Shredddddd!!!!!

After a good nights sleep interrupted only for a few hours by the group of awful drunken America fratters with which I shared a room I decided at the drop of a hat (such luxury is afforded only to us hapless solo wanderers) to board a train to Granada, a place fervently recommended by any and all with which I’ve spoken. To the east and in the mountains it promises to be a much more attractive lay of land than bland sniffles ridden Sevilla. I’m still reeling from my car rental trip to the south and had thought I might spend more time in Sevilla to recover, but my time here is somehow already running short and I don’t feel that I’ve done nearly enough traveling. Sevilla is a great place to meet people that speak English and want to drink and ruin themselves everynight, then talk it over the next waking afternoon -mere hours from a repeat. Sound familiar?

But I don’t want to sound like I have nothing good to say about the city or the people whom I’ve met. Like them or not, you meet people in need of a beer or a meal at the same time and you go together, chat, make friends even, then go your separate ways. Some people I’ve met, -self proclaimed “professional backpackers”- have been traveling in excess of one or even two years. Sasha, an American with such a track record and with whom I dined last night spoke of a worry that her skin had become too tough to goodbyes, a necessity I suppose for the cultural nomad.

My Spanish has gotten pretty good actually. Not conversational really, especially considering the speed with which they (or any of us for that matter) rattle off familiarisms. Still, I have no trouble ordering food, knowing what I’m ordering, asking directions and other common tasks. I’ve even gotten past the backjerked head response to my awful pronunciation that plagued me upon arrival. I’m even at times mistaken for a better speaker than I am. I nod and smile often.

Now I’m pulling into the Granada station in mere minutes and I can see the snow-capped mountains to the south. Perhaps some snow skiing is a possibility. The beach, I discovered in the south, is not.

Thanks for reading folks, more jokes next time. Perhaps more in the direction of Dan Brown and his ferociously pseudo-mystery devouring ever obedient flock.

Addendum:

The above was of course written on the train during my approach. Now I am in Granada and I am in love with this city. Now I’m not so afraid to say it….Sevilla sucks.

A lesson in patience: I mentioned in a previous blog that patience was I virtue that I was quickly learning on my journeys, well a good example manifested itself today. I’ve been itching to play guitar…I’ve gone in and out of a few shops…played some guits….dragged myself away. I had a piece of shit guitar in my hand in Morocco that I’m now quite glad the dude didn’t take my asshole lowball offer for. Today, after checking into the coolest hostal I’ve yet stayed in….and the cheapest, I went for a walk. Not but two doors down from me was a music store….not a music store…a guitar store….not a guitar store…..a luthier’s shop with guitars handmade by him. I now have a sweet guitar/another bag to carry. Tomorrow I will hit the street corners armed with a few Shins, Dead, and Dylan ballads to try to pay for the thing. I am happy.