So what happened is that we went to visit a palace in a town called Gandia. It was pouring, which made the trip quite dreary. And then las tapas decided to go to MTV's Arctic Monkey concert, for it was entirely free. Good thing money was not involved because I realized that this type of music stings my soul. Just kidding, but I definitely am not their number one or one thousandth fan. The night still claimed its worth in the encounter of interesting people and their insistence that foreigners get lessons [between songs] on all the Spanish profanity there is, the indeliberate state of being in a mosh pit and having to mosh just to survive, and the last thing deserves some sentences all its own. When our stomachs started threatening the AM drummer's thunderous beats with its grumbles, we definitely got the message and treaded the dark wet streets of Valencia in search of victuals. What we found was a small Argentenian cafe that played music from Coldplay and the Beatles (Which led to Rebecca's conundrum: Which Spanish guy wins most cool award, musically classy Waiter guy or artsy conversation partner? Dee-lemma.), lighted its cozy room with warm candles, and served delicious pasta. Waiter guy even has the same camera that I do. Next time we eat there, I plan to ask him for some tips on how to improve my lacking skittles.
[Some opening band; the Arctic Monkeys looked very stoned that night and pleaded with me not to exploit this.]
So what happened is that we went to visit a palace in a town called Gandia. It was pouring, which made the trip quite dreary. And then las tapas decided to go to MTV's Arctic Monkey concert, for it was entirely free. Good thing money was not involved because I realized that this type of music stings my soul. Just kidding, but I definitely am not their number one or one thousandth fan. The night still claimed its worth in the encounter of interesting people and their insistence that foreigners get lessons [between songs] on all the Spanish profanity there is, the indeliberate state of being in a mosh pit and having to mosh just to survive, and the last thing deserves some sentences all its own. When our stomachs started threatening the AM drummer's thunderous beats with its grumbles, we definitely got the message and treaded the dark wet streets of Valencia in search of victuals. What we found was a small Argentenian cafe that played music from Coldplay and the Beatles (Which led to Rebecca's conundrum: Which Spanish guy wins most cool award, musically classy Waiter guy or artsy conversation partner? Dee-lemma.), lighted its cozy room with warm candles, and served delicious pasta. Waiter guy even has the same camera that I do. Next time we eat there, I plan to ask him for some tips on how to improve my lacking skittles.
[Some opening band; the Arctic Monkeys looked very stoned that night and pleaded with me not to exploit this.]
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