Waking up today I realized that mixing jet lag with hangovers results in really bad hangovers. Still, I headed out to Torre del Mar, a beach town about an hour east along the coast where I might live, with Julia, the girl I'd met in Dublin who will be teaching there. I understand why some talk about the Costa del Sol with misgivings; condominiums and boxy summer homes interspersed with tacky tourist shops line the shore, popping into view around every bend and over every hill. Still, the ocean is beautiful, and the sand is black and pebbly. At this time of year, Torre del Mar seems like a retirement village in Florida in a slightly more exotic location. It's heavy on the condominium side of the, well, condominium scale. Unlike most European cities, there doesn't appear to be much about it that's old. The name suggests that there's probably a 12th-century tower somewhere, though I didn't see it. Still, there are mountains in the backdrop, a beautiful crystal-blue ocean, and old dilapidated fishing boats pulled up onto the sand. It can't be all bad. Plus, it's home to a magical electronics store that had a magical plug converter/adapter that magically made my day much better.

Coming back into Málaga, we walked around for a bit and found a place to eat. The books tend to say that the city doesn't amount to much, but I've liked what I've seen. I've already found my beloved digestive biscuits that I became addicted to while in Barcelona in July, and I've started introducing them around to others. Tomorrow I'm hitching a ride to Periana with one of the directors of the bilingual program. He lives in Málaga and offered to take me there to meet people and check out the school, so that's exciting. And on Thursday there's orientation in Málaga, so I'll get to meet all the other assistants in the area. For now, though, I'm taking it easy and enjoying the last of my extended summer.

Of hurricanes, plug converters, and wine bottles

I have officially survived a hurricane. It really wasn't that bad, but I still consider it a feat. My three flights were long, and I had the pleasure of going through security in three different airports, but I got two new stamps in my passport and met a girl who will be teaching in a town nearby while blinking myself awake in the predawn stillness of the Dublin airport. Stepping onto the plane to Málaga, I had the distinct satisfaction of knowing that, while Dublin was a chilly 46 degrees on this early morning in late-September, southern Spain surely was not.

Standing idly by the luggage conveyor belt in Málaga, I had the sinking realization that my bags hadn't managed to keep up with my country hopping. Luckily, though, I'm just an idiot who doesn't read signs. Inside the little enclosed room for non-EU bags, I threw my arms around my well-traveled pack (dubbed Sampson Blue on a previous trip), and realized that I'd brought way too much crap. Still, I managed to wrestle it onto a bus bound for the city center without impailing any other passengers. I took a somewhat intentional detour to the Málaga bus station, then hopped a cab to my hostel. Replete with two very large and very furry dogs, as well as wireless and a bar, I like this place.

I was feeling pretty impressed with myself and ready to strike out for some pre-nap walking when I realized that my computer--my brand-new, beloved little rectangle of acrylic, the one thing cheaply connecting me to the rest of the world--had the wrong plug. Clearly. The one thing I had neglected to take care of was to toss a three-prong plug converter into my bag. I fixed one of my two-prong adapters onto the plug, staring at the third prong and wondering if "grounding" was really as important as Americans seem to think it is. Spaniards, at least, didn't seem to think it was necessary, or even really that it existed. The hostel owners I asked assured me that that's what everyone did.

What does one do in such a situation? They eat cheese. I'd just bought the ridiculously good little triangles that resemble Blue Cow, so I swung open the fridge and tumbling out came an unopened bottle of white wine that had been somewhat precariously placed on a shelf on the door. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, my socks getting progressively soggier and broken glass surrounding me, I watched as the hostel owner went for his mop. It was about that time that I began to feel slightly less impressed by myself. That feeling grew a little later on when I couldn't figure out how to get out of the grocery store.

The night improved, though, when my fellow hostel guests spontaneously decided to make use of the overly-convenient hostel bar. I'm pretty sure I paid 1,50 for a glass of wine and then didn't drop a cent for the rest of the night. For people staying in hostels, they seemed pretty eager to buy rounds. So I talked travel and school over really bad, really fake sangría interspersed with random other things, and munched on Spanish apples.

The Night Before (Or, Round Number Who the Hell Knows Anymore?)

There comes a point where repetition begins to take the excitement out of things. Your heart skips fewer beats, the butterflies seem contentedly anesthetized, and the frightening thought of the unknown has shrunk to somewhere below the thought of when you will see a bagel again on the scale of things that matter (to be fair, I do really like bagels). Part of me thinks that, having now sat down to a fresh blog template the night before a flight on several occasions, some of the glitter and gut-wrenching nausea might be starting to fade. Schlepping my now-worn backpack across an ocean seems more obnoxious than romantic, and the idea of crashing in hostels with scummy bathrooms seems a bit, well, last year. Can I really be this jaded at twenty-two? Some days maybe, but in general, I don't actually think so. I still maintain that the best gift I've gotten was luggage tags. They're not as bright orange as they used to be, but I think that's kind of the point.

So tomorrow I fly to Spain, by way of a hurricane. My ultimate destination is Periana, a tiny town in the province of Málaga in Andalucía, part of southern Spain. I'll be serving as an English Language and North American Cultural (...?) Assistant for eight months through the Spanish Government. The town is known for its peaches, its olive oil, and the fact that it only has 3,500 people. I don't actually know how to get to Periana from Málaga, but hopefully that will work itself out.

Like the ones before it, this blog is probably way more self-indulgent than necessary, but my parents, at least, like being able to keep tabs on me. Plus, I've been known to be quite clever when relating my travels. So take it for what you will. A note on my awesome blog title ("Teaching! In Axarquía"): I was having some trouble thinking of a good titular phrase, but luckily my new hiking guide to the Axarquía (the area Periana is in) came in the mail today. It's cleverly titled "Walk! The Axarquía." In my suitcase right now is a copy of Bruce Chatwin's book In Patagonia, one of the first travelogues written about Patagonia. Chronologically, I guess I'm a little late with my book choices, but I'm making up for it with my titular allusion. Jake's gotten me hooked on the word "titular," by the way. So, I've got a little field guide, a little glacier, and a little exclamation--all good things.

And as for the potential for jadedness, I have to admit that I've been butterfly-y all day, I'm already anticipating my more colorful passport excited to have an even more colorful passport, and, as my Grandma reminded me tonight, I'm about to jump off into yet another adventure. And I'm fairly terrified. On the other hand, it's southern Spain; I don't think I should be all that concerned.