Um

Before I left for Spain, I checked the weather a few days in advance to see what kind of weather it would be here. I decided it would be rather warm.

So how hot is it actually Adrianne?

Well, today after I drooled during my nap (admit it! everyone does it from time to time), I decided I'd continue lying in my own pool of drool because it happened to be a few degrees cooler than the oppressive air surrounding me.

Gross, no?

This weekend was, well, as far as recuperating goes, semi-successful. Thursday night I went to a drag queen show, then afterwards was accused by Samantha (probably fairly) of not being able to resist my tourist tendencies as I attempted to take pictures of my first and probably last botellón experience here in Madrid. It took all the effort I could muster to resist taking pictures of a group of drunken Spaniards rocketing down the stairs of a plaza in a bathtub. TimeOut Madrid described this plaza, called Plaza Dos de Mayo, as moving from heroism to heroin. And TimeOut guidebooks are ALWAYS right.

In California, good striving A-grade kids like me take to the street to terrorize the neighborhood by playing hide-and-go-seek in cars. Or pouring soap suds into the spa to give the Home Owner's Association Committee something to wag their fingers at and give them front-page news for the next monthly publication created on Microsoft Word by one of the many local moms eager to point out the flaws in their neighbors' kids. Here, kids take the street to mix their rum and coke together while running around in a plaza with millions of roaches and leftover sausages everywhere.

On the way back from there, I met a group of drunken American guys in my neighborhood. I might not know too much about Madrid, but I do know that this area around my apartment isn't the hip and happening place to be running around drunk and shouting in the street. After I hoarsely pointed out to them that they were acting like a group of idiots and mutely pointed them to the huge row of taxis parked in front of a subway station close by, the leader told me proudly that they were just "fulfilling their role of being the obnoxious American tourists."

The next night, after I went to a free Beethoven concert and futiley sitting with some people like a bump on a log trying to make conversation, I decided I'd walk home. My walk home consisted of stopping in at every store that made tea only so that I could drink the cup of tea to have enough voice to ask for the next one at the next store. So the walk that normally would take 45 minutes took around 2 hours as I also grew inexplicably sleepy at the sight of every bench and had to sit down on nearly every single one. Sleeping on the street like an American tourist seemed like an excellent option right then.

So that brings me around to wondering if right now I am doing an A-grade job of being a great American tourist. An strong desire to sleep in the street AND take pictures of people I don't know here. An American in Madrid. Everything minus the disposable camera.