Midnight to Midnight, or The Short Version of a Typical Sunday in Spain

By midnight, I’d already made it past drunk because my stomachache had replaced the beer in my hand with water. But, I definitely couldn’t leave as the party had finally begun. Lorena left, making me the only American in Yasin’s new apartment. He’s a serial Erasmus roommate-seeker hailing from Morocco. Since moving here seven years ago, he’s learned Italian just by living with Erasmus students. Not being a student himself, his long-stay here seems curious, as it can be incredibly difficult for Moroccans to secure visas. Turns out Yasin got his visa on September 10th, 2001. He was one of three passengers on his flight a few days later.

Yasin’s house is home to six flat mates, one is Italian and the rest are French, but “French from the North,” as Eric kept insisting. Perhaps that’s why he kept picking girls up and carrying them about the room. Huge displays of strength and vibrato never tend to be something I associate with the French. In an hour, the mass of French, Germans, Spaniards etc. had devolved into a dance party in the kitchen and a guitar session with Rafa, basically the Israeli Kramer, in the living room. I attempted my Spanish goodbye, and an Alka-Seltzer and two hours later, I left my friend Nicole with the far too drunk Russian girl we’d come with and finally convinced Yasin to walk me home through a surprisingly silent section of Málaga. The Spanish goodbye always takes several hours and was frankly made for me. You say, ok I’m leaving, and then stay for three more drinks. I don’t know why the Spaniards do it, but for me, it’s a godsend to my indecision. At 4am, the party moved to the disco, and my pillow and I finally made precious precious contact.

Sunday was mostly reading and vague attempts to actually leave the house before it got dark. I managed my way out of bed in time to see the sun go down and meet Vanessa’s new Slovenian roommate. Jernje is a med student, and apparently he can insult me all he wants because when we finally get angry enough to bomb Slovenia, we’ll obliterate Slovakia instead. I then ran home through confetti-dusted streets, weaving my way through little girls in Cinderella costumes and parents with painted faces. The Christmas lights shaped like masks were the final tip-off that I’d missed the Carnaval show in Plaza de la Constitución. But, I made it just in time to join my roommate for an odd indie movie from England (clearly dubbed into Spanish) about some poor slob’s sexual misadventures in which he documents all his past relationships and learns nothing from them.

We left the movie around 11, the streets still full of families, babies in oversized strollers and teenagers with facial piercings and shiny sneakers. The five-minute walk home became twenty minutes, as we ran into a Chirigota, a street-performing acapella group that dresses up in odd costumes and sings raunchy songs. At midnight, I fell asleep with a book on my chest and the melodic humming of Spanish street singers crooning in my head.