September 2006 Archives

I wonder if someone has to be dead before I can love them.

I wonder if I have to be dead for someone to love me.

Oct 18, 2004

To Whom it May Concern: This letter is regarding my psychotherapy patient, Ms. Lina [Redacted]. Due to Ms. [Redacted]'s psychological issues of depression and anxiety, I believe it would be important and helpful for her if she can fly with her pet "Cookie" on her flight back east. This would make her more comfortable and psychologically secure. Thank you for being sensitive to my client's needs and I'm certain this will make her trip much more enjoyable.

Sincerely,

[Name Redacted], LCSW

The second day of my trip, I went on a walking food and wine tour of Madrid. (WalksOfSpain.com) We went to an a historical Madrid tavern, a traditional Madrid restaurant where we had Paella and meat that we cooked ourselves on a large, hot brick, andwine bar where I had the best jamon of my life. As a fan of jamon, this is no small statement. On a side note, do you remember The Heat of the Meat, when I smuggled ham out of Spain on my last trip?

Anyway, the tour was amazing as it focused primarily on eating and drinking rather than walking. I'll always choose the former over the latter given the opportunity. It was a beautiful kickoff to a trip that consisted of very little other than eating and drinking. Near the end of our trip, we went out with the tour guide, Andres, who is now my best friend. He took us to 6 or 7 tapas joints and peer pressured us into eating things Americans usually spit out into their napkins. He even introduced us to his friend, Dr. Love.

Things I ate in Spain:

There are big differences between prostitutes in Madrid and San Francisco. In Madrid, for one, they are attractive. They don't really dress like the prostitutes in the US. They dress like women who have abandonment issues relating to their fathers, yes, but they don't wear clear heels or show nipple nearly as often. They do look like whores, of course, but so does the rest of the population.

We've been playing a game called "whore or Spaniard." Sitting at any number of tapas bars, we watch the women walk by, and try and determine who is, indeed, a whore. It's much harder than you might think, as the women here are very intent on making sure that everyone knows that they are in the posession of tits and ass, despite any sort of cellulite on said T&A. I've come up with a point system--black hair, for example, gives a woman +4, as the majority of the prostitutes seem to be dark-eyed Gypsies.

Today I am on to Granada, where if the last few days have been any indication, I will stuff my face and speak in broken Spanish. The only things I know how to say so far: "ham" and "I am not, but my friend is very drunk."