Where in the World is Tim?

Greetings readers,

As many of you have reminded me, I have been remiss in updating my blog. And I apologize for this, but not without an excuse. While you all wanted me to be toiling away in front of my computer detailing in amusing anecdotes about life in Barcelona, I was off creating anecdotes about living in Barcelona. Without the experiance, this blog would have to be either boring or fictitious. While I promise to keep my blog factual, I also will attempt to keep it interesting. So please sit back, relax, and enjoy the return of the Barcelona Blog.

They say the first step toward recovery is admitting you have a problem. Well my name is Tim, and I'm a Fantaholic. They don't have it in the states, or at least I've never seen it there, but here in the magic bubblegum world of Europeania there is a magical drink called Fanta Limon. For those of you who think it is just carbonated lemonaid or a lemon version of orange soda, you are wrong. Not only are you wrong, but youre going to Hell. A very special Hell.

Drinking Fanta Limon on a hot day is the equivalent to having every happy feeling you've ever had in your life come flooding back to you all at once. All of a sudden the sky is a deeper azure than Crayola can create, birds are singing, and you realize that it's ok that there is war and pain in the world because all that is needed to solve every problem is a bottle of Fanta Limon. It is the liquid equivalent to the Red Sox winning the World Series. Fanta Limon is the nectar that the Greek Gods of old would sip atop Mt. Olympus to wash down their ambrosia.

Ambrosia, as has been scientifically proven by doctors in white lab coats, is nothing more than simple North American Gummy Worms. I'm certain I don't need to point that out to anyone with at least a third grade education. At the simple mention of Gummy Worms I have known people deadset on going out clubbing change their minds so that they can get some of that wiggly goodness. I bring up these segmented specimens of spledor to juxdapose against my Fanta.

One the bottom floor of the San Jordi dorm, where I live, there is a room of utter condridiction. For one, there is a vending machine that sells beer and a full service bar. Which seems strange, seeing as how at San Jordi it is against the rules to bring alcohol onto the premises. But the hooch hypocracy is not what interests me about that room. On either side of the beer vending machine, creating a sort of hops and barley sandwich, are two other vending machines. One is pure good, the other is pure evil. One of the machines sells me my Fanta Limon, which I have just finished prasing. The other machine taunts me, it is a snack machine. In slot E7, right in the heart of the beast, is a row of Gummy Worms. I have lost no less than four Euro in pursuit of said ambrosian worms because that damned machine, which haunts my nightmares, is broken. Every so often the out of order sign (which is written in Spanish or Catalan or some such gibberish) is removed from the machine. But this does not signify that the machine is fixed. Oh no. Meerly that it is ready to feed again upon the Euros, nay the very soul, of whatever student next summons the courage to try and snach some snacks from its malevolent grip.

Devil thy name be Vending Machine.

More to come...

Tim M Lunardoni