Old habits die hard...

So, though I spent a good deal of time relegating Iberia to the second world, I really need to take the time to highlight my host mom and her gullery.

Conchi, while Iberian, has Negro tendencies that are right up my alley (no Lance Bass). Loves to laugh, bullshit, fry things and chill. As far as her momliness, she’s right up there with Bern, Comfort and the rest of the No Limit Soldiers. Though one could argue that she was paid to do a service, I’d argue that she did more than was necessary and that “one” needs some Jesus in their life.

My meals, however peculiar, we always nutritious (somehow) and plentiful. And her tortilla? Stop playin’. Only once did I rebel against the cuisine (I’m very picky about my seafood and said pickiness increases when it is topped with bacon and left on the counter overnight). Never once did I eat tuna flan, a fact which some of my fellow comrades in studies cannot say they are party to. 

She saved me twice– Once because I was too inept to operate the front door (Sidebar 1: I don’t know what the deal is, but apparently the idea of a doorknob that works in conjunction with the locking mechanism has not reached that part of the globe) and another time, she left a party to come rescue a stranded Boy Wonder, then brought me back to said party to drink and eat paella. What? Did I mention she washed, ironed and folded all my laundry? Draws and socks included?

Our conversations were generally hilarious seeing as I butchered her language and she only knows how to say “How are you?” en ingles (word to my Salamancan duns). Though there were more than a few occasions were I smiled and nodded dumbly (Sidebar 2: One thing that’s tough about castellano {act like you know something} is detecting the inflection differentiation between statements and questions, especially if the speaker is not looking directly at you. It’s kinda like being on stage wondering why no one is talking only to realize it’s supposed to be you), we understood each other pretty well. The phone however was usually a complete disaster as I consistently won the Depends Geriatric ” The phone is small so I must have to shout and say “huh?” a lot” Memorial Cup.

Truly I have to give her at least partial credit for getting me out of the house on my own when I first arrived. She didn’t so much encourage me as she called me half a vag for not doing so. When a lady in her 50s leaves before you, comes in after you, and then heckles you about this fact, it can be extremely motivational.

Now, lest you think the above describes any matriarch you know, you should be made aware that she hunts. Large animals. Birds, Her living room is a taxodermists wet dream. Birds, bucks, a boar, quills of some sort; she’s thorough. In fact, one day, she proudly pulled a baby deer head out of the freezer while making my lunch (which was, thankfully, not the baby deer head). I have a macabre respect for a woman who dutifully irons my socks while having the ability to gun me down at long range. Oh, and she didn’t give a fuck that I was Black either, which was cool. Step your game up June Cleaver. Peace to San Rafaela Ybarra.

Penultimate Thought: The Air Tuned Max is THE Nike running shoe in Europe.

Final Thought: I rode bitch in a plane for 9 hours and got up to pee once. Gully.

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