plant serial killer

I don't live with nudists anymore. I moved, and now live happily with two girls. Well, I live happily with two girls, and lots of dead plants. At one point, the plants were alive, but now, the majority are dead. I believe that my roommate loves plants, but just doesn't have that green thumb touch. Last week, she asked me if i thought this pot of moldy-looking soil with a twig in it was still alive. Uh...was this once a plant? But things have started to turn around, although suspiciously so. A couple days ago, my roommates were laughing in the living room, and I went to see what was going on. "Abi, look at this plant," one of them said. If you can imagine what a plant doing cocaine would look like, please do so now. This plant had its leaves pointed ridiculously upward, as if it's hair was standing on end after six shots of espresso. I thought this was a new plant, but no, this had been the withered brown plant-like organism just a few days before. I really couldn't believe it. I asked my roommate what she had done to incite this miraculous turnaround. "Mierda de penguinos." I'm sorry, come again? Did you just say penguin shit? Apparently, it had been quite an expensive buy at the supermarket. She showed me the bottle, because I'm a rational person and did at no moment believe that there could possibly be someone selling penguin poop as fertilizer. Collecting the excrement in such harsh climates seems like a fool's errand, and I mean, how would you even get the idea to procede with said plan, seeing as penguins live in desert climates with little plant life to fertilize? But right there on the label was a picture of a plant and a penguin, apparently in some kind of symbiotic relationship, brought to you by Carrefour Express. Further reading discovered that the poop was from Peruvian marine birds, but what does it matter? The morale of the story: penguin poop is crack for plants.

grown-up decisions

It's time to make a big decision. Continental-moving decisions, going back to school decisions, health insurance decisions. In simpler words, big decisions. Decisions that require revising resumes, writing cover letters, and translating both. As of right now, the question, "So, how long are you staying in Spain?" elicits a panicky response and makes my palms sweat. When my friends ask me when I'm coming back, I mumble something practically unintelligible. Last week, I was mentally prepared to go back, to work as a temp, to think about grad school. This week, I'm set on staying here, to work and to study. You could say I'm a touch indecisive. But with so many options to weigh, I think it's irresponsible to commit too quickly. First of all, there's phrases like "short-term goals" and "long-term goals" and "career options." For someone who's only ever had jobs, "career" is a nearly incomprehensible word. It may be short in length, but it's positively explosive. Then, there's the question of education and a return to the academic fold. That comes with its own set of brain-warping problems. What to study, how long to study, whether to do a Masters program or a Ph.D., where in the world to do these things, and every other possible question that you could worry about. Next, let's talk about health insurance. In Spain, medicine is socialized, and I've got a private company (please don't ask me how that works...my brain hurts when I think about health insurance). I spent a week in the hospital and didn't owe so much as a co-pay. Then I read this and became simaltaneously paranoid and terrified. With this post, I believe I covered all possible sources of anxiety about my future. While this may not be as informative as some of my other posts, I needed to get it off my chest. Much appreciated.

traveling, solo style.

Kids imitate adults, and they're always asking to do things, all by themselves. They are committed to proving their independence until little by little, they grow up and get thrown into the adult world, suddenly independent and broke. As a newly-minted grown-up, I do most things on my own. I iron things, usually clothes. I make my own meals. I clean my room. But one thing I hadn't really done was traveling by myself (not counting moving to Spain...that's a move). All by my lonesome. So, on my long weekend, I hit the road, er, plane. Off to Prague, in the Czech Republic. Let me be clear: I do not, nor have I ever, spoken the Czech language. I do not know what it sounds like, or what it looks like. But I got on that plane, and off I went. Getting off the plane and exchange my euros for krona, or crowns, or whatever, and I instantly became a whole lot richer. "Three thousand crowns, ma'am." Hot dog, let's hit the town. I successfully made it to the hostal safely, no problems. After leaving my bags with the nice, English-speaking hostal employee, I hit up the castle. I decided to live it up and go with the audioguide. Truly fascinating stuff, i got to see the basement of the castle...looked a lot like a basement. But, moving on, the view was fantastic. The evening continued with about a liter of dark beer and some potato-y and pork Czech food. Starting off the weekend with some carbs is never a bad sign. The next day began with some pastry, some coffee spiked with Bailey's and a lot of walking. I climbed a clocktower. I walked across a bridge about ten times. I saw some modern Central European art, penguins included. After some bagels and more hot alcohol, I checked out the Franz Kafka museum, which had a pair of peeing statues out front. But not just any peeing statues. You could move the hips, and engage in some kind of pee warfare. To say the least, I thought this may have been slightly misplaced, but perhaps I just haven't read enough Kafka. The following day, I got up early, saw a collection of Jewish synagogues, and got myself back to Madrid. All in one piece.