wait, what?: Granada: Sometimes Life Throws You Expensive Curveballs... in Euros

You know those times when you've had a really badass weekend and took 1,415 pictures (literally) and have so much to tell folks and know that you should post a blog but don't want to because you just really want to take a siesta before going to that mandatory 4 o'clock movie that you're excited to see but would rather sleep through? Well, this is one of those times.

Prepare yourself, folks, because this could get long.

DAY 1: SIERRA NEVADA

We arrived in Granada after an uncomfortable but surprisingly hassle-free overnight train from Valencia. Sleep-deprived but ready to hit the slopes, we dropped our packs at Hotel Niza and caught the 10 AM bus to Sierra Nevada just in time. Somewhere along the 45-minute ride up the mountain, I vaguely remember Suz mentioning how smoothly our trip had gone so far. "Don't speak too soon," I said. "We might jinx it." Too late.

After gearing up and buying our ski passes, we hit the mountain. Never have I ever felt a more imminent death than as I did whilst skiing down the icy, vertical slope that we first encountered on the mountain. After learning that this was the bunny slope, I decided that it'd be in my best interests to lose the skis and head to the cafeteria on the top of the mountain to hide and take a nap. Though my friends assured me that I was "actually a really good skiier" and that I should "give it another go", I had to be honest with myself. I looked like a seizing giraffe going down that mountain, and no amount of reassurance could have convinced me otherwise. Thus, I made my nest next to a table full of Germans and dozed off to the sound of Lief, Hans, Fritz, and Heinrich talking about lederhosen and frankfurters. Okay, so that probably wasn't the actual topic of discussion, but it only seems fitting, right?

Sporting my neon orange "I'll never get lost in an avalanche" jacket before realizing that skiing wasn't as easy as I'd remembered

After hiding for what seemed an adequate amount of time to tell my friends that I'd gone on some "really sweet runs" and how I thoroughly enjoyed the "totally nectar" powder, I trudged back to the ski rental shop to be shamelessly ridiculed by Martín, the Argentine guy running the shop. However, the next thing my tired little eyes saw was like a cold T-Bone steak to my bruised ego:

Our own little snow angel: Dave Gutierrez

Needless to say, my mood was infinitely lightened after this little gem walked into my line of vision. Said mood was soon darkened after learning that our return bus to Granada wasn't actually returning, that there was some kind of a "blizzard" and it was too "peligroso" to drive up the "montaña"... whatever, you know I don't speak Spanish. Instead of crying, we decided to invest (I say "invest" because I now have 30 euros left to last me until March) in some swanky hotel rooms and drown our sorrows with alcohol. After some quality bonding time and copious games of F-M-K, we hit the hay and prayed that we'd make it home in the morning.

Our swanky digs with the window open to judge just how "snowed in"

we were the next morning

Will we make it down the mountain? Survey says... yes. But barely.

After a little Hallelujah chorus and free buffet breakfast, we finally headed back down the mountain towards Granada, the place that we should have been all along. Ex-shmausted and in need of some serious nappage, we collapsed in our happy little hostel beds and slept.

DAY 2: GRANADA

Before leaving America, I was given a few words of advice. You know, the usual. "Don't go anywhere alone", "stay away from those damned I-talian men", "never wear a fanny pack unless it's hidden under your shirt that looks nothing like anything someone from America might think about wearing"... yadda yadda yadda. Perhaps the only nugget of wisdom that I reallytook to heart was that concerning hostels. "They're cheap, and if you get a good one, you're fine. But if you get a bad one... you also risk getting diseases and getting kidnapped. Choose wisely."

For those of you who don't know me quite as well as others, there are a few things that I really, really don't like. One is scary movies. That's right, I unashamedly label The Witches as the scariest film I've ever seen (that means movies like Taken and Hostel have certainly never seen me in the audience), and I'd rather not think about germs. It's not that I have an irrational fear of them or anything, but it's more like a, "I can't wrap my head around why people don't accept hand sanitizer when I offer" type of thing. The other two things that make my skin crawl are Skittles and asparagus, but luckily, those are rarely found in hostels.

Anyway, I'm glad to say that my experiences with hostels thus far have been beyond great. Though I'd probably never put my parents up at Hotel Niza, it was great for us:

Suz researches fun ideas for the day in our room at Hotel Niza

After some light nappage, a few of us decided to roam around Albaicín, Granada's Moroccan neighborhood. Despite the rain and inadequate choice of footwear, we had a fun time walking through the alleyways and checking out the scene. We decided to stop in As-Sirat, a Moroccan teahouse, for some tea and culture. They seated us in a lofted area with cushioned footstools that overlooked the tiny house with pillars and colorful lamps, and we flipped through the somewhat overwhelming menu for a while before asking the waiter what he recommended. "Sueños de la Alhambra", he said. A mix of Earl Grey, cinammon, special fruits, and rose, it was the color of raspberries and was nice after a day of trudging through the rain.

The view from our lofted table at As-Sirat

Tea-time in Albaicín

After paying our bill of 2.50 each, we walked around a little bit more before deciding that we were tired and cold. We headed back to Niza for some more Hostel Lovin', characterized by some light journaling (pronounced here, "yournaling") and consumption of the worst investment of my life: the German Bread Basket. It tasted like feet marinated in pork. I'm really, really not kidding. I wish I were. But alas, my Dinosaurus cookies saved the day (per usual) and all was well in the world again.