Las Indigenas

Last night, we decided to go to Woodstock bar again, since it's dollar beer nights on Thursday. While we were there, we recognized the people who had been playing the obnoxious music in the residencia, and decided to go talk to them for a bit and figure out how much longer they would be lurking around annoying us. They're a travelling band from Valencia, the ones we met at the bar were:

Raúl - A 12-year-old who plays trumpet, and is the only one we could really understand everytime he spoke. At one point, he was talking about how he didn't drink beer, so I assumed he didn't drink (since he's 12) but it turns out he just really likes vodka instead.

Las Chicas - The 3 14-year-old girls who though I was a model in the elevator. I can never remember their names, but they're really nice, and like to cat-call Ben from our program, because they think he looks like Adam Brody from the OC. They don't drink or smoke but like to hang out with people who do.

Victor - A 17-year-old who grows mass amounts of pot back in Valencia. He looks kind of like a lesbian woman, but seems pretty cool.

Kiko - A 20-year-old clarinet player who is totally the token loser.

Anonymous balding 25-year-old who I didn't really talk to.

The girls taught us pretty much everything they know about swearing (including masturbating vocab), music (they love Green Day), and how hot they think Ben is. They also think we're awesome because we're American, and were telling Joanna about how they think I'm "guapa" while I was in the bathroom. Even though they're constantly trying to convince us to come to their concert which I want to avoid because I'm sure I'll have really brutal flashbacks to yesterday's nap the second I hear their music, they're great.

When we got back to the residencia, Jim and I went and smoked hash in Victor's room with him, where they told us several times that smoking in a circle and taking one hit before you pass is called "Americana" (two is "Polka") and to tell all my friends. The rest of them don't smoke but came and hung out with us, and we learned about how much more paranoid the Spaniards are about getting caught. For a while I thought it was Kiko's room and they were taking advantage of his semi-loserness because he kept coming out to the balcony - shirt unbuttoned, showing of his chest hair - complaining and telling us to go to sleep, but by the time we left he had gone back to his room. For a while I was worried something bad had happened to him, but when I got home from the Farmacia today, he was sitting by the Comedor waiting for it to open (first in line, by himself for mediocre food), so I guess he made it to bed okay.