Chapter 2: In Which Everything is Overwelming and I Lose My Mind But in a Good Way

21688163_130984047636455_2539152691532689769_oY’all, I’m tiiiiiired. Or at least I was a few days ago. My jet lag set in after 5 days, which was later than I’d expected. It sucks. I think it’s gone now, as I’ve been here for 8 days and my sleep schedule is finally back to normal.

I’ll tell you this for free, though: it’s awkward realizing you did not try hard enough in your college Spanish classes, and winning the foreign language award for your high school’s graduating class in 2011 does not a fluent Spanish speaker make.

So yep. I’m tired. And I like the food but it’s also so strange? And they eat so much of it at lunch, which is at 2:30 in the afternoon…so I suddenly understand why siestas are a thing. After eating ninety potatoes, who wouldn’t need to rest? Can I just have a permanent beach siesta, please? I don’t want to walk. I don’t even want to breathe. I just want to lay here and listen to the little Spanish children running around in the street saying things I don’t understand. I like doing this, because I don’t have to try to understand them. Their words just float through one ear and land gently in my brain before floating out the other.

But honestly, I’m having a good time. I get to see the ocean every day, and I can actually swim in it. I’m taking a break from being vegetarian so I can try new foods, and I’m accidentally remembering how much I like chicken. Oops. I’ve always kinda hated palm trees, but they look nice here, and some of them are super short and squat and it’s adorable. There are old, beautiful, colorful tiles on some of the buildings and in the parks, and even the pigeons look different here. The dogs here are goofy, sometimes — I saw one man walking 8 chihuahuas at once the other night and took a photo because I’m the biggest tourist ever. I had the song California Dreamin’ stuck in my head all morning, and this afternoon someone drove by blasting it. A few days ago, some random woman was holding a bunny in her arms and yelling across the street at her friends. God knows why, but now I want to move here and start a bunny commune with my friends. This morning, I watched a man hardcore reel in a fish off the pier whilst smoking a cigar. All the flies in this entire country have decided they love me and want to make little fly houses in my hair, on my arms, and in my water glasses. Every. Single. Fly. Yesterday, one day after I’d mentioned I’d never been pooped on by a bird, a little tiny one decided to make my left arm its toilet. I guess I’ll try anything once, but I’d rate the experience 2/10, would not recommend.


The Passion of the Food

The lemon meringue pie I made in celebration of my very first "Freshly Pressed" post.


   We eat every day. We have to or we die, but you all are smart enough to know that. We eat to fill, sure, but we also eat to love.
Maybe it’s more appropriate to say we eat while we love.
   Food is the most important art form. Of course music is important, but it’s not essential to the human body. As much as I hate to admit it, neither is literature. But food, food is essential to life. Food varies between cultures, speaking to us of the ancient customs of its creators; sometimes Greek cuisine spills over into Italian, sometimes into Middle Eastern.
   Food is like love. No matter how many times we eat something we don’t like, we’ll never just stop eating. Because somewhere out there, we know something so utterly satisfying is just waiting for us. Once we find it, we want it at every meal until we die. And no matter how many times we say food is just there for nourishment, we know we’re only lying to ourselves. Food is there, just like love, to make us whole.
   We fall in love over food. We take someone out, or stay in with them, light candles, and look at them across a table filled with food. We tell them we love them over that plate of pasta, ask them to marry us after finishing our strawberry shortcake, feed each other the biggest, most beautiful cake we can find at our wedding, and hope to wake up to the smell of bacon and eggs cooking in our kitchen, our kitchen, on a Saturday morning. We crave it when we’re carrying the baby that we created out of love, we feed that baby with food from our bodies, we teach the baby, once it’s not much of a baby anymore, how to cook food. That baby, all grown up, takes its love out to eat and proposes to her after shortcake too.
   Food is love. Food creates love. Food is the never ending cycle of absolute joy and contentment.
   Food is why we live, why we laugh, and how we love.