This trip was poorly planned as far as wine is concerned. And if you’ve been reading my blog for any amount of time, you know that wine is an essential part of my well being. We ran out of it early and needed hydration fast under the hot Spanish sun.

After a quick elimination round of rock-paper-scissors, Lana and I were banished to trudge across the thick sand to the restaurant where we could buy some more. I swear it took us a good 30 minutes to cross the dunes, and we were sober. This sand was relentless and grabbed onto us mercilessly with each step, laughing at our struggle. I had not come to these islands for a leg workout – quit being ridiculous, Sand. We arrive and Lana declares that we need a beer to reward ourselves for a journey well done. This seemed like a brilliant idea so I got us two Estrella Galicia cañas. As we downed the last sips and set our glasses down, a dapper young gentleman swooped over, gave us quick refills and a wink, and carried on with his business. Lana and I looked at each other knowingly – you never turn down free alcohol. Life lesson #3. We gulp down the beer, fully aware that Marina is waiting with our stuff and expects a bottle of wine immediately. Although, I don’t feel THAT sorry for her, considering her view at the moment was this:

life does not suck

As we hurriedly finish that round, we get a third refill. Ok, now this is just silly. If silly = awesome. After our third, I tell Lana we have probably been gone 30 minutes now, we are happily buzzing, and we should go. She looks at me and laughs for no apparent reason, then bites me.  And then we get our fourth refill. Ok this time for REAL, is our last one. We order a bottle of wine and giggle like schoolgirls as the beer floats up to our heads in dizzying bubbles, bypassing our empty stomachs. Life is goooooood in this moment. Real good.

round 2

round 3

round 4

We finish our beer, grab the wine and leave before temptation gets us a fifth time. We are acting like fools, but in all serious I tell Lana that Marina is gonna be PISSED when we get back, and rightly so, and to give her the wine immediately to placate her.

We arrive, putting on very apologetic faces, and she looks up from her book.
“You bitches. You were gone for an hour and a half!”

We collapse into a heap of insanity on the sand, laughing like assholes.

Hmm. I misunderstimated our absence. But the soothing balm of Albariño calmed her rage. We spent the afternoon letting the sun and wine carry us into a blissful stupor. And sunbathing topless, which I do love about the European culture. No photos tho, pervs.

Later, as if on cue, Marina looks down at her watch.
“It’s totes 5:00pm.”
“That’s totes our boat,” Lana says, as she points to the boat pulling away from the dock. (note: we quote I Love You, Man. A lot. Totes mah goats.)

So we will be catching the 7pm after all. I knew it.

So we wander around the other parts of the island.

I stub my toe on a rock at one point and it’s a bloody mess. Not bloody in the British sense, but in the “there is red liquid spewing from my body parts” sense. I feel the need to clarify this considering I use the terms interchangeably. My friends felt the need to document my struggle in getting to the water to wash off my toes.

climbing down the sharp and scary rocks

washin off mah toe

holding up something

…and then we’re out of wine. Time to head back to the restaurant.