Sevilla’s Feria de Abril makes me feel like a degenerate.
My body can’t handle more than two consecutive nights of drinking a dry sherry and 7up cocktail as if I needed it to breathe. Going to sleep two hours past dawn is a routine that my well being simply does not tolerate. Moreover, my pre-beach-trip waistline is furious about the Spanish tortillas and loaves of bread packed with mystery meat masked as meals that form the base of my makeshift personal food pyramid this week. Feria, you’ve been fun. You’ve been memorable — honestly, because diluted sherry isn’t strong enough to give me more than a sugar headache — but it’s Thursday. This shit needs to stop. Just for one night, I want to go to bed before the birds wake up. I want to go to bed with the birds? Goddamnit, I don’t know what I want, but Feria, I need some space. I guess what I’m trying to say is… why don’t we take a break? I’ll come back tomorrow. Maybe.
With reserved and cautious love,
Feria is a flamenco-dress festival slash state fair slash week-long party. I am young; I am supposed to be capable of going weeks without sleep. I am supposed to think it’s badass when I roll back home around sunset. I’m not supposed to be an 80-year-old cat-collecting spinster trapped in the body of a 21-year-old (until my body explodes from carb abuse then deteriorates from sherry abuse). I only made it three nights into the week but I’m already cashing in on a personal day to do things like work on my magazine article, go for long walks by myself in a pitiful attempt to “exercise” and write superfluous blog entries.
Copy editing, if nothing else, has given me some purpose this week. I’ve been hunting for comma splices and pronoun errors by day, unshowered with last night’s sins sealed in my hair, stuck to the hairspray helmet I needed to plaster an over-sized Feria flower to the side of my head. Pardon the melodrama.
Truthfully, Feria has been a hell of a good time. Last night Elisa let me wear one of her flamenco outfits so I got to look the part of a non-foreigner for a little while, and god knows I love any excuse to sport a great costume (see: Halloween 08-09: Pulp Fiction Uma Thurman, Donatella Versace, babymama hillbilly, Lady Gaga [two versions]). Feria is another prime example of why it’s great to have a young señor(it)a in place of a grandmotherly host lady in Spain: If you don’t know someone with a tent at Feria, you’re not getting in anywhere, and the tents are where you want to be. I’ve been able to tag along with Elisa and her friends all week, so you could say I’m getting the full cultural experience. I’m also getting the full verbal beating from Spaniards who think it’s hil-freaking-arious that I’m so awkwardly tall and awkwardly incapable of dancing. Sorry, my hips don’t lie, nor do they move in a fashion that resembles the way you people dance. My hips are an honest specimen and they’ve made it excessively clear that I have no rhythm… now let’s stop commenting on it, mm?
Alright, this entry has been a little weird, a little schizophrenic, a little internal-monologue-under-the-influence. I swear I’m sitting at home sober right now, recovering from the baby-sized slice of leftover tortilla I ate for dinner and contemplating my own lameness.