Vodka caramel chupitos. Stumbling home in zara booties and on cobble stones. Really attractive security guards. Giant 4am salami pizza slices for 3 euros each. Free champagne. Too much tequila. That Shakira world cup song everywhere. Salsa dancing. Spanish version of timmy trumpet playing his sax in the club.
All the nights seem to blur into one and sometimes it seems like one long random adventure that doesn't seem to stop. When the sun sets and the bar starts filling up it's a guarantee the night-walking shenanigans and series of unexpected meetings will begin. The drinks keep coming and the real spanish lessons get underway.
The alcohol is liquid courage and every night you get this feeling of invincibility. There's also that unfounded belief that you're the centre of the universe and everybody is fascinated in hearing your drunken rambling, especially if it's broken spanglish.
But you meet more people than you remember meeting drunk here than in Sydney, it's almost like you have an alias and the dangerous feeling that there aren't going to be consequences. Anyhow when the sun rises again the next day it makes an appearance long enough for you to recover just in time to do it all over again.
Here in Spain the week days don't mean the weekend partying is over, the week is one long weekend that dips into the next. Sundays are recovery days and even then not for everybody. The most interesting part of every night are the people, the endless streams of random encounters with the guy who makes our pizzas or the Argentinian that worked at our hostel or the old Australian guy who frequents our regular bar. There's the girl on holiday from Sweden, the Irish musicians just passing through and the never ending supply of Erasmus students from all over.
And that's just Málaga. Granada is coming up, weekends in Torremolinos and trips to Marbella, Nerja and Cadiz.
The days are cafe con leche in the sun, menu del dia and recounting epic adventures while simultaneously planning more. They're spanish classes and walking home along the beach, afternoon siestas and mid-morning skype sessions.
And the nights, well they're everything in that stupid Ricky Martin song about the crazy life.