Rice Bonanza

I said something ridiculous was going to happen and by golly it has! I arrived in Brussels 3 days ago and have since then, been residing in the brand new apartment of a family friend. The fact that he only just moved in half a month ago means very little furniture and therefore an explosion of my belongings all over the place on account of the fact that I'm staying here alone.

Like everything else in here, the kitchen is brand new, straight off the Ikea boat and although the stove top isn't working yet, the oven is and there's a microwave as well. Any normal person would have bought frozen pizzas and lean cuisines but not me, la petite gourmande. My personal morals have lead me to believe that the microwave is the devil's advocate dedicated to giving us all cancer so I nixed anything cooked with that immediately. I then took it upon myself to roast chicken and potatoes for dinner and as if that weren't enough, I went so far as to come up with a makeshift, from scratch dessert.

Rice pudding.

I had mixed up some rice, milk, honey, and butter and baked it until it was golden brown and bubbling. The thing was gorgeous okay? I was really looking forward to eating it but anyone who knows me knows I have a phobia of removing things from the oven and the second I opened the thing I knew I was gonna drop it. And drop it I did...all over the place. Out of a 400 degree oven came and went my masterpiece within 10 seconds. I managed to splatter rice pudding from floor to ceiling all over the brand new Ikea kitchen without getting any on myself or breaking the dish it was in. No harm no foul, I spent the next 45 minutes on my hands and knees (the floor in the kitchen is BLACK slate) cleaning chunky white crap from every nook and cranny of Ikea's ass.

Surprise! You thought it was over but even on a rainy Belgian Sunday, in an empty apartment I manage to find trouble.

Bussian Roulet

Who m'a gonna get...who aaam I gonna get? The question I asked myself before boarding the 19 hour bus ride from Madrid to Rennes where I would then catch a two hour train to Quimper, the home of my father as well as many fish products and varieties of cake all made with the same batter...

I sat down and awaited my destiny, the first person to take the seat was a large man from Togo who was so goddamn excited that I not only knew the location of Togo but also the capital (Lomé) that he took it upon himself to chat until my ears bled and opened my book midsentence, forcing myself to read through the bus nausea just so I didn't have to listen to his squabble anymore.

He got off after about 4 hours and here I am thinking I've won the travel lottery and I dont have to shoot myself in the head when another man got on. I tried to explain there was already someone sitting there but he sat down anyway which made for an awkward and uncomfortable journey when no one arrived to claim their seat.

Another 4 hours and at this point I'm sure it can't get worse until a large Spanish man with a gray, would-be flattened mowhawk/mullet had the top portion of his head not been bald sits down. He smelled like dirty garlic sink water the morning after you get drunk and decide to cook but pass out before you do the dishes. He also took it upon himself to casually ooze his large arm across our one shared armrest and into my seat. For all you fat people I would just like to say...just because YOU can't control your eating in combination with the fact that I happen to be a small person does not mean you get to take over any part of my seat. I paid for my space just like you and lard-induced self entitlement is unnacceptable, have a carrot.

Side note: Unless something ridiculous happens (which it always seems to in my life) this will probably be my last journey blog due to the fact that I head to Brussels tomorrow and hang out for a week before heading home to the land of English speaking, marshmallow fluff eating Americans. God Bless

Spices on Nightmare Hill

So I made a friend in Marrakesh who told me his name was A.D. and he seemed pretty cool at the moment so we hung out most of the time I was there. Afterwards he wanted to come with me to Tarifa which was a bit odd but fine. It was really when he came to Sevilla that things started to get weird...he was acting up all the time and randomly getting angry for no reason. I decided it was a true problem when he was in the middle of one of his fits of rage and insisted I call him by his full name...amoebic dysentary.

Yes yes, I got sick in Morocco. I ate in the market and it came back to haunt me in all the worst kinds of ways. Fortunately, Spaniards give out drugs like molestors do candy and I was able to fix my shit (no pun intended) rather immediately. As soon as I got to feeling better I was able to listen to all of the dribble people were telling me about how amazing Granada was and how I absolutely needed to go there so I booked a bus and a hostel. After 5 hours on the bus with a crazy man woeing me by repeatedly singing the only song he knew in English (Bob Marley's One Love) I arrived to the gigantic cobblestone hill that is Granada and wanted to kill everyone who said this was the place to be in 100 degree Euro heat.

Problems posed by cobblestone:
1. rolled ankles
2. blistered feet
3. shin splints
4. broken suitcase wheels
5. etc etc

All of these problems are magnified by the cobblestone being conveniently located on a steep hill. Fortunately I made it out of that heathen town unscathed and I arrived to Madrid this morning.

Side note: I realized the Moroccan stink was coming from the Moroccan spices I had bought for my sister and promptly threw them under the bed (sorry Sara) in Granada as a gift from me to the city...rest in peace and may the devil spices enjoy the company of the devil city.