"Going to another country doesn't make any difference. I've tried all that. You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another. There's nothing to that." - The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway

I'm sitting in the Plaza de la Candelaria, which is in front of the residencia. It's 9pm (or 21:00 like the locals do it) but it feels like 7pm. They are kids running around and using the plaza like a jungle jim. The adults and teens sitting around the edge of the plaza are as loud as the kids. They sit, smoke, and talk with one another while the young boys play soccer. It's loud, people are active and interacting with one another. It's something I used to see and do as a child in the Chicago suburbs. It's something, however, that you don't see anymore. It's almost like people in my hometown, or America in general, are afraid of each other. They distrust one another. This is, however, not the case in New Orleans. People sit and talk on each other's front porches. They go to one another's houses with a six-pack of Abita Amber and chill. Cadiz is almost like that but instead of front porches, they have plazas.

This feels very surreal, I've only been here for less than 24 hours and I feel like I've been picked up and dropped off in the home stretch of a horse race. Nothing stops for you so you can figure it out. You go at their pace so you better keep up.

The residencia is not bad for a dormitory. The people who work here are extremely helpful and kind. They are always happy, always smiling, always laughing at my goofiness. It's the only thing I have going for myself. I don't speak much Español and I have to resort to what I can remember from Sophomore year of high school. It’s a classic situation of I don’t speak Spanish, they don’t speak English, but somehow, we all are making it work. I can tell that they are genuinely interested in getting to know me and I the same.

Having a handle-bar mustache probably helps. In what, I don’t know. I have been getting a lot of stares since being in the Miami airport. Is it really that common in New Orleans with all the hipsters and 610 Stompers? It will be interesting to see if I get more stares when I’m back home. I guess that the Latin and Spanish women don’t like mustaches and prefer the shaved look. If the Latinas stared finding the mustache sexy, you know that every single guy here would sprout one. Everyone dresses nice and while I probably look schlubby in their eyes, I don’t really care.

One thing that I have noticed in this square is the boys who are playing soccer are wearing full soccer team kits while they play around. It’s like if kids wore full NBA uniforms for a game of pick-up basketball at Annunciation Park. I see kids wearing national team and Barcelona shirts, shorts, and socks. They even wear soccer cleats while running on the concrete. But these seven year olds have better soccer skills than me. In the states, you usually see people wearing a Yankees jersey to the game, but never baseball pants.

The residencia is now serving dinner. I can see why Spaniards eat so late. It’s almost 9:45 and I’m hand-writing this with only sunlight. As I’m writing this, a mom stands next to me. She is holding her 3 year old daughter without any pants on. The mom hangs her daughter over a tree stomp so the kid can pee.

So far, so interesting…

12:30am

This mattress I’m lying on is one of the hardest mattresses I’ve ever slept on. Even the mattress I slept on at my Uncle’s house in D.C. wasn’t this hard. I think I’m actually lying on just the box-spring. At this moment, I’ll take the half-ass, “reclining” seat I had in coach on the flight over here. Coupled this with the fact that I’m alone in a unfamiliar place, in a barren room, having jet-lag, and worrying that my work computer is now a paper weight (it died), it doesn’t make me feel relaxed to induce sleep.

There is no point in wasting energy and time worry about these things. So I’m going to finish writing this, take a melatonin, and do some laying meditation. Soon enough, it will be morning and new day!