There are two things you can count on to fall.

There is always that one picture that refuses to stay put. It doesn't matter if you hammer it to a wall, staple it, glue gun it, or use an entire roll of tape: it will not stay put. I experienced this first not with a photo, but with a bulletin board. After four nights of being assaulted by the bulletin board deciding that hanging on the wall was too much effort and joining me in bed was the better option, I finally agreed that it won the hanging battle and it spent the remainder of my freshmen year of college perched on my desk. It still managed to shove everything else off my desk and lie flat down to take a quick nap on a regular basis, but at least it wasn't waking me up at night.

Then there was the picture of my dad and I in Mexico. It was stuck with double sided sticky tape to the wall by my bed. And now it is the picture of Margaret and I backpacking. At home, it was the poster of a Mexican sunset. I have decided that regardless of where you are, what form of installment you use, and what you are trying to hang up, one of them will fall down.

You can also count on me for taking a good crash or two on a monthly basis. In September, I was getting some quality time with Roo, aka the Crack King/Drug Puppy/Little Shit (according to Dad) and somehow managed, while completely stationary, to fall over. I think it takes some kind of special skill to go from a standing position to flat on your ass in about half a second. I have gone over that moment again and again, and have yet to figure out how exactly I fell over. I think it might have had to do with wearing smartwool socks in Dansco shoes, or maybe it was because I moved my head to look at Roo, who was trying to drag a five foot stick down the street as a little present for Grace, who was high tailing it home to go take another 15 hour nap, from which she might have the ability to wake up only to have a little snack and then resume her motionless life. Roo has basically forced her into a grumpy enough old woman to get up, let him chew on her face for about five minutes, and then lie back down.

Today I went to San Vincente de la Barquera, and graced two old men with the chance to witness my spectacular ability to fall down.

The first occurred when Cailyn, the girl I went with, decided to barge right on into the police guard area to take pictures. My theory is that if you don't want visitors, or nosy American girls to take pictures, or possible terrorists to scope out your very important guard station since the tiny pueblo is number one on hit lists around the globe, you shouldn't leave your gate wide open. It is basically an invitation to come in. So we did.

I was in the middle of taking a picture of the pretty flowers they had in pots all over their entrance area when I heard him: he was probably 55, looked like he just woke up from his five hour sieta (they siesta from noon to five in San Vincente, to recover from the strenuous work they put in from ten in the morning to noon) and was about as happy to see me as I am to see anyone who tries to speak to me within an hour of me waking up or being fed. "HOLA. HOLA? HOLA." Yes, thank you buddy, I got that you are barking at me in Spanish and there is really no need to repeat your not friendly greeting. That was all he said. The fact that he can get his "Get the hell out" message across by a commonly used greeting is quite astounding and makes me feel much less worried about my morning tone of voice that will be used with my future husband. If he complains, I will just say "HOLA. HOLA." repeatedly until he either leaves me alone or cooks me some bacon. My mother will probably say something like "We need to post a facebook warning to your future husband about you." similarly to how she suggested saying "TO Michelle's future husband, start saving up all your money now." when I told her I wanted a ring from Tiffany's. A girl's gotta have some standards, right?

I don't do very well with getting barked/yelled at, so instead of saying hello back and smiling and sucking up, I immediatly started laughing and spun around like a fool to run away. It was my lucky day because there happened to be a post sticking out five inches tall and four long for the gate (that was still open) that felt the need to be exactly in the spot I decided to spin around. Let's just say that by the time I stopped laughing, stopped tripping and started booking it away, I could just about feel my soul being stabbed with his death glare.

Then we went on an expedition to look for the famous convent, which was also closed for siesta and hidden behind a tall wall, because the sleepy nuns need their privacy and might want to sneak out at night so a tall wall is obviously necessary. I wonder how long it will be before American father's start building walls around their houses.

On our way down from the closed convent we took a sneaky back yard slash possible driveway short cut. The man emptying his dust pan out his window watched us walk down, probably thinking that we were the terrorists who the guard was waiting for. I reconfirmed his suspicions that we were challenged by progressing to do a fabulous version of the splits (okay other than my inflexibility) down the hill and right by his car. I'd say that over all, I made a stellar impression on the old men in San Vincente. Between the falling over, and my yoga in Santander, I wouldn't be surprised if all these old men want to buy me that Tiffany's ring and make me bacon pretty soon.