24

For the record: I started writing this post several weeks before Semana Santa, but I never got around to completing it. Whoops. Better late than never. Just pretend that it's early March.

Following tradition, I'll start with an update on my health. Currently not sick, despite an outbreak of the black plague at my school. But in all seriousness, everyone is ill and it's only a matter of time before it strikes me down. Whatever, I'm used to it.

February was a short but busy month. Although I only work Monday through Thursday, twice a week I'm out of the house until 10 pm, and on my "short" days I arrive at around 8 pm.

I turned 24 a couple of weeks ago, on the 16th. I was lucky enough to have a birthday that fell on a Saturday. I've never been one for big birthday celebrations, mostly due to leading a quiet social life and being too chicken to invite people out to do things. Also, everyone I knew seemed to have other plans that weekend. C'est la vie. But I was graced with pleasant weather that day, and Álvaro and I tried out a typically Spanish restaurant/bar in our neighborhood and walked around a shopping center for a bit. Nothing special, but it was an overall nice day. My parents sent a coffee maker to indulge my addiction, and I treated myself to a new pair of boots. Birthdays for me have always been a rather quiet affair.

Then, as I was dreaming of springtime and short-sleeve shirts, the weather turned sour. The temperatures dropped into the low 40s and on Álvaro's birthday it snowed for a few hours.

I have turned into a snowman.

I tried to put on my "good-girlfriend pants" and buy Álvaro a birthday cake, with--erm--modest success. First, cheesecake in Spain ("tarta de queso") is a sad, sad excuse for a cheesecake. The inside was the consistency and flavor of whipped creme. Second, when asked for a name, I interpreted it as a name for the order. I didn't realize they wanted the name of the recipient.

Happy Birthday to me?

Álvaro contemplates "his" cake.