Tell Me Cuando

Last night, Kelly and I were secretly watching Season 3 of The Golden Girls in our room in English. After catching us and making us switch it to dubbed Spanish, our host mom left us in homesick misery.

I’m done with Alicante.
I’m done with the polluted Postiguet Beach, with its cigarette butts and trash-littered sands.
I’m done with the Puerto and its discotecs that play bad music much of the night.
I’m done with the esplanade’s overpriced restaurants and annoying street vendors and shadeless marble benches that burn my legs when I sit down.
I’m so done with the creepy men that haunt me night and day (as early as 8:30 am on the bus ride to school).
I’m done with the pervading smell of sewer gas and feces that hits me at unexpected moments throughout the day, beginning with the second I exit my apartment building in the morning.
I’m done with being scared for my life and well-being at night—several people I know have gotten robbed or assaulted for no apparent reason.
After seeing Granada, Barcelona and Rome, I don’t understand how Alicante is a tourist destination—it certainly isn’t cultural tourism. I haven’t seen a single museum in this town. My friends and I were running in the direction of an indoor shopping center during a sandstorm last week, and the smell of poop—everywhere and nowhere—almost knocked us out as we realized that we were climbing a hill of manure. If I could build a monument of Alicante to burn in the hogueras this week, it would be a hill of manure, a monte de mierda.

Since writing this entry, I have found a really great pizzeria nestled in a back alley between the esplanade and bars, and it has made my final week in Alicante much happier. I’ve also had some sleep.