Every Laura Has Her Day

Tap, tap, tap. "Laura!" I roll over, and flip open my phone. 8:28 am. My senora has actually woken me up almost on time today, a nice break from the 8:15 wake up calls she normally gives me. Another quick series of taps on the door. "Laura! Vamos!" I mumble something that resembles Spanish and crawl out of bed, throw on some sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and hustle my tired American body to the kitchen.

Breakfast is the same as always. My leche con cafe is fresh out of the microwave and it is in dire need of the 4 or 5 teaspoons of sugar

I quickly sprinkle into it. A blonde milkmaid smiles at me from the Natacha

buttery spread container as I plaster my two pieces of toast with the margarine, my knife digging deeper and deeper grooves into the yellow. After that, it's a quick once over each piece of toast with the apricot marmalade, and I sit quietly contemplating the ingredients of the apricot spread, while I crunch noisily into my breakfast. Too noisy. My senora speaks very softly and only seems to like making conversation when I'm crunching my hardest. So I nod and smile, finish my food, deliver my plates to the sink, and slink off to the bathroom to shower and make myself look like a slightly presentable human being.

After a quick scrub (I'm convinced that the shower is actually a time machine set on warp drive, because there is not way it's already

been 10 minutes), I brush my teeth, stroll into my room, change into something American, put my face on, and then before I know it, I'm waving good bye to my senora as I hurry out the door.

If the university weren't so far away

, and if I weren't one of those consistently late people, I might enjoy morning Salamanca a little more. But as I hustle through the streets, I do take in as many sights and sounds as I can. There's the fruit guy. And look, here's the cross walk where I have a near death experience every other day. A little ways away is bird poop sidewalk...I skirt around the shade, knowing that trees tend to hide flying poop machines. I h

ustle and bustle more, looking more American every second until I reach Piss Corner and quickly hang a left before I have to get within 100 feet of the foul odor. I learned my lesson weeks ago. I've never seen a dog at this particular cross walk, but there is always the lingering smell of urine. It makes me question the people of Spain.

Then it's off to class where I spend a glorious 3 and a half hours learning about Spanish art, culture, and how to swear like a Spanish sailor. A very good use of my time, I'd wager. After presentations and a slight panic attack as Christmas arrives in the form of an amig@ clandestin@, it's a hop, skip, and a jum

p up Calle Torre to Carrefour to stock up on snacks with Brandon. We say our bitter sweet good byes, and each of us head towards our respective casas where our senoras and food await.

I get home, say a quick "Hola, que tal?" to my senora, and then go to my room to write emails to my parents and adoring boyfriend. Around 2:45pm, Senora taps on my door and with another "vamos", I'm eating whatever concoction has been set before me. Sometimes it's potato salad with crabs, olives, artichokes, peaches, and apples. Other times, it's a vegetable puree. My favorite lunch is paella, followed closely by some sort of pasta dish. And there's always lots of bread. The second course arrives and senora takes my bowl away, and I dig in to what tends to be the meat course. Sometimes it's just ham (I hear they like it here in Spain...), and other times it's a whole fish, bon

es, spines, and all set down on my plate. We've had ribs twice in the last week, and today senora made me a special chicken breast. And of course there is salad, possibly more bread, and then it's time for postre! Manzana, sandia, or melecoton...decisions, decisions. I tend towards the sandia, since it's my senora's favorite.

Lunch talk tends to revolve around the weather or me asking a few questions about life in Spain. Every once in a while, I'll talk about what I learned in class that day, and my senora's son Jerry tends to be very enthusiastic whenever I talk. Senora tries her hardest to speak so I can understand her, but it's nice having Jerry around to fill in the gaps with a slow and loud voice.

After helping clear the table (or trying to, before Jerry or senora shoo me away), I siesta from about 3:30pm to around 6 or 6:30, depending on if and when I have plans. Then I'll normally make the 20 minute trek in t

he hot sun to the plaza where Brandon is waiting for me to go raid candy shops with him. This past week, Brandon, Ashley, and I have had a (dull) cinema class every night, so a good portion of our time has been devoted to poor, starving people, starving people being killed in the Spanish civil war, songs about the civil war, more killing and death, women who have never had orgasms, oh, and yes, more death surrounding Franco's regime. Fascinating, I know.

Then I head back to my casa for dinner with my senora, which will be served anywhere between 9:30 and 10:30 at night. After doing homework and Facebook stalking for a bit, my senora asks me what I would like. Normally my choices are between tortil

la francesa con chorizo, or microwave pizza. Or anything involving ham. I had a salad one time, but that must have been a very special occasion.

Around 11 pm, I scoot off to the Plaza to join up with my friends again. This normally involves ice cream and exploring the side streets. Every once in a while there is booze, and more often in those once in a whiles, the booze is free. One thing I'll hand to the Spaniards: they know how to drink, and they are willing to share it with anyone.

And, because I'm a grandmother, around 12 or 1 I start nodding off, so it's another (slightly slower) walk back to my casa where I fall quickly asleep, only to start the cycle over again in about 8 hours.