Granada

We are sitting in the lobby eating giant pieces of watermelon with the French sailor and the Swiss student. The hostel is named "Funky Backpacker". The name glows with the awkwardness of a term past it´s prime when said in any sentence--but particulary when that sentence is in Spanish.

The Turkish-Australian is arguing with the hostel staff with his full backpack. I´m not paying attention. Melon juice is making sticky-clean streaks on my sandals, that are still filthy from the festival the night before. At the Feria, I learned that Spanish grannys and children in strollers can party harder than me. We left at 4am but the flamenco continued.

Three English-speakers appear in the lobby. The boy is gangly, blond, in tiny, pink shorts and an undersized white t-shirt. He stands like a child grown sick of the beach. One girl is in a neon, Aztec-patterned dress and red leggwarmers the length of her shins above her flip-flops, while the other has a bluebird tattoo prominant on her chest. I realize they are the same people I heard behind me in the kitchen earlier--prior to their change in costume. One was recommending that the others talk to their therapists about "sleep aids".

Now the staff is telling them about the market. Bluebird tattoo is asking where she can buy "those Hammer pants". She is not understood. "The ones with the tappered legs, but the crapper crotch."

It´s 36C outside.

Two days later, I will be wearing the same sandals on the wrong side of a river from Capileria while we watch thunder amassing in the mountains.