huck

Right before I left, we had real, tasty horchata at what appeared to be the spanish equivalent of a Dairy Queen. Made with a special nut found only in this region, this ain’t your grandma’s horchata.

Paloma showed me all around her hometown, a place that, up until my arrival, had only existed in my mind as vague images I had assembled during our time as roommates. I imagined smoky, sketchy Spaniards arguing in the streets while cars careened into one another and crazy garage pop blared everywhere under the dim lamplights of impossibly old architecture. I wasn’t far off.

Highlights included Paloma’s fave building, the Rialto, and the giant, colorful market where I saw more obscure animal parts for sale than Fiesta has ever come close to selling.

Just a sleepy little town on the Spanish-French border. A handful of tourists wandered around, apparently disoriented, while I nibbled on a bocadillo y chorizo and waited for my connecting train.

We ended our evening eating Gnutella, dark chocolate niblets, and talking about our periods.

Just like back home.

So evidently, this guy, known as Johnny Halliday, is the “French Elvis”. To me, he looks like the unholy progeny of The Fonz, David Hasslehoff, and post-plastic surgery Kenny Rogers. Sacrè bleu!