Title courtesy of Sam, referencing the half-pitcher of sangria we had Monday before helping out with an English class in Toledo. Afterwards, naturally, we got a full jarra litro y medio.
I still need to write a blog about Paris. Coming soon, I promise. Not going to post any pictures, though; there are too many pictures of Paris in the world already.
On Monday morning, I took a cab, an airplane, a bus, three metro lines in Madrid, a train, and two more buses, all before the hour of noon. Made it to my classes on time, then instead of recuperating from the lone hour of sleep I got the night before, Sam and I went drinking. I got to bed with the hour hand on ten, and slept until it made it back around.
Yesterday after classes, I got some shopping done because mi madre was out of town this weekend and thus has not had a chance to do my laundry in two weeks. I’m scraping the bottom of the clothes barrel.
I made it home just in time for a lovely ham plate (end sarcasm, although I love me the chorizo), then did my homework in the living room to panicked shouts of “¡joder!” and “madre mia.” They were unnecessary, though; there were enough screams of “¡gol!” to ensure another Real Madrid victory, no surprise.
Then, the drunkenness. I went out to a bar with a few people from the program, but got there later than everyone else. Fortunately or not for me, the people in the program are good people, and when I showed up late, they lined up all the drinks I missed. It was a fast road to insobriety.
When the bar closed (Zaguán, I think it was called), we headed to the distilleria for a live flamenco band. Four of us somehow managed to split two more bottles of wine and a beer each as the beat picked up. I made it home around 3:30, and seven hours later, Wednesday morning, I’m still on the drunk side. I love it.