridiculed for it in my presence so I could have at least sat down with a glass of sherry and a bucket of fried fish to watch the angry mob go to work on them from a safe distance. Fortunately for Melissa and I, our rental dresses went undetected and we blended in seamlessly with the crowd. That is of course until the Sevillanas music came on, that is where Melissa and I very obviously parted ways. ..

My sister has always had the annoying and somewhat alarming habit of being heavily influenced by her surroundings in a very short span of time. As children, on vacations in Virginia Beach with my parents- it would only take a few days before Melissa would, like some kind of demonic little doll, begin speaking with a southern twang and using words like “y’all” and “reckon” that would make the hair on the back of my mother’s neck stand on end. When she dated an Argentinian guy a few years back, I remember being overcome by the strong urge to punch her every time I would hear her speak Spanish in an accent reminiscent of a childhood roaming the Pampa on horseback and a lifetime of dancing tango in the smoky bars of Buenos Aires.
So it really came as no surprise when after only a week of intensive practicing at home with Alvaro and on her own with only the help an outdated instructional DVD, Melissa began to dance the complex Sevillanas dance with the ease and dexterity of someone who had been dancing her entire life. As for myself, I admit that Ade and I didn’t really bother to practice as often as Melissa, however when desperately avoiding public ridicule in your boyfriend’s hometown is the impetus for your learning... things tend to move a bit more swiftly. The Sevillanas dance is made up of 4 parts set to highly repetitive music sung typically by what sounds like large groups of slightly overweight sixty year old men with chest hair. Sadly, Ade and I had only managed to learn (barely) parts 1&2 by the time feria rolled around, leaving us in a stressful predicament... should we throw caution to the wind and attempt some kind of dual improvisation for when parts 3&4 came on? Or was it wiser to just keep repeating parts 1&2 in an effort to attract the least amount of attention possible and pray that no one notices? Not a decision for the faint-hearted, especially when just before the music starts you foolishly glance over to see a throng of people congratulating your sister who is now being hailed as the Ginger Rogers of flamenco.

I won’t give you the satisfaction of knowing how our attempt at dancing went, I will let you imagine it by telling you that as soon as the music stopped -as if some flamenco godfather had given the order from a secret backroom after watching us on a surveillance link- some kind of swiftly executed intervention took place. Before Ade and I realized what was going on, other more experienced dancers had swooped in to separate us and take each of us under their wings in an effort to guide us through the next attempt. Although our dancing improved a bit under the tutelage of our new partners, the eternal question shall forever go unanswered: was it all an act of kindness or just the work of an elaborate underground militia whose sole purpose is to uphold the sanctity of the dance and do everything in their power to prevent foreigners from unwittingly upsetting the fiery flamenco gods with their two left castanets?

Scotland vacation: Attack of the Pink Wellies....

For those of you who haven't heard, after months of anticipation I finally escaped to Scotland for 5 days during Easter break with Ade, Gabi and Chema. We flew into Edinburgh, spent a night there and then in our puke-green, diesel-fuelled Renault Picasso rental car we traversed the beautiful Scottish countryside stopping in tiny towns until reaching the island of Mull in the West Highlands.

For years I have been obsessed with the way Scottish people speak, every time I have been lucky enough to casually overhear someone speaking in a thick Scottish accent I would barely be able to contain my excitement. So you can only imagine the level of giddiness my trusty travel companions had to deal with as we disembarked the plane and I stepped into my lifelong dream: a land where I was fully surrounded by millions of Scottish people speaking in varying degrees of unintelligible English all day long. Although the time had finally come for me to step foot in Scotland and immerse myself in the accent I had for so long tried unsuccessfully to mimic, I was disappointed with my inability to understand everything that was said to me. Luckily, Ade was able to act at times as our makeshift British interpreter; otherwise the rest of us would probably still be at the airport car rental desk staring blankly at the nice woman who works there not knowing what on earth she was trying to say. Although the fact that he is English came in quite handy when trying to decipher things that had been somehow lost in translation, it did preoccupy us a bit as we didn’t know if he would encounter any blatant anti-English hostility as we drove further into the countryside (for those of you that don’t know: a large percentage of Scots believe Scotland should be an independent nation and not part of the United Kingdom) but luckily for us, everyone we met seemed to be pretty much over the whole “oh you invaded our country for centuries on end and took away our independence” thing and we ended up having a great, violence-free time.

Edinburgh, for those of you like me that didn't know this, is actually pronounced ed-in-BUR-uh. I actually was the subject of relentless teasing prior to our trip when I mistakenly said edin-BERG, much like the time I pronounced Trafalgar Square in London- TRAFF-elger square instead of Traf-FAHL-ger: I thought the cab driver was going to have a heart attack he was laughing so hard. So, by taking the time to including the correct pronunciation I am merely trying to spare you the embarassment I have already suffered at the hands of the phonetically informed elite.

Aside from being annoyed by its incredibly illogical pronunciation, I couldn't help falling for the magnificent landscape; the city is surrounded by snow-capped mountains and sits on the banks of the Firth of Forth which flows out into the choppy waters of the North Sea. Aesthetically speaking, it is probably one of the most beautiful cities I have ever seen, in fact I would even venture to say that I would gladly entertain the thought of moving to Edinburgh despite the inclement weather and the potentially disastrous effects it could have on my hair... now that’s love!

One of my favourite things to see in Edinburgh was the enormous castle that sits high on a rocky crag overlooking the city. Passing through all the tiny streets that lead up to the castle, you can’t help but imagine how amazing it must have been to live there centuries ago- well I guess, aside from that time when the plague almost completely ravaged the city...

From Edinburgh, our road trip took us to a tiny town on the banks of Loch Lomond: Balfron Station. We spent the night at a bed and breakfast farm belonging to this really sweet couple that have dedicated their lives to the breeding of alpacas. I don’t know if any of you have ever seen an alpaca before, but they are WEIRD looking, I think I remember Ade describing them as looking like tiny giraffes with furry crash helmets on. They have very soft fluffy wool and knobby little hyper-extended knees; the couple were even nice enough to let us feed them so we were able to get pretty close. Looking a bit like highly evolved sheep (mainly just taller and a bit more intelligent, but with a look in their eye that makes you feel as if they could pull out a pipe and newspaper and sit in the living room with you at any given moment) they don’t have any upper teeth so they basically nibble the food out of your hand by using a combination of their big lips and lower teeth. A bit slimy, but at least they have miraculously managed to survive as a species all these years with no upper teeth, right? The worst was that after feeding time we went to eat our huge fried breakfast and it wasn’t until after eating that I realized I hadn’t remembered to wash my filthy alpaca hands! I couldn’t stop laughing as I showed everyone my dirty little paw, thank God I was using utensils and didn’t have to eat anything with my hands at breakfast!! In any case, I’ll admit it was pretty gross. I guess it just further demonstrates the fact that I am not accustomed to life on a farm, although I could definitely get used to wearing my pink wellie boots on a regular basis- it is seriously so much fun to stomp around in the mud and not worry about ruining your shoes, I feel like everyone in Scotland is happy and generally in a good mood just because they get to do that on a regular basis!
Well, after making sure my hands were free of any remaining alpaca slime we said goodbye to our hosts. I think I may have even scared the poor woman a bit, I was so happy and overcome with love for her and her alpacas that my goodbye handshake suddenly turned into a crushing goodbye bear hug, I'm sure she will think twice from now on about taking on guests coming from overly-demonstrative Southern Europe!

Back in our green Picasso, we took one last look back at the farm that had been our Scottish foster home for a night and resumed our journey through the Scottish countryside onward to the town of Oban where the ferry would be waiting to take us at last to the island of Mull and sadly to the last leg of our Scottish adventure...

Business travelers beware- Samsonite Sucks!

Business travel seems quite glamourous on the exterior. After all, who wouldn't enjoy jetting off to foreign lands, staying in posh hotels and entertaining clients at chic restaurants on the corporate account? But in reality underneath the glitzy, champagne soaked facade lies a much different world.

Waking up at ungodly hours of the morning to catch flights, breaking a heel on the mosaic-tiled sloping streets of Lisbon while on the way to a meeting, enduring endless airport taxi lines and sitting in traffic for hours : I thought I had seen it all when it came to the downside of business travel. That is, until this past Wednesday...

After arriving in Lisbon on Tuesday for a full day of meetings and a client dinner, I woke up early on Wednesday to catch a morning flight to Oporto and see a few more clients.

After my meetings and a bit of lunch, I took a taxi to the airport ready to finally go home, relax and unpack. As my belongings passed through the x-ray machine I reluctantly submitted myself to a brief frisking by a very large and stern-looking security guard, who then asked me to open my bag as they needed to check something they had seen inside. After going through my stuff and determining that I did not pose any type of national threat , I began to zip my bag shut. I managed to get 3/4 of the way around before the zipper broke off into the palm of my hand!

There I was, completely stranded in the middle of a Portuguese airport teetering around on highly impractical 4-inch heels (as usual...), and trying desperately to figure out how I would be able to lug my half-open suitcase all the way to the departure gate without leaving a trail of face creams and assorted lingerie in my wake.

Naturally, in order to think more clearly and seeing that I had a full hour to kill before boarding I headed where any other person in my dilemna would go to seek answers...the bar! I wheeled my increasingly precarious load towards the nearest concession area and drowned my sorrows in a much-needed pint of fabulous portuguese beer (Superbock- definitely recommend it!) and a bag of potato chips.

It was perfect timing actually, at that point the case had begun to open a bit more and the beer succeeded in making me a bit more nonchalant about the fact that some contents (none of which were embarassing, thank God!) were now starting to be fully visible as they edged nearer to completely spilling out of the side of my bag . I inched closer to my gate while slowly wheeling my case along in front of me so that I would see if anything did fall out, desperately praying all the while that it would at least stay closed long enough to get there. Miraculously I managed to make it to the departure gate and fell into a seat. Not only was I exhausted from the stress of having balanced the case throughout the 15 minute walk there, but also from having to deal with all of the people who felt obliged to stop me along the way just to inform me that my bag was open- as if it were perfectly normal behavior to roll a suitcase in front of you while walking at a snail's pace and staring intently at the floor to see if anything falls....!

As I sat in despair in front of the gate I had a beer-fueled MacGyver moment and actually thought I could repair the zipper myself. I must have looked like a complete idiot as i sat with my suitcase on my lap making endless futile attempts at reconnecting a broken zipper for at least 10 minutes. Like an assembly line worker intent on my task I continued to stubbornly fiddle with the zipper until I was forced to stop when I realized in horror that I had managed to break it completely, and that the suitcase was now fully open with no chance of closing on its own. Up until that moment I had probably been about 70% screwed, but now I was completely and totally doomed. How would I get it on the plane now? It was too heavy to carry, should I just attempt to wear all my clothes at once? I couldn't even go back and consult the beer oracle for advice because I couldn't move the bag anywhere without all my stuff falling out! So in one last attempt to seek counsel before accepting defeat and crumbling onto the floor in a puddle of tears, I pulled out my phone and decided to call the smartest person I know- Ade. Surely his enormous brain could come up with a way for me to get out of this predicament.
I phoned him up and proceeded to explain the entire scenario to him, listening patiently to the fit of laughter my story provoked. Finally when he was again able to speak he began to ask me questions about the content of my bag :

Ade: -ok, tosser*, let's see... do you have any rope? haha

(*british slang, basically means dumb-ass)

Me: -not funny, obviously I don't have any rope or I would have used it already!

Ade: -any long scarves?

Me: - No

Ade: -any pantyhose?

Me: - Yes, I have some on but what the hell does that have to do with...wait...I have another pair...Oh!... oh my god, you're a genius!!!

In an instant I was on my hands and knees fishing through my belongings, and almost screamed in delight as I proceeded to pull out a pair of tights and hold them over my head triumphantly to show the world what I had found...as if it were a rare truffle or a gold nugget that I had discovered instead of just some crappy black fishnets. Of course, upon learning that they were fishnets, my telephonic guru succumbed to another attack of hysterical laughter, at which point I bid him farewell and thanked him for his wise counsel- I now had work to do.

Back on my hands and knees and to the bewilderment of all in my nearby vicinity I began to tie the stockings around my suitcase like a gift in order to hold it shut. Miraculously, the tights stretched far enough to cover the case, hold it all together, and save the day just in time for me to board the plane- as I finally made my way down the ramp with my rather primitive-looking baggage in tow, I wept silent tears of gratitude for the still underappreciated, yet in my opinion unrivalled invention of all time: Lycra.

(the finished product, isn't Samsonite supposed to last longer than you do? )

I am clumsy, ...hear me fall!

I'll admit it, I am a huge klutz.


Yes, possibly I may be the clumsiest, most accident-prone person you will ever know.

When I wake up in the morning, there is usually an 85% chance that I will injure myself in some way before I even reach the bathroom- no joke.
Luckily, not everyone knows this about me, but those that do are constantly watching me as they feel I am a danger to myself in many situations (especially those involving fire, glass, and/or sudden changes in elevation)

As a child, I would stumble home on a daily basis covered in scrapes and bruises while my sister returned uninjured...my parents couldnt understand why. it made no sense, we played the same games and were always together-were my little sister and cousins taking turns beating me up? or was I just that incredibly accident-prone? The nightly rituals of antibacterial cream and bandage applications had become second nature. My grandmother would look on, horrified, and say that I would never be able to wear skirts as an adult because my legs were going to eventually look as if someone had run them over with a tractor.

Luckily, by the time I reached high school I had discovered that although I was not very graceful I was very good at walking in high heels. Heels changed my life! No matter how ungainly a woman is, if she walks well in heels she is afforded at least 200 extra glamour points instantly.


My excellent abilities as a skilled high heel-wearer have enabled me to pass under the radar and in turn keep my clumsy nature hidden from public knowledge (more or less). Not many will believe that the same girl that is able to run at full-speed on cobblestone in 5 inch strappy heels( at an incline) is virtually incapable of walking across her living room without violently slamming her shoulder into the same corner of the same wall every day. Yes, I that have walked many a white-washed mountain village of Andalucia in 6 inch platform wedges cannot cut vegetables without supervision and have nearly beheaded myself on several occasions by merely losing my footing in the shower.

Seeing that you all now know my dark little secret, you may find it amazing that I dared to do something no sane clumsy person of my age would ever do.....I went mountain biking for the first time! I dont know what came over me at the time, but when Ade asked if I would accompany him on a bike ride through the Casa de Campo park here in Madrid I quickly responded "yes", even though in my head I was frantically trying to recall the last time I had actually been on a bike at all!The last memory I have of biking regularly was when i was 10, I would go for daily rides on my pink Huffy dirt bike in the parking lot next door - but that bike's brakes were located on the pedals and I dont think it even had any gears! What had I gotten myself into? I smiled at him feigning confidence when in reality I had just hammered the last nail into my coffin- this would be the end of me. How was I going to survive an hour and a half long OFF-ROAD bike ride when i can't even manage to walk very far without tripping! I was convinced I would never make it back alive.

The day came for the trip, and Ade arrived outfitted in his biking gear. He handed me a helmet and announced that we would be biking to the park. TRAFFIC??? Im not sure if my eyes bulged out of my head or not at the thought of actually riding a bike in Madrid traffic, but at that point I was sure that I would never even make it to the actual park! We set off, and miraculously I managed to arrive at the park in one piece although I probably came very close to taking out a few old people and baby carriages on the way. As we began the trek I was feeling a bit more confident, the scenery was breathtaking and it was really liberating being able to ride over mountain paths filled with sudden drops and crazy branches and roots everywhere. However my feelings of euphoria quickly plummeted when we reached a series of hills that were so painful to get up that it was as if I had never used my leg muscles before in my entire life. Is this what Clara felt when she took her first steps towards Heidi? The pain was excruciating. As I struggled to the summit I envisioned each of my hamstrings snapping in two like tightly wound little rubber bands, would he have to carry me out of here? Also, the pain in my butt was becoming UNBEARABLE.... I remember laughing that afternoon as he mentioned he had an extra pair of padded biker shorts for me- I though it was the most ridiculous thing in the world for me to even consider wearing butt padding when that is one area where I am quite well padded naturally! haha Clearly I had been wrong. Biking has had no effect on Cuban evolution, as I can tell you first-hand that Cuban genetic butt padding does not offer very good protection against rock hard bicycle seats especially not after 1 hour of riding. I felt as if I would never be able to sit down again, wincing every time I had to rest my full weight on the seat. As I hallucinated about rooms filled with padded sofas and big plush chairs where I could rest my aching rump- I managed somehow to get to the top of the last huge hill. "We're almost done, Rodriguez, all you have to do is keep to the right to avoid a lot of the ditches and rocks, and you'll be in the clear!!" and in an instant Ade is making his way down the hill at lightning speed as I stare down the long path and mentally prepare myself for the long ride down.

I kick off and as I begin to pick up speed another biker starts heading up the hill, I am going faster than I have ever gone in my life and soon begin to panic that I may be too close to him- will I accidentally hit him on the way down? Am I insured for this kind of thing? Before I can think about any other obstacles I begin to pick up so much speed that the bike commences to move from side to side and I realize that I am losing control. I begin to imagine the moment in E.T.when Elliot's bike shakes so violently that it looks as if it is going to fall to pieces but instead gloriously takes flight- only I seem to be the only one flying as my bike hits the ground, my head crashes against the handlebars and into the ground and that little bastard E.T. is nowhere to be found.



(post-accident me)

I dont remember trying to scream as i fell, but apparently I must have because my mouth was open when I hit the ground- I know this because as other bikers rushed to my aid and asked me how I was I could only make a sound as if I were trying to cough up a hairball- my throat had filled up with dried grass and dirt. I managed to clear my throat in time to see Ade running toward me white as a sheet as I tried to smile weakly- later he explained that from a distance since my mouth was full of dirt as I opened my mouth to smile he thought I had knocked out all my teeth!!

We managed to get me home and all cleaned up, and although the scrapes on my face looked pretty gross at first they eventually went away in 5 days which was great seeing that I had a wedding to go to that following weekend! It was strange seeing how differently people look at you on the street when your face is covered in scabs- either they stare unabashedly or they look away and avoid you altogether. I found myself walking with my head down a lot just to avoid eye contact- very weird.

In any case, I'm happy to report that there were no lasting effects aside from the fact that I felt like I was 10 all over again walking around with my knees completely scraped up for a good 3 weeks... my parents almost killed me themselves after finding out that I tried to be like a "normal kid"- they were very adamant that I realize my limitations as an accident prone person and not continue to put myself into situations that could result in maiming or death. I can't say that I wont ever try biking again, I liked the freedom of off-roading and the feeling of recklessness it gives you to ride over rough terrain with just a sliver of a path in sight. But for now if I ever decide to embark on another biking adventure at least I will remember to wear several layers of padded pants, to use my brakes while going downhill even if 5 yr old kids with training wheels pass me, and to never leave the house without investing in a full crash helmet- who knows maybe I will start a trend?

(this photo was taken 1 week after....look no scars!! thanks, neosporin!!)

Bachelorette Night Planning for Dummies...

One of the worst parts of living so far way is that you often miss out on milestone events in your friends' and family's lives. I guess I would have to count myself luckier than most, as I was able to travel back to the states to see all of my closest friends and cousins get married. But unfortunately, due to the high costs of transatlantic travel (and my apparent inability to inspire any random single millionaires to just throw some free airline tickets my way) I had to miss out on everyone's bachelorette parties. So naturally, this posed a bit of a problem when i was faced with the challenge of planning one for Gabi! How could someone so poorly schooled in all of this bachelorette business actually organize one herself?

After all, the only bachelorette party I really had ever managed to go to was my cousin Patty's since it was held a few days before her wedding in Miami. But that was about 5 years ago! I was so inexperienced that surely everyone would laugh at my feeble attempts to act like I was "in" with the bachelorette scene! Also, we're in Spain- I had heard horror stories of parties here where all the girls are forced to wear big phallic head adornements or where the entire party would revel in humiliating the bride at every turn only to finish off the night by leaving her tied to a lampost in the middle of the city dressed as a slutty cat!!...

Although plagued with a complete lack of knowledge about the whole experience, I at least knew that I did not want to incoporate any of the traditional Spanish bachelorette customs that I had been hearing about. Gabi would most definitely have killed me if I had dressed her up in flamenco gear and carted her to a drag queen extravaganza...not to say that that wouldnt make for a great party, I know plenty of girls here that have been to parties like that and have had a blast, but each bride is very different and I knew this one would want something a bit more low key.

Needless to say I was extremely nervous about planning such a big day, yet somehow I managed to pick and confirm a date for the festivities and even began to map out the day's events. As the date grew closer and I became more immersed in the party planning I was plagued by horrific daydreams in which I would imagine everything turning out to be a total disaster : 20 women sitting in a blacklit cafeteria (for those of you that don't know this about me, I officially detest blacklight- I refuse to go to bars that have it. Aside from the fact that they make everyone look like they have rotted teeth, they also highlight lint and otherwise invisible stains on peoples clothing- kind of like a cross between CSI and zombies ) bored out of their minds as I lead them in games like "Pin the Cojones on Fabio" with a midget exotic dancer grinding away in the background to the Macarena...

I would awaken from these disturbing visions in a cold sweat, yet with newfound purpose- there was no way I would make Gabi suffer through an excrutiating night of lame innuendos and tiny male strippers, I was more committed to my duty than ever!

After weeks of planning and biting my tongue in order to not spoil any of the planned suprises, the big day arrived and luckily went off without a hitch- we all ended up having a fabulous time and didnt end up stumbling home until 7 the next morning. And when I say stumbling, I really mean stumbling- Gabi and I hit the floor big time in the dance club we were in when I had the bright idea that it would be so much more fun if we used the handcuffs we had given her to handcuff ourselves together! In a drunken haze I managed to secure the handcuffs on both of our wrists as we balanced our cuba libres in our other hands and proceeded to make our way through the club. (fun fact: in Spanish the word for handcuffs is esposas, which literally means WIVES! hahaha gotta love those crazy spaniards...)

Unfortunately we didnt get too far before taking a massive nosedive and landing on our knees while trying to navigate some stairs with our increasingly compromised sense of depth perception. Luckily we were drunk enough to no longer have the ability to understand that we should have been mortified and instead laughed it off without a care in the world, our only reminder of the incident being the unsightly matching knee bruises we were left with the day after.

Nursing my injury and thinking about how I would be condemned to wearing long pants to cover it in the scorching heat of the weeks ahead, I was at least happy that my secret was safe- noone had guessed that I really had no idea what I was doing! I spent the rest of the week gloating in triumph, I would have probably strutted a bit too... if I hadnt had to limp!

In-flight entertainment

Hola again!

Wow, still can't believe how I made such a big deal about my comeback and then didn't write anything for almost 7 months! Sorry for the delay, but I will just chalk it up to an unusual period of relative stability compounded with a newfound (yet short-lived) ability to avoid ridiculous situations...but don't worry it seems to have worn off somehow and I appear to be back to normal- well, if you can call it that!

I actually just got back from a 10 day sojourn to the motherland, it was great to be back in new york with the familia and my friends even though it was so humid that aside from being insanely shiny in all pictures taken of me while there, I also was rocking a permanent hipafro* (*hispanic afro) throughout my entire stay. That was the toughest to deal with, especially since I also made a special trip back to Williamstown for my 10 year college reunion and spent 3 days with friends some of which I hadn't seen in ages! Unfortunately, those that hadnt seen me in a long time now think that over the years I became afflicted with a serious case of very puffy hair...

I returned from williamstown extremely hungover yet high on sour patch kids since I bought a big bag of them for the 3 hour drive. The sugar rush didnt last long though, and by the time I hopped back on a plane for my flight to Madrid the following evening I was doing everything in my power to keep from passing out before they handed out the dinner trays. I had originally checked in online through Continental's website which allowed me to pick my own seat, and seeing that one of my short-term goals in life is to always sit as close as possible to the front of the plane, I chose seat 7C.
As I trudged my way to the seat trying desperately to keep my eyes open, I noticed that not only was my seat in the first row right after business class, but it was also an emergency exit row which meant I would be able to stretch out my legs for the entire flight- so exciting!
I sat down and buckled my seat belt, tensing up a bit when I noticed how closely my row was positioned to the main door. What would happen if some unruly passenger attempted to open it during the flight? My row would be the first to be sucked out, one false move by an enraged traveller and I would be hurtled into the abyss... Maybe the exit row was more dangerous than I had anticipated! Yet soon enough, my fleeting moments of panic gave way to a surge of what I like to call my "American Competitiveness" as I realized how enviable my spot really was...my proximity to the main door meant that I was sitting in pole position and would probably be the very first person to exit the plane. At the thought of beating out crowds of noisy travellers to get to the head of the typically long customs line, I nestled into my chair with a smug grin on my face and every once in a while would throw a few glances of feigned empathy toward the sad looking people making their way to their seats somewhere in the bowels of the plane.
As the rest of the passengers filed in, I noticed that the two seats next to me were still empty, so naturally I began to fantasize that they would never be filled and that I would be able to lie across three seats and fall into a deep sleep for the entire flight.

My dream was soon shattered by a noisy texan drawl, I looked up to see an older couple chatting away loudly in their unmistakeable twang as they settled into the two empty seats to my left. Personally, I hate it when people on planes try to make small talk with me. I know it probably reeks of antisocial behavior but I really try to avoid eye contact as much as possible when seated next to other people just to avoid having to talk with them...so of course after a quick half-smile and nod to acknowledge their presence I buried my nose in my book. The woman was seated right next to me and her husband in the window seat- at first glance I could tell that they were not frequent flyers, they were carrying tons of stuff and began crossing themselves and praying loudly during takeoff. When we reached cruising altitude, dinner was served- from their deafiningly loud conversations I was able to deduce that they were very excited about what appeared to be their very first transatlantic flight. My suspicions were confirmed when the drink cart rolled around and they unknowingly ordered soda, only to change to wine when they saw me happily unscrewing my little bottle of chardonnay.

After dinner, I pushed my seat back and finally started to doze off for a bit when interrupted by the sound of rustling plastic...I opened my eyes to see the Texan couple pulling an endless supply of packages out of a seemingly bottomless bag. Since the noise they were making made it impossible to sleep I stared in awe as the spectacle before me unfolded and the husband proceeded to "teach" his wife the proper way to travel.
He first pulled out matching red fleece blankets which appeared to have been recently purchased as they were still in the packaging, explaining to his wife (and to the flight attendants and passengers online for the bathroom that began crowding around in amusement) that the blankets were specially lined to combat the "harsh" conditions inside the airplane. After placing the enormous red blankets on their laps, they each ceremoniously removed their socks and shoes in order to slip on their special "airplane socks". The special socks, according to the wise Texan, are worn by all long-haul air travellers and would work to increase circulation and to apparently "protect" their feet.

"From what??" -I muttered under my breath-"Frostbite?... deadly strains of airplane fungi??"

I continued to watch them partly out of fascination and partly out of helpess irritation- there was no way I would get any rest while they were loudly outfitting themselves for the flight so I had no choice other than to listen to the rest of the show. The husband then whipped out from another plastic bag two large rubbery blue vinyl bags which they then began to inflate at a ridiculously slow and laborious pace. I suffered through every breath as they meticulously inflated these large blue cushions, wondering the entire time where on earth they would fit them among the growing pile of accessories. The flight attendants and passengers waiting for the bathroom at this point had formed a small throng directly in front of our row to watch the absurdity of the scene as it unfolded before them, a flight attendant calling out " watch out sir, you may pass out from inflating those things before you even get to use them!" which drew laughs from the ever-expanding crowd of onlookers. I cringed deeper and deeper into my seat growing more tired of the inflatable circus with each raspy breath they took as they inflated what they later explained to be "flight cushions". Although they looked like mini rafts, they were inflatable seats that can be apparently placed on your airplane seat for a passenger to then sit on top of. Personally, they didnt look very comfortable seeing that if you sit on top of an inflatable cushion while seated in an already tiny airplane seat it lifts you so high up that you cant even reach the armrests comfortably and you become wedged even further into the narrow space. In any case, they finally managed to position themselves on their raft-thrones but in their excitement failed to notice that in their overzealous attempts at filling them quickly they had had managed to overinflate them by quite a bit. The newlys crafted seats were bursting at the seams and as soon as the Texans sat down suddenly both cushions began to emit a series of horrific hissing and whining noises as the extra air squeezed itsself out. As the shrieking cushions exhaled under the weight of the Texans, I squirmed in my chair trying to escape the noise that began to feel as if someone were drilling a hole inside my head with a blunt screw. At this point they had positioned themselves on the hissing raft long enough for the noise to miraculously stop and for me to regain my sanity, I looked over to see that although they had wrapped themselves from head to toe in their red fleece cocoons and their feet were encased in their ridiculous airline compression socks- they had begun inflating neck pillows too!!! At least the neck pillows took less time to fill than the blue seat rafts, and in a short time they had finished inflating them and had placed them behind their necks. And for the finale they pulled out two silk sleeping masks (one pink, one blue- of course) from yet ANOTHER plastic bag and placed them over their eyes. I must say that I was thankful that they had whipped out the sleeping masks, because by then I just couldnt wipe the silly grin off my face. I tried desperately to tense up every muscle in my body just to prevent me from breaking into a fit of giggles. I really dont know how I managed to contain myself, especially since it's always harder not to laugh after a bottle of wine at 30 thousand feet!
After placing the silky eye masks on their faces and going to sleep the stunned crowd dispersed, I was left alone again with my swaddled, and now sightless row-mates. I have to admit I couldnt stop staring at them, I had never seen anyone bring so many needless accessories onboard a plane in my life- and yet they looked so happy in their inflatable fleece-lined dreamland that I think i may have felt a pang of jealousy...maybe if I had made eye contact at least once they would have offered me some compression socks too???

Im Baaaaaack......

After a temporary hiatus, our heroine is back and with a fully stocked arsenal of bizarre life experiences just waiting to be recorded for your reading pleasure!
Did you miss me? :0)

Well... here we are again!
Its been a loooong time since I last wrote and believe me, it definitely was not because my life had suddenly become tediously mundane or even quasi-normal for that matter. No need to worry, faithful readers, my life is still an endless string of crazy coincidences and unheard of situations so there is no doubt in my mind that I still have the capactity to entertain the masses by merely chronicling the pitifully funny details of my daily existence...enjoy!