Bodegas… In Harlem it’s what I called the corner stores. In Spain, it’s how I have learned to refer to the grand buildings in which wine is stored and sold. Have I mentioned I love wine? Because I do. Especially red wine from la Rioja. Yes, I have been effectively brainwashed by the culture, but you know what? I’m a-okay with it.
Last Friday, I met with my “amigo mayor,” a retiree who is attending school again. I met him through a program at the University that pairs older Spanish students with the extranjer@s. He took me to the casco antiguo (old quarter of the city) to pick up some PSOE stuff because he’s a socialist. He was probably expecting to lose the election, though. That happened on the 20th, when everyone punished the socialist party for the economy (which is partially their fault for not doing anything, I hear). Anywho, I walked through the Parque de Ebro with him for like 4 hours and we just talked. I now know his life story, and I am proud to report that we spoke Spanish the whole time (I don’t think he can speak English, anyway).
On Saturday, I WENT TO A BODEGA!! It was so much fun, fo’ serious. We tried great wines and walked around this adorable bodega city called Haro (which lies an hour outside of Logroño). I went with a great group of friends and we just meandered around tipsily after the wine-tasting. There are photos that I will, as I always promise but never do, post on here. I swear, one day, this sueño will be my realidad.
A bunch of other stuff happened on Saturday night, but I can’t remember some of it and choose not to remember other parts. All I want to keep in my mind is the good stuff, and that’s what I’m doing. No need to dredge up stories of gross old men who think they can start some sort of sexual relationship with me. Ooops, there I go. No worries, no pasa nada.
And sunday I slept, like, all day.
Love yas,
Hoolia
