The Next Thing to Expect/Getting to San Sebastian

These next few posts will be short stories that I'm trying to pull together to for a book. It's pretty much going over my entire experience in Spain and has some pretty cool stories, but let me know what you think. Anyways, here's the story about getting on the train to San Sebastian:

San Sebastian

Part One: Getting on the Train

I had only had two hours sleep. I awoke on the couch at Aaron’s apartment fully clothed. My last memory was my internet not working and sitting on the couch hoping to wake sometime before 7. My watch read 6, so I got up and ambled over to Aaron’s computer to finalize the checklist for the trip. As I was sending the itinerary to Mom and Dad, Aaron’s friend Josh walked downstairs.

“Did you get much sleep last night?” he asked.

“Yeah, about two hours,” I replied, chuckling.

He continued on to the kitchen for a glass of water. I gulped mine in one swig. He waved goodbye, and then returned to bed.

“Done,” I said to myself, clicking on the send button.

I turned off the music and began to rummage through the luggage to make sure for one last time that everything was in order. Satisfied, I hung Aaron’s keys on the wall and left.

Walking outside, I sported my trusty hoodie, my new backpack, my Bourbon hat and my little black suitcase. I was glad I was wearing the hoodie, as the air outside was still cold from the night before. Tiny ripples of sunlight spilled out over the horizon as I entered the metro station to go to Renfe Atocha stop, where I foolishly believed my train would depart from. It always helps to re-read your train ticket to make sure.

I got out at the station and looked at my watch, which read 7.

“Good,” I told myself. “Plenty of time.”

I passed by a few cafes until I came across the one I had eaten at previously on another trip. I settled for a chocolate croissant and a coffee and milk, as well as the pear I had taken from Aaron’s kitchen. I hoped he wouldn’t mind.

After finishing breakfast I stopped by a store and picked up a bag of popcorn for a snack before I made my way to the departure gate. The line was moving fast and I scrambled to pull my ticket from my pocket. The lady looked annoyed as I struggled with the ticket while throwing my suitcase on the conveyor belt. I finally managed to pull it out, and handed her the ticket. Without even breaking her rhythm she coolly told me that I wasn’t at the right place.

“What?” I asked incredulously. “What do you mean?”

She pointed to the departure column on the ticket and said, “Chamartin.”
I looked and sure enough, it said Chamartin.

Shit.

“Move along please,” she said as she pointed to the door.

“Wait, hold on.” I replied slightly panicked. “How do I get to Chamartin?”

“Take a metro ride, a bus, a taxi, I don’t care. Get out of line and ask the lady at the information desk,” she responded irritated.

You can only imagine all of the four letter words that were flying through my mind. Not only was I shocked that I was at the wrong station, but this lady wouldn’t give simple directions. I thought a swift kick to the butt was in order, but that would only cause even more problems. I picked up my suitcase in disgust, shooting the lady a look that could burn a hole through a brick wall, and left.

I walked over to the information counter and waited in line as the attendant was helping another customer. An old man at a ticket machine walked over to the desk and put his ticket down on the table. When the attendant had finished with the previous customer, I went in to ask for directions when the man blatantly broke in front and began asking about his ticket.

More four-letter words rushed through my head as the man drew the attendant away from the counter to the ticket machine.

You know, I don’t have time for this shit.

I stormed off to find another information desk, and instead only found ticket booths with lines long enough to make my heart sink. My watch read 7:30. My train left at 8:00.

I am so screwed.

Looking around, I spied a sign that read Chamartin.

Visca!

I ran over to the turnstile an inserted my ticket. The machine spat it back out and told me that my ticket was no good.

What?!?

I re-inserted the ticket again and got the same result.

Don’t give me this shit, work!

I moved over to another turnstile and got the same response. If there was a nickel for every four-letter word I was thinking, America would be out of the recession and booming.

I looked around frantically as other passengers pushed past me and went through.

Well this is some bullshit.

The same thing had happened to me in Barcelona on my last day, forcing me to buy a day ticket. What use is a ticket with 37 more trips if the damn machine can’t read it?

I saw lines of people at ticket machines and ran over to make another purchase. Unfortunately, half of the machines were out of order, and half of the people in line were using half a brain.

On the bright side, the wait allowed me to learn a brief lesson of Renfe economics: always make the customer pay more to get to where they’re going. You had to purchase a special ticket to get out to special platforms.

After waiting for the final idiot to finally get their ticket (after the machine kept refusing all of their small change over and over again) I pushed past and pushed the button for Chamartin, inserted my 2 Euro coin and rejoiced as the machine spat out my ticket and change. I ran over to the turnstiles, inserted my ticket and broke into a smile as the machine spat the ticket out the other end and gave me the green light.

Pushing through, I then scurried down the steps to look for signs or people that could tell me the direction to Chamartin. I moved out onto the platform and saw that both directions went to Chamartin. The alarm on the train sitting at the station went off. The sign for that train only read three stops, so I forewent any further debate and slipped aboard just as the doors hissed shut.

Gathering myself, I surveyed my surroundings. Tired passengers lined the walls or slumped in their seats. I read the marquee and saw that the final stop wasn’t Chamartin.

Oh shit, are you freakin kidding me?!?

The time read 7:35.

Well, I guess if worse comes to worse, I can get off and get on another train in the opposite direction.

Deciding that was a ridiculous idea (the sign read Chamartin for Christ’s sake!) I spied a metro map and leaned forward to read it, causing the tired woman standing in front of it to lean slightly out of the way. I didn’t recognize any of the stops and began wondering how the hell I was going to spend my time hanging out in Madrid.

Two stops later, the lady, along with half the train made their exit. I slid over in front of the sign. After a brief search I spied Atoche.

Visca!

Following the lines, I discovered the red line I was on went to Chamartin, and it was the next stop.

Visca!!

I stepped back and read the marquee, which told me the time and temperature before confirming that the next stop was indeed Chamartin and that I had less than fifteen minutes to catch my ride.

VISCA!!!

The loudspeaker then re-confirmed this by announcing the next stop. I couldn’t keep the smile on my face from spreading until it reached from ear to ear.

The train slowed to a crawl before finally coming up on the outdoor platform. I burst out of the train as the doors slowly hissed open. I began walking faster and faster, dodging slower people impatiently as I made my way down below. I started following the crowd of people until I saw the sign that read “To Metro/Exit.”

“Huh?” I asked.

I stopped mid-stride, grunting as the person behind me ran into my back. Pulling the ticket out of my pocket, I tried to find the platform until I remembered that they assigned platforms the day of the departure. Giving myself a mental slap in the forehead, I put the ticket back in my pocket and began reading the signs on all thirteen of the platforms. None read San Sebastian. I went back and forth in dismay, running through how I was going to spend my time in Madrid when I decided to run down to the end of the hall (in the direction I was originally going before I got the bright idea to second-guess the crowd of people going in that direction) and spied an information booth just on the other side of the turnstiles. My watch read 7:50.

I got the woman’s attention and asked, “Ma’am, how do I get to San Sebastian?”

She turned around, saw a lost American and smiled. Pointing past the turnstiles and down a long hallway, she told me, “Pass through the turnstiles, go down that hallway, up three flights of stairs and you’ll be in the right place.”

“You’re sure?” I asked again for confirmation. I wanted to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood my question.

“Yes yes. Down the hall and up the stairs,” she told me.

Okay, let’s do it.

I ran through the turnstiles, thanked her, and continued running down the long hallway. I got to the stairs (which were really escalators) and ran up the left lane, bypassing the standers in the right lane. After the first flight I saw city roads and taxis. I ran up the second, then third flight. To my left was another train station.

Jesus Christ this place is confusing.

I ran inside the glass doors and began walking down the main walkway, searching the TV screens for information on my train. Once again, I felt dismayed as none of the screens read San Sebastian. After passing by half of the platforms, I spied two women in green uniforms.

“Excuse me, but I’m trying to get to San Sebastian,” I told them.

The older one looked down for a second then raised her head. “Platform 8,” she said, pointing in direction I was going.

“Thank you,” I told her, relieved.

As I began walking again, I realized that I had already passed platform 8 before talking to the two women. Before I could even act on this realization, the older women called after me, “Wait! I meant platform 16! The train leaves at 8!”

“Thanks!” I called back.

I read the screen for platform 16, and didn’t see San Sebastian, but decided that the two women were probably right and that what I was reading was the final stop. I ran down the escalator to the platform and glanced at my watch. 7:56.

This is gonna be close.

Running out the door, I jumped in line and waited for someone to read my ticket and confirm that I was in the right place. I got up to the woman at the window and felt my stomach tighten as I handed her the printed e-ticket.

What if you’re at the wrong platform again? What if the machine can’t read the e-ticket because you folded it three times? What if something completely ridiculous happens and I have to go somewhere else or talk to someone else?

The voice of reason and action immediately began responding.

Well, look at platforms with trains parked at them, read the signs on the run back inside to see the platform numbers, run like hell over there and maybe you’ll still have a shot.

This all ran through my head in less than a couple of seconds. The lady at the window took the scanner and began using it on the ticket.

Please oh please oh please—

The machine beeped and she handed me back the ticket.

“You’re in car 20, the very last one. Have a good trip sir.”

Oh thank God!

I grabbed the ticket and then got in line to scan my suitcase.

Last obstacle. Please don’t see something you don’t like.

I threw the suitcase on the conveyor belt and began to walk to the other side.

“Sir!” a uniform woman called after me.

Shit. Now what?

“Sir, your backpack please,” she told me.

“Oh,” I said in surprise.

I had completely forgotten that I was wearing the backpack, a sign that it was well-worth the 70 Euros I had shelled out for it. I threw it on the conveyor belt in between my suitcase and an impatient woman’s purse and then walked over to the other side to pick it up. Both items rolled out of the other side, and I picked them up after the woman took her purse.

I began walking toward the car when an older gentleman in a navy blue business suit brushed by with his suitcase. I read the number of the car I was passing by, which only read 5. I pulled out my ticket and confirmed that I was on car 20. I put the ticket back in my pocket and began to jog.

6 and 7 passed by when the first train unit ended and the next began. I looked ahead and saw what I believed to be two more.

8, 9, 10: almost there. 11, 12, 13: end of car two.

I began to sprint, passing the last Renfe lady and making my way to the last car.

The numbers blurred by: 14, 15, 16, 17, 18: almost there.

I finally reached the last car, which only read 19.

“Whatever,” I thought as I leaped inside.

I turned to my right and saw a sign reading: “Car 20.”

“About freakin time,” I thought as I passed through the glass doors.

I pulled out my ticket, read my seat number, and walked over to my seat. I put my suitcase and my backpack on the ledge above and took my seat. Across the aisle and one row ahead, a mother and son read a magazine. The rest of the car was empty. I decided that it was probably okay to walk back outside and take in one last view of the bitch I had conquered. I took in a deep breath of cool air and marveled at the golden sunrise peeking out over the top of the Renfe building.

You were a complete bitch, but I beat you.

The door alarm immediately went off and I leaped back inside. Now was not the time to get left behind during a final act of arrogant defiance. The doors hissed shut and I walked back to my seat. I saw that all my stuff was still on the ledge and held thoughts of gratitude that “mother and son” were not kleptomaniacs. As I fell into my seat, the train slowly began crawling forward, speeding up faster and faster.

“What a morning,” I thought to myself before pulling down my backpack to pull out my laptop.

I had decided that now was the best time to write down the events of that morning as they were all still fresh in my head. I pulled out the laptop, logged in, and began writing. A Renfe man walked by, passing out headphones. I took a pack and pulled them out, inserting them into my laptop so I could listen to Queens of the Stone Age rather than a documentary about some random Spanish town. A chorus of voices broke the silence of the dull roar of the moving train. The voices stopped and drums kicked in playing a slow, 16th-based groove. A staccato guitar joined in, adding to the rhythm. Another guitar started playing fills right before the song began. I closed my eyes and put myself back into the mindset of the early morning as Josh Homme began singing.

I had only had two hours of sleep.

“That’s a good start,” I thought.

I continued narrating as the train rumbled out of Madrid into the Altiplano and The Queens of the Stone Age sang on.

Album Review: 21st Century Breakdown

Green Day's new full-length studio album came out yesterday and I gotta say, its pretty damn good. Fans of the Dookie/Kerplunk! won't be pleased, but would you really want to listen to 30-something-year-old millionaires sing about boredom and discontent? Instead, this album follows in the footsteps of Warning and American Idiot with the blatant social criticism. Green Day teamed up with reknowned producer Butch Vig (drummer for Garbage, producer for Nirvana's Nevermind and Smashing Pumpkin's Siamese Dream) to put forth an album worthy of praise if not for the messages, then at least for the over-all quality of a majority of the songs on the album.

Providing a loose narration of the thoughts and lives of a young American couple in post-millennial (and post-Bush) America, Green Day addresses warfare, religion, and mass-consumerism, while at times screaming for revolution and action against indifference, or the man, or whatever it is we're supposed to rebel against. That's the problem: 21st Century Breakdown is not American Idiot pt. 2. As such, the various messages tend to be a bit confusing when you blend them all together. This is no longer an apathetic America that allows politicians to do what they please, or an angry America rising in arms against an unfair and unpopular president. Instead, we are a country in transition. The America today is very different from the America four years ago, and will be very different four years from now.

That said, the message provided by 21st Century Breakdown can be a bit unclear. Personally, I look at it as a political album that doesn't really name a main antagonist (like the last album did), but instead points out all the things wrong with American society. In that sense, its not so confusing as much as its broad in criticism and musical style. Speaking of which, the album is very Green Day musically, but pushes the envelope as far as what they have done with their style. You have the title track that is reminiscent of Baba O'Reilly and Bohemian Rhapsody, Peacemaker which uses exotic chord progressions (for Green Day at least), Christian's Inferno which reeks of angst and aggression (the most since Insomniac), Last Night on Earth which is a love ballad...you get the idea. However, you can almost make a game out of recognizing familiar riffs and hooks from previous hits on some of the songs.

Okay, so my overall opinion: 21st Century Breakdown is diverse, energetic, and unapologetic. The production quality is unrivaled (great job Butch!) and its actually nice to hear more piano and instrumentation from a pop-rock trio known for bar chords. Lyrically, it can be confusing and at times predictable, but overall Billie Joe does a great job giving us picture and emotion of the story he is trying to relate. 4 out of 5 stars. Well done guys!

They may be older but they still rock!

Au revior Paris!: Semana Santa pt. 4

Here's the conclusion to the Paris chapter of my Semana Santa. After the night at John's friend's party, Aaron and I came down with the same cold and suffered for the rest of the trip, going through cough drops like crack. We did get some spray, which worked for Aaron, but not for me. Anyways, the cold had us beaten and worn, but we still managed to have a damn good time.
Uncle John's apartment was pretty well-located, only a block or two away from a really cool street with tons of shops and restaurants. Here's a picture of John sitting in front of the window.


Aaron and I shared the fold-out couch, which actually quite comfortable, except for the fact that I was sharing it with Aaron, who hogs the bed and the sheets. Honestly, I do the same thing, it must run in the family.
I preferred to sleep in mornings, but my coughing was so bad, it kept everyone else from enjoying the same luxury.


Uncle John gets fed up with my persistent cough and suggests an alternative remedy.

Anyways, the last full day of our trip, after the Louvre, Aaron and I ran around the metro to find Sacre Coeur. If you're interested, check out this link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basilique_du_Sacr%C3%A9-C%C5%93ur,_Paris
Don't feel like reading something else? Here's the lowdown, after the French Revolution, the ultra-conservatives and Catholics (who were targeted and attacked during the Revloution) decided to build a basilica, but support really gained popularity after the Germans beat the living crap out of the French in 1871 and another Paris commune ?uprose? I decided that for these shots, since we both got different soft drinks, we should do some product placement.

Coca-Cola, if you like what you see, there could be more of these.

Check out the view from Sacre Coeur, built on top of the tallest place in Paris.

Yeah, this was my facebook profile pic.

Afterwards, Aaron and I hit up a cafe and read our books. This was the best shot I could get.


In all respects, I really enjoyed Paris. I didn't mind that it was gray all the time, or a bit chilly every now and then. The people were pretty cool, the sights were nice, and the overall atmosphere was very "cool," and not in a bad way either. If given half a chance, I'd go back to Paris in a heartbeat. Great place. Je t'aime Paris!

Movin 'round the Louvre: Semana Santa pt. 3

Thought the last post had a lot of pictures? HAHAHA!!! This one has a lot, so bear with me. It's not that long, just John, Aaron, and I hangin out at the Louvre: Paris' really freakin' huge museum.

Here's a view from the street:


Yeah, the Louvre is HUGE.

On the other side of that huge wall: A huge Arc that lines up with that golden obelisk in the background.


See it? Right in the center of that arc is the obelisk.
And all of that was meant to line up with these pyramids (which are really 3D diamonds, ?rectangular prisms?), but the architect was like, "Screw that, I do what I want!" So here it is.


My car salesman smile in front of the glass pyramid thingy.
And here's a statue of this dude on a horse, probably King Louis XIV, who was a pimp, but ran France into debt with all of his costly warfare.

Like I said, the Louvre is HUGE!!!
After wandering around a bit, we finally went back home to go another day... but I'll include random stories later! So, skip ahead a day. John politely kicks us out of the apartment and tells us to go exploring, so one of our stops is the Louvre! Aaron and I rent bikes and head to the Louvre, but the problem was that Aaron couldn't find a parking space (I did, haha!). So he had to walk around for nearly half an hour until he found one. In the meantime, I picked up a massive bottled water and sat around waiting for him. After much people watching, Aaron returned, and we went inside. Here's what we saw:

A headless Angel, I'm not sure if this was for luck.
This is probably Saint Francis, given the animals in the background. Notice the "Jesus Lasers."

"Jesus Lasers Fire!"

Well, I got tired of looking all these pictures of Italians and Saints getting struck by Jesus Lasers or freaking out over something or the other, so I took a seat in this one room, looked up, and saw this:

The Louvre is so pimp. So pimp.

Oh, and so we wandered around, saw a huge crowd around this one picture, and it was Miss Lisa, smiling. Honestly, I saw it so many times in books and movies, it wasn't really that exciting. But in case you wanted to see the famous smile...


I think Da Vinci was telling dirty jokes or something, that would make me smile while I got my face painted.

After avoiding the huge crowd, we walked around to the world art section and imitated it because, well, hanging around in a museum can be tiring and there's nothing like a little humor to pick you right back up.

WESTSIDE!

Smile big!

Why so serious?

The we moved to French art, and came across my favorite French painting:

Something about the romanticization of revolution...

Oh, and here's Napoleon being, well, Napoleon, and crowning himself in front of the Pope.

Then we got separated, but I made sure to take pictures of the Egyptian exhibit.

The Mexican pharoah, Jesus II

Okay, had enough? Well, you're in luck, because I'm gonna take a nap and stop writing. Aaron and I met back up and I made sure to "borrow" a very special stone from the Louvre. No, its nothing special, just a rock my Dad would appreciate. Anyways, we then made our way elsewhere, but I'll let you go for now and I'll catch a quick nap. More to come soon.

Qu'est-ce que vous fait? Semana Santa pt. 2

Ready for some pictures??? Good, because there's a few in this post. Anyways, after the fun-filled night, John, Aaron, and I went out to sight-see around Paris. Now, this post only goes over part of that day, but check out some of the places and stuff you've always heard about (or not) but have never been to. I'm not sure where or what exactly this first building is, but it's got cool architecture and its probably a government building.



We look pretty small compared to this building

Okay, next stop: Notre Dame, the cathedral Victor Hugo was thinking abobut when he created the Hunchback Quasimodo. By the way, that's a really vulgar and sadistic story, but a classic. Anyways, here's a good look at the front.


And the line of tourists to get inside was thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis long.

Want a side view? Here ya go.


Notre Dame has very nice buttresses, and it was just white-washed!

Here's a nice statue of Charlemagne, "The Father of Europe." And by Europe, we of course only mean Western Europe.


Okay, so after gawking and taking pictures like nice tourists, we moved onward to Palais de Justice on the Ile de la Cité.

Look at all that gold. Europeans and their gold-plated buildings.

And here's a view over River Seine:


Note: on the sides of these streets are little shops where you can buy flowers, pets, waffles, or comic books.

And here's a nice obelisk-thingy with an angel on it. Of course, the angel is plated in gold.

Anyways, that does it for this post, because the next post is about the Louvre (oooh!).

O RLY? YA RLY, I went to Paris: Semana Santa Pt. 1

In Europe, we don't call it Spring Break, we call it Semana Santa or Holy Week. This is the same thing as Spring Break in that everybody travels around to visit places. My Semana Santa went as follows: Aaron visits me in Barcelona for a day or so, then we both go to Paris for 4 days, than I back with Aaron to Madrid for a few days, before returning to Barcelona. In all, the trip cost around 400 or so Euros, including tickets, food and drink, and other travel expenses, so not bad actually (thats about $520.00 USD).


Anyways, we'll start the pictures off in Paris. We got off of the airplane and paid 6 E to catch a bus into town, where we got off to catch another bus to walk for a few blocks before coming across my Uncle John's place near Rue Sant Denis, an artsy neighborhood near downtown Paris (or in it I suppose, Paris is huge!). Before we get there, I spy an excellent and tasteless example of globalization.



Honestly, that couldn't be any worse than the KFCs here. Imagine all the nasty greasy food without the Southern charm, kinda gross. I went to a KFC in Europe once, and didnt finish my meal, instead throwing out my nasty chicken bites (cooked in olive oil, but poorly) and carbonated lemonade, which tasted awful.


Anyways, we got to my Uncle's place, made introductions, then cooked up a brief meal before heading to one of his friends' going away parties.


Here I am trying to learn how to cook...it may be a lost cause, but Uncle John's chicken pie was AMAZING!!!

So we go to the party, I have no idea what to expect, but in the end, it was tons of fun. Side note: I tried my best to learn French for this trip, and all I learned were phrases like "El chien mange du riz" which means "the dog eats the rice." Obviously, that wasn't helpful, but what was helpful was the fact that most Parisians speak English, so I was good. Anyways, the party was full of old friends, new faces, and good beats, so everyone was dancing and enjoying the atmosphere, which was honestly a very cool party.
For those who don't know, my Uncle John is gay but is honestly one of the most fun uncles that I have (Uncle Tim might tie him for that). This party was full of people who were all about having a great time. And my bias aside, it was a damn good party. When everybody is dancing, everybody is talking to each other, or everybody is eating (therefore there are no awkward people standing in corners), it is a damn good party. John claims that gay people know how to have a good time, and based off of this party, I have to agree. In fact, he told me that by going to gay functions, I could possibly pick up chicks (because honestly, everyone at a gay party can see a straight person instantly, and the girls would be very impressed by that apparently).

Anyhow here are some pics of the party:


Uncle John and Aaron


Me and Uncle John


Me and Uncle John discussing something, probably women or party atmosphere or something


Honestly, don't ask, it was his going away party

Okay, so we have a great time and eventually leave to stop by other establishments. On our way, I come across a beautiful, no, stunning Parisian woman (early 20s), so I ask her for a light and immediately get into conversation (score +1 for me!). The funny part is, I approach her asking in Spanish, and she responds in Spanish. So we start talking a bit when Aaron and John enter the conversation and we all discover that she can also speak English (+2 for me!). We talk for a while, then Aaron and John get the idea and announce they are going to leave us alone (score +3, I love my family!). Then, an unspeakable horror comes out of a bar and announces that they all want to go home. The beautiful, charming, attractive, lovely Parisian has bitchy friends who are cock-blockers. Well, nothing in life is ever perfect, and she left because of her friends. We won't go into my thoughts about that here, I honestly wish those drunk-bitch friends never existed.

After being cock-blocked by drunk-bitchy girls, John went home while Aaron and I checked out the surrounding neighborhood. We came across a suitable estabishment and had a few drinks while reminiscing over the entire night. It was honestly very interesting discussing the different ways to pick up girls with my brother. What I found is we have different styles (but you can't read those, sorry, but otherwise they wouldn't work), and we approach situations differently. Basically, my brother is better around a group of people he may know whereas I am better at random girls in random groups. I don't know why this is, it just is. And that's all you can read, the rest I will sell in my book "The Supplement to Mystery's Guide to Picking Up Women." Honestly, I don't know what I do sometimes. I have very "okay" game, but somehow these things happen.

Anyways, more to come later. Hope you enjoyed this post!

A Little Bit of Catching Up pt. 2

Okay, so since I had some down time I decided to fill you all on whats in store for the blog. First, I want to cover the Paris trip and the Madrid trip as best as I can from memory and photos and such. Second, I'm gonna upload some pics of my barrio and Sagrada Familia.

Also, to explain San Jordi's day, here ya go: http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%ADa_de_Sant_Jordi. For those of us who don't read spanish or don't feel like it, here's a brief summary. This dude named Jorge killed a dragon to save this princess, so now on his death date (April 23) guys are supposed to buy girls flowers and girls are supposed to buy us books, but they don't because they claim it is too expensive (but hey, I'm not judging the double-standard) and its basically Valentine's Day in Spain. If you're good, you can get a decent bouquet for less than 3 Euro, but I was in a hurry so I got ripped off. It was kinda funny actually, I kept forgetting to bring Mama Raquel her flower for a week, so by the time I did, it was half dead, and that's being optimistic. We put some Miracle-Gro in water with the flower, but it probably needs Miracle-resurrection or something at this point.

Sant Jordi owns this dragon in the name of hot latin love