finally, sleep in a real bunkbed

By now it was quite windy and spitty in Dublin, and our flight was understandably delayed a bit. Not really knowing where I’d sleep the night in Madrid was a bit of a mistake on my part. I should have sucked it up and booked something from the airport—I just hate the surprise of not knowing what it is you’re getting yourself into. Instead I dealt with the surprise of where it was I’d be getting myself into. I tooled dragged me and my 75lbs worth of backpacks around looking for the right spot. I was without luck and ended up visiting a friend’s ex-girlfriend (longer story than I care to get into) to see if she could offer any advice. Fortune smiled and I was pointed the way of a cheap backpackers’ hostel. Shower, eat, sleep. Actually, I went with a couple of my Canadian hostel roommates, which reminds me of the question that went through my head that night—is it wrong to knowingly withhold information about a foodstuff if it’s to the betterment of one’s enjoyment of said foodstuff? Case in point: morcilla. When asked about it, I played dumb, “some kind of sausage, I think,” knowing that they’d give it a chance and like it (they did—the blood sausage was actually quite good).