I think my friend Canaan summed things up quite nicely when she said, "I think I'm getting too old to stay in hostels." Not everyone proscribes to this philosophy, however, as evidenced by the two silver-haired members of our dorm room, who apparently aren't a couple after all, a fact which leaves me all the more creeped out by the smelly, single, boxer short-wearing old man occupying the bed directly below mine. Then there's a young female I've dubbed Sleep All Day Girl, who, true to her name, is currently back in the room sleeping and blasting the heat as we speak. (30 degrees Celsius, I swear to Hades, the thermostat was set to 30 degrees Celsius. Which, for all the Farenheit fans out there, represents a balmy 90 degrees). My only sighting of the final member of our 6-bed dorm was last night, when she decided that the hours between midnight and 1:30 a.m. were the perfect time for reorganizing her entire life, the contents of which were contained in approximately ninety million crinkly plastic bags. Now that Canaan is gone, I can't wait to see what new species of impolite traveler they stick us with.
I left my neck pillow in the hostel in Valencia, I got holes in my tights, and sometime in the night both my towel and my mp3 player took the two-story plunge from my top bunk to the linoleum floor below. I think what I'm trying to say is, Spain is beautiful, the weather has been great, but I'm about ready to go home. Which I will be doing in approximately the longest two and a half days of my life, gah.
Ok, now I need to figure out where to go for dinner tonight. Why is my life so hard?
Vacationing is work, people, and don't you forget it.