The comatose state.
The state of being incapable of moving a muscle.
Disconnectedness from people, things, and the environment.
The inability to process information.
Those of you who read my blog regularly know that if I’ve entered this state, it can only mean one thing: I’ve made it to Spain.
Land of Don Quixote.
Place where tapas abound, where vino flows freely, and where coffee is known as “cafe con leche.”
A land whose food is so rich, you cannot avoid falling into a coma.
A paella coma.
A churros coma.
A tapas coma.
An Iberian ham coma.
The sky is the limit regarding the variety of food that can suddenly induce one to enter this catatonic state.
Unlike the state of “dolce far niente,” you don’t plan it, you don’t see it coming, you can’t prepare for it. It simply hits you.
You know when you’re at its mercy when your eyes begin to close; when your head dips forward and you look like a bobble doll.
All you want to do is sleep.
This malady doesn’t have an antidote; a prolonged siesta is the only cure.
Don’t fight it.
Don’t try to control it.
Don’t think you can outfox it.
Once it has you in its grip, you’re a goner.
It’s best to simply surrender
To inhale and exhale deeply.
To let it lull you into a state of oblivion.
The effects are temporary but the rewards are many.
Like Sleeping Beauty, you’ll wake up refreshed; ready to incorporate yourself into whatever you were doing before becoming its prey.
The comatose state: one of Spain’s greatest gifts to unsuspecting visitors.
I’ll be here all summer, folks and when I’m not in a food coma, I hope to regale you with tales from this magnificent land.
When was the last time you fell into this kind of state?