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Sleeping in Catalunya
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Barcelona and I aren't related.  We aren't long lost twins, suddenly reunited.  We have not been secretly longing for each other, falling into one another's arms upon meeting.  We are more like two wary teenaged boys wanting the same girl, circling and circling each other trying to find out why.

I didn't know we had such an uneasy relationship.  In fact, I thought that we would get along splendidly because I'm great pals with Spain's cousin Mexico.  Mexico and I are like "this."  We bonded after a disasterous first date in Ensenada, but after that, we wrote loe letters to each other.

Spain seems to often be trying to channel Mexico, but Spain is not Mexico.  Spain has strange habits, such as staying up way too late.  I think Spain needs a sleep intervention, like, now.  What in the hell is this dinner at 10, 11, 12?  Hasn't Spain been watching Oprah?  Doesn't Spain know that it needs to have a clean, pure stomach before it goes to sleep?

And because of this late dinner eating, there is the late lunch eating, and the weird sleeping in the day, the time that stuff is supposed to get done.  The Spanish need to be more like the French, as far as I'm concerned.  Or the Amish.

I feel drugged.  I feel as though someone has been beating me over the head with Iberian pork, repeatedly.  I slog to consciousness, even on the mornings that we've decided to buck the Spanish trend and call tapas dinner.  How does this country get anything accomplished?  I'm ready to work around 2 am right now, but I don't want to wake up Michael, who has fallen right into place here.  Clearly, he's been talking to Spain behind my back.

But I feel like there is a chance for Spain and me.  It's not going to be easy, given the sleeping thing and Spain's penchant for bivalves.  The pork is winning me over.  The ham.  The weather.  Maybe we can be friends after all.