One, Two, Three

Spaniards consider stepping in dog poop lucky. I’ve had the pleasure of being shat on by birds and small children, but the dog poop I’ve only managed once in three years.

I stepped in a big pile the night I met Kate, who incidentally lived on a street full of poop and in a house with a dog that pooped in every rincón of it. I was on my way to catch the 5 bus towards Prado for a Halloween party being thrown by people I didn’t know well enough to actually want to go. But, I had few friends and love Halloween. As I jogged the last few meters to catch the bus, my leg jerked and slipped and I realized I was heel-deep in kakita. Nevermind, there was beer to be drunk.

Kate and I found out we were both from Chicago, big Cubbies fans and living two blocks away from each other. She was the aggressive “BE MY FRIEND OR BEWARE” type that suggested I be her wingman the following weekend.

Two weeks later, she called with a preposition: “Buy a bottle of rum. I’ll be at your house at 10 to botellón.” I had no choice but to comply. When she arrived, she came with a friend. Bearded, fluent in English and Spanish and wielding his own bottle of whiskey, I ignored him.

I intended to stay in Spain for nine months, move back home and start a journalistic career. Then, I fell in love with orange blossoms, azulejos and a very immportant puppy. Just not dog poop everywhere.