9 weeks later

Yes, that is how long it has been here, in sunny, scrumptous Spain. Or so I believed prior to arriving here. The sun escapes me, as I spend my days indoors, a prisoner of these four, rather porous walls, manufacturing a seemingly endless array of pitch letter for my editors-to-be.

I am afraid to venture out. No, not for fear of being mugged, or attacked, or raped as is the case in the land I've effected my escape from, but for fear of being mistaken for a Spaniard. For fear of being in frozen motionless each time a passer-by stops to ask me something; direction, the time, the nearest pharmacy. 'No hablo espanol,' might elicit the kind of reaction I despise; ignorance or implicit aversion. Every foreigner is here to snatch a job from the well-entitled Spaniard or overburden their extensive welfare system right? Yes and no. Certainly, there are those who wish the exploit the system just as any other nation. But nothing could be further from the truth in my case as I could not be more isolated from the 'system'.

George Dumbya's face just popped up on the flat screen of my television set. I remember why I left the 'land of the brave and free.' ..or is it 'the land of the free and mighty.' Could be 'the land of the wicked and crazy.' It evades me en momento. Blame it on the lack of sleep.

Surely, I will be more coherent tomorrow.