Me: ¿Día de Gracias? ¡Fue anoche! El 22 de noviembre.
Jordi: ¿QUE?!?!?!?! No puede ser. Es en diciembre.
Me: ¿DÍA DE GRACIAS? Hombre, es en noviembre.
Jordi: No no no. Estoy hablando del día en que coméis pavo.
Me: Ehhhh...SÍ es en noviembre. Te digo que fue ayer y no tiene nada que ver con Navidad.
Jordi: (pause) Guau. No lo sabía. Creía que era parte de las celebraciones navideñas.
Jaja. Despite the general lack of information and interest with respect to Thanksgiving festivities here (I supposed Spain is excused considering Día de Gracias is a holiday rather exclusive to the United States after all), we managed to still carry out a few traditions. Our study abroad program put on a dinner for us at Hotel Espanya, complete with real American Thanksgiving food. There was a large turkey for about every four or five people (lucky me, I was sitting with two vegetarians), mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet potatoes, veggies (though drenched in olive oil; there had to be Spanish tinges somewhere), and even cranberry sauce. Also included was unlimited wine (therefore it was so cheap even I, the inexperienced wine degenerate, could tell), water (this is actually a big deal), cava bubbly, as well as apple pie and ice cream to finish off the delectable night.
Staying true to our American roots and also realizing this could be our only opportunity at real meat all year, WE STUFFED OUR FACES. I'm quite certain my stomach no longer possesses the stretching capacity it did as, say, in the summer, but it definitely got some exercise Thursday night (and I'm not talking sit-ups).
Unfortunately, in these parts, dinner occurs at 9 o'clock at night, meaning dessert wasn't served until about 11:40. Oh yeah, the metro closes at midnight. For those of us too poor for taxis, with no friends with cars, and too far to walk, we had no other option. Si and I scarfed down the pie and ice cream, gulped the cava, and bolted. Every few seconds, we'd pick up the pace and jog a bit down Las Ramblas. But with such overly full stomachs, it hurt. Nonetheless, the minutes were flying by and we were still not on the metro. The clock struck 11:58 and thus commenced our full sprint down the hallway of the Catalunya metro station, in our dresses and bulky winter jackets and as of yet, undigested dinner. I haven't moved that fast since Chris Westling sprung his hamster on me. We scrambled up the stairs and reached the platform just in time.
To see the last metro drive away, that is.
I guess it was about time. We were due for a frenetic extravaganza anyway. We sat down dejectedly, sweaty, red in the face, and fearful of turkey resurrections. With no Plan B, Sierra convinced me to wait it out, hoping for one last last metro finishing its line. Sure enough, 30 minutes later, a glorious train pulled up and took us swiftly to Placa de Sants. Needless to say, we were thankful for more reasons than one that night. Foof.