Setmana set: Agua, cerveza, and the cesspool
Setmana set: Agua, cerveza, and the cesspool
¡Hola a todos y todas! Delia Bousquet aquí, lista para compartir las aventuras de la semana.
I have gotten so behind on the blog it’s actually crazy. But between the heat, the 10-12 page paper (not double spaced) in Spanish, the photo essay, nonstop discussion posts, travels/having fun, and just overall tiredness, I kept putting it off. So here we are at 15:13 (aka 3:13… I’m really fighting the military time—I hate it but am trying to stick it out) on Thursday, with the goal of publishing this tonight. Oh, and did I mention I have a two-hour pottery class in two hours and haven’t even compiled the photos for the blog yet? But it’s ok. While I like to imagine myself cranking out New York Times-worthy pieces every week from my quaint office desk that doubles as my bed (yes, it’s an odd flipping situation), the reality is very few people actually read this, so deadlines are relative (unlike that of the 12-page paper).
Speaking of the paper, we had our second deadline for it yesterday, where we were supposed to have a borrador (draft) done. Yet our profesora told us to just submit a few pages showing where we were in the process. While I hoped to have eight pages for the deadline, I settled for six because, while I can easily crank out 10 pages for the blog in one sitting, academic writing is exhausting—constantly researching, clarifying, and organizing. Now do it all in Spanish, remove double-spacing, and it’s not fun. Especially when I basically did all of it in one day. And while I know you’re thinking, Why do it all in one day?—well, considering this class is only like 15 days long, and I have other assignments and of course also want to enjoy my time here, and also write my blog, it’s hard. Writing a 10-12 page academic paper is hard to begin with and takes a long time. My big final paper for my writing seminar took 1.5 months. I basically have three days to turn this one around. But I’m not stressing because I have a lot going for me.
Number one: this isn’t Princeton—meaning the expectations are not only lower, but also the quality of work submitted by others (from what I’ve observed) will be lower too. In fact, my six pages turned into one of those awkward Princeton moments. We went around in a circle talking about what we submitted and where we were in the process. I went second and mentioned I had six pages, plus sources and a layout for the rest of the ten. Everyone basically had their jaws open and were silent because one girl submitted nothing, and the rest submitted one to two pages. My bad. Normally, when we say draft at Princeton, we mean a completed paper—not like something random to turn in, but a paper with all the elements that, at the end of the day, could be submitted as the final if needed. So the full ten pages. So yeah, I felt bad with my six.
Pues nada, enough talking about my stupid boring paper about an even more boring topic: art. Ugh.
Last week I left you after going to the store and buying some soap—one called the essence of wellbeing. Now, the title might be a little bit of a hyperbole, but at the same time, it smells so good. Like, forget the soap being the wellbeing part—I think my nose feels the wellbeing every shower. Good thing it’s a huge bottle because I’m using so much of it… just to smell it.
Speaking of wellbeing, I feel like it’s something I should mention because right before this trip (like eight days before), after many emails back and forth with the study abroad office at Princeton, one of the people in the office sent me a message saying:
“If I might also offer a bit of personal advice, I would encourage you to also consider how an over-packed summer like the one you have in mind may impact your level of mental energy… While your goal of improving your Spanish language, especially as a BSE student, is laudable, it is also our responsibility to warn students against burn-out.”
I mention it because over the past week, it has popped into my head a few times. First, with the soap—because obviously, I’m experiencing the essence of wellbeing every shower, so no worries there. But the second, and I guess more profound thought, was today as I walked down the street.
I had just finished class, with the second half consisting of a walk through Barcelona to look at arquitectura del modernismo. It was hot, I was dripping sweat, and I was exhausted. Class concluded in the jardín of the Universidad de Barcelona. I needed to get some food for lunch, so of course, I wanted to find a Mercadona. I looked it up on my phone, and the closest one was five blocks ahead and two blocks to the left.
I trudged through those hot blocks with my abanico (hand fan), sweating to death. Eventually, I made it to the amazing place that is Mercadona, did my shopping, and decided to purchase a reusable bag—because let’s face it, Mercadona has been a huge part of my summer here, and I’ve already started thinking about my life without it and what I need to throw into the second suitcase I’m going to buy in Seville.
Anyway, as I walked to the metro, which was five blocks away, with my Mercadona bag over one shoulder, a cold Coke in the opposite hand, a cool breeze came, and conveniently, my entire walk was in the sombra (shade). And I thought: Wow, this is the life. It was also a super pretty area/street, which of course I don’t have a photo of because, number one, both my hands were full, and second, my phone is completely out of storage. Like, this past week, every time I’ve wanted to take pictures, I’ve been uninstalling apps. It’s been a fun little game of is taking this picture worth uninstalling Instagram? The answer: yes. Maybe that’s also why I’m out of data.
Anyway, this little perfect walk—with the Mercadona bag filled with pan, jamón, frambuesas, chips, queso, and more (not too much more because the total was 16 euros and the bag itself was 4), the Coke, and the breeze—really felt like the essence of wellbeing.
If there’s been anything I’ve noticed over the past few weeks, it’s those small moments. Kind of like the couch from last week, or Zona Zapping, or that time in Toledo when I picked out the libros de miedo for the niña. And while in the U.S. we tend to imagine “wellbeing” as some beach or long vacation, I think incorporating it more into the daily lifestyle in the U.S. would help so much more. It’s a style of life, not a product you can buy. Although… Mercadona might be part of it. FYI: we’re at 21 Mercadonas.
Fun fact: not all Mercadonas are created equal. Some are tiny with just a bit of produce; others, like the one I went to today, are ginormous with tons of produce and options.
In fact, my most exhausting days on this trip have been those travel-heavy tourist days. I feel like it’s very common in the U.S. to go on super jam-packed vacations to “see the world,” and you end up coming back so tired you need a vacation from the vacation. On the opposite end, some vacations consist of literally doing nothing—just lounging on the beach. I couldn’t do that either. I get too bored. There’s only so much sleeping and burning on sand I can handle. Like, what’s the difference between sleeping in your bed and sleeping on the beach? I mean, I guess it’s pretty and all, but the sand gets on and in everything!
Also, beaches are basically all the same no matter where you go. Of course, some are absolutely gorgeous and others have trash floating in them (more on that later), but at the end of the day: sand + salty water = beach. For me, having really nice beaches only 45 minutes from my house in the U.S., going to a foreign country just to sit on a beach for vacation isn’t something I’m interested in. Of course, here in Spain I’ve gone to the beach, but that was more because it’s so hot and I needed to escape my cave of a room and host parents.
So moral of the story: I think the study abroad office is wrong.
Friday’s class also consisted of a walk around town, just like the one we took today. I forget what type of architecture we were looking for, but one of our stops was an old market where they found ruinas (ruins) underneath. Post-class, I had lunch at the casa, and around 6 p.m. I decided to go for a walk around the barrio—because why not? I get bored sometimes.
I came back around 7:30 to find no one in the casa. Ok, whatever—we normally eat around 9 p.m. anyway. So I took a shower and settled into the couch to watch some Breaking Bad (any other BB fans?).
Around 8:30 I got a WhatsApp from my host family saying they went to dinner at my host dad’s parents’ house and would be back late. But the catch is… they left me with no food. Like, I already have to deal with lunch every day, but they’re supposed to give me breakfast and dinner. Really just dinner, because I have to make my own breakfast and coffee every morning (yes, those nice family breakfasts have ended). So I ended up having to eat my sandwich that was supposed to be for the next day—the one I originally bought for lunch but didn’t eat because they offered me some pasta.
Funny story about the bocadillo (sandwich). Like I said, it has been extremely hot. There’s a local sandwich shop right by my casa, so I decided on Friday to stop by because they also had mango smoothies (which was more of a slushy situation… but still good with the heat). I went in and asked for the sandwich and a smoothie, and somehow walked away with a sandwich, a smoothie, and an unwanted pistachio croissant.
Did I ask for a pistachio croissant? No. But I felt bad for the old lady after she bagged it, so I bought it. Turns out it was actually pretty good, and it doubled as food for Saturday. So honestly, maybe she knew what she was doing.
Saturday, I left the country! I went to Andorra—the 15th smallest country in the world, situated between Spain and France. One thing I completely failed to consider during the planning (which, to be fair, happened the night before when I randomly decided to go) was how I was going to communicate with people.
The national language of Andorra is Catalan—a language I don’t speak. It’s also the language of Catalunya and Barcelona, but of course, everyone there also speaks Spanish because… well, it’s Spain. But in Andorra, I was confused. Do I speak Spanish or English? Neither is the official language of the country. Spanish is closer to Catalan, but English is the language of touristy places. I ended up sticking with Spanish since it shares a lot of words with Catalan and felt like the safer bet.
Another surprising thing about Andorra: there’s not that much to do. Honestly, the bus ride to Andorra was more fun than actually being in Andorra. It was absolutely stunning—all mountains, twisting roads, and the most breathtaking views. I went to the capital, Andorra la Vella, which is this tiny “city” tucked into a valley surrounded by mountains. Don’t get me wrong—it was gorgeous. But the actual town kind of lacked things to see or do.
A quick Google search told me Andorra is known for two things: skiing and shopping. Obviously, there’s no snow in June, so I ended up shopping along what’s called “The Shopping Mile.” Not sure if it’s an actual mile, but it’s basically shop after shop after shop. Apparently, there’s no sales tax in Andorra, which makes it a popular place to shop. The prices didn’t seem that different from Spain though—so either Spain’s sales tax is low, or import costs to Andorra balance things out.
Surprisingly, it was very difficult to find souvenirs. I ended up buying a patch (my traditional country souvenir for my quilt on my college bed) and some postales (postcards) from two different tobacco shops. During my lunch at a yogurt shop, my mom texted me, “Get me a shirt from Andorra!” And while I tried… I couldn’t find a single simple shirt that just said “Andorra.”
What I did find was Zara. I ended up spending an hour there and walked out 100 euros poorer but with some fire orange pants, green leather shoes, an orange leather jacket (so I can match my dad with his orange jacket from Turkey now), and a black shirt. Basically, a whole outfit. And while 100 euros was a lot, I feel like I got a lot for the money—so I’m calling it a win.
When booking my tickets, I questioned whether I should spend six or eight hours in Andorra. Honestly, six was too much… unless you plan on doing some serious shopping. Six hours seemed reasonable since the bus ride was three hours each way—so a total of a 12-hour day (not counting the 40-minute metro ride each way to the bus stop).
Speaking of the bus stop: I booked this ticket online, knowing nothing about the bus company, “Andbus.” All I had was an address to show up at for the 7:15 a.m. departure from Barcelona. I woke up at 5:30 in the morning but underestimated the time on the metro and thought I had time to stop for coffee. I got off the metro with 10 minutes to find this supposed bus meeting point.
Now, I was expecting a bus station, especially considering it was a three-hour international trip. Nope. It was literally a pole next to the road. And only eight other people got on the bus. But I made it—and made it back—so all is well.
Fun fact about Andorra: there’s no airport. Everyone has to enter by land from Spain or France. I brought my passport, obviously, but the bus just drove through the border like it was nothing. No stops, no “Can I see your passport?”, no stamp. Same thing going back to Spain, except for one quick stop where border control walked onto the bus to check for weapons. The U.S. could never. I swear, every time I come back to the U.S., I start questioning if I’m actually a citizen because of all the interrogation: Where have you been? What did you do? Do you have anything illegal? Please. Just let me go home. You’d think the U.S. was handing out gold bars and free healthcare the way they act at customs.
Another odd thing happened while I was waiting for my return bus in Andorra’s national bus station. Out of nowhere, while I was texting my aunt, I heard a shriek at one of the ticket booths. A woman collapsed, crying, then walked toward the women’s restroom with the ticket guy following her, saying “It’s fine!” She collapsed again, crying at the bathroom, then returned to the ticket counter still sobbing but now talking to him. Sadly, I couldn’t hear anything, so I have no idea what happened—but it was definitely a show. Honestly, almost telenovela level.
As usual, I spent my Sunday in the casa to recharge and sleep in after Saturday’s adventure. Apparently, that was not okay with my host family. The number of times I was asked when I was going to leave, why I wasn’t doing anything, or was passive-aggressively reminded that “Barcelona is full of things to do” was insane. Like—I know! I just needed a day off to recharge.
All of this came after Saturday’s dinner, where I was basically interrogated about why I would go to Andorra by myself. They were like, “Don’t you have any friends? Why would you want to go there?”
To make matters worse, on Sunday afternoon we were watching a movie when all of a sudden my host mom got a call from the older son saying he was bringing his girlfriend over. Everything immediately went into panic mode, and a frenzy of cleaning began. The casa wasn’t even dirty to begin with, but who knows. When the cleaning finished, it very much seemed like they wanted me out of the house. They were like, “Oh Delia, don’t you want to take a walk?” No. Not really. Not in the heat.
I can’t win. I go somewhere—that’s bad. I stay home—also bad. So this past week I’ve tried to go out more and explore the city, but it’s hard to stay motivated between the heat and the essay. I should mention I stayed home Sunday to actually work on the essay… but apparently they didn’t seem to understand that.
And technically I did leave the house—I tried to find lunch at a supermarket but had to walk pretty far because, it turns out, all the supermarkets are closed on Sundays. Who would’ve thought? Sunday shopping is so common in the U.S., but apparently not in Spain. I just don’t get it. I thought Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest here, but at the same time my profesora was like, “On Sundays some museums are free.” So… am I supposed to be resting or going to museums? I don’t understand.
Monday’s class was actually fun for once—we went to a hospital. No, not a functioning hospital—an old hospital that’s now a museum, to look at the architecture. It was so beautiful. I think it was called Hospital Sant Pau or something like that. After the hospital visit, we were supposed to continue class near the Sagrada Família, but my profesora was like, “Let’s get a cold drink,” so we stopped at a heladería and she bought us all drinks.
Somehow this turned into a 30-minute conversation where she went on a passionate rant about how angry she is that the government isn’t doing anything to make housing affordable. She somehow linked this to the Sagrada Família being finished and also to why banning Airbnbs is bad. I don’t think I was fully following, because honestly a lot of what she said felt contradictory—like wanting to have her cake and eat it too.
I think a lot of U.S. cities have the same problem of expensive housing—like New York or San Francisco—but there’s less expectation that someone is actually going to fix it. It’s more of an “it is what it is” situation. And while I agree with her that the situation in Barcelona is bad, there doesn’t seem to be an easy solution. It’s not like you can just hand out free houses, ban tourists, and stop huge corporations all at once.
Post-class, I embarked on one of the worst walks of my life—through the entire city—trying to find feminist street art. I had looked into it ahead of time online, but actually getting to the locations was brutal because of the heat and the packed buses. On top of that, some of the art had been covered up by other art, as street art tends to go. It was so hot.
Around 3 p.m., I stumbled into a Día supermarket. The people in the store must have thought I was drunk or something because I was literally on the verge of passing out from the heat. But after two cold beverages and eating ¾ of a baguette with some €1 jamón, I was back on my feet and continued the journey. The things I’ve done for this dumb 10-page paper.
I even accidentally ended up at a cultural center. I mean, I was trying to go to the cultural center because I read online that they had some feminist art on display… except they didn’t. I attempted to wander through the building but was quickly stopped by reception, and then proceeded to get lectured for 20 minutes about community art projects.
I should add: this woman spoke like she wasn’t breathing, so I only understood about 50% of what she said. And all the pamphlets she gave me were in Catalan. Luckily, she wrote most of what she said down, and I was able to use a lot of the information for my project.
One of the most annoying parts of this project has been that so many of the sources and signs have been in Catalan. On one hand, I’m genuinely happy about the revival and use of Catalan—it’s cool and important. But on the other hand… I’m in Spain, doing research on the streets, and I can’t fully understand a lot of the signs for the murales and whatnot because they’re not in Spanish. Of course, it’s a good thing it’s in Catalan—but for my own sake? Ugh.
Towards the end of my walk, I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art because—once again—I had read on their website that they had contemporary feminist art. One thing I failed to consider: art rotates in museums. So, they didn’t have what I was looking for. They did have some feminist art and some other very odd stuff… so not a total waste of 10,50 euros. And it had AC, which at that point was priceless.
I definitely paid for that walk on Tuesday though. I woke up exhausted. Fully drained. My morning café did absolutely nothing. I was practically falling asleep in class. During our 30-minute break, I literally sprinted to a coffee shop and got an iced latte. Yes, you read that right—iced. What can I say? It has been so hot. Even sitting here right now, writing this blog, I’m sweating buckets.
Now, this iced latte was expensive and 100% not as good as Small World in Princeton, which makes a mean iced caramel latte, but it did the job and got me through class.
Post-class, I had to work on the essay again because the topic I started on Sunday wasn’t working, so I had to start from scratch. Enter coffee number three of the day—something I’ve never done before. But I’m convinced espresso here isn’t as strong as American coffee… although, weirdly, people say the opposite.
Once again, my host family did not seem to understand the concept of writing an essay. They were like, “Delia, you were here all day doing work?” And I was like, “Yes. Working on my 10-page paper.” They were like, “¿Diez páginas?” And I was like, “Yes,” and they just stared and said, “That’s a lot.”
Yes. I know. Tell my professor that.
What made it even more infuriating is that on Wednesday, during our little circle where we talked about our papers, our profe goes, “Well, this isn’t a Spanish language class, so if you want to write the paper in English and translate it, that’s fine. I can even help you.”
Perdona… ¿qué??
Why, in a Spanish class, would it be permitted to use a translator? That kind of defeats the purpose. No translators. No AI. Just me, in my cramped habitación, suffering through these pages. And I still have four more to go.
Wednesday, we were back at the National Art Museum of Catalunya, this time to look at modern art. They had some really cool Civil War-era posters—but we weren’t allowed to look at those. Instead, we focused on paintings of women sitting in chairs or “bohemian” men at bars in Paris painting stuff. Riveting.
Post-class, I finally decided to head to the beach. Well—technically—first I went to McDonald’s. Yes, you read that right. I finally went to McDonald’s. Now, normally I’m not even a McDonald’s fan in the States, but for some reason, I was starving and craving something heavy, so McDonald’s it was.
I should add: it was very expensive. Like 14 euros expensive. Considering lunch for an entire week here can be 12 euros, that was a lot. But, to be fair, comparable to other lunch places. I got a Quarter Pounder with cheese, large fries, a Sprite, and a Kit Kat ice cream. The menu was actually pretty wild—featuring items that were way more unhealthy and extreme than in the U.S. I think part of the McDonald’s experience in Spain is playing into the overused stereotypes of America’s giant portions and super unhealthy food.
Honestly, if I saw the stuff they sell here—like three hamburgers stacked on top of each other with chicken nuggets between a bun—I would also think America has a problem. But for the record: that’s not on the McDonald’s menu in America.
I totally regretted the McDonald’s though because afterwards I felt awful. Honestly not even sure how it’s legal here, considering how strict food laws are in Europe.
After McDonald’s, I decided to stop by El Corte Inglés, which I thought was just a store, but turns out it’s more like a department store. Maybe it’s my lack of department store knowledge—since in the U.S. we’ve pretty much killed off malls—or maybe I just don’t frequent New York enough to remember what a real department store is.
It was an odd experience. There were different brands with their own little counters—like a mini Coach handbag store within the store—but at the same time they also sold El Corte Inglés–branded stuff. So in that sense, it did seem like a store. Honestly… I don’t know.
Finally, I made it to the beach to relax and forget about the pain of writing that paper on Tuesday. Nope. This turned out to be the most disgusting beach I’ve ever been to, with literal trash floating in the water. In a moment (well, technically two moments) of poor judgment—because it was so hot—I decided to go in the brown, trash-filled water.
I know. I know. But there were tons of other people doing it too! I didn’t put my face in it, but I definitely went in for a short amount of time. The time on the sand wasn’t bad, except I really wished I had an umbrella.
One annoying part of the beach was the sheer number of random men walking up and down selling agua, cerveza, and beach blankets. Like—why would I want to buy a beer from some random dude walking the beach? And it wasn’t like it happened once or twice. Every five minutes these guys would walk by yelling “Agua! Cerveza!”
Just let me nap next to the cesspool in peace, please.
I did get to enjoy the conversation of the people next to me on the beach, who were clearly not native English speakers but were talking to each other in English. I don’t know what the situation was exactly, but at one point the girl told the guy she was with that he was gay (to his face), and she also told another woman nearby that she didn’t have a boyfriend. They were kind of odd and went around asking random people if they could take a puff of their currently lit cigarettes or vapes… despite the fact that they already had their own e-cigarettes going on their towel. Why people kept saying yes to them, I have no idea, but I got to eavesdrop on their strange conversations with some locals.
One local’s son they were chatting with was going around killing jellyfish. I didn’t even know there were jellyfish in the water, but this kid found them and, in full Tarzan-like fashion—with a spear and some tight-fitting (I’m guessing) underwear—speared the jellyfish like it was his next meal and proudly paraded them around to show his mom and the odd vaping English speakers.
Anyway, I took a nice nap, guarding my backpack with my life (knowing all about the robberies on Barcelona’s beaches) and then headed back to the casa. Apparently, I returned too early because no one was home, and I was really going for a dramatic entrance like: “Look at me! I wasn’t in the house! I was out exploring this city you remind me daily is so chulo and bonito.”
I was so thirsty and hot on the way back that I stopped at a store to buy a drink. A small bottle was the same price as 1.5 liters, so I am now the proud owner of 1.5 liters of Don Simón limonada, which is currently on display in my room because, as I’ve mentioned, the fridge is tiny. The label says it should be refrigerated, but I think it’ll be fine. It’s lemonade. I drank it today—warm, but fine.
That brings us to today—Thursday—and, what good timing, I have 15 minutes before I need to leave for my ceramics class. Today we had our class walk, then I went to Mercadona, and then came home to write this blog. Not a super exciting day, but like I said before, I can’t treat this trip like a full-on vacation or it would be too exhausting. I’m here to study, live, and of course have fun along the way—but in balance and equilibrium.
In fact, for the first time ever, I have no travel plans for the weekend. I’m simply going to explore Barcelona and hit some of the classic tourist stops like Parc Güell, Sagrada Família, and whatever else one does in Barcelona. Crazy to think that next week’s blog will be my last full one from Barcelona. Oh, how time flies. I think the odd structure of this program has made it feel even faster—we haven’t had a single full week of class yet. In fact, we have tomorrow off for the Fourth of July… and no, the Fourth is not celebrated in Spain. Why we need a day off for a U.S. holiday, I really don’t understand. But I’m not complaining. I’ll be enjoying a CIEE-provided winery tour and tasting, which is super exciting because I’ve never been to a winery and been allowed to drink the product. So yay!
The second part of the day is a trip to the beach—hopefully not like the beach in Barcelona. Wish me luck, because by the next time you hear from me, I’ll have both this 10-page paper and my photo essay done and will be in the process of cramming for the final exam. I also really want to see a movie in theaters this week.
This must be some kind of record: nine pages in less than two hours. I think my typing speed has finally improved. Take that, COS partner who told me I type too slow.
Side note: I just got back from ceramics painting to a message saying I’d be dining alone again… but this time with a feast prepared! Qué divertido! Even my daily dark chocolate bar was laid out for postre. Not the whole thing, of course—just a piece. Also: check out my ceramics piece—it’s giving Gaudí. And I finally found the quaint part of Gràcia near my house! I’d read online all about how charming Gràcia is, but after walking around my house and up the hill, I had found… nothing. Turns out you need to go down the hill, away from Parc Güell, to find the cute shops, plazas, cafés, and more. Definitely heading down there again this weekend. It was definitely a bonus that this ceramics studio was only a nine-minute walk from the casa.
Words for the Week:
- Morder: to bite (for cookie)
- Escarbar: to dig (once again for Cookie)
- Animar: to encourage
- Lona: canvas
- El bastón: cane/baton (handy when you’re writing an essay about street art and one is dos mujeres y un bastón)
- La placa: plaque (also part of said mural)
- Bodega: winery (Mom, I’m begging you, I don’t need the “be safe” text—I’ll take a simple “have a nice time”)
- Borrador: draft (an interesting word because borrar means to erase, so how we get borrador for a rough draft is still a mystery to me)
- Lechuga: lettuce
- Chips: chips (not fries—actual chips)
- Tapa: lid—who would’ve thought? I knew tapas as in the food, but didn’t realize it also meant lid. It was the word I was desperately searching for when McDonald’s didn’t give me a tapa and I needed to take my drink to go. Never got the tapa and ended up throwing out the drink… but whatever.
- Ell@s mism@s: themselves (inclusive form)
- Depender de: to rely on
- El altavoz: speaker
Vale, that’s all I have for you this week! TBD whether next week’s blog will come Wednesday or Friday, because Thursday I’ll be cramming for the exam. LOL.
FYI if you’re looking for a great movie rec El maestro que prometió el mar.
It basically had me crying at the end. It’s in Spanish, but I’m sure you can find an English version or subtitles. Also, it’s a true story!
¡Que tengáis una buena semana y nos vemos el próximo!
