Saturday, Sept 18 San Sebastian

It’s 6am and I can’t sleep. I’m still tired, but my clock is confused. I did sleep on the train last night. The kind of exhausted sleep where you try to wake up and you just can’t. But it would be worse. It could be 3 am. At least 6 is somewhat human. I realized yesterday that I traveled for 30 straight hours. It seemed like I was never going to get here. But I suppose the thing I learned the most, is that no matter how comfortable, there are no clothes that are designed to be worn for that long. My jacket wore against my neck so much I thought it was going to bleed. Lesson learned. Next time it’s yoga pants and no bra. Socks are always good, though.

I will try to get a little more shut-eye before I actually get up and start the day, which is going to be interesting. When I go out today, I get to navigate my way around town to get my festival credentials, meet a veritable stranger for lunch, and find a film library for a 5:30 screening. Oh, and take some pictures and figure out how to get to the Guggenheim. Maybe even see the beach. It’s only a couple blocks away.

And now, some observations that I want to record before I forget:

The Atlanta Airport smelled of cinnamon and butter, and the musak played disco and R&B.

The cab driver in Madrid had a voice so gravelly, it sounded like he was impersonating Marlon Brando’s Godfather SNL style.

Americans are easy to spot. They’re the fat ones who put their feet on everything.

Spaniards have more respect for personal space than the French. But less than Americans.