This was not supposed to happen.
I left my apartment with good intentions. Just a quick drink, maybe two, like a responsible person who has a healthy relationship with alcohol and decision-making. I had planned for an early night. A calm, quiet, sophisticated evening.
Cut to 4 AM, and I am standing on a beach I do not recognize, barefoot, holding a plastic cup of questionable liquid, listening to a man named Paco explain how he once almost got arrested for trying to steal a goat.
Somewhere, along the way, I lost control of the narrative.
The Beginning: A Simple Plan, A Fatal Mistake
It started at a small bar near my apartment. The kind with wobbly chairs, loud locals who have known each other for decades, and a bartender who looks at you like he already knows you’re about to make really bad decisions.
I met up with a friend, who introduced me to their friend, who introduced me to their cousin, who introduced me to someone whose name I immediately forgot but who seemed very enthusiastic about everything.
We ordered one drink. And then, somewhere between one drink and three drinks, someone said the most dangerous phrase in the Spanish language:
“We should go somewhere else.”
This is where things started to go wrong.
The Middle: The Time Vortex of Spanish Nightlife
In Spain, there is no such thing as “just one more.” One drink becomes a bottle. A bottle becomes “Let’s go meet up with some people.” Meeting up with some people becomes “Let’s go to a place I know.”
And suddenly, you are walking down a street you’ve never seen before, following a group of people who seem to know where they’re going, even though you absolutely do not.
At some point, we ended up in a car.
Who was driving? Unclear.
Where were we going? Also unclear.
Why did I get in the car? Excellent question.
I do remember that someone passed me a bottle of something strong enough to legally be considered a weapon, and I drank it because peer pressure is real and I make terrible choices.
The next thing I knew, we were in a different town.
The Realization: This Is Not My City
I stepped out of the car, looked around, and realized this was not Valencia.
“This isn’t Valencia,” I said.
“No,” someone agreed, as if this was perfectly normal.
“Where are we?” I asked.
A shrug. No one seemed concerned.
I checked Google Maps. It told me I was 45 minutes away from my apartment. I checked my wallet. It told me I had spent an amount of money I was not emotionally prepared to acknowledge.
At some point, we ended up on a beach. There were more drinks. More conversations with people I had just met but who I was now emotionally attached to. Someone started playing guitar. Someone else was arguing loudly about the meaning of life.
And then, Paco.
Paco and the Goat Heist
Paco was someone’s uncle, though I’m still not sure whose. He was about sixty, wearing a hat that looked like it had seen some things, and drinking out of a flask that I strongly suspect was filled with something homemade and illegal.
At some point, Paco decided we were close enough to hear the story of the time he almost got arrested for stealing a goat.
To be clear, he did not actually steal the goat. He was trying to rescue the goat, which, according to him, was being “emotionally neglected” by its owner.
“I told them,” he said, shaking his head, “this is not theft. This is liberation.”
Apparently, the police did not agree.
We all nodded, because what else do you do when a drunk man tells you about a failed goat heist at 4 AM?
The Walk of Shame (But Make It International)
Eventually, I had to accept reality. It was almost sunrise. I was not in my city. I had no idea how to get home.
The group, still full of energy like vampires who do not experience exhaustion, invited me to keep going.
I considered it. I thought about my responsibilities, my dignity, my need to function as a human being the next day.
And then I made the only smart decision I had made all night.
I ordered an obscenely expensive taxi and dragged myself home like a defeated warrior returning from battle.
By the time I got into bed, the sun was fully up, my body was 40% alcohol, 10% regret, and 50% pure exhaustion, and my phone had a text from my friend that just said:
“Where did you go?”
I still don’t know the answer.
