"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." ~Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities ~Kristen, Ruminations on Feria de Abril, 2015.
Feria de Abril in Sevilla is a festival I had been looking forward to attending, even before I made the decision to move back to Spain. Originally I tried to get placed in Sevilla, this being one of the many reasons why, however based on availability with my program was put in Madrid instead. When I was considering coming back to Spain, I consulted with one of my study abroad friends Sarah, and after being in love with her lifestyle and looking at all her pictures that year from Feria, I knew it was a bucket list item for me.
Upon return to Madrid from my Feria trip, a friend from home asked me what tradition Feria celebrates. I was honestly perplexed, and all I could respond was a confused "....April???" Sure, behind this computer screen I can take all the time in the world and look up the history, pretending like I knew the origin (a livestock fair.) However, if I were being honest, to me Feria was my excuse to dress up in a pretty dress, look like an emoji,learn fake traditional dances, eat a ton of salty meats, and drink jarra after jarra de rebujito. Feria IS about all that. And it's amazing. I stayed three long nights, and before even arriving I knew it was going to be mind-blowingly great. Feria did not disappoint and we ended up having an amazing time. That being said, I would in fact be remiss if I didn't tell you of some of the upsets along the way, and although no matter how hard I try, sometimes rubias don't have the Sevillana in their sangre in order to gracefully keep up.
Monday: Doe-eyed and excited, I arrive to the train station (seemingly) ready for our grand adventure. My friend Kelly and her husband Jaime (you may remember them from A Hostage Situation) were already in Sevilla, and Brittany and I would be meeting up with them and many others later. Pulling into the Sevilla station around 9:30 pm, we are warmly greeted by alcohol vendors who not only give us free glasses of Manzanilla, but also take our picture with our faces in a sterotypical and I'm sure borderline offensive Spanish cut-out and won't take no for an answer when they want to give us print-outs of the photo. Great start.
Soon we hop into a cab to our very awkwardly shaped and incredibly inefficient Air B and B, meet up with Kelly, change into heels, and head off to our first rooftop Lunes Pescaito (Fish Monday.) We go to Kelly and Jaime's friend Sergio's rooftop which overlooks the cathedral, and while sipping on rebujitos I sample all kinds of fish such as an alleged fried shark (pictured below) which tastes surprisingly amazing.
After, we head to the casetas (tents) of a friend where we dance, drink more rebujito, and in general goof around until the wee hours of the morning before heading home. Monday is off to a good start, and with a cocky #1776 attitude, I start to grow overconfident thinking I for sure can handle Feria. I have NO IDEA of the challenges that lay ahead of me.
Tuesday: The next morning, the girls and I get up early enough, despite little sleep in order to have breakfast before I pick up my dress. Seeing that most girls wear their trajes on Tuesday, I am going to pick mine up at 12:00 pm so that I can have it to get ready before heading to the tents by 3:00 pm. After a quick breakfast at noon (not unusual by Sevillan Feria standards) we arrive at the dress shop at 12:30 pm and not a minute earlier. As we approach the door, an ominous feeling set over me, as I can see the lights are out. Just then, we see a tiny figure scurrying to the front of the shop, coming from the back sewing room. The shop owner opens the door and with a frantic look on her face says something to the effect of "We have a tiny problem. The dress isn't ready yet." This is where I publicly warn any guiri to steer clear of Vivianalorio or whatever it's name is, Calle Feria, n4. "Ummmm, I'm sorry what?" "Yes, there was a problem with the lights last night. What's the latest you need it by?" "Uhhhhhh..... now? I needed it now. I'm confused." Kelly, me and Britt stare at each other in disbelief. Honestly, how could the lights being out ONE DAY affect my alterations from being done when I had ordered the dress nearly 3.5 months previously, and had planned an appointment with her in advance to assure everything would be handled? Olivia Pope, I need you.
In a weird state of flustered confusion, I agree to come back to her shop in an hour. The girls and I go back to the apartment, shower, do our makeup, and I continue to fume. When I go back to the shop, sans girlfriends, she still isn't finished and has a few touches to do. Prior to entering, I already made up my mind that I would be paying the rest of the balance of the dress, but due to the fact that she highly inconvenienced me, I would not be paying for the accessory shawl (60 euro value.) I put on the dress, fake contentment, and she takes it from me and I go out ready to pay.
When I hand her the rest of the money I owed her for the dress, I tell her that due to breaching contract I would be getting "mis complementos" for free. She is quite dissatisfied with this answer, and in her Argentinian accent, explains to me that this is a one of a kind dress made by hand and I would definitely be paying full value. After some interior dressing room phone calls to Kelly throwing a fit, I am ready to address my new arch-nemesis. Now, not one to typically pull the American card, I am really sick of it at this point. Knowing I could use the additional customers in the store to my advantage, I bumble through my Spanish expressing that this is not fair, and we had an agreement from over 3 months prior that the dress would be wearing ready by said date. I tell her I feel taken advantage of, and it's not fair to treat me in this manner just because "I'm American, and I'm too nice and have too much patience. If this was happening to a Spanish girl at Feria, she wouldn't be as tolerant or calm as I am being. The fact that the lights were out for one day out of 3.5 months is not my fault, it's yours. This is your business, you should know that the purpose for the trajes is for Feria." Thinking she doesn't want to scare off other customers, she defeatedly drops her argument and passed me the dress for the agreed upon cost AND the shawl for free as mandated. I am really really thankful to have received this shawl as you will find it becomes really clutch later on in this story.
So we head off to the casetas, roughly around 2:30 or 3pm, taking copious selfies and full body phots along the way. Considering that Feria is basically adult prom, and especially for a guiri, I have no shame in my photo game.
We arrive over to the casetas mid-day, around 4 pm. While the boys are already full steam ahead in their Rebujitos, we just aren't ready for that step yet so Britt, Kelly, and I do the next logical thing: go get ice coffee at a local shop and then proceed to have two mixed drinks or glasses of Manzanilla immediately on the heels of the coffee. Now, finally feeling energized with the most appropriate subtle buzz, we are ready to once again join the troops and commence day 3.
Jaime, jarra in hand, immediately fills up our Rebuijto glasses. He then puts the jarra in his pocket and takes the most epic picture known to man:
During the next several hours, we stretch out our empty glasses and demand Jaime to "Rebujitome!" as making up fake verbs is something I do across all languages. Jaime Kim Kardashian finds this lull in activity the perfect opportunity to take selfie after group selfie of us outside the casetas.
Later during the night, our troop braves what might be the grossest thing I've ever walked through in my life. Because Feria is a festival with a lot of horse drawn carriages, horses are constantly walking up and down the streets. With horses, comes horse poop--and lots of it. When there is excess excrement in the street, the festival keepers find the best solution to get rid of it is to not really get rid of it at all, but rather dilute it. They take hoses and spray down the street, but since the run off has no where to go, the poop remains in water form. What will forever be known as "poop swamp", we bravely wade the puddles with various screams of disgust and horror until approaching new tents. Deep into the night, Kelly and I find it appropriate (read: certainly not at all) to take a vulgar photo which will not be shown here in front of a police van. Giggling and running away after the police started to yell after us, it is later discovered that the only way we do not get in trouble with the law is that Tito stood up for us and said something to the effect of "they are just Guiris." As always, God Bless Tito.
This night goes off without a hitch, and there is plenty of eating and dancing. At one point, I remember commenting that my feet are very swollen and getting useless, and I might as well have potato feet (reference to an earlier trip to Sevilla where at the end of the night I drunkenly claimed my hands were potatoes-- more of that probably never to come.) I do what any good guiri would do, continue to eat more meats and potatoes like a champ, and join in on my favorite Spanish line dancing. El Taxi plays probably 70493249587 times at the end of the night, but my personal favorite is the song that the DJ let me help lead (the one with the sawing motion-- friends, do you remember that one?)
Before we know it, Kelly and Jaime peace out, and I am walking home with Britt, Pepe, and their newly acquired gypsy-purchased child, Pepe Olof.
Things are really contained, sober, and responsible. I am at my prettiest, having spilled chocolate from my chocolate and churros on my dress, which quite nicely compliments the poop swap stains that have crawled up to a foot up the dress. We do have the broad daylight working for us, however, as we walk home around 7:30 or 8 am. Upon entry to the Air B and B, I immediately try to wash off my feet in the sink, which I have since found out is a thing I compulsively try to do while under the influence. Brittany makes me wash in the bidet, while she sets an alarm so we "don't miss our train."
Thursday: WE MISS OUR TRAIN. Britt frantically wakes me up to "Oh my God, Kris, we missed the train!" to which I think I just giggle, say something like "so?" and roll over: A future educator, ladies and gentleman. Finally, Britt morales me to get my ish together, and together we stagger out of the apartment walking all the way to the train station. Because I´m no longer joven (young enough for a youth pass) I have to drop about 70 Euros on a new return trip which isn't necessarily exciting, but the pain is dulled by the McDonalds snack wrap I now have in my hands. Somewhere on my journey home, I realize that my feet really hurt in my espadrilles and that they are still swollen, an unfortunate side effect from the wild three days we just experienced. This might also be a good point to mention that the three days of non-stop Feria-ing has made me void of any voice, and talking anything above a scratchy and crackling whisper is impossible. I cancel the lesson I am supposed to give later today and instead spend that afternoon in bed with my two boyfriends--Netflix and Dominos. As physically destroyed as I am, I honestly feel in my heart I can recover in time for school tomorrow.
Friday: But recover I can't. I wake up Friday morning barely able to make any sound, and my feet are so bad that I can't bend my toes or see my ankle bones, and my toes are almost completely numb. I have to call into school and go to the doctor instead. I´m sure my boss feels I am hungover, which honestly, I´d rather have him think that over the truth-- that I am a sad little guiri who just can't hang. Staggering into the clinic, I tell them "Fui a Feria en Sevilla" ("I went to Feria in Sevilla") and just sort of laugh and throw up my hands as if to say what do you want me to do about it? The doctor touches my feet and through the help of the translator, tells me that it is possible that I could have a stress fracture from standing and walking so long. It is calculated that I wore wedges for over 24 hours during a 36 hour period, which is obviously obscene and completely unacceptable. Compound that with the hot heat and all the drinking and salty meats, no wonder I am currently sitting there helpless.
They order me to get an X ray and I go downstairs to get it done. My biggest fears are that 1) my feet will have to be amputated or if not 2) I'll have to use those weird polio crutches everyone uses here.
Luckily neither will be the case, as it is discovered that I don't have any stress fractures. However, I am diagnosed with tendinitis in both feet, and am prescribed a foot cream, and a special almost steroid pill for the inflammation, as well as a stomach protector when taking the steroid medicine. Because honestly, why wouldn't this happen to me? I laugh and the doctor tells me if I rest I can go back to Feria in a few days. Obviously he is joking, but I tell him that won't be happening this year. As I am exiting the building, I ask the translator if this is the weirdest thing she'll probably see all day. She laughs with me, shakes my hand, and says "absolutely."
I am a fool.
I am a potato.
I am living my life.
I am Mrs. Iglesias.
Feria de Abril in Sevilla is a festival I had been looking forward to attending, even before I made the decision to move back to Spain. Originally I tried to get placed in Sevilla, this being one of the many reasons why, however based on availability with my program was put in Madrid instead. When I was considering coming back to Spain, I consulted with one of my study abroad friends Sarah, and after being in love with her lifestyle and looking at all her pictures that year from Feria, I knew it was a bucket list item for me.
Upon return to Madrid from my Feria trip, a friend from home asked me what tradition Feria celebrates. I was honestly perplexed, and all I could respond was a confused "....April???" Sure, behind this computer screen I can take all the time in the world and look up the history, pretending like I knew the origin (a livestock fair.) However, if I were being honest, to me Feria was my excuse to dress up in a pretty dress, look like an emoji,
This is that story:
Monday: Doe-eyed and excited, I arrive to the train station (seemingly) ready for our grand adventure. My friend Kelly and her husband Jaime (you may remember them from A Hostage Situation) were already in Sevilla, and Brittany and I would be meeting up with them and many others later. Pulling into the Sevilla station around 9:30 pm, we are warmly greeted by alcohol vendors who not only give us free glasses of Manzanilla, but also take our picture with our faces in a sterotypical and I'm sure borderline offensive Spanish cut-out and won't take no for an answer when they want to give us print-outs of the photo. Great start.
In a weird state of flustered confusion, I agree to come back to her shop in an hour. The girls and I go back to the apartment, shower, do our makeup, and I continue to fume. When I go back to the shop, sans girlfriends, she still isn't finished and has a few touches to do. Prior to entering, I already made up my mind that I would be paying the rest of the balance of the dress, but due to the fact that she highly inconvenienced me, I would not be paying for the accessory shawl (60 euro value.) I put on the dress, fake contentment, and she takes it from me and I go out ready to pay.
When I hand her the rest of the money I owed her for the dress, I tell her that due to breaching contract I would be getting "mis complementos" for free. She is quite dissatisfied with this answer, and in her Argentinian accent, explains to me that this is a one of a kind dress made by hand and I would definitely be paying full value. After some interior dressing room phone calls to Kelly throwing a fit, I am ready to address my new arch-nemesis. Now, not one to typically pull the American card, I am really sick of it at this point. Knowing I could use the additional customers in the store to my advantage, I bumble through my Spanish expressing that this is not fair, and we had an agreement from over 3 months prior that the dress would be wearing ready by said date. I tell her I feel taken advantage of, and it's not fair to treat me in this manner just because "I'm American, and I'm too nice and have too much patience. If this was happening to a Spanish girl at Feria, she wouldn't be as tolerant or calm as I am being. The fact that the lights were out for one day out of 3.5 months is not my fault, it's yours. This is your business, you should know that the purpose for the trajes is for Feria." Thinking she doesn't want to scare off other customers, she defeatedly drops her argument and passed me the dress for the agreed upon cost AND the shawl for free as mandated. I am really really thankful to have received this shawl as you will find it becomes really clutch later on in this story.
So we head off to the casetas, roughly around 2:30 or 3pm, taking copious selfies and full body phots along the way. Considering that Feria is basically adult prom, and especially for a guiri, I have no shame in my photo game.
A few hours and a couple jarras of rebujito later, Kelly wants to show me and Brittany Calle de Infierno, or what would directly translate as ¨Hell Street¨. While we should heed warning given the name alone, Britt and I being adventurous yet ignorant spirits agree, and decide we will go there with Kelly. Calle de Infierno is the true Carnival section of the Feria, segregated from the tents, trajes, and normal feria activities, and pretty much reserved for children and gypsies. This very much intrigues us, so on we go. Upon arrival to the make-shift carnival, we spot several rides. While being in pretty much any form of transport besides planes makes me sick, I tell the girls the only rides I can do are roller-coaster type rides, or something that flips, but anything spinning is out of the question. Kelly spots a prize of a ride titled the Flip Fly and after watching it take off for about 20 seconds, we all agree this would be a good selection. The Flip Fly does spin slightly, but is more hammer in shape and rotates top over bottom like on a pendulum. I have confidence my weak stomach can handle this, so Kelly steps up to the booth, purchases three tickets, and on we go. Upon loading to the platform, Britt and I are giddy and laughing about how our trajes will barely tuck into the seats. I have a very difficult time reaching over my ruffles to belt myself in, and Kelly assures me that the man running the ride will obviously come over here to ensure we are secure. I hear what I think to be a click from my seatbelt but I'm not quite positive it's in. (insert 'That's what she said' joke here.) Finally, the disillusioned carnival employee comes over to us, looks at our vests and with ONE FINGER, flicks our seatbelts to make sure we are in properly. You couldn't find a more disengaged individual if you tried. So I find this all to be quite comforting.
Before we know it, the ride takes off. Things start out jovial and fun and we are giggling and chatting amongst ourselves. A word of advice to anyone at a carnival: don´t just watch the first 20 seconds of a ride before committing to it. What starts off fun quickly turns to aggressive and not enjoyable. The rickety ride gets faster and faster. What we didn't realize before was that there would be periods of complete upside-down aerial suspension at the top of the ride, where we would dangle high into the air, held up only by the life vest, our backs and butts completely off the back of the chair. Thank God that ride operator lackadaisically flicked his one finger over our seat belt to ensure we are secure.
At one point I scream, "This isn't fun anymore!" as my giant hoop earring starts whipping out of my ear and I try to catch it with my mouth, all the while holding my large flower in place. I think to myself, this is where it ends as my rubia lifeless body gets splattered on the blacktop below, traje and all. As morbid as it would be, at least I'd be going out with a bang. How much international attention would we get should one to three american girls fall out of a ride in Sevilla? More importantly, what possessed us to ride on a ride in Spain, where we had no idea what the safety standards were, let alone a pop-up makeshift carnival in Sevilla? Guiris were out of their damn minds. The result of said trauma looked something like the following:
Feeling defeated, and yet lucky to be alive, we wander back to the caseta with the boys, ready for some good ol´ R and R-- Rebujito and Raciones of course. Something about crisp alcohol and salty meats/potatoes just seems to make the world right. This continues for several more hours, only to be broken up with bitching about the heat, and practicing Sevillana dancing. Jaime's sister, Laura, who is an absolute peach, takes me under her wing and tries to teach me several of the verses. While nowhere near native status, I am told I am fairly good for a beginner (and a guiri) so maybe Rubia can fake it till she makes it. Thank God they can't see my feet.
Somewhere between hour about 5 or 7, my foot pain grows to a new level. After all, I had been in heels (well wedges, let´s call a spade a spade here) the whole previous night, and proceeded to wear them again today. Kelly, being the gracious spirit that she is, offers to swap shoes with me because as she puts it "sometimes swapping out one pain for another makes it feel better." We will be changing shoes on and off the rest of the night, regardless of the fact that her size 8 shoes don't remotely fit my size 9 feet.
Remember how I told you that whole part about the shawl accessory becoming very important later in the story? Well, here is that part. Around about 2 am, after several hours of dancing Sevillana and eating copious Spanish dishes and even dancing to my fair share of what I will refer to Spanish Linedancing, the DJ at our last castea decides to appeal to the Americans and drop some American Top 40. For any of you that know me remotely, you know that I love dancing, watching hip-hop choreography online, and love dropping it low at any opportunity, especially after a few (million) drinks. Throw in some Jason Derulo, which every song he releases is utter fire, and you have got yourself a perfect storm. As soon as I heard the opening hook of "ay yo, Jace" from Snoop, I completely lose it. Getting low is not an option; it's a necessity. Jason Derulo's Wiggle can not be played, especially on a day void of any music of which I know how to dance to, without me going 100% white girl guiri on everyone. Well it happens. On one fateful bounce down, I hear it, but more over, I feel it. Suddenly, my backside feels cooler than it should. This may or may not be due to the fact that I HAVE JUST COMPLETELY SPLIT MY DRESS OPEN IN THE ASS. For those of you that find me highly dramatic, let it be said that this is not a little tear, and that I am not blowing (excuse the pun) things out of proportion. Witnesses present can attest to the fact that the hole is about the length of my forearm, and in a panic, I have literally no idea what to do as I quickly grab each side holding it together and sit down.
Also, remember me telling you how the dress shop owner was still frantically sewing my dress when I got there? Yeah. She did a crap job. How do I know this? Because when my entire ass ripped out of my dress you can see she only tacked a few stitches along the whole part that bust open, rather than down the entire seam. So there I am, butt completely exposed, panicking in a tent full of people. Luckily, among people, there are also angels present, and a doll by the name of Marta comes to my aid, and quickly helps me hide it. She grabs my shawl from my shoulders and ties it around my waist. I don't look particularly cute, but it is better than flashing everyone. I'll pick sweatshirt around-the-waist early 90s DJ Tanner over sexual deviant any day. I honestly can't imagine what I would do had I didn't have that shawl with me. Bartering with that shop owner was one of the better decisions I've ever made for myself in life. Here below is a picture that I beg Kelly to take, to ensure you can't see my entire right ass cheek.
Now, if one would have told me ahead of time that when I went to Feria I would bust my ass open dropping it low to Jason Derulo, I wouldn't necessarily be surprised. These are the things that are fairly common place for me, so after a solid four to five minutes of wallowing, I press on and continue to participate in the fiesta, this time without dancing. Maybe sensing my defeat, Tito's precious parents buy me and Kelly caldo (broth) that is supposed to have magic heeling powers and save you from getting too drunk or hungover. Sitting down and drinking my caldo, I soon bounce up to remain social and hang out for another few hours.
A few hours later, with a bruised ego, sore feet, and tired body, I finally coerce the girls to head back to our Air B and B. We are able to hop a ride with a gem of a woman, Maria, (Jaime´s family friend) which was amazing because we don't have to walk far, yet tragic because we aren't able to stop for food. No one knows for sure, but we are probably in bed around 6 am.
Wednesday: Rebujito is the best drink ever, in that you can drink it for about 16 hours casually and wake up feeling refreshed and ready to run a marathon the next day (not that I would know because I would never run a marathon.) The girls and I slowly get ready, and Britt and I decide to ditch the trajes. They were fun while they lasted, but hot, high maintenance, and I don't feel like getting mine fixed before the day's celebrations. We opt for more breezy fashions for today-- after all, who can tell if more Jason would be playing tonight? We head over to a restaurant to fuel up before going to the casetas. We eat a smorgasbord of food, including what I affectionately describe as ¨Meat sushi¨ solely for the fact that it is meat, wrapped in more meat, and cut to look like sushi. Shout out to my Sevillanas if you can remind me of the actual term. After a few cañas and claras, we are ready to take on Feria part tres.
We arrive over to the casetas mid-day, around 4 pm. While the boys are already full steam ahead in their Rebujitos, we just aren't ready for that step yet so Britt, Kelly, and I do the next logical thing: go get ice coffee at a local shop and then proceed to have two mixed drinks or glasses of Manzanilla immediately on the heels of the coffee. Now, finally feeling energized with the most appropriate subtle buzz, we are ready to once again join the troops and commence day 3.
Jaime, jarra in hand, immediately fills up our Rebuijto glasses. He then puts the jarra in his pocket and takes the most epic picture known to man:
During the next several hours, we stretch out our empty glasses and demand Jaime to "Rebujitome!" as making up fake verbs is something I do across all languages.
Later during the night, our troop braves what might be the grossest thing I've ever walked through in my life. Because Feria is a festival with a lot of horse drawn carriages, horses are constantly walking up and down the streets. With horses, comes horse poop--and lots of it. When there is excess excrement in the street, the festival keepers find the best solution to get rid of it is to not really get rid of it at all, but rather dilute it. They take hoses and spray down the street, but since the run off has no where to go, the poop remains in water form. What will forever be known as "poop swamp", we bravely wade the puddles with various screams of disgust and horror until approaching new tents. Deep into the night, Kelly and I find it appropriate (read: certainly not at all) to take a vulgar photo which will not be shown here in front of a police van. Giggling and running away after the police started to yell after us, it is later discovered that the only way we do not get in trouble with the law is that Tito stood up for us and said something to the effect of "they are just Guiris." As always, God Bless Tito.
This night goes off without a hitch, and there is plenty of eating and dancing. At one point, I remember commenting that my feet are very swollen and getting useless, and I might as well have potato feet (reference to an earlier trip to Sevilla where at the end of the night I drunkenly claimed my hands were potatoes-- more of that probably never to come.) I do what any good guiri would do, continue to eat more meats and potatoes like a champ, and join in on my favorite Spanish line dancing. El Taxi plays probably 70493249587 times at the end of the night, but my personal favorite is the song that the DJ let me help lead (the one with the sawing motion-- friends, do you remember that one?)
Before we know it, Kelly and Jaime peace out, and I am walking home with Britt, Pepe, and their newly acquired gypsy-purchased child, Pepe Olof.
Things are really contained, sober, and responsible. I am at my prettiest, having spilled chocolate from my chocolate and churros on my dress, which quite nicely compliments the poop swap stains that have crawled up to a foot up the dress. We do have the broad daylight working for us, however, as we walk home around 7:30 or 8 am. Upon entry to the Air B and B, I immediately try to wash off my feet in the sink, which I have since found out is a thing I compulsively try to do while under the influence. Brittany makes me wash in the bidet, while she sets an alarm so we "don't miss our train."
Thursday: WE MISS OUR TRAIN. Britt frantically wakes me up to "Oh my God, Kris, we missed the train!" to which I think I just giggle, say something like "so?" and roll over: A future educator, ladies and gentleman. Finally, Britt morales me to get my ish together, and together we stagger out of the apartment walking all the way to the train station. Because I´m no longer joven (young enough for a youth pass) I have to drop about 70 Euros on a new return trip which isn't necessarily exciting, but the pain is dulled by the McDonalds snack wrap I now have in my hands. Somewhere on my journey home, I realize that my feet really hurt in my espadrilles and that they are still swollen, an unfortunate side effect from the wild three days we just experienced. This might also be a good point to mention that the three days of non-stop Feria-ing has made me void of any voice, and talking anything above a scratchy and crackling whisper is impossible. I cancel the lesson I am supposed to give later today and instead spend that afternoon in bed with my two boyfriends--Netflix and Dominos. As physically destroyed as I am, I honestly feel in my heart I can recover in time for school tomorrow.
Friday: But recover I can't. I wake up Friday morning barely able to make any sound, and my feet are so bad that I can't bend my toes or see my ankle bones, and my toes are almost completely numb. I have to call into school and go to the doctor instead. I´m sure my boss feels I am hungover, which honestly, I´d rather have him think that over the truth-- that I am a sad little guiri who just can't hang. Staggering into the clinic, I tell them "Fui a Feria en Sevilla" ("I went to Feria in Sevilla") and just sort of laugh and throw up my hands as if to say what do you want me to do about it? The doctor touches my feet and through the help of the translator, tells me that it is possible that I could have a stress fracture from standing and walking so long. It is calculated that I wore wedges for over 24 hours during a 36 hour period, which is obviously obscene and completely unacceptable. Compound that with the hot heat and all the drinking and salty meats, no wonder I am currently sitting there helpless.
They order me to get an X ray and I go downstairs to get it done. My biggest fears are that 1) my feet will have to be amputated or if not 2) I'll have to use those weird polio crutches everyone uses here.
Luckily neither will be the case, as it is discovered that I don't have any stress fractures. However, I am diagnosed with tendinitis in both feet, and am prescribed a foot cream, and a special almost steroid pill for the inflammation, as well as a stomach protector when taking the steroid medicine. Because honestly, why wouldn't this happen to me? I laugh and the doctor tells me if I rest I can go back to Feria in a few days. Obviously he is joking, but I tell him that won't be happening this year. As I am exiting the building, I ask the translator if this is the weirdest thing she'll probably see all day. She laughs with me, shakes my hand, and says "absolutely."
I am a fool.
I am a potato.
I am living my life.
I am Mrs. Iglesias.
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