Jazz music and undead drunkards.

I went out to listen to jazz music Friday night. I ended up carrying a drunken, undead man home.

The live music was in an upscale bar that catered to a much wealthier and older audience than myself. I believe I was the only person there under 30. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the music. The band looked like an older, Italian version of the Jonas Brothers with Dave Grohl on drums and a woman on cello for whom I can't think of a doppleganger. They did a lot of improvisation, especially the drummer, and even incorporated "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" into one of their songs.

I went with Louis and Ana. Louis and I enjoyed the jazz music thoroughly while Ana complained about the lack of dancing. We told her to dance if she wanted but I don't think anyone was going to join her. I had a conversation in Spanish with Louis about most music being stolen by white guys and eventually being turned into a spectacle for old white people to enjoy. It's a good thing I have patient and helpful Spanish friends to listen when I'm trying to explain more difficult concepts. Usually they get the gist of what I'm saying despite some grammar errors.

After listening to jazz for a while, we headed over to the other popular concert of the night in Teruel in a modern-looking bar called "The Place" (yes, in English). It was 15 euros to even enter, so we decided to go somewhere else. And from the sound of the place, the music would not have appealed to me anyway. We ended up going to Louis' favorite bar. It was obvious upon entering it why he liked it so much - the walls were decorated by a hardcore heavy metal fan. There were flaming skulls and long-haired demon people painted everywhere. I'll admit it was equal parts impressive and creepy. There's nothing like listening to Metallica and Slayer playlists in a basement bar that could have been designed by a Dungeon Master.

After having my face sufficiently melted, we went to another bar. This one was picked by Ana. The music was folky and the bartenders could have easily been Starbucks baristas by day. I tried to explain the term "hipster" to Ana and Louis but they kept thinking I was referring to hippies. It's not necessarily difficult to explain it in Spanish so much as it is difficult to define a hipster. Our tranquil tea time in hipsterland was interrupted by Ana's alcoholic cousin, George, who stumbled in, drunk as a skunk, in what I'm sure was the best Halloween costume in Teruel that night. In fact, it may have been the only Halloween costume in Teruel because Halloween is a fairly new, imported holiday here.

I wish I had brought my camera because his outfit truly was impressive and his inebriated state made his undead look all the more convincing. His face was painted pale white and he had a thin beard that traced his jawline and connected to a mustache, leaving the chin cleanly shaved. It was similar to a mutton chop style but very clean-looking. He had a nice bowler hat and a white a black striped suit with a red bow tie. Talk about classy. At first, his drunkenness was a bit entertaining but it soon became apparent that he was not feeling well. Ana tried to give him water and coffee but he opted to vomit on the floor instead. One of the bartenders mopped it up with what I thought was an entirely too satisfied look on his face. Either he really liked mopping up vomit or he had no idea where he was either.

Ana went for her car and Louis and I carried George out of the bar and laid him down on a bench outside. He immediately went to sleep. If it weren't for his snoring, I would have thought he was dead. The police pulled up eventually and made sure he was okay. They offered to take him home but Louis told them we had a car on the way. George would have been arrested if he had been in the States. Here, the police offer to give him a ride home. Spain is different.

Ana didn't know where George lived exactly, so we drove around for quite some time looking for his house. George made himself comfortable by laying his head on my shoulder. I was terrified that he was going to expel zombie puke on me at any moment. Thankfully, we found his house before he had the opportunity. His mom seemed thankful that we brought him home but irritated that we had showed up at three in the morning and rang the doorbell. Ana offered to go back to the city center after this fiasco but I declined. Spaniards are crazy.

Last night I went to the movies with my roommate and his lady friend. We watched The Adventures of Tintin, based on the Belgian comic series and the cartoons. It was directed by Steven Spielberg and produced by Peter Jackson and has all kinds of popular actors in it (including Daniel Craig, Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, and Andy Serkis). The bad part was that none of the voices were from these actors because I watched it with Spanish voice actors. However, the voices weren't just sloppily dubbed as they usually are for movies here. They actually sounded quite natural for the characters. It was surprisingly enjoyable and the visuals (especially during action sequences) were well done. I think it's one of the few 3-D movies I've seen that actually benefits from being in 3-D.

Tomorrow I'm heading to Zaragoza with one of the teachers at the foreign language school. Her parents are going to let me stay at their house and feed me free food. I'm excited.