Don’t do it. He’ll drink you under the bar. I spent the other day nursing a terrible hangover after a night out with my new acquaintance. How we met will be revealed in the next entry which is currently in progress. I wanted to sneak in these latest shenanigans because they amuse me. I don’t usually drink in excess, so unaresaca is a rarity for me. Yet I still feel like I have had a handful too many in this lifetime. I’m ranking this one as my third worst and I graded it based on longevity, vomiting and memory loss.
The Englishman and I were at bar number 2 when I realized I was quite lit. I made all the usual whoopsies such as mixing beer and wine, not eating beforehand and not drinking any water at all. However, I think the biggest whoops was drinking with an Englishman with an unquenchable thirst for beer. I could not match him, though, he sure made me try. Eventually, I needed food. Bar number 2 had some burger options and he let me pick the Khaleesi for us to share. I truly do not know if I chose it because I’m funny or if it really sounded like the best burger or if reading is hard when you’re drunk. About this time is where the recollection of the evening kind of blurs together.
So, I remember a lot of talking, we definitely weren’t sitting in silence. Vaguely recall discussing music, but that’s about it. I remember leaving bar number 2, but I don’t remember walking to bar number 3. I do remember making a mess with a beer at bar number 3 and attempting to mop it up with those little bar napkins. I do not know if it was my beer. I do not remember drinking anymore. I remember leaving bar number 3 and arriving at my bnb, but not the time between the two destinations. I’m glad he insisted walking with me because I just reread my last sentence. Also, having an escort ensured I didn’t trip over a bus stop or something equally ridiculous. I generally have a good sense of direction, but bad feet. I remember we said our goodbyes and I walked through the lobby to the elevator. I do not remember getting on the elevator or walking into the apartment. The next memory picks up with me brushing my teeth. I awoke the next morning with a pounding headache when questions started racing through my inebriated brain.
So, in my opinion, this is all leading to the bestest parts. There is only one other time in my life when I blacked out from drinking and, funny enough, I remember telling some of that story to my new acquaintance. I am very sad I have no real memory of it other than what my friends recounted because it’s fucking hilarious. Obviously, no one else was here to tell me what happened when I got back to the apartment, but I managed to piece it together. And I can just see all of you on the edge of your seats wondering what sort of crazy occurred.
The truth is absolutely nothing. And it is a marked compliment to my character compared to 18-year-old blackout drunk me accidentally pissing on my friend’s clothes.
I laid in bed groggily trying to recount things like if the door was locked or where was my purse or how am I wearing pajamas. I finally got up and used the bathroom and checked that the door was locked. I saw my purse and keys on a nearby table. I went back to sleep. I awoke a short time later to shower and vomit. I laid back in bed. After my second round of purging, I felt the tiniest measurement possible of better and pieced together what I had done. I was a goddamn adult. I had neatly placed my boots with my other shoes, my coat over a rack. I left my dirty clothes with the rest of my laundry and pulled my pajamas from the closet without leaving any sort of mess. I took out my contact lenses and correctly placed them in the case. I undid my hair and left the pins neatly on a table. I set my phone alarm to wake me up at 10:30 so it didn’t go off at the usual time of 8:30. I cleaned off the bed that had random things on it (since just hours before I moved from Prosperidad to La Latina and was unpacking) and neatly placed them all elsewhere. I retrieved my earplugs from my purse and correctly fit them in my ears. I did all the things I usually do before bed – perhaps even better – without injuring myself or breaking anything. I almost can’t believe it either. I wondered how it was possible to function so phenomenally when I know how stupid people get from drinking and found this enlightening article.
I later picked up my phone to thank my English acquaintance for the booze and to tell him about how terrible I felt. I found something odd but smiled at myself as I read. I had sent him messages throughout the evening that I do not remember sending. I dug deep in my brain while trying to recover from the hangover and sort of recalled we listened to songs on my phone at some point and he asked me to send him the YouTube links. I also found a glimpse of a memory talking about tacos, but I don’t remember if I was recommending them or requesting them. Por favor disfruta:
I want to give you the long history of the origin of Halloween and how it has transformed into the modern-day celebration of the 21st century, but there’s a reason I am not a history teacher. Luckily, the History Channel can help if you want to know more about the evolution of the tradition.
I loved Halloween as a kid for lots of reasons: creepy shit, candy, witches, princesses, superheroes. It was the only time of the year when I could wear mom’s makeup and not get in trouble. I was allowed to eat almost as much candy as I could stomach. I could try to scare the bejesus out of people without reprimand.
The holiday became one of my favorite days to celebrate at work when I realized my employer didn’t care about a little dress-up. This is the first year in several I didn’t have a place to go and show-off my creativity and Madrid isn’t exactly hip to the holiday. My Spanish teacher nor my bnb host’s son knew of any special Halloween things happening, so I took my search to FB. I found a party event near my apartment, and discovered it was for children. Only. I might have been slightly embarrassed as I didn’t have a child, but no one could see my real face, so, eh, I didn’t feel that weird. I left the party and walked around the ritzy barrio de Salamanca in hopes to frighten the affluent shoppers. Sadly, I don’t think anyone was scared, but I had a good time being silly. I met a friend for drinks later in the evening.
While I was trying to come up with a Halloween costume, I thought to myself, what is actually scary. I looked up some real-life crazies to get ideas and suddenly, I pictured a creepy clown saying, aren’t we fucking funny? And I knew – he’s the one. I actually wasn’t aware that Sid Haig had recently passed which made the costume idea kind of weird yet even more Halloween appropriate.
Well, you are probably wondering how all of this sexy came together and I’m going to tell you. I planned on using only the watercolor paints I brought with me (which I think are non-toxic) to paint my face. The trial using them went well enough, but I worried about the application directly on my skin. I found a costume store about a mile walk from my apartment where I picked up some liquid white face paint to use as a base and a red bow tie to try to complete the Captain Spaulding look. I didn’t like the beards the shop offered and they were more than I wanted to spend. I looked up some tutorials on homemade beards and read something about cotton. I didn’t watch the tutorial. I just knew right away the cotton idea sounded good. The tutorial I did follow was for a homemade glue paste of flour, water and salt. I wanted to buy eyelash glue as I’ve had success with that in the past for things besides eyelashes, but like the beards, it was more than I was willing to spend. The makeup store I stopped at for the eyelash glue and cotton didn’t have cotton, but everything worked out fine. I wound up walking in the wrong direction on my way back to the apartment (trick) and came across a pharmacy with cotton for less than a euro (or treat). I spent €5.79 for white face paint, a bag of cotton and a red bow tie.
I used a mix of black watercolor paint, charcoal pencil and black eye makeup to color the cotton as best I could. These are all things I had stowed away in my luggage. I made my glue paste using the no cook recipe from this site. I lessened the amount considerably and eyeballed the ingredient measurements. I read their note about how they didn’t know which recipe might be safe for skin, so I went for the one I could make with what I had, didn’t require cooking, and wasn’t noted as very, very strong as my ultimate goal wasn’t to have a permanent beard.
This shit held up really well. So well, in fact, that my attempts to smile, laugh or simply open my mouth to yawn were extremely restricted. Not a flexible glue, FYI. At the end of the night, everything came off fine with some soap, a little body scrub and warm water. If you try this recipe for yourself, then use sparingly when applying and lots of warm water when trying to remove it and please don’t accidentally rip off your eyebrows.
About 30 hours after returning from Ibiza, I was on a plane to England. Because I’m crazy. “I thought you hated London,” my mom said after I told her I’d landed safely. I really don’t like to use the word hate. It’s such an ugly word. I prefer to describe my first visit to London with a reluctant, I… didn’t love it. So, how did I find myself flying back to Gatwick so soon?
I visited England and Spain for the first time this past May. My 3-week vacation started in London because it was cheaper to fly there from the states than to Girona and I thought, what the hell, I want to see Big Ben and shit. For any of you other hopefuls anticipating to see the clock tower (or hear it chime), you might want to wait until 2020 when repairs are supposed to end and it will be unveiled to the world again. But fear not if you’ve already booked that ticket, because London does have a lot more going for it like, rich history and culture, free museums, a queen, etcetera and so forth. Just keep in mind that your Oyster Card doesn’t work for the train to Stansted (even if it scans and looks like it does – you better ask someone where to buy that paper train ticket or cough up 5 times the cost in fees – trust me).
ANYWAY, I met some great people between London and Spain with whom I’ve kept in touch one way or another. Travelling solo is an amazing way to meet people if you’re open to it. What’s crazy to me is in all the time I spent last year hoping to cultivate a new friendship by trying new things and regularly visiting places I adored in my home city, I instead found someone half-way around the world at a café in a city in which neither of us lived. My thought process has left me to conclude that if I had made the connection I was looking for in Houston, then I might still be there unwilling to budge and you all wouldn’t have this wonderful blog to follow.
My new acquaintance resonated with my situation and planning
to live abroad. We’d kept in touch via
e-mail and her encouraging words helped make the whole thing a little less
scary. We were hoping to meet again in
Madrid, but it didn’t work out that way.
So, I was happily surprised when she extended an invitation to visit her
in Alfriston. Girl, let me get on this
price checking stat! I found a decently
priced roundtrip flight and booked it. Ibiza
was booked later and at the time I was more concerned with cheap than sleep.
She planned the meetup and places to visit during my stay
and I was happy to not have to think about it.
I love planning, but I’ve been doing so much of it I think I’ve exhausted
myself. My only goals were to relax and not
take the wrong train. Did you know
trains in England split, by the way? Ha,
yep. Not anything I would have thought
to ask, so a huge shout-out to the woman from the station who informed me to
sit in the rear.
Lewes Castle
I don’t quite recall how it started, but I wound up getting
a history lesson from two other customers at the café in Lewes while waiting
for my friend. Thomas Paine, author of
Common Sense, apparently, was a bit of a troublemaker around town before he
made his way to America. Virginia Woolf
took her last breath in Lewes before finally succumbing to the darkest depths
of depression. Queen Anne of Cleves received
a home there through her annulment with King Henry VIII, but ultimately, she never
visited the property. And lastly, Guy
Fawkes Night (remember, remember, the fifth of November) brings spectators and
participants from around the country to the annual bonfire celebration in Lewes. The women sharing these stories told them in
so much detail while I shamefully sat there recounting to myself what little American
history I knew. My friend didn’t take
long to arrive and whisked me back to the present.
It was so good to see her again in the flesh. We took a quick tour around Lewes, had lunch and headed to Alfriston to enjoy the rest of the evening comfy cozy with a fire, cuddling doggies and a homecooked dinner. The next day was spent gallivanting around Brighton. The weather held up just enough for us to enjoy pockets of sunshine as we popped in and out of shops and cafes. We walked out over the English Channel on Brighton Palace Pier where violent winds sent waves crashing over each other and carried mist across my face. Ten-year-old Kat would have liked to stand in the splash zones for the full effect, but grown up Kat worried about getting wet in the cold and healthcare costs without insurance. We picked up some goods for dinner at M&S and took in another early evening in Alfriston which I rather liked, and don’t think I told her how sexy it was she didn’t want to be out until fucking midnight like everyone does here.
Cuckmere River
The next morning we dined on tea and toast and I had my first proper scone with clotted cream and jam. Isn’t this presentation adorable?! We spent the time I had left in England walking around her neighborhood. Immediately, I found 2 very old music books at the local bookstore I decided to walk away from to fully consider the decision of flying with that extra weight. We then followed a path down by the Cuckmere River where it was slightly overflowing from the previous evening’s rain and admired the cascading water pooling near the trail and the lush hills in the distance. Our leisurely stroll took us to a trendy resale shop where she bought a dress that looked like it was made for her. Then back to the bookstore where I bought the books I didn’t need.
It’s another long one, boys and girls! I think I treat my writing the same as many other parts of me. Like, if my hair wants to curl up one day and fall flat the next, I try to work with it either way. Or, if I start a painting that isn’t turning out like I wanted, I just keep rolling with what’s happening and hope the result looks ok. This post started as a play by play story and so, here we are with a long recount.
One thing I meant to do much sooner was spend a relaxing weekend on a beach and soak up the final days of the lingering summer warmth. Initially, I pictured Bilbao – I read about some beautiful beaches up that way and looked forward to seeing a bit of the north of España. Before I knew it, though, October was steadfastly approaching and the weather up north was no longer ideal for the beach. Also, I was in the midst of a dilemma wondering if $250 for a flight and 2-night stay in Brussels for a Lola Marsh concert was worth the expense, particularly, since spending so much on Munich. It’s a curse and a blessing to always think about the practicality of spending money… I was supposed to see Lola Marsh at Pukkelpop in 2016, but missed their time slot. So, I thought it would be cool and funny to see them in Brussels. But after a couple of weeks of price checking and feeling uncertain about the cost I started looking at “everywhere” searches on Skyscanner to see if there was another appealing destination for less money.
Ibiza and The Canary Islands surfaced and I was suddenly again intrigued by a beach getaway. I selected Ibiza for the price and sheer ease of a 1-hour flight to a 30-minute bus ride to a hotel on a beach. I think not working has brought a little more spontaneity back into my life, because I planned nothing more beyond which flight to choose and which hotel to stay at. I kept thinking, I’ll just play it by ear; if I feel like renting a car, then I’ll rent one or if I feel like just lying in the sand in front of my hotel, then I’ll do that.
It was mid-afternoon when I checked into the hotel and headed out for a dip. The views were beautiful around Figueretes, but the beach wasn’t anything spectacular. The water was blue, but murky, and there was a lot of dead seaweed accumulating in pockets nearby detracting from the overall beauty. I was disappointed but it easily convinced me to visit a different part of the island the next day. I did a little research and decided Cala Conta and Cala Bassa were the perfect destinations being only a 35-minute walk from each other. It was really difficult to pick based on pictures, because all of the well-known beaches around the island looked equally stunning, but this decision allowed me to check out two different ones.
Ibiza Port
I spent the evening wandering around Ibiza and eventually found myself at the main port captivated by the setting sun’s colors and the night lights of the marina. I chose a bench on the dock and sat staring out at the boats and distant hills feeling so at peace with the moment. I sat there until the sun was gone and a full moon surfaced from the east; bold, bright and so much larger than I remember seeing it before. I think I could have sat there all night.
Eventually, I left and found a restaurant, by chance, near the Portal de ses Taules. After dinner I watched some people walk up to the draw bridge and followed them wondering where I was going. I passed through an archway that led to a myriad of restaurants and shops down little alleys. I followed the main path until I found a woman sitting on a step smoking and asked her if I could buy a cigarette. (I can get carried away as a social smoker, so I keep reminding myself how disgusting it is and to not buy another pack.) She refused my money, handed me one and we got to talking. We chatted for maybe an hour in our best Spanglish before she needed to close up her dress shop.
The next day I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at Parc de la Pau then, after gathering my things from the hotel, followed Google’s instructions to the bus stop 17 minutes away. Instead of taking me to the main station, Google instructed me to cross over a busy road and walk several minutes out of the way to a bus stop that didn’t list the line I needed.
Crudely drawn, yet accurately portrayed map of Sant Antoni Line 3 pick-up from Parc de la Pau.
Real conversations with people as I searched for my stop:
Me: Perdon, hablas inglés? Woman: Yes, a little. Me: Great! Do you know where the bus stop is for Line 3? Woman: *looks around* I think you cross the bridge over there and it’s around the corner. Me: *points* Just over there? Thank you!!
A few minutes later…
Me: Perdon, señor, hablas inglés? Only bus driver at the station: No. *smiles* Me: *chuckles* Ok, buscando autobús de línea tres. Only bus driver at the station: Ah, este aquí! Me: Oh, yay! Cuanto? Only bus driver at the station: *says a bunch of words I didn’t pick up except for ‘billete’ and points towards the nearby building* Me: *panicked expression* Oh, no. (Knowing I have to catch my transfer by 12:30 or wait through the lunch break until afternoon services resume at 3:30) Only bus driver at the station: *says something about 5 minutes before he leaves* Me: *sprints away, finds ticket box and sprints back to bus* Only bus driver at the station: *laughs* Eh, buenos días! Me: *laughs* Buenos días, gracias.
About an hour later we arrived to Sant Antoni where I had time to poke around some nearby shops until my transfer.
Cala Conta
If I had known what awaited at the end of the Cala Conta bus line, I would have booked my stay there. A feast for the eyes and, without doubt, one of the most unbelievably gorgeous places I’ve ever visited. The brilliant blue, crystal-clear water gently rolling against the tawny rocky coast with views of islets left me awestruck in a surreal daze. No picture I saw online looked half as lovely. Excitement overcame me as I followed a rocky path down to the soft sand where sun bathers sprawled and the edge of the water greeted my toes.
My La Tomatina goggles came in handy for a second time when I broke through the water’s surface to discover what I’d hope to see by my hotel: sea life. I can barely explain in words the absolute child-like joy I felt as I dipped my face in and out of the water capturing short breaths and watching silver fish slowly swim all around me. I think it’s the happiest I’ve felt during this whole adventure. I swam around for over an hour watching the world below wafting weightlessly with the current.
It was about that time I realized it was noticeably windier and the sun lost its game of peek-a-boo with the amassing clouds. Towel-less, I anticipated to rely on the sun to dry me off. I decided I better go in case the weather doesn’t clear. Back atop the cliff the coastline views were even more gorgeous as the clouds dominated the sky and their casted shadows somehow brought to light deep, rust colored hues from the rocks. I took one last picture and veered east where the road would lead me to the next destination.
It was a quiet walk down a gravelly, sandy road with fields of overgrown wildflowers on either side. As I drew closer to an intersection to switch roads, the scenery transformed to private lots hidden behind walls and trees. The intersection was confusing and there were two signs pointing the way to Cala Bassa… in different directions. I chose the one that looked more like a road and soon a car passed from behind me. It pulled over about a 5-minute walk ahead and I watched it sitting there for a minute before growing concern urged me to make sure I was going the right way. Technically, there wasn’t a wrong way, but I had chosen the longer path, so I turned around to take the quicker one. (Thank you, little red car!) Every new road thereafter became more difficult to navigate by flip flops and unfit for any sort of motorized vehicle. The pavement was nearly gone and the ground showing through was tawny rock, similar to that of the coast of Cala Conta. I wondered how easily the neighboring homeowners got around and if I was trekking an abandoned road. Eventually, I came to a main street and Google assured me Cala Bassa wasn’t much further.
Cala Bassa
It’s such an enchanting feeling to stumble out of a shrouded place and be rewarded with breathtaking views of shimmery blue water and distant rolling hills. I walked along the coast to the beach and dipped my toes in the freezing water. The clouds nor wind had abated during my trek so I decided to have a bite instead of another swim. I walked to the opposite side of the sandy shore where rock resumed and a little restaurant was serving beer and pizza. I ate, drank and inhaled the views for a long while. As the sky grew ever darker, I decided my day was coming to a close and checked the bus schedule. Quickly I made my way back toward the road unsure of where exactly the stop was located. I saw a sign where a couple of people were standing by a rotunda, but asked a man in the nearby parking lot if he knew where I could wait for the bus. He pointed and I gathered he was saying the stop is right where I thought, but he used so many words to do so, I wanted to be sure. I asked if it is very close and his eyes widened and he pointed and laughed. I’m pretty sure he said, yeah, we can see it right there so I repeated I can see it and laughed with him. The timing of the bus was perfection. Moments after boarding the dark clouds finally released what they’d been threatening all afternoon.
Back at the Sant Antoni station I saw the number 3 ready to depart as soon as I left the Cala Conta line. I ran up to ask the driver how much time I had before he needed to leave. He was leaving right at that moment, so I took my time walking to the ticket booth… to find it closed. Immediately my ears perked up when I heard a woman at another booth ask about Line 3. I couldn’t make out the answer so I asked the ticket seller as well and she said I will need to purchase one from the bus driver. I wondered again how in the fuck does this system here work, but at least it was a short wait as the buses back to downtown Ibiza were running every 15 minutes. The highlight of the ride back was the rainbow peeping through as the weather began to clear.
I took it easy the rest of the evening and had a so-so dinner close to the hotel. I slightly regretted the dining choice when it came time to pay and the waitress said they didn’t accept credit cards. Oh, shit, I thought, I won’t have enough to use the bus lines tomorrow. Because yes! I was already planning to go back to Cala Conta and bask in its beauty until my very late return flight to Madrid. I followed up dinner at a pub around the corner and made sure credit cards weren’t a problem. I chatted with the bartender and told her a bit about how I came to be in Madrid. I’ve found when I do this it invites people to tell me how much I will love visiting their home country. Had I ever considered visiting Serbia before meeting this woman? Nope, but now I’m curious.
A cold front blew in that night and, although it was sunny the next morning and I found a Deutsche Bank ATM (B of A customers still get to pay international transaction fees), it was chilly and I decided against going back to Cala Conta if I wasn’t going to swim.
Ses Figueretes
I checked out of the hotel at noon and walked along the beach until it disappeared into rocks. I followed an old road uphill past homes and gardens soaking in the gorgeous views across the sea toward the edge of Punta del Calvari. From there I turned back to the city to wander around and thought I’d try to visit the woman I met at the shop during my first night. I found her and it was another delightful visit of Spanglish – and English when her friend from Switzerland showed up. I soon said goodbye and left them to talk while I wondered what on earth to do to kill a couple more hours before seeking lunch. Some 1o minutes of meandering later I was face to face with the contemporary art museum. Sometimes the universe truly provides.
After lunch I had had my fill of aimless wandering and figured I’d just go to the airport a godawful number of hours early and work on my Spanish lessons. The airport bus stop was easy to find since Line 3 drops off across the street from it (and Google accurately told me how to get there).
Crudely drawn, yet accurately portrayed map of Sant Antoni Line 3 drop-off and Airport Line pick-up from Parc de la Pau.
You may not be surprised to hear that I fell in Ibiza. No, it wasn’t while I was climbing around slick rocks along the beach or the busted-up road on the way to Cala Bassa. It wasn’t even while I was walking up and down stairs around the city (because we all know about that love-hate relationship). No, no. I fell at the bus stop. As I explained to one friend back in Houston, the “enclosed” space of the stop had window panes on two sides, but not on the back. One could just walk through the stop as if walking under a scaffold. But be forewarned, there is a bar near the ground connecting the two sides with panes. I didn’t see the bar. The good news is it was one of the more graceful falls I’ve ever had. My right foot kind of hooked around the bar which made it feel like I was falling a bit slowly and I was able to catch myself with my hands. Since my foot was hooked and held up, my knees didn’t touch the ground and my hands didn’t skid around and get cut up. A week later the top of my foot is still bruised, but the rest of me is fine. I’ve been watching a lot of Archer lately and think maybe I should seek out someone like Dr. Krieger to fix my feet.
I loved my short experience on Ibiza. And! There’s still a chance for me to catch Lola Marsh in Latvia or Israel. We’ll see.
(Serious side note; shocked, but glad to hear there were so few injuries from the tornado that touched down on the island last night.)
Things I like, things I’ve found, things I don’t like and
all the things I’ve been up to!
Things I don’t like about Madrid after 7 weeks:
9PM dinners – This may be the thing I dislike most because I have so many reasons why! 1) If you recall my restoring comfort post – I miss waking up before the sun. 2) There are tons of restaurants around here, but they’re small, so the place you wanted to go to for dinner may not have room for you. 3) I am hungry at 7.
Unpredictable restaurant hours *edit 10/10/19: unpredictable everywhere hours* – My first two weeks here near the end of August were particularly rough because it seemed like half of the neighborhood was closed for vacation *edit 10/10/19: including art galleries with incorrect information on their sites.* But Café Melo’s nears the top of my most memorable disappointments. I stopped there for a beer on my way home from school once unaware of this thing they serve called a zapatilla. Days later I came across these outstanding reviews for the giant meat sandwich. It sounded like the best thing ever and I was so excited to have it! I was famished, but had to wait until 8PM when Google and TripAdvisor suggested they open for the night. That little hole in the wall laughed in my face when I walked by later and found it dark and locked up.
Walking up hills and around other people – Houston is flat, Madrid is not. Besides being tired from walking up and down hills, I’m thoroughly fucking tired of people not paying attention, stopping in front of me or aimlessly walking into me no matter how much I scooch over. I think it’s worse here than in NYC and London – yeah, I said it.
Dog shit on the sidewalks – The owners leave it for the aimless to step in, which is fine by me, but still gross.
Now that I’ve finished griping, please enjoy pictures of everything else!
When I walked onto the fairgrounds of Oktoberfest I immediately felt a twinge of disappointment. (I mean, look at this sad picture.) Maybe it was the weather, maybe my expectations were too fantastical. I guess I was picturing something more like The Renaissance Festival – a dip into ye olde times with entertainers, vendor stalls galore and a little razzle dazzle? I didn’t even hear music. I later discovered all the magic was hidden inside the tents, but I’ll get to that soon!
I visited the Haus der Kunst right after checking into the Airbnb because I figured since I paid all this money (13€) for a day pass, I may as well do something besides going straight to day drinking. Y tambien arte! It was a good call; I liked the exhibit. Afterwards, I took a lovely, long walk in the rain through Hofgarten to get to the subway. An overcast garden was quite a perfect venue for artsy photo ops. I left the Holga and digital camera behind due to the weather, but, luckily, one is never without a camera these days. With no one to help me, I propped my cellphone up as best I could for a timer selfie. This was a good enough first try for me to move on and be silly with my umbrella further along the park.
Now then, I had one more pit stop before the festivities. Oktoberfest is a cash only spectacle and I needed to find a currency exchange store. There was a Ria a mere 12-minute walk from the park, but I wanted to make the most of that damn day pass. Joking aside, my right foot has been bothering me for the past few weeks, so I really didn’t want to have to walk any more than necessary.
I reached the subway and found the platform where the train I needed was sitting there doors open. I sprinted down the stairs and inside the car. Soon after, the doors shut. About 10 seconds later the doors opened. A few more people hopped on and the doors shut. About 10 seconds later the doors opened. The train played this song and dance about 5 more times before the driver of the U6 asked everyone to get off because of a problem. I stood there with the 100 other people needing to be somewhere wondering, if this train doesn’t move, then how will I catch the next U6…? I walked to the exit of the platform thinking it best to leave by foot afterall when I noticed a sign for a different train that I recalled Google noted as another option to get to Marienplatz. I walked to the next platform and got on a working train. It was the wrong train. I promptly got off at the next stop and was mostly fine with my error when I discovered a different Ria nearby… a 10-minute walk away. I walked my aching foot where Google said the Ria should be and in its vicinity was a giant, blocked off construction zone. I asked a barista in a coffeeshop around the corner from the construction site if he knew where the Ria was, but he didn’t. I couldn’t find the store back in the subway tunnel, either. I think the moral of this story is sometimes Google is wrong and it might be best to just walk for 12 minutes in the rain before you wind up wasting an hour on misdirection and malfunctioning trains.
A short time later I finally made it to Theresienwiese with euros ready to burn. I could tell right away what I was in for as I passed by patrons stumbling in my direction towards the subway station. I smiled at them. I don’t like being surrounded by drunk people (says the woman walking into Oktoberfest), but they are funny to watch. I walked onto the grounds, took my sad picture and found the first place that looked like a bar. It was a wine only bar – dafuuuq – I turned and left.
I intended to walk around the entirety of the park, but the first actual beer tent I walked up to I didn’t leave until the band stopped playing! From what I understand, only a section of the tables are reserved in advance while the rest are left vacant on a first come first serve basis. As a single, unthreatening, kind of hot woman wanting to go into a tent already at capacity, it wasn’t a problem entering. Imagine a giant hall of 2000 adults decorated in lederhosen shouting, laughing, drinking, stumbling in and out of their tables dancing to a live band while 50 waiters run around them serving beer. That’s what I walked into.
I soaked up the atmosphere walking around the main hall before flagging a waiter to ask if I can order a beer. One must be seated at a table to order. I felt overwhelmed and considered leaving with this new knowledge that meant I had to find a place to squeeze my fat ass somewhere just to get a drink. I gave it a go and asked a table of very good-looking dudes if they had any room. No, we’re all full, was the surprising response I got as they eyeballed me. Whether my penis wasn’t big enough for them or they’ve been fooled by pretty moochers before, I can’t say.
The second table I asked to join welcomed me and the moment I had that seat everything about the evening was perfectly brilliant. I made friends with a bunch of locals and a couple of Finnish guys. I drank giant beers that tasted like pansy bitches, but were actually pretty fucking strong. I ate Käsespätzle. I danced with my new friends on our bench for hours. I made out with somebody. I rode a violent rollercoaster before leaving because it sounded like a good idea. (Drunk people, am I right?) I had the most amazing experience with only a slight hangover to endure the next day. It was so worth it, you guys.
I awoke this morning itching to write and wondered, what next of the myriad of things shall I unleash into the world wide web? I scrolled through my mental list, but ultimately, fell uninspired by what was there. I proceeded to focus energy into packing up for mi barrio nuevo and watch Jobs on Netflix. (What a d-bag, by the way.)
I had 2 hours to get from my old Airbnb to the next one which was only a 35 min metro journey, so I planned to have an alcoholic coffee at the nearby, Cafelito, to help calm my nerves. Moving is always stressful and wheeling 50lbs of shit around any city is no picnic. Booze me.
Cafelito became a frequented destination of choice during my month in Lavapies initially out of convenience. I kept going back for quality. I had yet to try their boozy coffees and it sounded like the best idea for my Lavapies send-off. The Cafetoño was a delicious concoction of espresso, honey, spices and (perhaps half) crema de orujo. It made me feel nice. The one dude from the café recognized me (after the 6 or so times I’d been there) as I paid and offered a rewards card with a fresh stamp. I laughed and, in terrible Spanish, thanked him and said I was moving to Prosperidad… *awkward silence* …but maybe I’ll come back after a while? Note to self; promptly ask the next café if they have a rewards program.
I left with an hour to kill until my meetup and headed for the metro. Google mapped out a few different routes and I elected the #3 towards Legazpi to transfer to the #6. 30+ mins later a nice man offered to help wheel my baggage off the train and we surfaced into daylight outside of the metro. I soon realized I took the #6 in the wrong direction.
Yes, this is real life. The one where I miss the last steps of staircases, travel in the wrong direction for 30 mins, and leave my purse in motherfucking Whitehouse, TN unnoticed until 4 hours away in Memphis. Oh, y’all don’t know that story…
So, the nice man helped wheel my luggage back down into the depths of wherever the fuck we were and then suggested exchanging numbers in case I needed anything later. (Kudos on that smooth play.) He already knew this damsel is in constant distress. *phone ringing* Yes, kind sir, will you please help me down this staircase?
45 minutes later I arrived at my destination grateful for finding another sympathetic Airbnb host. I am not blaming the coffee. I am simply, Kat. Last fun thing to note! Tomorrow is the nice man’s birthday and he said he doesn’t know anyone here, so we are planning to meet up for drinks. Are you meddling again, Carl Jung?
I had a very lucid dream a few nights ago and I managed to remember some of it! #gettingold (That could say ‘gettin gold’ and, in a way, also represents getting old.)
I had flown back home to the states in the middle of my Spanish adventure to visit my family. I barely remember the part about my family now, but I know throughout the dream I was there for them. I wasn’t in Houston, but the city looked like some kind of metropolis. Perhaps a place fabricated by equal parts imagination and cinematically induced memories. I remember it was my last day there and a few friends (also fabricated) accompanied me to this enormous multi-level, futuristic looking airport mall to see me off and do some shopping. We arrived several hours before my flight was due to leave, so we were just bullshitting around. I had gone out the day before and bought some art supplies to take back to Spain. I also was really excited about the opportunity to update my wardrobe for the remaining time abroad. The overall feel of the dream was pleasant until there were 2 hours to go before takeoff and it suddenly dawned on me I didn’t pack anything I wanted to take back to Spain. It’s weird because the suitcase was heavy in all that time I lugged it around the airport mall, but when I opened it my fear was confirmed. The bag was nearly empty. I flustered and asked my two friends if they could watch my luggage while I took the bus back home super quick to grab some clothes and the art supplies I just purchased. One of them said she was about to leave and the other was too busy. He didn’t say why he was busy, but we were sitting in a play area, so I suppose he was busy watching his children. My final moments in the dream were spent feeling panicked, cursing my friends as I hurried to the bus stop with my baggage. I think the symbolism here runs deep, but we’re not going to dwell on that! This in depth look into my strange psyche is my introduction to: what did I pack for a 4 month stay in Madrid?
Most of the travel blogs I’ve read encourage taking the most minimal of items which is good sense for short trips and backpackers on the move. We really don’t need as many things as we think we do for basic self-care and I have adhered to the minimalist travel approach myself as much as possible. Having said that, I opted to pack quite a lot bulkier than the norm for my 4 month stay in Madrid for a few different reasons. Most importantly; for comfort. Next importantly; no income. The best advice I can offer on packing is to really consider what’s important to you. Less truly is more sometimes, but if you can carry it, then take what makes you happy.
1 bar of soap (that turned out to be hand soap, whoops, but! It works beautifully as a shaving cream substitute so I didn’t have to buy any when I got here)
3 disposable razors
4 travel size perfumes
1 small Tide stain remover stick thingy (because I brought a white t-shirt)
1 small makeup bag including a few lipsticks, an eyeshadow palette, mascara and such
1 small medical bag including Band-Aids, Neosporin, allergy meds and such
1 travel sewing kit
1 small brush
1 full size hair straightener (my travel size straightener’s only temperature choice is ‘burnt to a crisp’)
A few hairpins and clips, 4 scrunchies and 1 headband
Clothes and Accessories:
6 bras*
13 pairs of underwear*
11 pairs of socks*
3 pairs of jeans
1 pair of dress pants
2 pairs shorts*
1 pair gym shorts
1 pair winter/pajama pants
1 dress
1 skirt
1 swimsuit
7 tank tops (may sound like an absurd number, but they take up so little space and are so versatile)
9 t-shirts*
3 blouses
3 fall/winter tops
1 small umbrella
1 Trilby
1 sweater
1 cardigan
1 petticoat jacket
1 scarf
1 winter hat
1 pair of mittens
2 belts
2 pairs sunglasses
1 thermal top (so I can wear my t-shirts through fall/winter)
2 pairs of tennis shoes*
1 pair of nice shoes
1 pair of sandals
1 pair of boots
1 purse
1 backpack
1 small knapsack
1 small waterproof case*
1 travel size jewelry case with pieces that mostly coordinate with any outfit
*Starred items in this category make up my La Tomatina outfit and were intended to be thrown away. Everything but the t-shirt and shoes were salvaged.
Happiness and Personal Essentials for the Trip:
Holga (has seen more places than my digital camera – the homepage title pictures are Holga shots, btw!)
Digital camera
1 small book for entertainment
1 journal
1 Tarot journal
1 Tarot deck
1 small sketchbook
1 larger sketchbook
1 notebook
1 piano lessons book
1 Spanish book
1 travel tips book (and I’ve since acquired 2 more books… )
3 small canvases
5 small Winsor and Newton oil paint tubes plus a printout of this (curious to see if they would get confiscated – they didn’t!)
A small storage case with a set of pastels, watercolor sticks, charcoal sticks, paintbrushes and some oddball pens, pencils and markers
You know when you’re watching a movie and the actor’s lips are moving, but the audio doesn’t match the movement? This is how I feel in my Spanish class. I can hear fine and I can see the words escaping lips as they’re spoken, but my brain lags behind trying to compute what is being said. I try to make mental notes of missed words as I scribble down others, but the reality is entire sentences of information become lost. Friday’s lesson was one of the more familiar things to me; comida! Except the 50 or so new vocabulary words I noted made me think I don’t know shit. Good news, though! Classes are not scheduled every day of the week like I thought. Whew! I am relieved for the break this weekend. I’ve completely neglected all the things I really want to do para libros en Espanol. Don’t get me wrong – I want to study! But not for 5 hours after every class then going to bed feeling like I ran a marathon while trying to solve an incalculable math problem. I hear the slower paced evening classes calling me after this 2-week course ends.
I’ve been to Carrefour so many times now I should probably sign up for a membership and reap those sweet sale rewards. Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve made various egg omelets, blueberry pancakes, and “Texas” chili. Any ideas which seasoning is the most important ingredient for chili? I learned from the internet, after cooking sans chili powder, that even if I found the seasoning here in Madrid, it likely won’t taste like the one I know from the states. And then I found a blog written by a kindred Texan who found herself in the same predicament 2 years ago. Black Pepper & Co has been added to my ‘places of interest’ list. The pimenton picante I bought was more or less a successful purchase since it has a really lovely, subtle smoky flavor with a hint of a kick. My “Texas” chili wasn’t quite right, but it tasted good. This is how much I spent on the ingredients:
3.50 for thick ass burger patties (thinking ahead; set one aside for an actual burger) €.50 for a can of tomatoes (chili had to wait a few days after La Tomatina; I couldn’t stomach the sight of this fucking can) €.55 – 1.00 granulated garlic €.55 – 1.00 ground cumin €.55 – 1.00 oregano €1.00 – 1.75 pimenton picante I lost the receipt with the seasoning prices, so those are best guess price ranges. The pimenton was the most expensive while the other 3 spices were less than a euro each. I had already purchased onion, avocado, pepper and cheese on an earlier grocery trip, so this is all I had to buy!
I happened to be at Mercadona when I was shopping for pancake ingredients, but the baking product arrangements at both grocery stores are so odd to me. I found flour and leavening agents on the first floor next to produce and frozen desserts. Sugar was (most logically) stocked near the coffee on the second floor. Couldn’t find vanilla flavoring or maple syrup. Didn’t understand the boxed milk concept. I did, however, find vanilla ice cream, honey and frozen blueberries. Nothing a little creativity can’t resolve! I mixed sugar, egg, sunflower oil (courtesy of the Airbnb), a spoonful of vanilla ice cream, flour, salt, baking powder, water and blueberries together to create something more like a pancake than my chili turned out Texan. While I’ve missed maple syrup since making a few batches of pancakes, the honey does well enough to complete the dish as a sweet topper. This is how much I spent on pancake ingredients;
€.60 for 6 packets of baking powder €1.95 for a 12 pack of honey €.69 for a bag of sugar €.43 for a bag of flour €1.35 for ice cream €1.79 for frozen blueberries I already had the eggs from my first grocery trip. By the way! The pricey Bio Eggs I purchased came from an ecological farm. I have since found slightly cheaper free-range eggs and this blog which helpfully describes what the egg stamp means. Despite the odd arrangement of products at the stores, they have the same marketing sense as any American store by making the most expensive choices the easiest to find.
I intend to have a theme in each blog post where I discuss a thing and some other things stemming from it rather than random rambling like I might do in a personal diary. So much has happened over the past week, however, I’m tossing that ideology out the window for a moment to bring you a compilation of battle wounds abroad. Oh sure, I could talk about Retiro Park or the museums I’ve visited thus far, but places I like around the city will come soon enough. Besides, everyone likes to hear a good battle wounds story. As my sister likes to say, I’m a clumsy bitch. La Tomatina, unfortunately, was not my first day of injuries. From the top! Ten minutes after landing in the city I cut my hand on a broken buckle strap as I pulled my bag off of the conveyor belt. Just a few hours later at the Airbnb I walked into the bed frame knees first 3 times (and 1 more good time a few days later to remind myself how much it hurt and to stop doing it).
By my second night in the bnb, I found 4, what I think were, spider bites on my legs. I wondered if I had gotten them from the streets, because the apartment was utterly immaculate upon my arrival. But then a week later I awoke to 3 more bites around my left foot and the allergic reaction I had to that scared me enough to consider visiting a doctor.
My sweet host bombed the shit out of the place after I showed him my foot and I’m happy to announce no bites since! I can’t, however, get the bug spray smell out of here and I suspect nasal irritation from it. Last night I was leaving an acquaintance’s flat and missed the last step on my way down the stairs. If you know me in real life, then this isn’t the first time you’ve heard this story… I have somehow missed the last step of staircases an embarrassing number of times throughout my adult life. My left foot, which recently recovered from the spider bites, is now swollen from a sprain. Sometimes I wonder how I’m still alive. I ventured out for coffee this morning, but the rest of the day will be spent icing my foot and -you guessed it- estudiando.
Those cute little cafeteria food fights from middle school got nothing on this. The fruit flinging festival hit my radar maybe a couple of years ago when I was researching events around the world looking for my next getaway. The internet is full of pictures of happy participants making it all so appealing to join in the more than 70-year long tradition. I had to go and kick off my Spanish journey proper! Full immersion into the culture, y’all, and ohhh, boy, I was immersed alright… let me tell you how it went down. (Useful pro tips at the end of this very long story!)
My La Tomatina experience began with a 3AM departure on a bus with no toilet and zero sleep since the night before. I was comforted by everyone else in the same predicament. Honestly, the 3-hour ride wasn’t bad at all and everyone I talked to was super friendly. As for the toilet worry, we made a pit stop at a convenience store with plenty of them. We arrived in Buñol on time, but wound up waiting in the parking lot for over half an hour for, well, I don’t know why exactly. All Around Festivals was a touch disorganized, but I liked the coordinators and, besides freezing my ass off, it wasn’t a big deal once we finally got on festival grounds. Also, the wait gave us time to pair off, so I found a buddy! We were greeted by loud party music and swarms of street vendors selling sunglasses, purse pouches, food and the like. We followed the coordinators downhill through the town for a mile or so until we reached a plateau, I dub ground zero, where the rest of our All Around Festival goers had already gathered with sangria in hand. The walk down had lovely views, but being alert was paramount. Townspeople were equipped with hoses and buckets of water straight away. Luckily, some bus peeps were way ahead of me and my buddy so we watched them get splashed allowing us a chance to safely stow our phones into waterproof cases. Her and I spent the morning like everyone else at ground zero drinking sangria, talking, and dancing to a line of talented drummers getting us pumped, further enhancing the exciting anticipation of the event. Pre-tomato throwing of booze commenced as people let loose their inhibitions and sangria cups. After a bit I hopped into the porta potty line thinking myself clever while loads others were still distracted dancing to the drummers. 45 minutes later I got to pee. There was a total of 1 porta potty per gender next to the stage and another set of solo toilets a short walk back up hill. That’s it. You can bet there’s more than just tomato juice filling up the streets every year. There were a few girls ahead of me when they announced it was time to make our way up to the tomato zones. My festival buddy found me still waiting and was sweet enough to grab a cup of sangria when I told her how parched I was as I had nothing to drink the whole time I stood in line. Finally, we got to join the crowd and entered where a banner hung proclaiming Zone 1. It was madness, like cattle corralling into a narrow, fenced queue. By Zone 2 there was barely a line moving. Hordes of people had gathered from every which way procuring their spots while townspeople above dumped buckets of water from windows and sprayed us with hoses. Giant blue tarps covered the buildings now, completely transforming the charming looking town into what I thought akin to Ninja Warrior. The obstacle of carving a path through the crowd without getting wet was impossible. I had already put on my goggles to protect my contact lenses from being washed away when a bro dude suddenly threw a bucket of water at my face. My goggles lifted upwards when I got hit a second time. I guess he had two buckets. He cheered with his other bro dudes before turning around to refill from a spicket jutting out from the side of a building. I smirked and thanked him and hastily got the fuck away from there. Closer to Zone 4 my buddy and I had a great view of the climbing pole. Tradition says someone has to climb up the slippery pole and reach the ham at the top for the tomato throwing to officially start. Although, it starts promptly at 11AM with or without this accomplishment. There were a couple of contenders very close to grabbing it, but I’m sad to report no one claimed el jamon de 2019. With less than 10 minutes to go, we decided to move away from the center where there was no longer a path, but just people shoving each other to get by. We planted our feet a bit uphill next to some Europeans who sat atop a window ledge a couple of feet off the ground and partially covered by a tarp. A gun fired soon after and cheers erupted from the top of Zone 1. We could see the first truck slowly making its way down and it wasn’t long before tomatoes rained upon us by people tossing them out of the truck. The smell was overwhelming. I thought perhaps it was my repulsion of tomatoes that I smelled, but then the Europeans behind me started gagging. I laughed at them and hoped they’d keep down the sangria. People spilled into the street after the truck passed and the fight had officially begun. I spilled with them collecting fruit from the ground and squishing before chucking them all around me. Pretty much the only rule was to squish before you throw. I wasn’t aiming at all, just throwing them as far as I could. It was fun, every part of it; the squishing and throwing and ducking. A few minutes later the second truckload was nearing so we had to retreat back along the buildings to allow it to pass. I was unarmed and obliviously waiting for the truck when my face was struck so hard I saw spots for a split second. I was stunned wondering what the fuck hit me. I couldn’t believe a tomato could hurt that much. I turned to the Europeans to ask them if a bruise was surfacing. We exchanged ooo’s and oh my’s for 2 seconds before a tomato slammed against the wall between their own faces. My head whipped around to see a group of dicks directly across the street from us cheering and laughing. Those party fouling motherfuckers were throwing unsquished tomatoes as hard as they could like baseballs. The truck started creeping by creating a barrier before I could get too angry. I protected my face from the downpour, newly aware of the hurt potential. The last thing I wanted was to take another to the face. Took some hits from above before it felt like a brick thudded square on my elbow and leisurely rolled off instead of bouncing away. After the truck passed, I looked at my arm to see it scraped and bleeding. I think a rock hit me and that was about the time I tapped out. I checked on my festival buddy who I had forgotten in all that time and she evidently tapped out much sooner. The Europeans had snuck away and she was sitting on the window ledge avoiding the onslaught. I stayed in the street near her, the both of us trying to use the tarp for protection. An Australian couple approached us soon after and I showed off my face and elbow to explain why I was hiding. The guy showed me one side of his face smeared with blood still freshly trickling down from a wound above his hairline. It looked a lot worse than my boo-boo. They cowered with us for a hot minute, but testosterone overcame the guy and he eventually ran back out there to pummel. A few more trucks passed all the while me and the ladies remained underneath the shelter of the tarp. I didn’t like that I was missing so much of the fight, but the unabated pain of my injuries kept me from further participation. I was mid-sentence talking to Aussie when someone from behind us kicked a mass of splattered tomatoes upward in our direction. Tomato jizz got in my mouth. It was funny, but fucking gross. That same someone kept kicking. Aussie was not having it and ran away yelling at him to stop it. She was adorable. My buddy and I decided to vacate shortly after. We were encumbered by a river of squashed tomatoes and lingering festival goers happily scooping the mess to throw at shower retreaters. Someone got me good right over my head. We evaded down an open alley and stopped to take pictures of ourselves before coming across a fountain where our Aussie friend happened to be cleaning up. The gun went off again signaling the official end of the festival, hallelujah. We all helped each other get as clean as possible before parting ways. My buddy and I needed to change back at the bus where we left our clothes, so we didn’t bother going in the opposite direction to ground zero for showers. We didn’t know if the wait would be anything like the porta potty situation. It was a good call as there were plenty of townsfolk willing to hose us down. We got turned around for a while trying to figure out how to get back to the buses, but finally, the nth person we asked for assistance was able to point us the right way. The city wasted no time washing away the tomato massacre. Clean streets unveiled, tarps disappeared and it looked more like the charming town we first encountered. We got changed and had an hour to kill before buses departed. Another member of our group walked with us back into town to a restaurant serving €5 plates of paella. We danced to the loud entrance music while devouring the paella and it was the best way I could imagine the festival ending. (Because there seemed to be no end in sight when it was raining rotting fruit.)
Would I do this again? Fuck. No. The fight was my worst experience with food ever. And I fucking love food. Everything else was a shiny beacon of merriment. Special shout out to all of the wonderful people I met who truly elevated the experience. Cheers to you all and safe travels!
Pro tips:
Wear white, but more importantly, wear an outfit you don’t give a shit about. Extra pro tip: my buddy brought a shower cap which did a pretty good job of protecting her hair. As you recall, though, she hid through most of the festival.
Bring water and a snack for the bus ride. They give you nothing.
Bring a change of clothes. If you forget a change of shoes, you can buy chonclas from a number of stalls for €8 or just wear your disgusting tomato tennies for a few hours and deal with it like I did.
Bring a waterproof something to protect your phone, ID and money. I took my driver’s license – some people had copies of their passport. Either is fine if it’ll fit in the bag.
Don’t bring anything valuable you can’t carry into the tomato fight in said waterproof protection. Small lockers should be available if you don’t want to leave anything on the bus.
Wear swim goggles for protection against tomato acids.
Drink sangria, but beware the toilet situation.
Dance with the drummers and fellow festival goers.
Be prepared for buckets of water.
Beware shirt rippers; wear two tops or one top with a bathing suit underneath. As far as I know, only one of our bus mates had his shirt ripped off by someone who politely asked him first. Might have been a fluke.
some liquid white face paint to use as a base and a red bow tie to try to complete the Captain Spaulding look. I didn’t like the beards the shop offered and they were more than I wanted to spend. I looked up some tutorials on homemade beards and read something about cotton. I didn’t watch the tutorial. I just knew right away the cotton idea sounded good. The tutorial I did follow was for a homemade glue paste of flour, water and salt. I wanted to buy eyelash glue as I’ve had success with that in the past for things besides eyelashes, but like the beards, it was more than I was willing to spend. The makeup store I stopped at for the eyelash glue and 
cotton didn’t have cotton, but everything worked out fine. I wound up walking in the wrong direction on my way back to the apartment (trick) and came across a pharmacy with cotton for less than a euro (or treat). I spent €5.79 for white face paint, a bag of cotton and a red bow tie. 
Maybe it was the weather, maybe my expectations were too fantastical. I guess I was picturing something more like The Renaissance Festival – a dip into ye olde times with entertainers, vendor stalls galore and a little razzle dazzle? I didn’t even hear music. I later discovered all the magic was hidden inside the tents, but I’ll get to that soon!
From what I understand, only a section of the tables are reserved in advance while the rest are left vacant on a first come first serve basis. As a single, unthreatening, kind of hot woman wanting to go into a tent already at capacity, it wasn’t a problem entering. Imagine a giant hall of 2000 adults decorated in lederhosen shouting, laughing, drinking, stumbling in and out of their tables dancing to a live band while 50 waiters run around them serving beer. That’s what I walked into.
