chicken soup for the siesta loving soul

everyone should honestly just start calling me fraulein maria because i’m always late for everything. including every meal.

mostly i’m late because i have absolutely. no. single. clue. where on god’s green earth i am. i’ve been here for almost a month and a half and i finally have two routes i can take to get to class without getting lost.  (still not failproof).

random elis occurrences.

  • i’ve seen more ancient catholic churches that have some kind of history/relation to a famous king than i know what to do with.
  • i’m keeping the red tips in my hair, but i swear to god every time i re-dye it, our sink emerges looking like it was the battle grounds for the spanish civil war.
  • i keep trying to shave my legs when i’m in our world’s tiniest shower until i remember i’m not a contortionist and i’d instantly be labeled as the town harlot for not wearing tights in public anyway.
  • i was taking photos of my roomie saint sara one day at a fountain and this woman came up and asked if she could pay me to take her photo and email it to her because it was pro.
  • i’ve created this horrible/revolutionary language where i throw in un poco de todo of spanish and english so it’s a complete hybrid lengua that no one entenders unless they speak/are learning both languages. the worst part is i’m too lazy to conjugar at any given time so i’ll add -ing or -ed and call it a día.
  • two camareros in the last couple weeks have either explicitly said they want my ojos or ask if they’re even real because the color is so light. i gotta tell ya it’s the creepiest (but somehow barely, mildly, slightly flattering) experience to have.
  • my intensivo month long clase (4 hours every single evening. 5 days a week. lord ayudame.) taught me more street lingo and culture than i also will ever know what to do with (street lingo and antiguo churches. good mezcla, si.)


i set down my café sin leche and cringe at both the lack of sugar/sweetener and my dignity when i realize the embarrassingly excessive amount i’ve already drank (drinken? drunk? drunken?) (sos espanol is matar-ing my english grammar use) today.

(lmfao & lil jon are my anthem now as “shots shots shots OF ESPRESSO” catchily plays/remixes in my cabeza).

the camarero stops by to see if i need more café or another order of just patatas fritas (french fries. i’m obviously really seeking that full fledged spanish cuisine/cultural experience while abroad.) (also apparently not normal to just order fries? who knew?) (now it is. gracias to me.)

he asks me about the mess of homework splayed out across the table(s) like i’m performing some kind of grey’s anatomy open heart surgery aka i’m hurriedly attempting to terminar before class (imagine you had like. 22 min. 58 sec. to do the entire operation. yeah. maybe mcdreamy can do it in the time it takes to finish an episode, but my metaphor cannot.) i leave a tip because the waiter and i are homies now (he’s basically the simon to my garfunkel & heaven holds a place for those who tip i guess) but mostly i don’t have time to wait for my change.

this is me when i’m *more of* a mess *than usual.*

i suppose that while the prepubescent hoodrats of spain assume that i, too, am 11 years old and wear heely’s based almost entirely on my vertical accomplishments; they are oh so unaware that they’re just serving as the driest kindling for my word fuego (aka comedic inspiration) (aka my life is basically a joke and i gotta use crazy shit that happens to me as a foundation for my punchline repertoire.)

in a sense; i try to think of myself as young awkward/borderline socially unacceptable amy poehler or amy schumer (or any amy that’s really got it going on.) but, in a much more real sense; i’m all of those aforementioned things but minus the amy’s and add the title of “girl who’s attempted every accent in the history of history.” (it’s a lot to live up to. guinness book of world records loves me.) but somehow every accent, literally every single one, reverts back to some southern plantation-owner drawl, but like, worse because it turns into me just pronouncing everything like i never learned any form of linguistics prior.

honestly it’s weird. but sometimes i’ll look earnest enough as i do it (put on my big puss-in-boots eyes and hope for the best) that i’ll get a pity laugh which in my mind obviously instantaneously equates to “you’re the next steve martin/insert famous amy comedian/jerry seinfeld, baby!” thus encouraging me to further embarrass not only myself, but undoubtedly everyone in a 6 kilometer radius.


so back to the street youth. i’m just on my way down the calle with about a solid 73% chance i’m going the right direction when the suavest (& tallest?) 14 year old i’ll ever meet, suddenly electric slides over to me (without tripping, i’ll give him props for that.) but he makes obvious his young baby/boyhood when a high, nervous giggle puts every newborn baby to shame (all the babies born this day were passive aggressively shunted by their minivan mom and dad joke loving parents.)

i glance slightly his way (in an attempt to size up the wannabe billy the kid who passes off more as a karate-kid-dweeb-style-minus-the-karate.) (i roll my eyes like a windmill) (which isn’t a spain thing. i just ruin normal things that people do in general.) he asks where i’m from. i attempt to answer but i also speak at an audio level that’s as soft as that IKEA blanket you’ve had your non-windmill rolling eyes on, and he tries so hard to hear.

but i ask where he’s from since “los estados unidos” is difficult to hear, either from the silence of the elis, or blame it on the streets (this is such a vague reference i can’t even explicar it. i just need to descansa.) he realizes i’m turning onto a different street and asks for my name or number or possibly where i’m from again.

but i have extreme light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel vision straight for my hostel (slash actually just the pizza place next to it.) mostly i was internally belting a southern baptist worship song at the thought of putting my aching feet up at a higher altitude than the rough and ratchet cobblestone. as well as the idea of PIZZA.



livin la vida casa has its ups and downs and roller coaster turns too (there’s even an intense corkscrew part.)

my host mom is always yelling something equivalent to “ehliiee andale the hell up dude” (rough translation) as i’m frantically trying to decide between seven different outfits. it’s a hard life ya know. then she slaps my culo like a mama herding her duckling while shoving a nutella toast sandwich and the millionth orange this week in my hands before slamming the door.

but as life happens when you’re in the laboratory, it wasn’t just sugar spice and everything nice. there was def some chemical x (actually in this case olive oil –because it’s used for literally everything) mixed around in that soup (i swear to lord, madre mia, soup every single día and sometimes twice). the first week goes down in elise’s life history books as three silent meals every day of broken conversation and not knowing when the hell something was a question or a statement (they just don’t pronounce their ssssss here so like idk, they could just be stating something, who knows? not elis).

their inflection also isn’t the same when asking a question and all of a sudden she’s looking at me with this face waiting for either confirmation or an answer and i’m just thinking “shit shit shit” and i have to decide like, am i gonna just nod or am i gonna ask her to repeat it otra vez, por favor. at which she’d sigh heavily, set down her silverware and her napkin, turn towards me (and kind of sara, who’s just trying to painfully inhale her food to catch up with the speed at which our ‘rents eat), and say it in a different way but at only like 0.5km/hr slower. then i’d just give up or wait for sara to come up for air to see if she knew what the hell was going on (honestly tho i’m not joking, they eat like they’re training for the indy 500 of  food eating and i’m trying to keep up despite missing like 3 wheels.)

espana is not what i expected, but i also expected nothing. i’ve realized i’m essentially a living where’s waldo – but plot twist actually his fraternal twin brother “there’s ronaldo” who you find in the first 4 seconds of turning the page. but instead imagine that his striped shirt is actually a massive moving target that makes repeated gunshot sounds as soon as you leave the casa (supposedly that’s just the sound of a car backfire. *supposedly*).


concluding this blog post’s session of randomness that gives you barely enough info to know what’s happening in my vida but not bastante information where i’m entirely horrified/embarrassed; i’ve compiled some lists for y’all (aka they’re for you, mom.)

some things i’ve become notorious (b.i.g.) for decir-ing are:

  • “que tal bitches/que tal y’all”
  • “can we take a taxi”
  • “can we take the elevator”
  • “can we walk slower”
  • “can y’all go ahead and i’ll just catch up”
  • “yo what’s que tal-ing”
  • “can we get pizza”
  • “can we get fries”
  • “can we get donuts after we eat pizza”

however some phrases i hear with nagging lois griffin (just minus the grating voice ~most of the time~) regularity are:

  • “walk faster”
  • “where were you/why were you late/what happened/why are you breathing so hard”
  • “when was the last time you brushed your hair”
  • “why are you having a hot flash”
  • “why are you out of breath. we walked together.”
  • “why do you always say ‘que tal bitches'”
  • “can you just conjugate instead of adding -ed or -ing to a spanish verb”
  • “your eyeliner is súper-mega-on-fleek”
  • “why do you have so much candy/snacks/food with you”

besos and abrazos y’all


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