Day 21

Hey, look over here at the roof. Let’s climb up it.
Not my smartest moment, but potentially my most brilliant.

My lasses and our new English boy-toys followed me over the hand rail as we crept to the peak of the Oasis Hostel roof. Not only because we weren’t tired, but also because one of them was dreadfully cute, and we just couldn’t decide if he was into girls or not.

Saturday night was long behind us and by the time I realized it was Sunday, I was perched like a pigeon, file-line along the shingled rooftop, legs dangling and gleaming out towards Granada, or rather, the space in Granada between the rooftops and Heaven. It’s a shame we don’t see more cities in this way.

But in any case, by the time I realized it was Sunday (!!!) I was very much stuck in one place, with the whole slew of us trying to remain covered by the lone blanket that belonged to the brit on my left. We clumped together (like pigeons) and talked in obnoxious Irish/English/American accents about our past adventures and our future destinations and how America totally owned England in the American Revolution, and how Ireland totally did too. And how Britain has little-man-syndrome. And bread.

Bread. Random, right? Not so much. It was officially Sunday, remember. And the moment I realized I could run down the (roof shingles) stairs and scrounge around the hostel for bread, I was tangled in a mess of wool blanket and human legs. Thus, I weighed my options and the expected outcomes if I were to

A. Leap up and make a bolt for the door to the roof, satisfy my intense craving, consequently sending my new friends down the roof and to their “When In Rome…” death, or
B. Wait it out till morning, or at least when we all ventured back down together.

After much debating I resigned with choice B.

But my girls knew what was up. And as a result, the story of the Bread Blog surfaced. I explained my little idea of self-sacrifice and atonement, and how much bread has been a part of my life. One of the gents challenged it:

Him (I don’t recall his name, but I’ll always remember him): Bread doesn’t seem to be hard to live without.
Me: For me it is, I really love it a lot.
Him: Why give something up if you really love it so?
Me: I guess just to see if I could do it at all.
Him: You make no sense you crazy American. But it’s kind of like that movie, Forest Gump?
Me: I do not follow. Please explain.
Him: Well, he has a whole “life crisis” and so he goes, “well, I wanted to run, so I just ran”, and all of them goes, “Run Forest, Run!”
Me: Am I Forest Gump in this analogy?
Him: Ahem, yes. Yes you are. Eat bread Liz, eat bread!

*All pigeons stooped on the perch join in.

I am not kidding. This conversation did happen. Give or take a few words, by this point it was 5am and no one was speaking coherently.
We contemplated staying awake till the sun rose, but after I established the Christmas Theory (the sooner you fall asleep, the sooner Santa comes), I decided I wanted to pass out PRONTO, so that bread would come sooner. At this point we all turned to the east, and imagined the most beautiful sunrise, went “Awhhh….” And then leaned backwards and shimmied on down.

The next morning, breakfast was complementary, and I ate 4 pieces of toast with Spanish knock-off Nutella.

**I know this post did not contain a lot of DIRECT bread material, however, I’m realizing more and more, the anticipation is sometimes more pleasing than the climax. Interpret as you will.