Spain, Day 26

God-Awful
Being sick in a hotel is no more comfortable than being sick at home. I woke up this morning feeling a tad less than perfect, but steeled myself to venture out to forage. I bought myself the Sunday paper, which was no more exciting than the Saturday paper, seeing as it was STILL consumed with news of the New 7 Wonders election, and then sat down to enjoy some bubbly water and toast with jelly. I read my paper cover to cover, drank my water, ate my bread, and headed back to hotel to plan how to overcome Sunday doldrum.

We all know Spaniards latch onto nap-time as a time-honored tradition and have resolved to shut down the nation for two-hours every afternoon, but this pales in comparison with their Sunday boycott on business. Other nations mirror this Sunday relaxation of work-hours but I found it painfully obvious today for two reasons: disappearance of entertainment, and loss of supermarkets, pharmacies, and other locales that pick you up when your down.

In conclusion, those who are sick on Sundays in Spain are screwed. Sadly, I was in that club. Perhaps the pathetic-ness of the day is exemplified best in the following email I sent to my dad yesterday night:

I was sick today. I just wanted to share that with you. I considered calling, but...it's very expensive to call from cell phones. Anyway, I am feeling much better, but the day was rough, especially because EVERYTHING SHUTS DOWN ON SUNDAY, so trying to find water and coke and bread (which is all that I've eaten) was tough. At about 9:30 p.m. I felt well enough to venture out to look for dinner. It was much cooler, thankfully, but I decided against dinner and opted instead for some more bread from a bakery and a can of Sprite. I trust that tomorrow will be much better.

Well, I was thinking of you and mom a lot today and just wanted to share that with you.

Love,

your son