The sweet smell of... failure?

Plans rarely go, well, as planned.  The longer I am alive the more I am forced to accept that very little is truly in my control, and that isn't really a pessimistic viewpoint, because to me, how I react to things is just as, if not more, important than the circumstances in which I am placed.  We all dream; I am confident that even the most cynical person you know is secretly full of hopes and dreams, and on the surface these dreams are about silly, inconsequential things: where we will live, who we will love, where we will work, but beneath those petty details lie fundamental needs, and in the end, it is those needs we must satisfy.  I had hoped and dreamed and even at moments (and those of you who know me know the desperation this signals) prayed that things would work out in Barcelona.  I tried; I really did, but there simply weren't jobs available, not even for many of my friends who could work legally in Spain, and as much of an idealist as I am; I also have a pragmatic side, and it is this side which made the decision to return to the states.  This was a difficult, excruciating decision, and every moment I miss the fantastic people who I met in Barcelona, but I have returned, not the prodigal son, but the accomplished student, having learned much, and experienced much more.  I do not regret a single decision I have made thus far, and I don't anticipate regret for any upcoming decision, some of which are perhaps as formidable as a move overseas.  I believe that right now, what will serve my needs best is to serve the needs of others.  I have applied to Americorps, and intend to complete a year of volunteer work with them.  This will provide money for my future education, satisfy my desire to help those in need, and hopefully, improve my linguistic skills even further.  I am in a difficult period in my life, a period where nothing makes complete sense, and even the most sane things seem crazy.  If for some reason you believe this to be a bad idea, I encourage you with all my heart to put forth your suggestion, or comment, or whatever it is you think.  I certainly don't promise to drop my plans and bow to your will, but you are reading this because I care about you, because I value your opinion, and I will undoubtedly take any comments I receive into consideration as I contemplate my future.  As tumultuous a time as this is in my life, I am content, even happy perhaps, and have never felt so capable, but again, it wouldn't be the first time I had been misled by an overzealous necessity to feel independent, despite the mountain of evidence suggesting I am anything but.  I love you all, and I hope to hear from you, and, if the chance arises, see you all, before I move on to my next great adventure...

A la discoteca!

Last night was crazier than even I could have expected.  It started out with the usual, hash and beer in the park, but then my friends were going somewhere, and instead of parting, I went with them, down the rabbit hole.  We started a party at one of their apartments which makes every party I've ever been to tame by comparison.  There weren't a ton of us, but the room was thick with smoke, and people were passing around beer and whiskey and vodka, and the hash was more plentiful than cigarettes in America.  Then they started passing around a tray of cocaine, of which I did not partake.  In my new friends defense, only about half of them did coke, and the rest criticized it, and when one of the guys there I don't know offered me the tray everyone freaked out and jumped out of there seats they were so pissed off at him.  My friends certainly have their vices, but they are good people, and they always look out for me.  They prepared tons of traditional Spanish foods and forced me to eat until I thought I might throw up.  Some was strange, but most of it was delicious, and I am glad they taught me how to make it.  Then we set out for a bar, which I definitely didn't need.  At the bar they got shots of tequila for everyone, and then we went to the discoteca.  Nothing can compare.  America does not know what a dance club is...  The was a massive dance floor, tons of lights and music you could barely hear yourself over, and I saw at least four different bars in the discoteca.  My friends ordered San Franciscos for me, which were absolutely delicious, but again, completely unnecessary.  I realized that I was already way more drunk than I should have let myself get, and I knew that the cup of whisky they poured me at the house probably hadn't even hit me yet, so I went to the bathroom and made myself throw up.  Not glamorous, but I'm glad I did or I don't know how much longer I would have been conscious.  After that I stayed away from the drinks, even though it was hot as hell in the discoteca, and I was wearing a really warm shirt, not knowing when I put it on how the night would go.  All these boys kept trying to dance with me, but I pushed them off because I didn't want my friends to know I'm gay, because if they don't take it well I am absolutely alone.  But then I wanted to have a little fun, so I pushed to the opposite side of the dance floor and danced with the most gorgeous Spaniard you can possibly imagine.  He kept avoiding me, so I would turn to find other prey, but then his friends would come up to me and tell me that he is shy and that I should keep dancing with him.  Don't ask me how I talked to his friends in this state, I could barely stand, but with the loose inhibitions it seemed my Spanish improved by the minute.  I was an absolute joke, I'm sure.  I kept falling on the ground and then turning it into a dance move to get up with my dignity intact.  Eventually I returned to my friends and danced with them until we left.  I asked them what time it was, once we were on the street and could actually talk again, and was shocked to discover it was six in the morning.  I danced pretty much nonstop for six hours.  I tried to return to my friends house where I am staying, but he didn't answer the door (probably because I rang the wrong bell, everything is so different here).  I was drunk and exhausted so I went to sleep in the park my friends and I hang out in.  Today I went to the same house where the party was, and yet again, a party, but this one was to watch the football (soccer) game where Barcelona was in the finals.  Most of the people there had to work in the morning, so it was much more subdued.  Anyway, my Spanish improves daily, but this is more stressful than I could have imagined.  I think I tend to gloss over the negative things that happen when I talk to people, but they are many.  At least so far though, the good outweighs the bad, so I try to be hopeful.  I miss home every day.

My first days in Espana

So, I wish I had a chance to write about more that has happened so far, because by now it is far too much to remember.  I arrived at 9:00 in the morning, tried to get directions from this guy who said, "No hablo ingles," after I had only said excuse me, but I asked him where the train was, I am going to Barcelona, and he pointed towards the train for me.  I got to my host's apartment here in about an hour, but he wasn't home.  I found a park near his house where I took a nap in the sun.  (I know, I know, pickpockets, etc, but I woke up every time anyone came remotely close to me, and 90% of the people there were over 70, I've slept in a bus stop in downtown Chicago, if I can survive that I figured a nice park is acceptable).

I went off in search of an unprotected WIFI connection, which is insanely rare here.  I finally found one while I was sitting in a different park and found an email from my host saying he was at work and wouldn't be home until 7:00, which gave me like another 6 hours to kill.  I walked around everywhere, and about an hour before I was supposed to meet him, I had the balls to go try to buy a bottle of wine for my host.  It was pretty much the most anticlimactic thing ever.  First, I would like to say that alcohol here is literally cheaper than water, which confused the hell out of me.  I picked the most expensive bottle of wine I saw on the shelf, which was less than $2, and went to check out.  It was 1,25€ but when the cashier told me the price I only heard the 25, which sounded much more reasonable to me, so I tried to give her a 25€.  She just kept saying, mas pequeno, of which I only understood "more" in my flustered state, and I was beginning to think the wine was to expensive to be worth it when she finally just grabbed a 5€ bill from me and handed me my change.  I didn't get carded, I later learned that even a 16 year old could buy a bottle of wine or a case of beer.  They have graduated laws, so you can't buy hard liquor until you are 18, because, as it was explained to me, "You can't get drunk from wine or beer!"  Things certainly are different here...  Anyway, I couldn't find my host at 7:00, so I went back to the park to email him again.  We still have no idea what was going on that first night, it was odd.  I sat in the park for like an hour trying to figure out what was going on and watching some kids rolling joints in the corner.  I got bored and decided it was time to grow a pair, so I walked over to them and introduced myself.  They seemed kind of annoyed at my presence, and sort of confused about why I was trying to talk to them.  Then a guy showed up who "knows English" which consisted of a very spotty vocabulary and a minimal understanding of grammar, but his pronunciation was great, so I give him credit for that.  He asked me what the problem was, what did I need, and I kept trying to explain that there was no problem, that I just flew here and I am trying to learn Spanish, that I know only one person here.  Once they figured out why I was here they told me I was crazy, but they started warming up to me and offered me a beer and some "chocolate".  It turns out they weren't smoking pot, they were smoking hash, the super concentrated form of pot that stoners only dream of in the US.  Haha, who I am to turn down Spanish hospitality?  I asked them about the legality of drinking in public and smoking hash and they admitted that it was all illegal, but asked me where are the police, and true enough, I have only seen like two cops in my time here so far.  Apparently everyone does drugs here, lots of drugs, haha, but they warned me to stay away from coke, so I like them.  None of them speak English really at all, so hanging out with them forces me to improve my Spanish quickly, and just last night one of them complimented me on my improvement.  Yesterday we went to the beach, which was amazing.

 I swam in the Mediterrean, just to say I had, because it was cold as fuck, but apparently in a month or so it will warm up a ton.  I now have a pretty awful sunburn to prove my 8 hours on the beach.  There are two establishments on my street, and I'm not sure if they are strip clubs or brothels, but neither would surprise me anymore.  No one gives a fuck about anything here.  You can literally walk naked in the streets and it's perfectly legal.  Haha, but they don't have guns here, which everyone was quick to bring up the first night I was here.  Then everyone made fun of Bush, and talked about how much better Obama is.  I like it here.  I think it's about three days until I am officially an illegal alien.  I'm looking forward to it, and honestly, I'm not too concerned about deportation.

Above are a few of my friends, Oscar, Ciara, and Xavi.  We had a lot of fun getting trashed on the beach, and by this time my Spanish had actually improved enough that we made fun of these stupid American girls together.  I translated all the stupid shit they said for my friends, and then we would laugh about how shallow they are, and Ciara said they remind her of Paris Hilton.  I understand why Americans have such a bad reputation now...