Oregon in Spain / Oregón en España

Before I cam to Spain, I had a mental image of a sun-drenched, wind-swept earth, full of knights tilting at windmills and debonair dudes with nylon-string guitars wailing in a forlorn, quasi-Arabic syallabary. This was a land where people were always winking and laughing at some inside joke about the futility and thus innecessity of hard work; men were slapping each other on the back while slapping women on their hindparts; a land where everyone was good at spitting game and good at playing castanets.

However, I've told you enough about the deconstruction of the preconceived notions of Spain's people. Shoot, I've probably even covered the landscape enough too. Tell you the truth, it must sound like I'm just constantly bitching and moaning about how much life sucks over here. Right?

Don't answer that.

But to all my Pacific Northwesters - check this out:

Greetings from Seattledolid

Somehow, the Northwest has followed me here. All we need now is several steamships full of emigrant hipsters and a cargo tanker full of unicycles, used books, thick-rimmed lensless glasses, and flannel shirts. We'd also need to establish at least seven organic food stores. Then, such as this following artsy picture shows, we'll be totally ready to write spoken-word poetry about the gloomy gray skies and perform it in a hip coffee shop, run by a failed bassist with 1890s-U.S. President mutton chops. Maybe, soon, between the espressos and the organic, range-free, egg-white omlettes, we'll even be able to play a worn, 1974 edition of the board game Clue, just because, like, it's so much better than the new updated version, before Colonel Mustard totally sold out.

This street represents the futility of existence. Calle Godot.

So as you can see, Spain also has shit weather in late April. Where are my goddamn palm trees?