Torture, Four Days a Week

I have the pleasure and misfortune of walking 25 minutes to and from school Monday through Friday.

I say the pleasure because I do indeed love the walk. It's a mostly peaceful walk in the cool air which gives me the time to run through my classes in days ahead and days past. I practice Spanish in my head (everything I'm thinking I try and translate... which usually boils down to an exercise in seeing how simple my thoughts really are).

And I also say misfortune because those 25 minutes (really, nearly an hour after I make it back home) are utter torture. In the morning nearly every open shop beckons me with the yeasty aroma of fresh bread and slightly sweet from the more delectable and spongy croissants. On my way home (just when I'm hungriest during my day) not only are the smells still wafting around, but now the windows too are filled with merienda-time treats: pastries filled sky-high with barely-sweet cream, chocolate covered and flaky elephant-ears the size of one's head, or shiny cups filled with glistening, sticky flan. With the endless amounts of other tantalizing and mouth-watering desserts, I gaze longingly into each window and door as I walk by (and maybe even taking an extra swallow as I pass).

Anyone who knows even an ounce about me knows that I have a pestering sweet tooth and a huge vulnerability when it comes to desserts, pastries, cookies or nearly anything else that might usually be the finishing touch to my meal. With that, every day has become and exercise in pure self restraint where I simply slip into day dreams about one day actually indulging in the delectable edibles displayed behind that infallible glass counter.