Biking is sexy

My mountain-man roommate Oscar is overly kind and generous and the last few weeks has been letting me use his bike whenever he is out of town or just simply isn't using it. This bike is officially an legend in my world.

I have been told that the bike is older than I am. I have been told it was once used for racing. My butt has told me that its hard seat really, really hurts. A lot. My feet tell me my stylish boots aren't adequate for it's racing pedals. The cars tell me "Damn, you can almost keep up with us so I will respect your space." My knee tells me to slow down. My soul, yes my soul, tells me to keep biking.

This is a bike that is going to get me in trouble.

Why? Well, first off, it's amazzzzzzzzzingly light. It is made out of aluminum and is fancy. I swear this bike weighs around 5 pounds, if that. Via the google search I just performed, the lightest "legal" weight for a bike is 4 pounds. It could be that I have no idea how much things generally weigh but I honestly believe his bike is pushing the legal limits... I can throw it over my shoulder as easy as a purse and carry it down the stairs like a baby. On this kind of fancy racing bike you speed, shit, you fly down the road.

Sounds amazing. So, what's the problem, you ask? The problem is that I am falling in love and I am going to have to buy one. And lightweight flying bike machines are expensive.

His bike looks something like this. Yes, it's pink.

Now, we all know that I've been here since October. In the five months that have passed I have never been hit on while walking down the road. I mean, it's not all so uncommon for Spanish men to yell "guapaaa" at you as you pass by if they find you even partially attractive. Well, I've been increasingly impressed by the men here in Gijon, that they don't yell at you like a piece of meat as you walk down the road like they do in Barcelona, Jaen, etc..... Here I was thinking that they were more respectful men that didn't want to offend women by, you know, being idiots.

Well, I was wrong. Turns out they are just cowards. Because, the first day I got on this bike I got hit on three times in ten minutes. I'm not kidding. I'm not exaggerating. Three times in ten minutes! And after five months of not a peep from anyone! The second time I rode the bike I got another two, and today I got another one.

Why is this a problem? It's a problem because one of these days I am going to turn around to scream insults back at them and I am going to fall off the bike.

Wish me luck...

"Una americanada"

Sometimes, it's surprising to hear the things that come out of people's mouths.

The other day a woman in her early fifties decided to use me as her temporary psychologist. Why, I don't know. I think that sometimes, humans find more comfort and support in strangers than in friends and family. Sometimes, it's easier.

"Molly, I'm separated. I am going through my second divorce...."

I would put in my dialog, but as many conversations where I am the linguistically challenged one against a chatty monologuing Spanish woman, I usually end up saying less, little, or nothing at all.

"You know, not too long ago, divorce wasn't common in Spain. And, ooof, this is my second one! Imagine! My second!!"

"My first marriage, well, it was an American marriage, I was young and it didn't mean anything..."

.......

People all across the world keep amazing me in both positive and negative ways...

But I have to say... what is consistently the most amazing thing is how people, all over the world, think that they can say whatever the fuck they want about America and American culture, like they actually know anything about it. Yes you have been to New York City, congrats, and yes you have seen movies, but no that isn't me, that isn't my people, and that isn't my country.

In the end, it's all about big mouths and small ears.

Recoger...

I knew a few boxes of Mac n' Cheese were waiting for me being that mail office counter... as I awaited patiently for my "recoger" number to be called, I noticed a certain lady behind the counter was wearing a strange shirt. It had some soft, fuzzy looking squares on it with loose strings hanging off of each square's bottom left corner.

To my great surprise, when my number was called, I was called to her desk. That fabulously ugly shirt had English on it. And it read, "Touch me softly."

I really wish she understood...