josephine.: It's official, I am in Hell.

Necessary information for my story: for our cooking class, we were taken on a little adventure to a local bar where they serve ‘the best’ pinxos in town, along with a little Spanish vino this particular area happens to be quite famous for.
After the meal of pinxos and tortilla, we were served one final dish; just a little something cute to wash down the delicious flavor of Spanish wine: squid.
The waiter set the plate in front of me and I was like, “okay, no.”
My professor quickly retrieved the goods and between her and the other guide, quickly began devouring every morsel. They continued their conversation completely ignoring the fact that they are consuming dirty garbage-feeders from the deep depths of all that is wrong with this world.
Noticing the disgust in my demeanor [which can’t have been hard, as I was purposefully not allowing my line of sight to wander in the direction of her plate of slimy beasts] she says,
“Amy, mira – sometimes they put the tentacles inside the squid and smother it in its ink. It’s very good, I’m surprised you’ve not tried it before, you should . . ”
I literally laughed out loud [as I do frequently here in

Spain

when someone tells me to do something I so very obviously will never in my life do] and went along my with my day as I always have before, believing these things do not exist in my world.

So imagine my surprise when I sit down at my kitchen table today for lunch, where my wonderful host family has never failed to adorn the tablescape with a luscious wondrous spread, and sitting in its place, [this wonderful meal I was intending on consuming] was squid tentacles nestled deep inside the empty pocket of its body smothered ever so generously with its own ink.

Lovely.

I took one look at this meal over which my family was just ever so pleased and cue internal struggle –‘Amy, are you going to eat this, or are you not?’

Once I resigned myself to the fact that, while I cannot fathom bringing myself to eat this squid carcass, I stand a far less chance of uttering the words, “I’m sorry, I just don’t think I can eat this.”

Because I know what comes next, as my fellow picky-eating friends can confirm – “well, have you tried it?” haha, okay, not prepared for a debate in Spanish where ultimately I end up hurting Carmen’s feelings and eating the squid anyway.

In the end, I manned up, grabbed my irrational courage in one hand and my fork in the other, choked back a little unintentional gag reflex, and took my first bite.

It took every last bit of my motivation to ignore the overwhelming urge to reintroduce myself to my rubbery friends.

Suffice it to say, I am alive. I have conquered that demon and, now don’t misunderstand me here, NEVER again.

So, France.

France was exactly what I needed to pull me out of this Spanish funk I have been trudging throught these past couple weeks. Although photos never do a place justice, I would be remiss if I were to ignore the sheer beauty the French coastline has to offer the world. Absolutely gorgeous weather, French [Basque] architecture, and FAT BIRDS, which are adorable, obviously.