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.