My favorite Spanish holiday

Spain and the Spanish-speaking world is famous for elaborate festivals, from Carnaval to Easter to the Running of the Bulls. But there is one holiday that lives in the sad shadow of these street-filling diversions, and that is Rebajas.

Yes, Rebajas, the end-of-season frenzy in which sale prices can reach 60, 70, 80 percent. It is a little known and little advertised holiday, marked noticeably but its lack of street dancing, flowery flotillas depicting the Ascention, or really fanfare of any kind. Don't let the reserved observation of the holiday fool you: you'll find yourself giddy as a conga line lead as soon as you set foot in one of Spain's awesome discount botiques, antique bookstores, or sauce and chocolate shops. Bright red and yellow signs invite the eye from every window. Numbers and prices are displayed like Nativities on Christmas at the entrances to even the most conservative facade. There you'll find all the exotic splendor we have come to expect from Southern Europe. And it's on sale... for you!

The timing of Rebajas was serendipitous for my personal Iberian escapade. This was truly a budget trip, a real test of how much time I can spend in a European day without spending any money. Had it been a festival of drinking, or worse, donating to the poor or church, I would have spent the last week in the hotel room crying over my last 50. But instead, I was able to fill the useless time between meals with endless poking, trying on and thumbing through, all with the real possibility that I might, in fact, buy something in Euros.

In the end, of course, I found myself watching the holiday more than observing it. I fenegled a few books, a souvenir or two, sure. But, just like we save the most dangerous booty shaking for the Brazilians who are more skilled at it, I chose to leave most of the purchasing to the Spanish who deserved these awesome bargains. It seemed my best hope was to return, replete with knowldge, to engage myself like a true Spaniard in the annual clearing out of old stocks and forgotten inventory.

Ode to My Single Serving Friend

Thank you, single serving friend, for your polite and witty banter. Your comments were appropriate, your thoughts at times profound. How we shared the pain of sitting the exact furthest distance from the TV screen. Together we suffered through "Journey to the Center of the Earth," where I fell asleep and you caught me up on the end.

You were a good row 27 partner: when I asked about your accent, you explained as best you could. I pray you caught your flight to Paris: I wish you good luck there.

We shook hands at the terminal, then, 2 hours later I sat next to an old German lady who didn't say anything except "allo!" to wake me up for sandwich time.