
by Hayleigh Stewart
The other weekend, my roommates and I finally decide to step foot outside of Madrid and brave the 5-hour bus trip to Granada. We arrive at our hostel and head to our 14-bunk, co-ed hostel room. This room is the cheapest available option, complete with bunk beds and one bathroom for 14 people (because of my salary and my penchant for clothes, I would’ve slept in the kitchen had it been a euro cheaper). Before we know it, we’ve met two Canadian guys who know where to get really cheap mojitos. Jackpot!
The Canadians have been in Granada for three or four days and have already befriended someone who actually lives in Granada. I’m excited to meet a native Granadian, as I don’t have many Spanish friends and would like to practice my horrible Spanish. Unbeknownst to me, their friend is actually a very nice, 20-something Bulgarian guy who somehow speaks worse Spanish than I do. Luckily, this Bulgarian guy has hair that looks exactly like Patrick Swayze’s. The Canadians have recognized this uncanny similarity, and have nicknamed the Bulgarian guy “the Swayze”. The Bulgarian, who I have dubbed the Bulgarian Prince (BP for short), has fully embraced his nickname, and comes into the bar announcing: “the Swayze is here!” We are immediate friends.
Two or three mojitos and two shots later, my head is on my roommate’s shoulder and someone’s handing me a glass of water. Eventually, we’re somehow teleported (my memory gets a little hazy here) to a nightclub where I get a free drink and my second wind, and start dancing like one can only do in a European nightclub. My two roommates are making out on the dance floor (no, not with each other) while I’m pretending to hug one of the Canadians very closely – hoping the whole time that he doesn’t realize his essential position as the only thing that’s keeping the room from spinning completely out of control. Somehow, we all make it back to the hostel (minus the Swayze) and I head into a solid sleep.
I’m woken up by my roommates, who are reminding me about the 10:30 am walking tour we signed up for the day before. MIRK. It’s 9:00 am. I’m wearing my t-shirt and underwear in a co-ed hostel room and am using all of my brainpower to figure out how in the hell I am going to make it from the top bunk to the floor. After half-falling, half-climbing down to solid ground, I manage to put on pants and drink some water. I look in the mirror, and even though my hair looks like I’m unsuccessfully trying to grow dreadlocks, and there’s a solid layer of mascara covering my entire face, I don’t even attempt to improve my appearance before going downstairs for breakfast. At the breakfast table, every hardcore backpacker is there with an ”isn’t it great to be alive!” attitude, while I’m intensely wishing for death to put me out of my misery. I butter my bread for a solid 10 minutes before I realize that the smell of butter is making me sick. I promptly run back to the comfort of a thin mattress and the worn hostel blanket.
It’s noon when I wake up, and the only other people who are still in the room are the two Canadians from the night before. Both of them do some morning yoga out on the terrace, take showers, and get suitably dressed while I lie on my back and mentally prepare for my second descent from my bed to the ground. Finally, one of the Canadians insists I get up and helps me to the terrace so I can lie in the sun. After five minutes of some Vitamin D therapy, I manage to brush my teeth and put on a bra.
Since my roommates haven’t come back yet, I decide to accept the Canadians’ invitation to the Swayze’s apartment for breakfast. Obviously, the Bulgarian Prince wasn’t expecting mixed-company, because when he answers the door his hair is uncharacteristically rumpled, his bare bear chest is showing through his purple bathrobe, and he’s showing a little too much of his Euro-boxers.
While the Swayze takes a shower, the Canadians and I embark in a one-sided cultural-exchange. They tell me about moose-burgers, the difference between hunting with a bow-and-arrow and going to a bullfight (apparently hunting is better), and the hilarity that is Little Britain.
As we’re hanging out, I look around the BP’s apartment – it’s a very nice, clean one-bedroom with a living room and kitchen. It’s very swanky for a young person to live alone in a nice apartment in Spain. I have assumed that the BP is a student, but I start to become suspicious when I see a Russian copy of Trump 101 lying on his couch. It all makes sense when the Swayze finally emerges from the shower and tells me that his real plan is to open his own Burger Stand in Granada. Since the Swayze only speaks intermediate English, he assigns me the task of thinking up names for said burger joint.
In the midst of our breakfast of pastries, tea, ham and eggs, and bread, somehow the topic of vegetarianism is brought up.
Canadian: Yeah, I was trying to eat less meat before I came here.
Me: Me too. Especially over the summer, I was really trying to eat a lot of soy and cut down on meat, but I gave up when I came here.
Bulgarian Prince: (with a concerned look on his face, to me) You are a vegetarian?
Canadian: (trying to diffuse the situation) No, she’s not a vegetarian.
BP: You like meat?
Me: Yeah, I like meat – I just ate the ham in your eggs.
BP: (relief flooding his face) OK, then I will cook steaks and mushrooms, ok?
So, after at least five pastries and a big plate of ham and eggs each, the Swayze also cooks up four servings of steaks and mushrooms. Everyone cleans all three of their plates but me.
BP: (a proud smile) Yes, whenever I cook for girls they can never eat it all. But this isn’t even half of a Bulgarian breakfast.
Me: Not even half?
BP: Yes. Out of my family, I have an uncle, an aunt, and two cousins living in Spain. I’m the smallest one out of all of them. (The Swayze is at least 6 feet, 230 pounds)
Me: Even your aunt?
BP: Yes, she’s fuckin’ fat.
After breakfast, the four of us decide to embark on an adventure. So we get in the Swayze’s blue Mercedes and head to the caves just outside of Granada. In the mountains near Granada, there are people living in hundreds of caves (some might call them hippies). Apparently, the rule is that if you dig your own cave, you automatically own it free-and-clear. If I ever go bankrupt, the plan is to move out there and start digging.
Despite having been in a fairly-traumatizing motorcycle accident, the Prince shows no fear and insists on driving 180 km on the highway. At the time, I had no idea how fast this was in miles per hour, but was vaguely aware that my surroundings were whizzing by me at an alarming and unnatural rate. Meanwhile, the two Canadians have just been to the World Music Conference in Barcelona. While at the conference, they received a bunch of free CDs from artists all across the world. Since the only other option is the Swayze’s vast collection of John Denver CDs, we decide to show our appreciation for some lesser-known international artists and listen to the free CDs.
Before I know it, we’re all singing and dancing along to Estonian rap, while the Swayze dodges in and out of traffic at what feels like warp-speed. After a 30-minute drive that probably should’ve taken an hour, we feel like we are somewhere in the vicinity of these “cave neighborhoods”. Except, there aren’t really any gated-cave-communities, and we’re a little unsure of where to go to check out these people who we’ve now dubbed “the cave-dwellers”.
To solve the problem, we pick a random gravel road and drive until it ends. It isn’t until we get to the top of a mound of dirt, which has a chimney coming out of it, that we realize we are on top of someone’s home, not to mention on their driveway. A man and his wife have just gotten home, and simultaneously turn around to stare at our car questioningly.
The BP roles down his window. No one in the car knows Spanish.
BP: (to the man) Donde está cava? (Where is champagne?)
Me: (whispering) It’s cuevas! It’s cuevas!
BP: Donde está las cuevas? (Where is the caves?)
Man: says something in Spanish that means: The caves are everywhere, you idiot.
Canadian: (trying to diffuse the situation) Is this your cave? (points to a crappy mound of dirt)
Man: No, this is my house. (Points behind him, to a cave that actually has the facade of a stucco house).
Canadian: Oh! Muy bien! (Very good!)
There’s an awkward silence while this man contemplates the stupidity of these strangers, and then the BP springs into action to back the car out of the driveway and onto the main road. We decide to take a different tactic.
The Prince parks the car in a random gravel spot, and we all get out of the car to explore the mountains. The two Canadians might as well be mountain goats, as it takes them no time at all to leap up the cliffs. I’m kind of outdoorsy but still not in the condition to hike. Meanwhile, the Swayze is wearing purple suede driving moccasins and cursing the dirt on this mountain.
A typical conversation while climbing:
Canadian: It might be cool to live out here.
Bulgarian Prince: Why the fuck would you ever want to live here? It’s like living in a grave; you are six feet underground! There are no windows!
Me: You have a point.
Canadian: But look at the view!
Swayze: (dusting off his driving moccasins) You think you would like it, but you would become sick of these conditions in two hours. This is complete shit, to live here!
Somehow, we all manage to climb (the Swayze and I are taking turns pulling each other up) on top of a particularly high mountain ridge. We look down and see the city of Granada, the snow-capped Sierra Nevada, and the sun beginning to fade beneath the horizon. We all fall silent as we breathe in the chilly mountain air and watch the clouds turn different shades of yellow, purple and blue.
Meditative silence.
The Swayze: “What a fuckin’ nice view.”
More meditative silence.
Needless to say, the Canadians, the Swayze, and I have planned a reunion where we will all celebrate the grand opening of Granada’s one-and-only “Fuckin’ Nice Burger Joint.”

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