Write in the Kisser

The seventh installment of my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas.

Sábado, 15 Ene. 05, 15.00 (Saturday, January 15, 2005, 3:00 pm)

Well, I’ve reached another dead end in my quest to temporarily rid myself of all major sensate faculties. Thursday night began promisingly enough, as more than 20 of us took to Granada’s narrow streets, splitting every obstacle in our path with our patented “Flying V” and the occasional knucklepuck. I’m sure to the locals we represented a veritable gringo granuloma that evening, but as we had yet to fragment into our natural peer groups at this early point in our adventure abroad, we were still finding comfort in numbers.

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The sixth installment of my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas.

14 Ene. 05, 13.15

Well, I won’t say that last night was a bust, because that would be a lie and I would go to hell, but it certainly did not turn into the fall-down, blackout slobberfest I had hoped for. In most of the bars around here, a glass of cervesa costs but a single Euro, but after tasting five different beers from five different peers (as well as some face-squelching white wine), my initial fears were confirmed: beer is a bitter, vile beverage and wine its disgustingly fruity life partner. (more…)

The fifth installment of my abandoned Granadino memoir, Flawed Abroad: Useless editorializing from an ignorant, close-minded American on his semester overseas.

13 Ene. 05, 19.00

Attention fictional readers: There is every likelihood that this entry will be my only one for the day, because tonight, ¡voy a marchar!

What does that mean, exactly? Well, simply put, to marchar is to act like the debauched 21-year-old that I have never once been—partially because I’m only 20, but mostly because I’m a prepubescent girl. You see, while I don’t wish to go all Dr. Felipe on you, Allah’s honest truth is that I’ve never consumed even a dollop of alcohol during my two-plus decades of daily dalliance. As such, I believe I owe it to myself and my friends to get hammered at least once in my lifetime, especially if I’m going to continue sarcastically criticizing others for doing so. Plus, I’d rather get smashed in Granada, Spain than Brunswick, Maine, so what the hell, right? (That said, if I turn into a wanton wino after this little excursion, let it be known that I intend to blame everyone but myself for said corruption of character.) (more…)