Madrid

Here we are in Madrid, two rough and tumble Americans in girly pleated dresses, strapped into rough and tumble backpacks, inexplicably heavy with more girly pleated dresses. We're making the most of an eight-hour layover by taking a mini-pre-Grecian-vacation in Spain.

Mikki's been here before, so she leads the way to a restaurant that serves cheap and decent paella. Our waiter, an Argentinian with a gruff, movie-preview voice who we've named "Viggo", advises that an order of paella is splittable between the two of us girls. Girly pleated dresses and all, we suspect Viggo underestimates our rough and tumble appetite, so we keep a backup entree of oxtail stew in mind.

The paella, as suspected, is far from being enough for the two of us. We're charging the platter like angry toros, bucking saffron grains of rice all over the table. Consequently, we order and demolish the oxtail stew.

Viggo, impressed, brings over two shots of a mysterious licorice-flavored liquor. Not only are we not really "shot" girls, but I also hate licorice. But after the show we put on with our meal, we can't disappoint our fans.

As the shots set in, Viggo introduces us to a Spanish couple at a neighboring table who are en route to New York City. We implore them to go to Cafe Gypsy, scribbling the address and our names on a napkin. In return, they offer us mystery crackers spread with mystery pate; bursting at the pleats, we're praying for no more free and obligatory solids or liquids.

I don't know if the tranquilizer was in the shots or the pate, but I'm barely able to hold myself up. I'm a spectacle, stumbling for all to see. And we've got a plane to catch, to our real vacation. How we're going to get back to the airport, I don't know...