La Manchan Madness

Get your act together, Paris:  you smell aweful.
After storming the beach in southern Spain I was shocked and horrified by the price of a ticket to meet my mom in Barcelona.  How could this be?  Oh, I’ll just hitchhike- like any good American assuming that no place in this puny country on this puny continent could be very far- after all I’d just crossed an enormous ocean where for weeks I was waking up as Bill Murray with Peruvian pan-pipes playing the same two notes over and over on endless waves and angry German sailors, eating an entire bag of salvia for fear of non-existant border guards, slippery floor drills and endless waves endlessly over the edge of the planet forever in every direction every day endlessly… how big could SPAIN be?

Four days and a THOUSAND miles later I conceded to look at a map… HOLY HELL!  SPAIN IS ENORMOUS!  And filled with so many adventures and misadventures, happy day-drunk drivers and big giant monsters.  Yes.   Big giant monsters.

I arrived in Barcelona triumphant in time to meet mother and sister, who sheparded me through a whirlwind tour of art, architecture and food before depositing me on Evan’s zany Italian farm, where my old friend and I schemed and conspired and convinced the Italian federal police to do an elaborate May Day pole dance in the name of ‘cultural norms’.

They got pretty into it, too.

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