paris.

In February we went to Paris. We stayed in a hotel in the Bastille. We would be there for a week, all 60 of us, and then we would have a week for individual travel. Chastity and Rose and I were going to Spain, and Preston was coming, too, because Chastity and Rose had invited him when they were drunk. Preston had said that he and I were good friends, and so they had invited him. 

There was another problem in addition to Preston's coming along, and it was that Chastity and Rose and I did not, as of yet, have tickets for our flights. These were still the days where you bought paper tickets and had them sent to you, and the tickets had been sent to my father, who had in turn sent them to us, but the French post office was always on strike, and so the tickets had not arrived. 

These were still the days where you needed tickets in hand to get on the flight, so we hoped things were going to start coming together very soon. Our plan was to throw ourselves in the foyer of the Air France offices in Paris, show them our receipts, and cry until they let us take the plane. Otherwise Preston would be enjoying a very nice stay in Barcelona, alone, in a four person apartment in La Rambla. 

which side of the bed do you want?

Rose and Chastity and I were optimistic, so we packed for Paris, Spain, and the tropics. Rose, being very small, managed to fit everything in a bulky duffel bag. But Chastity and I both struggle with self-control, and so our suitcases were almost as heavy as when we had first brought them to France.

I had been laughed at by my host family every time I went away on a trip, and thought I had developed a thick skin, but I did feel a tad idiotic as Chastity and I, the last two to get everything off the bus, rolled our caravan of Samsonite, L.L. Bean, and Vera Bradley into the lobby, getting stuck in the revolving doors, dropping a purse here, an umbrella there, and finally piling it all in a five foot stack while our classmates watched with jaws agape.

Rose and Dee-Dee had been assigned to a triple room with one of their boarding school classmates, and Bonne was in a phase of trying to impress our rival clique; the blase, world-weary smokers, who worshipped Janine. Olivia and some of the other girls were grouped together in fours, which left Chastity and I to be paired with a fellow odd-couple.

Caitlin and Chloe were two large, brooding outcasts; they had banded together in solidarity early on and their relationship over the course of the year was rumored to have reached quite the level of intensity. I could certainly see why the rumors began, and I wasn't looking forward to any more evidence. Both girls were unfriendly to begin with, and when they were together the energy became a trifle threatening. So it was with trepidation that Chastity and I followed them into our chambers, to see two beds, a double next to a single in the corner, and a cot on the other side of the room.

Caitlin immediately approached the double and set her purse upon it. She turned to Chloe.

"Which side of the bed do you want?" She asked.

"I'll take the cot!!" I yelled, running to it as fast as I could.

Chastity dropped her bag on the single, ashen-faced.

"Poor sap," I thought. "I'll buy her a glass of wine."

And as quickly as we had entered we escaped again, tumbling over each other down the stairs out onto the chilly streets of Paris.

The Bastille was an unfamiliar neighborhood and we had no idea where to go for food, but after circling the block a few times and then following the Seine toward what looked like an area of more activity, we found ourselves in a smoky cafe that opened up into a jazz bar and restaurant.

As the band tuned their instruments onstage, we were led into a cozy room with bookshelves and paintings lining the red velvet walls. In Rennes there would have been a hush as we entered, followed by whispers and quizzical stares, but here the conversations taking place were too riveting for the other patrons to notice, much less critique, our presence.

After much deliberation, we ordered a bottle of red wine and two heaping salads, both of which were presented to us with a flourish. I tasted the Merlot and nodded thoughtfully; it will do. We raised our glasses in a toast and sipped them with a smile, we discussed, we reminisced, we basked in the glory of the moment.

By the end of the meal both of our bowls and the bottle were empty, our cheeks were rosy and flushed, and the world was as it should be when you are young and in Paris. The jazz band was in full swing, and we stopped on our way out to listen to a few numbers, exchanging cigarettes and smiles and jostling shoulders with the Parisians in a friendly sort of way.

We returned to the cold streets and darted across an intersection to a more lively area, where an Irish pub beckoned. The bartender was named John, from Boston, and when I told him I was going to Wellesley, he laughed, "Oh, a Wellesley girl!"

Before long, we were deep in conversation with a number of ex-patriates. One, a middle aged black man who lived down the road, had been there seven years but still went back and forth to the States. He knew the area Chastity was from, he was even familiar with New Hampshire. I remembered how incredibly foreign Paris had once seemed to me; now, it was like coming half-way home.

ou est jean?

There was a make-up shop on the Champs Elysses with balloons and streamers and a red-carpet out front. A sign overhead advertised "Une Soir Avec Jean Reno!!"

We had no idea who Jean was, but that didn't stop us from milling through the store with the rest of the excited crowd. "Jean?" We all murmured, tapping people on shoulders and looking each other up and down. "Jean Reno?"

It was on our third go-round that security finally informed everyone present that Jean had long since gone home.

Dejected, the rest of the crowd began to disperse. But we weren't budging until we saw….

"Jean!!!" We were still yelling half an hour later to the bemused doormen, "Ou est Jean? Je veux voir Jean!!"

A new crowd, their curiosity piqued by the red carpet and our high-volume demonstration, had gathered. Perhaps for the sake of a good laugh, the doormen hadn't bothered to let these ones know that Jean was long gone. We decided to provide additional entertainment to their night.

As the new crowd milled and murmured "Jean? Jean Reno?" our group sidled closer to the doorway. Preston and I guarded Dee-Dee as she slipped her jacket hood over her head, and Rose and Chastity took her by the arm.

Nonchalantly, Preston and I stepped aside as the two make-shift bodyguards broke from behind us and hustled the hooded form down the red carpet toward the street.

"C'est lui!!! C'est Jean!!!" Preston and I yelled, running behind them. "He's going to his car!!"

Apparently we had underestimated the popularity of the French actor, because a mob of people appeared from nowhere. Caught in the middle of the clamoring swarm, Preston and I joined hands and broke free into a nearby alley, where we tried to call a warning to our comrades. Blissfully unaware of their following, they had relaxed into a slow saunter down the sidewalk.

It was not until an ardent fan tapped "Jean" on the shoulder for an autograph that she turned around, saw the size of her fan base, and panicked. Abandoning the arms of Rose and Chastity, she took off in a sprint down le Champs, with the rest of us in hot pursuit.

The whole caravan was halfway to the Arc de Triomphe before Dee-Dee finally realized what would save her; in the distance, we saw the hood come off and a flash of blonde hair, and the crowd let up a collective groan.

the grasshopper and the ant.

At the corner of Rue Montmartre, we met up with Dee-Dee, whose dinner alone had ended up in two Kirs and two beers. Consequently she was having a bit too good of a time with life in general. During the play, she kept finding humor in the least funny of situations. Especially when my runny nose called for desperate measures.

"Hey," I elbowed her as the lights dimmed. She was busy spying on the other members of the audience.

"Looook at Janine and Asher!" She squealed, grabbing my arm. "They're totally flirting! Oh Anne, isn't it a beautiful thing, l'amour?!!" She sighed dramatically.

"Yeah, look, I need you to do me a favor, can you ask the other people in the row if they have a tissue?"

She assessed the situation and then demanded, just as a hush fell over the theatre,

"Does anybody have a tissue for Anne Scott's runny nose?!!!"

"Great timing, Dee-Dee," I muttered from my hiding spot behind my program as she collapsed into giggles.

"Dee-Dee, are you drunk?!" Chastity hissed from my other side.

"Dee-Dee's always drunk," Rose said.

"Look at the grasshopper!" Dee-Dee yelled.

The play turned out to be long and monotonous, and perhaps as a consolation the ever benevolent Don Henley decided to extend our curfew. This could mean only one destination; le Champs. We girls took off, with Preston, abandoned by his coke-seeking friends, in hot pursuit.

“You guyyyys!!!” The nasaly cry was unescapable.

His presence almost prevented us from getting into an up and coming salsa club, for which we would have been eternally resentful. However, just as the bouncer was starting to turn us away, a great caucous of car horns and shouting went up on the Champs. It was the Moroccans, of which there are a great many in Paris, who had just won the world cup.

Consequently, a barrage of dark-skinned men were flooding out of the bars and onto the streets, jumping on car hoods, smashing bottles against anything that came in their way, and setting fires in alleyways as they danced around twirling the Moroccan flag. Traffic was at a standstill; in the distance, the ominous Parisian police siren droned.

The bouncer eyed the scene with apprehension; it could only escalate if the police were on their way. Then, he turned his eyes on us, and, with a sympathetic shrug, unclipped the velvet partition.

“Better to have you in here then out there,” he said, letting us by.

We were still dancing on the metro two hours later, not drunk so much as unbridledly happy. Now we were glad Preston had come, as he helped to spin us through the turnstyles and around the metro poles. We gallavanted into check-in and plopped breathlessly down on the lobby couches, content to chat and bond with the rest of our school group for a little bit.

Don Henley and Pascale were hanging out as well, but they excused themselves shortly after a group of teenage boys, intrigued by the sight of Rose, sidled up to the window, turned around, and dropped their pants in unison.

barcelona.

The morning of our flight, we walked into Charles de Gaulle with all of our luggage and not a single ticket in hand. Preston was hungover, even more so than Chastity, who had apparently lost herself in the hotel until 5 am in the morning, and as soon as we got in he made a beeline for the nearest bathroom. We, however, were on a mission. Purses adjusted, hair smoothed back, we pasted appeasing smiles on our faces and rolled a few r’s over our tongue for good measure. Calm and calculating, we approached the Air France Customer Service Desk, pacing ourselves so that our helper was the sweet-looking middle-aged woman chatting happily with a friend.

“Bonjour, mademoiselles,” she turned toward us with a benevolent smile, “Comment est que je peux vous aider?” And we were off and running.

Rose, sweet Rose with her Spanish accent that flowed melodically off the tongue, her bright brown eyes wide and endearing, began to recount our tale. On n’a jamais recu les billets. Il y’avait un grand manifestation de la poste. Three charming young American girls, innocent yet not ignorant as most of them were, perhaps with rich fathers who were able to fund these little excursions (they certainly had the look of having been to Europe before, which would explain the passable French accent), from families who were used to getting what they wanted, had been counting on this trip for ages. Who knew the adventures, the beaches, the boys that lay ahead? Wouldn’t it be a shame to have their whole vacation ruined by this simple inconvenience?

And we watched in silent glee as she located our information on the computer, as she whispered in conference with her friend, and from her obtained the code that would allow her to reprint the tickets, an action that was, lest we forget, strictly prohibited by AirFrance.

They were handed to us still hot from the machine, with a demure “Bonne Journee, Mademoiselles”, and a wink as if to say, “This one’s on me.“ We could have easily leaped over that counter and bear-hugged both our savior and her friend, for so deviously yet effortlessly securing us a place on the plane, but instead we returned the formality, let go of our composed act, and, giggling girlishly, pranced back to where Preston was slouched over the luggage cart. It was a bonne journee indeed. We were going to Spain.

the neighborhood.

We walked out of the Barcelona airport two hours later into an amazing, long-anticipated warm breeze. We signaled a cab, and the driver proceeded to try and cram our luggage into the trunk. Preston's bag wasn't a problem, but the rest of us had not packed light. As a result, my trusty Samsonite ended up getting a ride on the top of the car. "Are you sure that's going to hold?" I asked nervously, watching the driver loop some feeble looking rope through the windows and over my bulging suitcase. "Si, si," he assured me, waving his hand nonchalantly. I looked at my friends for reassurance, but of course, it wasn't their luggage that might end up flying onto the highway and getting steamrolled by a passing truck. Initially the cabbie's maniac driving didn't ease my fears, but after I realized that I'd have a great story to tell, I sat back happily for the rest of the ride.

As the cab driver chattered away in Spanish to Rose, the rest of us gazed out the window eagerly at the streets lined with shops and vendors and bustling with people.

"I can't wait to see our apartment!" Exclaimed Chastity, as we veered off the main road and navigated through a series of more narrow streets. The buildings, I noted after a few blocks, were becoming increasingly dilapidated and the passerby less frequent. We finally slowed down next to a square which was littered with trash and beer bottles and lined with graffiti. A group of shirtless teenage guys playing basketball stopped to stare at the cab. The various men leaning against the walls approached to peer in the windows.

"Ummm, where are we?" queried Preston politely as we pulled into an alley.

"Esta aqui, numero uno Calle Aurora" announced the driver proudly, hitting the brake and slamming the gearshift into neutral.

"Ohhhh, my, god......" murmured Chastity.

I burst out laughing. "We're going to DIE."

"Hello, hello!" A young man was knocking on the windows and motioning for us to come out.

"Who is that?!"

“Omigod, lock the doors!”

“What if he has a weapon?!”

It took us about ten minutes to realize that the apartment had a landlord, and this increasingly confused Irish guy was it.

We came out of the alley into the Port Olympia, signaling the end of La Rambla, and finally, there it was. Sun. Heat. Ocean. Within minutes we were doing like the Spanish around us and dropping to the floorboards, reclining our heads against the wood and soaking in the sun. The Spanish chatter and the gentle lapping of waves below eased into a soothing rhythm, lulling us gradually to sleep. During my mini siesta I forgot my surroundings and awoke overjoyed and surprised to feel the sunshine beating down, to see it glistening off the aquamarine placid ocean, to smell the seawater and hear the gulls circling overhead. "Oh, Barcelona! " I thought. "We meet at last."

One day, we were munching cornflakes on the couch as Preston rummaged around fixing himself a snack. All of a sudden, he jumped back and slammed the refrigerator door with a vengeance. He then took a long, pained sigh. We exchanged looks, grinning, eager for whatever was coming next.

"You guys," Preston announced, with a look of Despair, "There's mold on the Bimbo Bread."

margarita blue night

Flushed and tipsy from the sangria, we link arms with Preston and propel him along the port.

"We should go to sushi."

"I thought we were eating at midnight!"

"I want to go to Margarita Bluue!"

"You guyyys. This is soo much fun!"

"I love y'all!"

"I can't believe we're actually here!"

The ever-stoic Preston breaks arms with us and moves several strides ahead. We canter and gallop to catch up, purses flailing.

"You guys can't all be drunk tonight," he warned us, "We need at least two responsible people to make sure we all stay together."

"We promise, Preston." Rose nods in earnest.

"Right-o!" I add loudly, unfortunately deciding to add a salute. Preston groans.

Looking back, we never know whether to refer to that second night in Spain as Margarita Blue Night, or Absinthe Night. In reality, they were two separate episodes, with two very different ambiances. 

It started out innocently enough, blasting Britney Spears in our apartment, teetering from room to room in our heels borrowing shirts, skirts, make-up, and bras, trying things on, modeling, then discarding them in heaping piles that were rapidly accumulating over beds and on the floor. 

Ever so often an indignant remark could be heard from the ever-time conscious Preston, who had dressed in under ten minutes and was now parked impatiently in the kitchen. We encouraged him to make use of the Bacardi while waiting as it might serve to loosen him up, but we were growled at and retreated to our chambers with the alcohol in tow- apparently we were the ones who might need it.

Eventually hair was straightened, make-up was applied, and purses were in order- shots and pictures were taken, and we were ready to go out on the town. We were hustled out of the apartment and physically restrained from re-entering despite our cries of,

“But Preston, I forgot gum!! (me) lipgloss!! (Rose) the bacardi!!! (Chastity)”

Pouting and grumbling, we linked arms and sauntered ahead of him down La Rambla. Bars were opening, men were whistling, and it felt like a good night to be alive.

We found Margarita Blue at the end of an alley, having been lured to it by the bright blue glow of its neon sign. It looked small from the outside, but extended quite a ways and was packed with people. Half of them stood along the bar, mingling and dancing with drinks in hand, while the other half were seated at tables.

It was 12:03 and we had not yet eaten dinner, so we put our names on the waiting list and ordered a round of drinks at the bar. They were gone by the time we got our table, so we got another round and a pitcher of sangria to wash them down.

By the time our food arrived we were at that level of sloshedness where all you want to do is feast, and feast we did. Margarita Blue had the best Mexican food in town, even better, Rose proclaimed, than the food in Mexico itself. Enchiladas, quesadillas, nachos dripping with cheese and slathered with salsa..... we kept the dishes coming until we reached an all time pinnacle of contentment and sat back with stupid, drunk, satisfied grins on our faces. Life couldn't get any better than this.

After a bit of carousing around the streets, we decided to head on to Fairy Bar. Inside were actual trees, streams, and a waterfall with rocks to sit on, but since they were wet we chose to camp out on the bridge and sip our rum and cokes. The mechanical fairies and frogs were creative, but we were ready for more of an adventure.

"Are we going to try to find that absinthe bar?" Chastity voiced the same question I was thinking.

"Yeahhhh......" agreed Rose. We all looked to Preston for approval. He shrugged. We bounced.

"Do you guys want to buy some weed?" Our friend on the corner never quits. "Our how 'bout some Brewskys?"

"No thanks, man," Preston fends him off. "But hey, do you happen to know where we can find Bar Marsella?"

"Marsella? Ahhh, haven't heard of it but most bars are on la Rambla...."

"Yeah, this one's not. But thanks though."

"Hey, if you guys don't find it, you can always come back and buy some weed!" His farewell cry echoes through the emptying streets.

After asking a couple street vendors with no luck, we decide to solicit some more reliable sources, the bartenders themselves. Eventually it becomes a sort of routine, entering, buying one drink, then leaning over the counter as it is passed to us and murmuring, "Absinthe?"

An emphatic shake of the head, waggle of the finger, no, no, no, none of that here. They try to tell us that there hasn't been absinthe served in Barcelona since it was made illegal in 1901. We'll just see about that.

We are getting close to our apartment and ready to concede defeat when we decide to try one last bar. At the mention of the word "absinthe" the bartender's eyes gleam and she motions us closer, speaking in a whisper.

"There is one bar that still serves it." She reveals. "Been serving it since the turn of the century, maybe longer. Not a lot of people know about it at all, much less know how to find it. But I do."

She leans in even closer to give the directions before warning, "But be careful. This isn't your regular alcohol. It's not that green, imitation absinthe they sell all over the place either. This is the real deal, and the last time I went to Bar Marsella I was hugging the toilet all night."

We’re sold. We thank her profusely and begin to make a rapid exit. It's already 2:00 and we're used to early closing French bars.

"This is Spain," she assures us, seeing our haste. "Marsella will wait. Oh and kids?" We turn as she smiles and winks knowingly. "Have fun."

absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.

The alley leads us further and further into the depths of Barcelona. Guided by the occasional street lamp, we scuffle around the broken glass and squint up at the buildings hoping for a sign of life. We are about to turn around and give up, but then we see it. A faint gleam of light, which beckons and floods the street as we draw closer. Overhead, an old wooden sign with the etching "Marsella." My heart is pounding. This is it.

We enter into an amber glow, a world of blinding light, of music and laughter and joy, and people. People of every race and age and nationality, people who could be friends with my parents, people who have seen the world a few times over; ex-patriates in all their glory. They're carrying on the traditions that have lasted for over a century in this now-secret haunt, which seems scarcely changed from the days of Hemingway and his friends. A chill goes down my spine at the thought. Hemingway.

We are swept up in the crowd and carried along with the flow of traffic toward the center of the room. The floor creaks under the weight of what must be over a hundred people. They continue on for an eternity in the full length mirrors which line the walls, reflecting, as well, the light from enormous white chandeliers overhead. The chandeliers are what create the fantastic glow which extends beyond the bar and give it a surreal and celestial ambiance.

Instead of being claustrophobic, the atmosphere is calm and intimate. I am passed a glass of yellow liquid and am told to give it to the girl behind me. I turn and smile as I hand it to her. “Absinthe?”

“Yeah, we have it back in London but it’s nothing like this stuff. Homemade!” She raises her glass and says with a knowing wink, “See you on the other side!”

We push forward to the bar, where people are taking their absinthe very seriously. The bartenders move calmly back and forth, carefully presenting each person with a kit of materials; drink, miniature fork, water, and sugar cubes. They ceremoniously punch a hole in the water bottle and then entrust the rest of the preparation to you.

We learn through observation that this entails laying a fork on top of the glass and balancing a sugar cube on top of it. One then squirts the water through the sugar so that it dilutes the bright yellow liquid.

Looking around, it’s easy to see who are the novices and who is a Bar Marsella regular; a guy with a black shirt and curly hair is impressing his friends as he lights the whole row of sugar cubes on fire and then squirts water into the drinks with a flourish. The crowd around him watches in awe before turning back to their forks and sugar with a look of determination.

The girl next to me isn't doing so well. She squirts water onto the sugar cube for about five minutes, but nothing more than a grain falls into her drink. Finally, she gives up and begins mashing the sugar with her fork. The bartenders avert their eyes in shame.

We are served two absinthe to start off with, wanting to see the green fairy but not be "hugging the toilet all night." Us girls work together to complete the mixing perfectly, trying to block out the steady stream of commentary coming from over our shoulders.

"Don't do it," says Preston. Rose balances the fork on the glass while I unwrap the sugar cubes.

"It's a drug," Preston says, as I hand the sugar to Chastity, who rests it on the fork.

"It's a NARCOTIC," he persists, as Rose pokes a hole in the water bottle with a toothpick.

"Seriously, you guys. I learned about this in school. Absinthe is derived from the plant absenta, and it was used by the ancient Absinthian tribes to.."

"Shut up, Preston. You sound like my dad," I say, positioning the water bottle over the glass. Rose and Chastity giggle, Preston goes silent and pouts.

We are ready. We squirt. The water breaks tiny crystals of sugar into the bright yellow liquid, more and more accumulating on the bottom. When all the sugar is gone we stir, turning the absinthe into a milky, cloudy concoction. 

"Bottoms up!" I cheer. Rose is the first to try it, taking a sniff and a sip and wrinkling her nose.

"Hmm." She contemplates.

Chastity is next. She takes a large gulp and sets the glass down quickly, coughing out a, "Oh God that's strong!"

I raise the glass to my lips tentatively and have a taste. At first, it's sweet, like liquid licorice. It has quite a kick, however, going down.

"Ooh," I hand the glass to Rose, and smile, " I like it!"

Preston pokes his head over my shoulder, his curiosity having gotten the better of him. "What does it taste like?"

"Your mom, Preston." That gets rid of him for a while.

We continue to drink, slowly, cautiously, expecting the buzz to hit hard. This is, after all, the legendary drink that caused Van Gogh to attack Gaugin and cut off his own ear, the stuff that inspired the Lost Generation yet ended in madness and suicide. Coincidentally, my parents had recently sent me an article on absinthe when they heard about my project on Van Gogh, in which the author, a worldly doctor, cites the impossibility of finding real absinthe in our modern world.

Cheers, doc. I lift my glass smugly, feeling like a true ex-pat. After our glasses are finished, we decide to circulate under the pretense of stopping by the bathroom, trying to figure out whether or not it's kicked in.

The first thing I notice is a warm glow radiating from the chandeliers, like sunlight reflecting off of every happy soul in the room. In the queue heading toward the bathroom, no one is actually pushing, instead we all move together as a current, rubbing up against one another and smiling delightedly. There is a man collapsed in the corner of the room, empty glass clutched to his chest. He looks so peaceful in his slumber that no one dares disturb him, rather they step carefully over his outstretched legs and continue on their merry way.

I have never been in such a pleasant atmosphere, one in which you can be certain that everyone in the room is a friend. This is certainly not a world of barfights and pickpockets, but of ecstasy, sunlight, and bliss. I look ahead for Rose and Courtney, and see them looking around with the same awed expressions. Oh yeah. It's definitely kicked in.

The world seems to be spinning in slow motion, and we have plenty of time to meander and meet new people. We talk to everyone, small talk, happy talk, we circulate until we can no longer take the intense light and head outside.

We huddle by the windows as I propose a game plan.

"We could go back in and get another absinthe. Or if you guys are ready, we could go to that place that they gave us flyers for."

"I'm up for another absinthe," proclaims Chastity, before keeling over, smacking the window and staggering back upright again in one swift motion.

She snorts, shakes her head a few times, then assures us, "I'm fine guys, I'm fine."

Rose and I leave a disgruntled Preston to chaperone Chastity as we make a bee-line back to the bar. We obviously have quite a ways to go. 

Another absinthe in, and we find ourselves chatting up two boys from Nice. One of them is, I decide, quite cute, and I like the way he's leaning over my shoulder. Midway through the conversation, I lean in to consult Rose.

"Is the absinthe supposed to make you feel... you know..."

She chuckles. "Aroused?"

"Hmmm," I say. "Maybe we'd better check on Preston and Chastity."

Thankfully, it seems that Courtney has been behaving herself. She's leaning against the window rambling incoherencies into Preston's shoulder.

"Ready to go?" Preston threatens rather than asks.

"Absolutely, Preston. You sure you don't want an absinthe? It's your only chance!" He growls. We depart for the club.

We descend into a cave of blue and gray smoke, pink lights pulsing out a rhythm through the mist. The club is packed wall to wall with people, mostly black guys in sports jerseys and sideways hats, pressing up against us as we go by. I finally lean back into one of them and begin to grind, the absinthe taking over my head and feet and telling them where to go. My body becomes in perfect synch with the music, which flows from hip-hop to pop to salsa. Several times I look over to check on Chastity, who is making out with a different guy each time. Rose is getting down with her bad self while simultaneously dodging the relentless attempts of would-be dance partners. Preston is jerking around robotically to a beat of his own, but also, I note, keeping an eye out for us all. I feel a twinge of compassion that, intensified by the absinthe, spreads over my body like a warm, fuzzy blanket. Life is glorious.

The faint glow of early dawn is spreading over the city as we clamber up the stairs and into our apartment. Exhausted, drunk, high, and hungry, we make straight for pajamas, the fridge, and the couch, in that order. Snuggled up under a blanket, eating stale cornflakes and watching Friends, as my own friends, one by one, conk out and begin to snore, I feel as if all is right with the world. Then, as Ross is insisting to Rachel that they were, in fact, on a break, I drift off into a world of happy absinthe dreams.

a hooker, an ostrich, and monica lewinsky.

The next day I can't remember exactly what happened, only that I feel like a glass of champagne; fizzy and fuzzy, giddy and fragile, bubbling over with some kind of strange and happy emotion. It's like the antihangover; I wish I could have one everyday.

I'm the first one up and set to work making some coffee; a bowl of instant nescafe with several spoonfuls of sugar and a drizzle of water on top to wash it down. Slowly, the others straggle in, and we begin to piece together the night before.

"So did any of you hallucinate?" Preston asks between trumpeting noisily into a tissue.

"I didn't," Rose sighs, "but Chastity...." she waggles her finger, "I wouldn't be surprised if our friend Chastity here hallucinated."

"God, Chas, are you even aware that you hooked up with like five, maybe six nasty looking guys at that club?" I shake my head. "I mean, there were a few decent ones that you could have gone after. Like, all the Italians that were there."

They look at me quizzically.

"You know, all the Italians that were at the club?" But even as I'm saying it, the idea doesn't seem right. We are in Spain, after all. Maybe my mind just wanted to see Italians.

"Maybe I did hallucinate!" I announce triumphantly, grinning ear to ear.

After coffee, we plop down on the couch to watch some more Friends. The sun is pouring in the windows, the absinthe is still frolicking around in our systems somewhere, and we'd be content to lounge happily about all day. Or at least, three-quarters of us would.

"Come ON!!!" At 2pm Preston is dressed and tapping his foot impatiently. We are still in pajamas and permanently fixed in our positions.

 "You guys." Preston huffs. "Friends is OVER. You can't just stay here all DAY."

"Ah, ah, ah." I counter from my section of couch. "Bonus features!"

I prod Rose with my foot. "Bonus features. Wake up!" She grumbles something, swats at my foot, and snuggles deeper into the cushion.

Preston glowers at all of us in turn, his glare finally fixing on Chastity, who is in her classic asleep position, head back, slack-jawed, letting out the occasional snore.

"Chastity!" He bellows. She snorts and starts abruptly, looking around wild eyed. Preston lets out a long, pained sigh.

We get rid of him by promising to meet him later on, at a quarter to four, which is around the time we finally emerge from our apartment. Unfortunately, there seems to be a market going on in our square, with a number of tents and stands selling food, jewelry, pictures, bags, and more. While Chastity runs off to make a phone call, Rose and I buy two cups of steaming green tea at a stand. We are preparing to walk with it but the owner insists that we make ourselves comfortable on the makeshift sofa, a pile of cushions and pillows, which he has prepared. After Chastity returns we wind our way through the stalls, trying on and bartering for dangly earrings and silk scarves. Spain's fashion sense is significantly more fun and quirky than that of France, and we end up with pink neon hoops, silver spirals, and candy cane striped circles which we can't wait to wear out.

We meet a belligerent Preston at the corner of La Rambla at quarter to 5 and I try to filter out his ranting by concentrating on the sights and sounds as we meander down the street. There are sidewalk artists drawing caricatures and oil paintings, clowns performing tricks for crowds, and even a man in an ostrich costume who jumps out of nowhere, making bird noises as we go by. Deep in argument, the other three continue, but I hesitate.

"Hey, hold on a sec."

"What's wrong?"

"That man," I insist, "He's so familiar!"

Then I realize. And as he turns toward me I realize why his face is so familiar...

"It's Manuel!!!!" I screech, bounding first toward him and then back toward Chastity, who is holding her camera.

"Quick! I need this!!" I snatch it out of her hands despite meek and confused protest, and charge back toward the crowd while trying to figure out the buttons. I slide the camera into "on", position it, and,

"Manuel!" I yell, still looking through the lens. I see him approaching at a rapid pace through the viewer. I hit the top button, the screen goes black, and I lower the camera in confusion to see the ostrich heading at full tilt toward me, letting out an earth-shattering scream.

"Aaahhhhhh!" I yell as I glimpse my impending doom, and turn on my heels to flee as fast as my feet can take me. As I near Rose, Preston and Chastity's quizzical and troubled faces, there is no doubt in my mind that each of them will be seriously questioning my sanity from this day forth.

I try to explain and catch my breath at the same time, doubled over, huffing and puffing, dangling Chastity's camera toward her and mumbling, "He's in... Fawlty Towers.... I know him...."

They exchange looks, then glance back at where the ostrich-man is parading back and forth, screeching and leaping out at the occasional tourist. I decide to give up trying to explain.

the crawl

 We set off for the next bar, a rowdy, obnoxious group trailing behind our tour guides, one of whom, I noticed, is shrugging a backpack onto her shoulders. I feel like I'm back at summer camp. The girl turns around, walking backward down the narrow alleyway as she whistles with her fingers to get the group's attention. 

"Ok guys, listen up!" She shouts, her voice reverberating between the buildings and trash cans.

"Remember to all be on your best behavior. The locals aren't always the biggest fans of our pub crawls, and we've had some incidences in the past of being bombarded by water balloons or even worse! So keep the noise at a dull roar!"

I edge nervously to the center of the group, making sure that I am surrounded on all sides.

As we enter bar number two we are each given folded slips of construction paper, inside of which are written some devastatingly witty pick-up lines. Chastity's asks if anyone wants to play leap-frog naked. Mine says, "Nice pants. Can I test the zipper?" Rose's requires some theatrics; she has to demand "What winks and fucks like a tiger?" while winking wildly.

Apparently your line matches up with someone else's, and when you find them, you get a free drink. At least that's what they told us; in reality everyone's pick-up line was unique. It was just a ploy to have us all circle the room hitting on each other relentlessly. We figure this out after 20 minutes of asking the same question to the same people; I'm running out of creative ways to jazz mine up but it's no problem, since every time a certain group of guys sees me coming they beat me to the punch, yelling "Pants?"

Chastity and I finally concede defeat and go to buy a drink at the bar, where Rose, through some fault in the system, has found a match and is cozying up to him while they imbibe their free tequila. His name is Mike, he's 22, he's Irish, and he goes to Babson. Rose, apparently, goes to University of Texas in Austin, but she's on a year off right now. Later, when he asks how she knows us, it's because we're all studying abroad in France. Still later, she goes to college in Massachusetts. Mike doesn't ask questions.

We leave them to their bonding and try to mingle once more, but it's still all loud, increasingly drunk and obnoxious Americans; I’m prepared to be pelted with eggs or trash at any moment on our way to the next stop. Rose is running around with a harem of men and a lollipop that Preston bestowed upon her as a Valentine’s gift; taking this as a personal insult, Chastity and I ditch the two of them and make a bee-line for the third bar, where we are pleased to discover not only ample vodka, but a studly bartender by the name of Antonio. I lurk in the corner taking discreet photographs of him while pretending to be chatting with Chastity and a few Irish guys we've just met (they seem to be everywhere in Barcelona). The men kindly offer to introduce us to the wide variety of shots this bar offers, such as "Rambo" and “Monica Lewinsky.”

Irish guy #1 goes first with a Rambo; Antonio brings over a helmet and secures it tightly on his patron’s head. Next, he pounds on the helmet with his bulging muscles. Oh, baby. Finally, he gives the helmet one last slap and offers the shot. Irish guy #2 takes a shot where the alcohol in his mouth is set on fire; it looks a little dangerous but I'm all for it if it means that my head gets to be cradled in Antonio's loving arms.

Then, it is time for the Monica. Chastity steps forward and groans as she sees Antonio coming forward holding a bright red wig. The wig, however, is nothing compared to what comes next; a beer bong with a rubber penis on the end. Monica Lewinsky; we should have known.

As the bong descends into Chastity's mouth I snap what is probably the most incriminating photograph I've ever seen, due to the fact that the bottle part of the bong is not pictured. Despite Chastity’s many attempts to confiscate it, my memory card persevered and it didn’t take long for the picture to be made into a screensaver back at school.

Amid a gathering crowd, I also take the Monica shot. But that’s not enough. By the end of this night, I need to have been cradled by Antonio. So I keep going through every shot on the list, putting on and taking off wigs, helmets, and assorted paraphanalia to no avail; Antonio is occupied at the other end of the bar. Our group is getting ready to head on to the next pub, but I tell them to wait. On this next fire shot, he will be mine.

It isn’t until three fire shots later that I finally feel those manly biceps holding my head, although I’m at the point where anyone’s biceps will do. When I turn around, triumphant, I’m startled to not recognize anyone in the crowd. This is a new pub crawl group, already well established; ours is long gone, and Preston, Rose, and Chastity have gone with it.

the chase

Now I'm pissed. And completely wasted. A fact that becomes increasingly apparent as I try to maneuver my way through the obstacle course that is the port of Barcelona. At one point I'm on a main street with cars whizzing past, at another, I'm zig-zagging along the water's edge when a van comes flying out of nowhere onto the boardwalk. I freeze as a group of men jump out and throw the unfortunate tourists who are walking about 50 feet ahead of me onto the hood of the car, yelling obscenities and brandishing weapons. Frozen, terrified, I slowly begin to back away, praying that I'll disappear into the inky night.

I hide behind a bench, waiting until the coast is clear. When I finally emerge, the world around me seems slightly more navigable. In the distance, I see the bright green lights of an establishment overlooking the port, and somewhere in the numbed recesses of my brain I seem to remember an Irish bar on the itinerary. With no other option, I follow the light.

Inside, Preston, Pam, and Chastity are on barstools munching on peanuts and laughing heartily over something; not, it seems, in the least bit concerned as to my whereabouts. Fuming, I stalk towards the bar and let loose my verbal wrath directed at the first person who will listen. Unfortunately, it is Preston, the one person who, I learn in retrospect, was worried about my absence and had attempted to get the others to turn back. But I refuse to hear his defense and instead turn to Chastity to unleash a similar tirade. Rose takes advantage of the opportunity to sneak back to her Irish man, and Preston looks around him in disgust.

“Whatever,” he declares, gesturing dismissively, “That’s it. I’ve had it. I’m going back to the apartment.”

Chastity and I are not in the least bit concerned, as we are thoroughly enjoying our drunken shouting match. Our fight continues until we’ve forgotten what we’re fighting about in the first place, at which point we get hit on by a sketchy man, have a good laugh, and decide that Preston had the right idea with going back to watch “Friends.” So we make a business transaction with Irish Mike (he gives us his credit card in exchange for Rose, on the condition that each will somehow be returned to their rightful owners in the next 24 hours), and head homeward.

We're halfway down the port before we think better of it.

Back inside the pub, the tour guides admonish us. "Trying to sneak off, eh? You girls better get ready; it's almost time to leave for the club."

"Sorry, we just came back to get our friend. Have you seen her? She's the short, brown-haired…"

No explanation is even necessary- they're already pointing to where Rose is lip-locked and grinding with her boy. It's time to stage an intervention.

Chastity and I each grab an arm and hustle her into the bathroom despite her and Mike's cries of protest.

"Let me go!!" She's screaming as we bust through the doors. The women in line look at us in horror.

"It's ok," I explain, while wrestling Rose into a corner. "She's really our friend."

"No I'm NOT!" Rose bellows. "Let me back in there! I was gonna get head!" She adds in a confidential whisper.

"Ok, this girl is 16 years old. She wants to go home with some college guy that she's never met before. Do any of you think that's a good idea?" Chastity appeals to the other women, who are unanimously opposed.

"There, you see?" I tell Rose, who yells again, "But I was gonna get HEAD!"

"Now Rose, I really don't think that's a healthy attitude," lectures Chastity, putting her hands on her hips to make her point. Wrong move; Rose breaks free and makes a dash for the door. This time, however, the women help us block her. We drag her back to a more secure spot between the sinks and the hand-dryer.

"Hey, hey, what's going on in here?" I turn around to see a new, and very male, addition to our bathroom drama.

"Aha!" I point him out for the other ladies. "See, that's Mike. That's the guy." They make "Ahh" and "Oho" noises while eyeing him up and down suspiciously.

Mike looks only vaguely concerned that he's the topic of women's bathroom discussion. His sole focus is getting Rose back into his clutches.

"Now listen," he waves his beer toward us. "You two have interrupted what has been an increasingly pleasant night. Now I think it's time for you to let this, this" his beer spills over the floor as he gestures emphatically, "this nice young lady rejoin me for another dance."

Rose is all for the idea, but Chastity and I stand our ground.

"I wonder," Chastity says, taking a step so that she is between them, "If you have any idea just how young this lady actually is?"

"Ahh...." Mike is temporarily relieved from answering this question with the arrival of one of his homeboys.

"Duude," they slap hands. "What's up?" The blonde kid asks, his glazed eyes wavering from woman to woman.

"We're playing a game," Chastity tells him. "Where Mike tries to guess Rose’s age."

"Ok, well she said that she's.... in college.... and she's taking a year off..... I didn't quite understand all of it but that means she has to be at least 19. Which is, you know, a little young but it's not like the end of the world or any..."

"Oh, Mike. She’s 14.”

Mike's reddened face pales. His friend staggers. The women look smug.

"I hate you! I HATE YOU! I WAS GONNA GET HEAD!" Rose’s rallying cry echoes across the harbor as we drag her and her scuffling feet down the planks of the port. At the intersection of La Rambla, we take a second to try and talk some sense into her.

"Rose. You are NOT going to get head if you go back to him. Not after he, ah, found out how old you are." Chastity chuckles, and I can't help but be proud of her brilliance. If only she were this discerning with her own suitors.

Rose's eyes flicker furiously, but then she relents, her body going slack under our grip.

"Fine," she sighs. "You guys are right."

Amazed at this moment of rational and sobriety, Chastity and I exchange relieved looks and let her go. In an instant, she is off like a shot and darting between traffic across the street.

"Rose!" We shriek and take off after her, blocked at the intersection by cars who have skidded to a halt to avoid hitting her. Between angry shouts and car horns we can hear her triumphant cackle fading into the distance, and as we stand on tiptoes we can barely make out the wild-haired form fleeing up the street.

"Where is she even going?!" Chastity yells as the light finally changes and we sprint toward La Rambla.

"I have no..... idea!" I gasp between breaths. "Here, you take that side of the sidewalk and I'll take this side.... we'll try to herd her in the direction of the apartment!"

Finally, we manage to catch her thanks to a belligerent prostitute who Rose has collided with during her getaway. The hooker, after having slapped Rose, was surprised to find that Rose knew Spanish, especially the type of lingo that they are still exchanging when we get there.

Thanking the whore for her help, we shuttle an exhausted Rose home, buying her a lollipop at a street-side stand as a peace offering.

the culmination

Back at the apartment, we hear the laugh track of Friends from behind the closed door of Preston's room. We bust in and sprawl on the bed, eager to relay our latest story.

"Hey Preston, you missed a great chase involving an Irish guy and a prostitute..."

But our voices are drowned out as he jacks up the volume on Friends; apparently, his grudge over this evening's dispute is still holding strong.

We slam the door; Rose heads for her room, Chastity, the kitchen, and I, the bathroom. On my way back, I do a double take when I realize Rose is gone.

I screech, Chastity comes running.

"Oh god," she exclaims, "the window's open. You don't think...." I meet her worried gaze. I do. The Irish guy! Within seconds we are pulling on coats over our pajamas, ready to scour the city.

"Preston, we need to go find...." We burst in just in time to find the purported escapee trying to hide herself under Preston's covers.

"Oh, very funny, Rose." Courtney clucks like a mother hen. "I guess you'll just be spending the night in here then. Should I turn off the light for you two?"

Within seconds, the covers are off and a tiny form is bounding past us, her cry of "Noooooo!" lingering in the hall. She dives into her room and promptly passes out. Preston, muttering something incoherent, turns off his light.

I'm about to crawl into my own bed when, suddenly, the apartment is cloaked in darkness. I look outside in the alleyway; strangely, we seem to be the only ones on the street who have lost power. I'm content to call it a night and deal with the situation in the morning, but Chastity has her own agenda.

"Rose, Rose, wake up! The lights are out!" Two seconds later, she pokes her head in. "Ok well, Rose is passed out."

"Chastity, it's really not a big..." but she is already shuffling down the hall to Preston's room.

I hear a muffled, "Preston. Preston! Are you awake? The lights are out, Preston, what are we going to..." and then a loud and distinct, "Chastity. SHUT UP!"

She comes shuffling dejectedly back. "Ok well, Preston's not much of a help."

She crawls into bed, where she lies down for about two seconds before vaulting back upright again and muttering, "I'm so freaked out right now."

"It's FINE, Chastity," I growl. "Just go to sleep."

"You don't understand, Anne. I have such a bad feeling about this. It's like... omigod.... what if..... you know what I'll bet it is? It's the landlord! He's in the apartment and he's toying with our minds! We can't go to sleep or else he's going to kill us!"

"CHASTITY. Stop being ridiculous," I pretend to be nonchalant, but now my heart is pounding. Maybe it’s not such a far-fetched idea after all. We are four kids in a sketchy apartment in the depths of Barcelona... anything could happen, really. I try to fight the terrifying scenarios out of my head to no avail, until I can't take the anxiety any longer and sit up in bed.

"Omigod, now you have me freaked out. We should go make sure there's no one lurking in the apartment."

No answer.

"Chastity? Are you even awake?"

From her side of the bed, a faint snore.

Great. It's down to me and the crazy landlord. The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that the second that I close my eyes is the second I will be hacked to pieces in true horror movie fashion. The only way to foil the psychopath’s plan, clearly, is to stay awake until broad daylight. Which, lucky for my apartment-mates, I am quite skilled at doing.

The next morning, I'm running on four hours of sleep and preparing to eat the instant coffee with a spoon when I notice a cheese sandwich still smoldering in the toaster oven. On the counter are signs of a hastily abandoned preparation, which can only point to one person.

"A cheese sandwich?" I round on Chastity as she emerges from our room. “This is what short-circuited the power?! What was all that talk about the crazy landlord?! I couldn’t fall asleep til 7:00 AM!”

She shrugs, taking the plate. “Sorry. Is the sandwich still edible?”

the canary islands.

We flew in over Morocco, the red beaches lying far below parallel to the deep blue ocean. Farther along were the snowy peaks of some, I imagined, fantastic and famous mountain range. It was getting hotter and sunnier by the moment, and we’d soon be stepping off into the heat of our island paradise. I took a deep breath and relaxed, letting the tension of take-off melt away. The initial few minutes of a flight always give me a panic attack, and this one had been no exception.

Our aircraft, first of all, was not much bigger than the “puddle-jumper” on which we had flown from Cancun to Cozumel (the type of plane where they make sure they have an even weight distribution on both sides), and in which I had been convinced I was spending the final moments of my young life. With every jolt, pitch, and rumble of the plane I braced myself for the nosedive into the sea…. Yet it never happened and consequently I was the only person gripping my armrests, knuckles white, face ashen, and teeth clenched in preparation for the entire flight. It didn’t help things when a random appliance crashed to the floor of the cockpit as we landed, or that we swerved back and forth along the entire runway, at one point coming so close to some trees that I expected to have a branch break through my window.

Our Tenerife plane was slightly larger, yet it still made veering motions similar to those of the Mexico plane as we picked up speed. What was even more disconcerting was the strange clanking noise coming from the depths of the plane as it became airborne.

“What IS that?!” I gasped to Rose.

She pondered for a second, then explained, “It’s because we’re near the wings.”

“Oh,” I said sheepishly, and worked on keeping my hands from shaking noticeably. Later, Rose revealed that she had also been terrified and had merely said the first thing that sprung to mind to keep us both from panicking. At any rate, the strange sound finally disappeared, and our nerves were put at ease temporarily.

Very temporarily.

"MA-MA! MA-MA!!!" The shriek was accompanied by a rhythmic banging on the back of our seats as the little boy behind us staged a full-fledged tempter tantrum.

"Shut up, shut up," Muttered a rudely awakened Rose, who is even less tolerant of children than I am. We both glowered but kept our tempers in check for an admirable length of time, until the boy poked his head over the seat and began shouting "Hola! Hooooola!!!" into Rose's ear. Rose promptly turned around and let loose in rapid Spanish, and it was a treat to see the mother's horrified reaction.

We flew alongside the snowy peaks of the Atlas mountains, over the blood red beaches of Essouria, and finally, across a long stretch of water until there it was. A volcano.

We had arrived.

The Canary Islands. Ah, those Canary Islands. They were a seventeen year old American girl's dream come true. They were the type of place you always imagine but would never believe really exists, the quintessential island paradise, the.... just picture, if you will, a sunset. The sky is red, purple, pink, and gold reflected over a sea that extends to Africa. There are palm trees, sprawling beaches along the coastline. As your eyes travel along the beach they pick up the glitter of lights in every color, neon, twinkling, beckoning. There are Christmas lights strung between palm trees lining the boardwalk, and hanging paper lanterns dangling above.

As you approach the town, you first see outdoor restaurants and pizzerias, then open California-style surf-shops. Later on, you reach a plaza shopping center with both chic boutiques and designer clothing stores. Turning, you pass restaurants, night clubs, arcades, mini amusement parks, go-Karts, all of which continue parallel to the beach.

In the background lies an active volcano surrounded by rainforest, and that's when you realize.... you're in Pleasure Island. This is it. This is the place where those naughty boys in Pinocchio ran off to before they turned into donkeys. It's like Las Vegas meets Mexico meets California, yet it's somehow not as trashy or dirty, icky or sleazy, as it is... well... fun!

Our aparthotel was more like Aladdin's Palace turned resort. The entire center of it was pools and palm trees, and the four sides rose up into turrets overlooking the ocean. There was a pool and hot tub on the roof, a bar in the lobby, a comedy club, a supermarket, a sauna, a gym, a laundromat, an English restaurant, a Chinese restaurant, an Indian restaurant, an Italian restaurant, a disco underground, and a rooftop terrace for tanning.

The bit about rooftop tanning sounded very glamorous, and so Chastity and I headed up there almost as soon as we had unpacked, anxious to take in the last few rays of sun before evening set in. We were very quickly disenchanted, however, as we were no sooner out the door than we were assaulted with wind and flying debris. 

"Jesus!" We ducked into two chairs as a gust of sand came sweeping over the rooftop, hurling small grains and pebbles against our bare and goose-bumped skin.

"This," I proclaim to Chastity after the worst of it has passed by, "is extreme tanning!"

"It could be an Olympic sport!" She yells back, before covering her face from the latest burst of rock fragments.

We soon conceded defeat and headed back to the room, where we saw that Rose had been quite productive. She had bought a large bottle of tequila at the hotel supermarket, and procured lemons from the bar on her way back. Now, she was dolling out the tequila in large coffee mugs. 

"Get out of your bathing suits and into your clubbing clothes," she said. "I'm going to show you girls how we drink in Mexico."

And just like that, our routine in the Canary Islands was underway. 

British Boy. Spanish Guy. Scottish Guy. Parisian Guy. Green Collar Guy. Green Collar Guy's Friend. Good Dancer Guy. Good Dancer Guy's Friend. Little Italy Guy. British Guy. British Guy's Brother. 

There were a whole lot of intriguing characters staying in the Playa de las Americanas and between the three of us we got to know a good number of them. The fact that we were the only Americans on the island only enhanced our allure- by the second night we were already being greeted with a cheer ("Las Americanas!") and a round of vodka red-bulls.

Our days and nights on the island soon settled into a wonderful, dream-like routine. We'd wake up around 4 in the afternoon and lounge about on the terrace, trying to piece together the night before. At five or so we'd head down to Little Italy and attack the tropical pizzas. We couldn't figure out what was making us so ravenous and shaky and desperate for food until one day someone happened to count up the red bulls we had consumed in the last 24 hours. 

2 before going out, one at the first club, plus a couple rum and cokes, plus a malibu and coke, then four vodka red bulls at O'Neills, and then another couple at Bobby's.... no wonder the world seemed to be vibrating. We were suffering from severe caffeine hangovers. And, just as alcoholics beat their own hangovers from drinking again, our only known remedy was to pick up another 6 pack for the evening.

"Aren't vodka and red bulls supposed to be like.... really bad for you?" Chastity queried, as she watched her hand spasm involuntarily in awe. I scoffed.

"God, Chastity. Loosen up. People will tell you anything is bad for you." "No really. I've heard that people have like, died."

I snorted, but started to consider cutting back when, by the fifth day, my heart felt like the little drummer boy on speed.

"Wait, do you see that?"

I pointed to where, in the early morning light, one could barely make out two figures coming off the beach. As they got closer, it became clear that one had a pink shirt and cornrows. And that's when I learned that, despite her size and usually laid-back demeanor, Rose Guerrera is not, under any circumstances, someone you want to mess with. As she marched forward, hands on hips, both I and Chastity's latest British boy, this one in a blue polo shirt, recoiled. Only Chastity seemed unaware of the impending danger and stood her ground, hanging her cornrowed head with a look that was half guilty, half glazed over.

"Chastity!" Rose bellowed. "Do you have any IDEA what time it is?"

Chastity wobbled slightly, then righted herself and mumbled something.

"What?" Rose barked. The British boy looked like he was planning to make a run for it, which, at the moment, was an idea I was contemplating myself.

"Ahh, 3:00?" Chastity said. Suicide, suicide!!

"It's 7:00, Chastity," Rose hissed. "At least. The club closed at 5:00 and since then we have been walking all over this island looking for you. We went to the hotel. We went back to the club. We pretty much almost got mugged and raped on the way there. And now the sun is up and we came thisclose to calling the police even though that would be the end of our SYA experience. So no, Chastity. It's not 3:00."

"Sorry," said Chastity. But Rose had already rounded on her next victim, the British guy, who looked, I thought, like a deer caught in the headlights of a Mack truck.

We all held our breath as Rose sized him up. Whatever she was formulating, it was going to be good. Unfortunately, we didn't get to hear it since the British guy, sensing his impending doom, began to splutter nervously and back away.

"Sorry, did you say it was 7:00?" He faked a look at his watch, sweat trickling off his brow.

"God, look at that, well, I'm terribly sorry, but I have to hurry back before the rents wake up. It was... ah, it was nice meeting you girls!" And with one last desperate look at Chastity, he turned on his heels and ran for his life down the beach, a cloud of sand being kicked up in his wake.

Chastity was given the silent treatment all the way home. In the room, she began to stutter an excuse starting with the classic, “No really, guys, I just thought…”

“CHASTITY!!” Rose thundered, “You get in that bed and go the fuck to sleep!”

Chastity obeyed. So did I. I didn’t want to risk doing anything that would further contaminate Rose’s mood.

Rose and I managed to sleep until four, despite the constant opening and closing of the door thanks to Chastity’s frequent distressed trips to the phone booth outside, after which after she would return to the room, sit down, sigh painfully, and wait for one of us to wake up and ask what was wrong. Tired, hungover, and shaky from last night’s red-bull overdose, neither of us was in any mood to indulge her.

When we finally woke up and began to get dressed, our stomachs rumbling, we continued to ignore the increasingly pointed sighs. The chastised even let out a whimper as she gazed forlornly out the window.

Rose rolled her eyes at me. We weren't stupid. Chastity loved to have it both ways; causing drama by night and even more by day, when she announced her Guilt and Repentance and turning over of a whole new leaf. She would with shifty eyes admit to sins she may or may not have committed, and we in turn were supposed to inquire as to what exactly had happened, and make her assure us that she had been safe. After a few dozen run-throughs of this rigamarole, the only thing I was assured of was that I would never, under any circumstances, be sending my children to Catholic School.

If Chastity failed to evoke her desired response, she sometimes changed tactics, claiming her role as victim rather than sinner. She could always think up any number of ways to justify her actions, or dismiss responsibility for them completely. Once she even went so far as to claim that she was allergic to vodka, thus excusing 95% of her debaucheries over the course of the year.

Right now, she was still in self-flagellation mode.

"I can't go out tonight guys,"she stated drearily, tucking her chin to her knees. "I just can't."

Me and Rose shrugged. "Ok."

There was a pause. A sigh.

"But you guys can still go. If you really want to. Don't let me stop you."

"We were going anyway!" I said impatiently, but Rose was more diplomatic.

"Well, alright, Chastity," She said comfortingly. "If that's what you think is best."

Rose's indulgence didn't last very long. On the way to Little Italy, she and I reminisced, pointedly, about our early morning search party down these streets.

"I really don't think it was that late," Chastity protested. "Ok, when I left with him the clock on Burger King said 3:30, and a little later his phone said 5:30, so it was two hours ahead because of the time difference, you know? So then when his PHONE said 7:30, it was really 5:30, and that's about when you guys found me."

We stared at her. "Or maybe it really WAS 5:30 by the time you saw his phone the first time, making it 7:30 when we found you."

Chastity furrowed her forehead and pondered the idea for a moment.

"No," she finally shook her head. "I don't think so."

Rose and I exchanged looks and exasperated sighs. It was hopeless.

“Anyway,” Chastity continued. “I don’t want to think about it. I did some things… well… I think I did some things… that I might regret.”

She was all ready to roll, but Rose cut her off with a wave of the hand.

"No one wants to hear it, Chastity." She said. "Go to a clinic when we get back to France if you need to. Right now, the most important thing is pizza."

On our way to the restaurant it had been raining, but now there was an ominous stillness that hung over the island. The sky overhead had not only dark clouds, but a slightly pinkish hue. The palm trees no longer wavered in the breeze, but stood erect as if in anticipation. By the time we got to the aparthotel there was a sense that the atmosphere had changed again, as if things were slightly more dark, more silent, more surreal. In entering our room I went straight to the balcony, where I halted, the hairs on the back of my neck going up.

"You guys," I said sharply, "You guys, come here. Look at the volcano." The sky around it was blood red.

"Holllll, llly, Shit" murmured Rose.

"Um yeah, so, do we have like an evacuation plan to get off this island?" said Chastity. "Because it looks like that things going to blow."

They say the Canary Islands only have one tropical storm a year, and that night, we sure as hell got one. But as it turned out, we didn't mind one bit.

Rose and I take our sweet time meandering down to Little Italy, which is closing just as we get there. Next we peek in on a few places across the street, but they don't seem to be any good. We make our way past the arcades, past the scary hair-braiding women who, I'm delighted to discover, are now disarmed and powerless for the fact that my hair is already cornrowed.

"Hide me," Rose mutters as she comes to the same realization.

We are nearing the shopping plaza when, out of nowhere, the skies open up into the most torrential downpour I have ever experienced. Screaming, we bolt for Benetton as the water drenches us and within seconds goes from pelting to flooding the pavement. The salesperson hustles us in and has to lean her whole body into the door to close it against the wind. Outside, palm trees are bending at a frightening angle.

"Omigod," I gasp. "I've never seen anything like it!"

Rose is already at the display racks, a dangerous gleam in her eye.

"I guess we have no choice but to go shopping....." She murmurs vaguely as she thumbs through brightly colored skirts.

I feel a grin coming on as well, despite my ravenous state of hunger. There could be worse things than being stranded in Benetton during a tropical storm. And so for the next two hours, we shop. Hardcore. We try on and debate and assess and look some more until we've considered every item in the store at least twice. It's midnight by the time the rain has slowed to a drizzle and we're making our way out laden with bags, the salespeople locking the doors and wishing us a fond farewell, silently thanking the storm gods for picking theirs out of all stores in which to strand Rose Guerrera.

By now we're starving, and at this point in the night, McDonald's is our only option. On our way we see gaggles of revelers and short-skirted British girls, their makeup smeared and hair knotted from the wind. They're calling it quits already, we haven't even started yet. That's the beauty of the Canary Islands. There's literally no rush, no anxiety over getting ready on time, because it's a party 24/7. No matter what the hour, the weather, there will still be people out, and as we learned that night, the later and stormier the better.

We remember that we told Chastity we were going out just to pick up food and coming straight back- it's been about two and a half hours since then. We pick her up some chicken nuggets, but get distracted again on the way home by a bevy of Spanish men. By the time we approach the door, we are feeling rather apprehensive as to what awaits inside.

"I have an idea. We'll just open the door, throw the food in, and make a run for it!"

Rose is giggling hysterically. "I feel like we're dealing with some sort of wild animal. Chastity.... THE BEAST!!!"

We got ready in record time, gulping down mugs of tequila as Chastity sat glumly, watching.

"Are you suuure you don't want to come?" We dangled the bottle in front of her as an invitation. She grimaced, and we were out of there before the latest painful sigh and accompanying barrage of self-pity had a chance to leave her lips.

Outside, the tropical storm made the atmosphere even wilder. Palm trees were whipping in the wind, waves were crashing on the beach, and we arrived at O'Neils with windswept tequila flushed cheeks and corkscrew curls only to learn from my British boy that it had been flooded. He was therefore working up at the hilltop bars that night, and promised to catch up with us later; I got a birthday kiss before he went. We danced into O'Briens, and that's where the fun began.

Rose seems to have come out of her state of severe inebriation and is now looking around dazedly, trying to assess her surroundings. When she realizes who she's hooking up with, I detect a look of panic in her eye. She catches sight of me and turns her partner so that his back is to me.

"Helllllp!!!" She mouths, pointing at him frantically. "Hellllllp!!!"

More than happy to abandon my current dance partner, I feign dismay and make my way over to Rose. I tap her on the shoulder.

"I'm sooooo sorry!" I shout over the music. "We have to go!"

"Oh nooooo!" She cries while attempting to disentangle herself from the unrelenting grip of Green Collar Guy's Friend. Finally, I lend a hand and we manage to shove him out of the way apologetically before making a break for the door. Unfortunately, now is when all the good looking guys finally decide to come out of the woodwork and intercept us on our way there.

"Hey, haven't I seen you here before?" A tall dark and handsome specimen corners me.

Rose has been nabbed by the cute Scottish guy from earlier. We engage in speed flirtation as Green Collar Guy's friend approaches; 5, 4, 3, 2,

"Ok, really gotta go this time!" I grab Rose and we wave goodbye to our prospective suitors who will hopefully be there again tomorrow, that is, tonight.

"Hey, I'm 17!" I announce as we exit the club. "Even in American time!"