Weekend!

We stayed out until 7:00 AM on Sunday night/Monday morning. It has to be the latest I’ve ever stayed out in my life. On Sundays, we only work through lunch service as the restaurant is closed Sunday evening. Unlike most restaurant schedules, we have a true weekend. Sunday afternoon, Monday and Tuesday equal a traditional Friday afternoon through Sunday. We are back at it Wednesday morning. It amounts to 73 hours in five days.

Some of our flatmates, Arnoldo, Maria, Florencia, Amir, Palafox, Borja, Leandro, and I, started the evening with tapas at a small bar, Epel, down the street from our flat. The small, dingy and fluorescent-lit space was completely packed. It was 11:00 on a Sunday night and people of all ages were still out, eating and socializing with no intention of going home. I told my flatmates that I had never had dinner so late and that I was shocked that on a Sunday evening people would still be out. My flatmates made fun of and laughed at me. Americans eat so early, they exclaimed! Even old people in Spain eat and stay out late. What was wrong with us?

We ordered delicious meatballs, Albondigas, sitting in a small layer of fat that never congealed and was sopped up by dense, moist pieces of baguette. We had fried potato wedges covered in mayonnaise and ketchup and creamy croquetas that I would subsist on for the rest of my life if I could. San Miguels were in no short supply. At this rate, I might return to the United States looking like I did when I got back from being abroad in Aix, like une petite vache or a little cow as my host mother called me.

After we finished eating, we went to a small bar that had a pool table and table soccer. The bartender, Nia knows all of my flatmates and speaks very limited English. She looked like an East Village transplant—slightly hipsterish with multiple facial piercings hair that was both bleached and died black. She made a deal with me—she would help me learn Spanish if and I would help her learn English. She knows far more English than I do Spanish. She gave me a strawberry lollipop before we left.

We spent the rest of the evening and morning in San Sebastian. The city is stunning. The architecture reminds me of Paris. It is romantic and soft and elegant and in certain pockets, on certain bridges, you stand over the ocean. There is one bar in San Sebastian where all of the cooks from our kitchen go, Tastas, and every cook was out. It is clear that everyone knows that I am American, because I couldn’t move an inch without someone saying, “Hello, how are you?” in a very thick, heavy Spanish accent and then laughing like they had made a joke.

After Tastas we went to a disco bar, a discotheque, essentially a club that was right on the beach. I felt like I was in college and had a moment with myself that I was too old to be doing this. The age range of the cooks spans (on average) 21-34, but it seems that there are fewer of us on the higher end of this spectrum. But for however old I may have felt, I had a great time. It was nice to be out of the kitchen and to able to talk with people (those that I could communicate with) outside of the primeras group. We are not permitted to talk in the kitchen (aside from necessary, fundamental communication regarding work), so it felt good to let loose and get to know people on a personal level.

I couldn’t believe that we walked through our flat door at 6:59 in the morning and again, my flatmates laughed at my disbelief. It’s not late! This is normal! It felt anything but…

We got up at 1:30 in the afternoon. I felt incredibly disoriented and anxious. I am so accustomed to getting up early in the morning, doing errands, laundry and being productive, so to speak. My flatmates were leisurely. They made a large meal of pasta, salmon, broccoli and onions. I pulled out my yogurt and museli and Arnoldo asked what I was doing. I told him I was eating breakfast. “You are part of this family now and we eat together.” They are lovely people. And again, they laughed at me. Flo told me I have to relax and stop being so “American.”