We made it through the rest of the evening (and past the drunken brawlers/slow-dancers) unscathed. We walked out of town at 5:30 the next morning through the streets and past the roadside bars still/already crowded with red-panted Santerians getting a head start on the final day of the festival, which culminated in the brightly-repainted cemetery, where ad-hoc bars were constructed amidst the monuments to facilitate drinking to and for dead relatives who, if they were fortunate enough to survive the horrors of the civil war, most likely passed on through drunken accidents or psoriasis(?) of the liver and/or brain by the very paint-remover they were being honored with.
Now we've returned to the "big city," where we're jumping back into Spanish classes and another homestay, resigned to the fact that it will inevitably feature meals based around bland tortillas along with luke-warm showers-- and yet, after the past week, that doesn't seem so bad.
P.S. We did attempt to but a pair of the red pants, but they didn't have our size... probably for the best.
