As I was getting dressed after dinner last night- a delightful Guiso made with fish, potatoes carrots and tomato sauce - my host mother, Raquel, passed by the bathroom, peeks in and says to me: "Don't get too pretty or you'll kill all the boys in el barrio".
"El barrio", as they call it here in beautiful Alicante, is the older part of the city - downtown, if you will. It's where the majority of the bars are located, where they will burn the very first sculpture during la festival de las fallas, where all the cool cats hang out... Naturally, I've spent a good about of time there and will continue to do so.
Spain, my friends, is good for me in so many ways. It allows me to practice my Spanish skills, submit myself to experiences within a new and exciting culture, and it is blowing up my ego like America just can't quite do. I step out in my shorts, con piernas sun-kissed and glistening and I am unstoppable. These light eyed caballeros have no idea the havoc I intend unleash. They don't call me peligrosa for nothing.
With this uncovered sense of awesomeness that had been dormant since my days in Salamanca, I woke up this morning and walked with Juan - another student staying in Raquel's apartment - to his colegio as a way to sort of get myself acquainted with the city. I've located a Desigual (OBVIOUSLY!), a Corté Ingles (A Spanish type of Macy's), tons of pharmacies and, to my delight, a firehouse. Why, you ask, is it so delightful for one to come across a regular ol' firehouse? Well, mis amigos, it's because early in the mornings the bomberos go out running - many bare-chested, all in lovely thigh-bearing short shorts.
Silly is the girl who sleeps in for she misses the running of the bomberos. Forget Pamplona and the running of the Bulls, I'll get my kicks in Alicante.
os mando un besito y sueños dulces de bomberos españoles.
(sending you a big ol juicy kiss and sweet dreams of spanish bomberos)
Amanda.
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