Tell Me Cuando

Yesterday, I woke up and couldn´t swallow. I explained to my host mother that my throat was swollen and she made me a warm pea soup for dinner last night. I also drank three glasses of sangria before dinner--it tastes dangerously like juice--and it opened up the throat a bit, even though it killed a few neurons in the process, and was a great excuse to catch up on summer gossip among the group that I´m travelling with.
Lizarran is a tapas bar that my friends and I frequent (like three times a week) and we have a favorite server, an Argentinian, who always takes really good care of us, and brings us shots of apple chupito as a thank-you for our generous American tips (Spaniards tip hardly, if at all). The sangria at Lizarran is out of this world: it has dimension and tastes like red wine plus lemonade plus sugar plus sparkling water and it comes in a botella, which is like those glass bottles in which milk used to be delivered.
The goal yesterday was to climb the side of the mountain to the castle overlooking the beach after getting "rehydrated" but we made it as far as the Esplanade. The sun was so hot and we all had a serious case of the back sweats. I am the world´s biggest lightweight and was teetering back and forth on solid ground--mountain-climbing just didn´t seem like a wise plan. Instead, we went to the beach to people-watch and take pictures of our shadows in the sand.