A bit of a red flag...

Part of what initially attracted me to Spanish culture (and European culture in general, I guess), was its affinity for nighttime, its casual lean toward the later parts of the day, its nonchalant shrug in response to life's chaos, its tendency to say, "Eh. I think I'll nap instead. Or sit by the seaside and write. Or have a glass of wine with a good friend." I discovered what a "siesta" was, I learned about Spanish mealtimes (lunch takes place around 1:30-2:30, dinner around 9pm or later), and thought, "Finally, a place where I belong!"

But recently, despite my usual habits of day-sleeping and night-embracing, I've found myself exhausted by 10pm, withered and creaky from the day's wear and tear. Who AM I? What happened to me? Man cannot survive on bread and espresso doppio alone! (Should I have said "man and woman"? Are people upset with me now?)

I must adjust my schedule. I must get back to normal. I must regain my love for the night. I must. Stay. Awake.

*After titling this post, I immediately imagined myself as a Spanish bull, trapped in the ring, chasing after my death as a man in an embroidered vest yells, "Toro! Toro! Toro!". And in my head, I charge immediately. I race toward my last breath. I plunge headfirst into a haze of blood and tears. A potential metaphor for the first, terrifying, lonely part of the trip, perhaps? Just kidding. Maybe a little too morbid? Sorry... I do that sometimes.