One morning, while eating our free youth hostel breakfast (baguette, jam, tea) in Paris, an Asian couple asked us a question.
"You grew up with bread?"
They grew up with rice. The crusty bread, the French are so fond of, was driving them crazy; they were tired of all the chewing.
Yesterday, in the Granada bus station, we bumped into them again. They were leaving. We were arriving.
In a flurry of excitement, we traded travel tales. They had seen a bullfight, and had the ear of the bull in their backpack. I saw it: A rich chocolate brown. The exposed flesh was starting to rot. The attached hair was longer than I would have expected.
They gave us some fruit and some postcards. I gave them some stickers.
Later, when we arrived at our hostel, we were hungry and without food. A small shop around the corner supplied us with dehydrated soup, and a can of bean salad with tuna.
While waiting for access to the stove, we watched a soon to be friend, prepare a pasta feast. Our mouths watered. We looked down at our dehydrated soup, slowly hydrating in a small pot. The pasta chef looked down at our dehydrated soup. He smiled. We smiled back. Smiles of embarrassment at the inequality of our meals.
Let me tell you, the pasta was delicious. So was the salad and bread, that our new friend so graciously shared with us.
Hostel life is like that.