Siempre siesta

The best thing in the world is siesta. Some people might say, 'hey, Celina, what about the love of fellow man? What about the the miracle of life?' And to those people I say, shut up, I'm sleeping. Because siesta is the best thing in the world.

I haven't even been here a week and already a life sans siesta frightens me.

It has it's own magnetic pull. I'll be walking, well intentioned, to a museum and then I pass some grass. And I'll think, god that grass looks comfortable. And then it's almost like I black out. It's like Iberian Celina momentarily and placidly possesses me and before I realise what I've done I am under the shade of some tree with my Spanish fan fluttering above me and my bag under my head. And in siesta I have come to discover nothing. It's amazing. I am almost totally without thought. And it's not that crappy empty mind that they try to get you sucked in to at yoga. It's an absolute contended stupor. A temporary, glorious lobotomy. Lobotomies get too much bad press.

You can have no guilt about spending all of your time doing nothing because it's cultural. It's like the law. And really, what else do I have to do? I am redundant. Monique keeps saying that "Madrid is a city you have to experience and Barcelona is a city you have to visit" (I may have to lobotomise her if she says this one more time). And while I haven't been to Barcelona I hear they don't do siesta and so I agree with her. Barcelona is dumb.


In this picture I am in the midst of a super siesta. It was a little bit radical. Usually siesta is from about 2 to 5 or something. Here it's about 9pm and I'm half an hour in to what became a 4 hour marathon siesta. I actually stayed lying on my sister's balcony while she and Jo watched TV, read and went to bed or left. Did not even go to the bathroom. Rather proud of myself. Some would call this being a big fat lazy blob, but I don't care. Because I'm always chilled out. Because of siesta.