Buns of steel.

I was really proud of myself, I woke up this morning feeling like I hiked up the Picos again. That five hour sensation of total muscle torture that leaves you wanting to lay in bed all day. But then I remembered: that was yesterday. A "productive" day, if you are Spanish. I completed approximately an hour worth of homework, which, upon telling my teacher and expecting her to be proud of me, I was told was actually the opposite of what I should have done since working on Sunday is just ridiculous. "You work six days a week, you sleep and rest Sunday."

Which is why, for about half my walk home, I tried to figure out why I was sore. Particularly my left butt cheek. Then I remembered my oh so graceful fall that occured in San Vincente on Saturday, and have been once again reminded of the physical consequences that come from being a spaz.

I had another run in with the student drivers today, as I walked across the street thinking how nice and safe and calm Santander is instead of looking one way, let alone both ways before crossing the street.

It also dawned on me that I have four tests and three projects due in the next three weeks. All of which will determine my success or failure in my classes. Yet I continuously find myself spending two hours waiting for Glee to load or stalking other people's wedding photos. I have discovered two fellow wedding obsessees here (is that a word?) and we have started sharing wedding photographer links with eachother, thus providing me countless options of distraction: gay boys serenading eachother on Glee, brides in big dresses and, the best I have discovered thus far: Beauty and the Beast in 3D at the movie theater. Which happens to be an hour and seventeen minute walk from my house, but that provides what, four hours of wasted time? Google couldn't inform me how to get there on a bus, because it is so far out in the boonies that the buses don't even go there. My theory on this is that because it is always raining or Sunday, you want to spend as much time as possible on the only available activity: movie watching. So if you are gonna go to all the effort of going to see it, you want to ensure it takes up your entire day. Like going to the mall. Why would you want to be able to park easily and not have to wait in long lines, because if you didn't have too, you'd spend a quarter of the time in the mall and then you'd have nothing to do when it is blizzarding in Denver. So we should be thanking the city planners who provide a third of the needed number of parking spots, who provide minimal public transportation, and who put anything necessary to happiness as far away from humans as possible. I am kind of curious why nobody has put a Starbucks on Mt. Everest. What better motivation to get to the top than a double shot extra foam and double pump Peppermint Mocha? We might experience Sherpa stampedes to rival the running of the bulls, but I guarantee it would increase the popularity of climbing up Mt. E.

I also spend an excessive amount of time arguing with myself over if I am hungry or not. Part of the problem of living in my house in Steamboat was that there was always a constant supply of delicious snacks. Eating was never a necessity, it was a fun afternoon activity or past time. Thus my inability to differeniate between hunger and boredom. And not to mention the great satisfaction and happiness I get from consuming an entire bag of Werther's (three pieces is a serving, so really I just had six, which is a healthy number I think) or a bag of salt and vinegar potatoe chips, or three donuts, or a whole box of Turon, the traditional Spanish Christmas candy.

Some of the nicest people I have met in Spain have been in the grocery. On Friday a precious little old woman helped me find the Turon, which was between the fish and pig's heads, which is highly logial because who would want it near the rest of the Christmas candy. She heard me blasting off to Poy about how I couldn't find it and how I had been there five days in a row and my mom kept being like "It is there just look harder." She came up to me and started babbling in Spanish which I of course didn't fully understand, but when she started explaining the types of Turon I was immediately on the same page as her. It was like our brains morphed into one Spanish food obsessed mind of lovingness and we then embarked on a full blown tour of Turon. I realized that if I want to be fluent in Spanish I need to hang out in the grocery and discuss the one topic I will never tire of: food and candy.

I am now contemplating how to superglue my shoe back together. If you come to Spain, you will immediately notice, if you are a girl or have any interest in looking in a shop window, and unless you walk around with your eyes closed and run into strangers, cabs, or light poles, that every other store sells shoes. This is because the shoes here, like the umbrellas, are suicidal. Unless you are okay with wearing rubber boots, which I for one am not unless they are yellow and frankly, I think yellow boots are reserved for puddle jumping or six year olds and not for normal daily attire, you are going to spend all of your budget on shoes. Shoes and umbrellas. Because neither are meant for heavy rain. Which is ironic and infuriating. So I am going to superglue my shoe back together, despite having bought it two weeks ago. Life expectancy in Spain for shoes and boots: two weeks. Umbrellas: two minutes.