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.