Hakuna Matata!
I just felt like exclaiming that. This post doesn't have anything to do with The Lion King, Africa, Elton John, or even Swahili. Although that's a language I've always wanted to learn.
Ahem.
Anyway, while my sister steals babysits MY SHOES in New York, I'm wandering around Madrid. I freakin' love it here. The people are awesome, the city is lovely, and the booze is plentiful. What more could you ask for?
That's right—pictures!
Did I mention how beautiful it is here? The city is peppered with plazas full of outdoor cafés and public gardens like this one (Jardines de Sabatini). I've spent part of every day sitting on a bench here, reading or writing or watching German tourists jump into the fountain.
Because we're all about books on this site, I thought I'd include this picture of a charming old bookstore I stumbled across. (Although your store is obviously superior, Bradley. And less dusty.)
Meet Oscar, el bombero (the fireman). We met in a park—he was running and I was contemplating the clouds. He sat with me, and we chatted for the next half hour. He was a bright light in my day, with his smile and lightness of being.
Aren't these purses awesome? I don't need one. I'm positive I don't need one. Nor do I need the pair of the rockin' wedge sandals I saw in the next store window.
The only thing wrong with Madrid...
The dearth of coffee houses. WTF? So far I've found two options: the smoky café down the street, which is awesome but (like I said) smoky; and Starbucks. In desperation, I went to the fancy Starbucks on Paseo del Prado yesterday. I sat on the terrace outside and was hit on by cologne-drenched Eastern European tourists who thought I was a Madrileña.
Don't forget!
Brenda Novak's diabetes auction is going on, and I'm being offered up like the proverbial lamb. You can either get a critique by me or, if you need a gentler option, have COCKTAILS WITH ME at the RWA National conference. Do it. It's for a good cause.
Homeless
I'm on my way to Spain. Literally, if you're reading the blog on Tuesday the 18th.
Being an organized person, I set up everything a couple weeks ago. Originally, I thought I'd arrive in Madrid and then spend a week in Granada and another week somewhere like Malaga, but I decided against that. Instead I'm going to stay in Madrid and do day trips to other cities. Why? Because it's easier writing when you're settled in one place, and I have quite a bit of work to do. Also, apparently Madrid has awesome tango, and I want to take advantage of that.
Except a few days ago the apartment I'd rented fell through, so suddenly I have no place to stay. Bummer, I know. But it'll all work out. Worst case, I'll stay in a sterile, Hilton-esque hotel for a night and then take a train south. Or go to some beach town on the Mediterranean.
It's a tough life, but someone has to live it.
If you guys were headed to someplace without any plans, what would you do? How would you feel? (Yes, I'm taking notes, because wouldn't this be a good conflict for a control freak?)
A few things I'm going to do while I'm in Madrid (if that's where I actually end up):
- go to the Prado, and the Reina Sofia.
- eat paella.
- drink thick red wine.
Next question: is there anything you guys want me to experience in Madrid (or wherever I end up)? Because I'm happy to do things and then report back for your vicarious pleasure.
Hey—thanks, everyone, for the birthday wishes! I had an awesome, whiskey-soaked birthday week. Or perhaps awesomely whiskey-soaked would be a more accurate description. The only thing I'd change is the number of cupcakes I ate. Next year, I'm going to make sure I have cake on every day of my birthday week instead of just once. It's good to have goals.
Happy Birthday
... to me!
In honor of my birthday, I was going to skip writing a blog this week. You guys will be happy to know my sister put her foot down at that idea (she succinctly said, "No"). So here I am, toiling away, even though it's my day—or week, as it is in this case.
Do you want to know how old I am?
A friend of mine chatted me up Monday morning (which was my actual birthday). Our conversation went something like this:
Him: I was thinking about your situation.
Me: I have a situation?
Him: Yes. Your age situation.
Me: Ah.
Him: You aren't old, and you're not a cougar, unless you're dating some young pool boy you haven't mentioned.
Me: ...
Him: So I think that means you're a spinster.
Me: Can you still be a spinster in this day and age?
Him: I think you can in Europe.
Hey—I wanted to say thanks to everyone who's sent me birthday messages. I think I've replied to them all but, frankly, yesterday is a little bit of a blur thanks to Jim the bartender and his neverending supply of whiskey. Ahem.
So... Do you want to know how old I am?
A Night of Tango
Sometimes I wish I carried around some kind of voice-activated recording device, because some conversations are worth keeping for posterity. For example, one of the nights I went tangoing last week was especially memorable, from start to finish. Lucky for you, while I didn't record the conversations, I did take notes. (Insert evil laugh here.)
As my sister and I were getting dressed, at home...
Me: Which should I wear, these earrings or this necklace?
Parisa: Why don't we decide after you put on makeup.
Me: I already did put on makeup.
Parisa, frowning and leaning in close: Are you sure?
Half an hour later, after Parisa did my makeup...
Me, examining the end result in the mirror: I look like the undead.
Parisa: But you look like a sexy undead.
At the dance...
Random old guy Tom, checking out my outfit: You're very colorful.
Me: Thank you.
ROG Tom: What do you do in life, to go with all that color?
Me: I'm a romance writer.
ROG Tom: Like Agatha Christie?
Me: Um...
At the end, sitting with my friend Lila...
Lila: Look at your poor feet!
Me, looking at them: ...
Lila: You need a pedicure. Bad.
Me, sighing: ...
In the car after a post-tango Voodoo Doughnuts run, with Parisa and Lila...
Parisa: That guy was totally macking on you.
Lila: He really liked Kate, and he was really cute.
Parisa: And really annoying. Instead of asking for her number, he shoved his phone in her face and told her to type it in.
Lila: It worked. He got her number.
Parisa: Humph.
Five minutes later, after a long stretch of silence...
Me, sniffing myself: I smell like random men.