Essential Bulletins

It would be wise to take note that pineapple is now running a close second to mango on the "Types Of Fruit Which, When Eaten With My Bare Hands For Breakfast, Never Fail To Make Me Giddy" leaderboard.

Please adjust accordingly.

Wee Things

Well, that's it. I'm out of the woods. Exams finished, classes as good as done, sun shining, next flight looming. Life resuming. Actually, it took less than the actual exam to shake me out of my state of stress. Heading home to study yesterday, I found myself wading hip-deep through a sea of children who had just been released from the primary school across the street. I was preoccupied with trying to remember just when the temporal correlation of verbs in the infinitive combined with "que" should be applied to the subjunctive versus the indicative -- obviously -- so it took me a couple minutes to get the message, but when it came through at last I started smiling a lot.

Still existing in the worry-free world of prepubescence, these children had no concept of homework or finals or waking up, dazed and dulled, after falling asleep on one's textbook the night before. They weren't in the least bit worried about bruised knees or getting underfoot or smiling the wrong way. They knew kung fu and ballroom dancing, practiced with wild abandon, held hands, shrieked, raced, swarmed, clung to their parents, and whispered secrets to each other with hands cupped around mouths -- just the way it's meant to be done. Halfway up the street I ground to a halt, unable to walk further, though the tide of enthusiam kept flowing around me.

At that age, I was getting up three hours before school started simply because there weren't enough hours in the day for all the imagined worlds I wanted to inhabit. I think I had homework -- I must've at some point -- but I posessed the ability to switch distinctly between work time and play time. School finished at 3:15, I worked until 4:15, y ya está. Terminado. Rest of the day free for hiking to swimming holes or making playdough or playing ocelots. (Don't get me started on ocelots.) Naming potato bugs also took up a large portion of the weekly schedule. And digging mudholes. And building fortresses. It's been way too long since I've built a fortress.

That being said, I also remember sitting under the oak trees at age 10, munching peant butter-filled pretzels and wondering who I'd be when I was big and grown-up like the kids in the high school across the field. I have dreams about sitting next to that grubby, blonde, tomboy girl with her bare feet and big imagination, telling her "In the future, you sail a tall ship. Basically, it's like the termite-riddled playstructure from 1st grade, except it's 35 meters long and the cannons work."

I know she doesn't believe me. Just like she doesn't believe me when I tell her that she'll spend seven months falling in love with huge swaths of the world with nothing more than a bag and a book to her name. I'm a little jealous, because she gets to ride her bicycle home and play frisbee with her father and spend the night covered in glitter, asleep on the matress she's dragged onto the lawn, but on the other hand, I haven't got it so bad myself these days.

It's just good to remember that the simple things are still going strong. If you'd like, spend the next two minutes thinking about really big sunflowers and being read to before falling alseep. Then we can have something in common -- if only for a little while.

General Blather (Produced in conjunction with Colonel Procrastination and the 42nd Badger Infantry Division)

Well, I think I can safely say that I've reached critical mass with regards to all things grammatical and Españical. I've spent the majority of the day studying for tomorrow's exam, with a brief nap for recreational purposes, and am now ready to shift gears and spew forth a great quantity of things that I've been meaning to write about for the last week or so. This includes a conspicuous absence of sinus-related news.

Time, compulsive entity that she is, seems to have decided that even though Salamanca is great, there's got to be something far better "just over there." I can't see whatever it is, but that might be due to the dust storm kicked up by her rapidly shrinking figure as it disappears into the distance. Routine is carrying me along at terrifying speeds towards the 1st of February, marking my 6th month since this whole shin-dig kicked off. Half a year has passed and the Caledonian backpacker's hostel seems miles and moments away. I'm starting to feel a little frantic. I'm fairly sure it's a good sort of frantic, but it's unnerving all the same.

All through today we've had various international students coming to peer cautiously into my room, making me realize that it will be vacant as of this time next week. All too soon I must leave the land of the convenient washing machine and the language that I can now, surprisingly, understand almost all of -- but the exchange is acceptable. Certainly dangerous, as I've been informed that Florence is the stationary capitol of the world, but worth it. After all, why did I get a job if not to squander my paycheck on vast quantities of envelopes and sealing wax and writing paper and leather-bound instruments of journalry?

And speaking of envelopes and writing paper: I am happy to report that I can now bite my thumb triumphantly at anyone who claims letter writing to be a lost art. Today marks the 6th consecutive day I've received something by post. Last Tuesday, an epic installment of 13 pages (+ copious amounts of assorted photographs, newspaper clippings, and unusual tidbits) from my father. Wednesday, my beloved flip flops -- much open-toe-related rejoycing. Thursday, a holographic postcard from my best friend. Friday, a full letter from said friend. Saturday, a postcard from Ojai. (Skip Sunday. It has no significance in my life as a) I'm not particularly religious and, more importantly, b) there is no post) Finally, today, which brought a delicious four-page missive from Australia. There are even hypothetical letters and postcards which I know are working their way over here at this very moment from around the globe, so chances are good there will be something tomorrow as well. Apart from severely freaking out/impressing my flatmates, the whole experience is highly satisfying. Congratulations to all are in order.

Unfortunately, as I've been limited by studying and other things, stamp-buying hasn't happened. However, tomorrow, post-exam, in the heady and delirious world of academic freedom, I'll be able to get away from my books, hand over some money, receive some small bits of paper, judiciously apply some saliva, and have all 18 postcards shoved into the nearest mailbox before you can say "rapscallions and ruffians!" So stand by for that.

There is, of course, much more to be said, but it will have to wait because I'm being kicked off the computer by Angela who, understandably, would like to get some sleep and therefore needs me out of her room. So mañana, chicos, we'll carry on the tirade.

Common Sense

(Is apparently something I don't have.)

Case in point: After a decidedly unusual and rather robust evening -- which will most likely be documented in full at a later date -- I found myself in need of washing the compounded odor of several hundred strangers-worth of cigarette smoke out of my personal belongings. So into the wash went everything I'd been wearing, and out it came an hour or so later. Like y'do.

Generally, with me and washing clothes, there is little allowance for delicate fabrics, especially because, in my current mode of existence, washing machines are sometimes few and far between and I simply cannot go spending an extra hour getting my silk socks (Damnit, they'll just have to be wrinkly) pressed at the dry cleaners. However, I was given -- nay! Sent a really gorgeous scarf for Christmas by my parents. Of course, I hadn't bothered to check and see that it was 100% Merino handwoven in India -- I just thought it was colourful and lovely and that it would look nice with my outfit.

I'm sure you can guess what happened next. Among my sundry, hardy cottons I found something rather like a shrunken, sunset-coloured hairball, which -- once I'd actually realized that it had once been my scarf -- I covered in bitter tears of frustration and disappointment.

Which, of course, only made it shrink more.

Basically, I've come to the stark conclusion that I've grown into a label-ignoring, washing procedure ignorant troglodyte -- and am now, only logically, reaping the idiocy I have sown.

Truly, Madly...

Trawling Google News this morning, I discovered the following tantalizingly abbreviated headline:

Viking's Pizza School Reveals Recipe for How to Make Pizza Like ...

"So, that's one large rape and pillage with extra cheese then, Mr. the Red?"

Unfortunately my joy was short-lived, as it seems to have something to do with the Swiss, and relatively little to do with Vikings.

Second Fig

At the end of the day, it's hard to write about life here because it lacks the drama of movement. The movements are, on the grand scale of things, inconsequential. I walk 10 minutes to school in the morning, up and down three flights of stairs to get to various classes -- I may even spend some time waiting in lines if I have to buy groceries or stamps. And yet somehow, this feels more eventful than a week of flights and train tickets and waiting on platforms and catching buses. It's a different kind of eventful -- the kind that doesn't translate well to the digital page -- but all the same, I feel compelled to try and pass some of it on.

Fig. 1 -- Groceries. I haven't been able to use that term since...well, basically since I started traveling. It's just one of the many delights of being stationary for more than a week. Doubly delightful because it makes dining in style dirt cheap. While a decent dinner would cost around €11 in a restaurant here, I can probably find something in the market for €2 which, suitably accompanied by some vegetables and delicious beverage, is just as nice. This is also excellent training for later life, given my chosen career path.

Apart from economy, it's just nice to have a cupboard and a fridge and a saucepan to call my own. Apartment life, in general, suits me just fine after a long line of sofas and mattresses on floors and siblings' bedrooms. My flatmates, Paula, Julio, Angela, and Ann (Spanish, Spanish, Spanish, and German), are all studying various subjects at the University -- chemical engineering, communication, psychology, medicine, etc. There's a well-rounded flock of origami cranes spinning lazily from the living room ceiling and all the walls bustle with paintings (mostly Paula's) and photos of general miscellany. When not engaged in studying/cooking/cleaning, operatic narration of household tasks (In Spanish) is a common theme, as is dressing up and dancing to flamenco music. It seems only logical, then, that we would've all enjoyed watching something like Top Secret! (dubbed over in Spanish) -- which would be a correct assumption to make, because we did. We also seem to eat a lot of Haribo.

The freezing weather (Not nearly as cold as Cambridge, but pretty nippy) has given way to unexpected tracts of sunshine and blue skies. The lack of low-hanging cloud cover does make it much colder when the sun isn't around, but on the whole it's worth it. There's an open gallery here in Edificio San Boal which runs around the central courtyard on the second floor, and just as I get out of class the sun has reached the ideal point for flooding the western front with light. With the chipped archways and sandstone balustrades, deserted courtyard and empty fountain below, looming oak boughs and birdsong, it's the perfect place to relax (And write postcards -- 13 and counting) for an hour or two before tackling grammatical conundrums or translating Renaissance poetry.

Today was rough in terms of the sheer quantity of information absorbed and my general comprehension of it. I wish I had more time to master all the subjects we're covering, but that's not what this year is about. I have to leave something for when I come back. Generally, the key to making this trip successful seems to have been to move on before things have a chance to go stale. Even if it takes a few days (Or a week, in this case) to adjust and realize that the merits of the new location are equal to (or greater than) those of the last, in the end I'm left with a stream of delicious experiences and impressions.

As of now, that gasoline rainbow-covered road stretches quite far into the future. After I brave my final exams next week, I'm flying to Rome. It's looking like I'll be spending just under a week there before I take a train to Florence (possibly with a night in Siena along the way) for whatever time I have left. My only obligation is to be back in the vicinity of Ciampino Airport on the 19th, because the next day I'm fulfilling my mad personal desires and going back to England.

From there I have a month of time for cavorting about in all the quarters I wasn't able to fully enjoy during my last stint -- mostly due to working and the general insanity of Christmas. This includes, but is not limited to, the West Country, friends and relations, Wales, Cambridge, and my mother(!) who will actually be in the country sometime in late February.

So that's all of that. I'll close with something suitably dangerous, like this. If you haven't had the chance to browse the web-based section of the ever-classic McSweeney's publishing collective, please take the opportunity to do so now. (The lists division comes highly recommended for instant gratification purposes.) I only ask that you don't attempt to blame me if you suffer laughter-related injuries.

Dictated but not read.

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends...

The nomad's gleeful grin is once more affixed to my countenance. This is the result of many factors, mostly to do with being young and mad and free and very much alive -- but more practically: I just spent three hours sitting in the sun.

Californian readers will find this statement amusing, because in California that's really all there is to do. And even if one attempts to do something else, it normally leads to sitting in the sun while doing whatever the other thing happens to be. In fact, we've all gotten so sick of sitting around in the sun that we've commissioned our elected representative to lobby for the development of the Personal Climate System (Hereafter referred to as P.C.S.) -- a device which will allow members of the public to carry their own miserable 2-foot-square patch of British weather at all times. The P.C.S. will lead to an increase in Seasonal Affective Disorder and, logically, pessimism among the Southern Californian populace, leading, in turn, to a mass exodus from Los Angeles as people realize that "Yes, it actually is that horrible."

About time, too.

I think what I'm trying to get at is this: the ground-breaking nature of my statement hinges on living somewhere where they actually have seasons. Like, say, Europe. Luckily, that's where I happen to be, and so for me, it's a rather exciting position to be in. It has less to do with the amount of pigment in my skin and more to do with the feeling of glowing from the inside out and exuding a faint aroma of synthesis as my body turns ultraviolet into Vitamin D. Tasty.

So, news.

Or rather, a lack thereof. Truthfully, updating with frequency means I have to actually write about things that don't have to do with moving from Point A to Point B by amusing and circuitous means. This is hard for me.

Luckily, the other thing frequent internet access allows for is procrastination.

That's right. That's my trump card. And I'm playing it with gusto.

Beyond The Grasp of Reason

It occurred to me this morning that it might be a good idea to update a little more frequently during my time in Salamanca, if only because I'm in the technologically advantageous position of having free, speedy internet for as long as I need it every afternoon. Actually, I've (more or less) been in this position for the last couple of months, and yet it seems that my initial blogging vitality of last August (A staggering 11 posts) has gotten lost somewhere along the way.

This is fair for neither me nor you, because it leads to vast tracts of senseless rambling about whatever happens to be closest to the surface of my mental soup at the time. The normal upshot is that I get a headache from spending too much time in front of the monitor, and you have to sift through deranged jabbering about prehistoric alligators -- which most likely gives you a headache as well. Entonces, I'll try to make this a little less painful in the coming weeks for all parties involved. So, to recap, or precap, as the case may be...

Things that have transpired since I last attempted to hack out something coherent in the Annals of Me:

1. Expectoration.
A veritable Everest of tissues and a lot of enthusiastic hemming and hawking. A large theme (logically) following the situation outlined in my last installemnt, which has been lovingly referred to as "The Snot Post" by members of my immediate family. It should be noted that, although I established this blog to assure them I have not been eaten by sloths or other slow-moving predators whilst on my many and varied travels, I understand that you may not all want to hear about the gory details of my health and safety. In short: I solemnly promise to stop writing about my sinuses (Or any other bodily functions) after this. Really.

2. Multilingualism.
15 days of eating, breathing, hearing, and speaking Spanish have finally taken their toll -- in a good way. Although I'm still frustratingly incapable of speaking eloquently, I'm at least speaking frequently. This is a Good Thing. Yesterday, with much mangling of syntax, I managed to completely lose track of time talking to one of my housemates, Paula, for at least 5 hours. I find that I've become accustomed to the sound of the Spanish lisp, and have far less trouble understanding people than I did when I first arrived. We discussed family members and travel and global citizenry and the varied glories of the "raving mad, but exceedingly happy" lifestyle of which we are both devotees. Wanting to practice her conversational English, she asked me to tell her about San Fransisco. I obliged as much as I could, given that most of what I know about it has to do with the aquatic side of things, in English -- which made it rather difficult.

Reason being, it had been 5 days since a word of the language had passed my lips, which could be considered a feat by some considering the staggering amounts of American students here who insist on speaking it. All the time. Which rather defeats the purpose of coming here to learn another language, no?

They also seem to have brought with them -- in the same way tarantulas may be found in imported bunches of bananas -- their love of beer pong. I don't think I need to say anything else.

However, on the whole, my classmates have been a charming and intelligent bunch. A slew of South Koreans, one Greek, two Brazillians, a three-woman New Zeland contingent, a smattering of Brits, the rare Canadian, two Italians, and one of whatever it is I've turned into. I've given up trying to figure it out. The other night a few of us went out for dinner, and I arrived back home filled with pleasant surprise at the realization that we had spent an enjoyable evening entirely in another language. The human brain is an astonishing thing.

3. Mail.
I got a letter! Well, a card. But still! Thrilling! I have also requested to be reunited with my beloved sandals which are, I hope, headed my way via the nefarious passageways of the international postal system this very moment. My feet are singing joyous hymns of praise in their little cotton socks.

4. Chopping.
I cut off my Turk's Head yesterday. For those readers who are not of the tall ship sailing variety, and therefore find this sentence alarming, allow me to explain. A Turk's Head (Also frequently referred to as Nantucket Sailor's Bracelets on that other coast) is a decorative knot of myriad uses, commonly worn by tall ship sailors wherever tall ship sailors can attach them -- which is mostly everywhere. Instead of being tied on, their are built around a cylindrical base, in this case a wrist/ankle/waist etc, and left there. It is often possible to tell the saltiness of any given sailor by the shade of his or her Turk's Head, as the tar of the seine twine tends to wear away over time. Therefore, if the fellow next to you with the blackened left wrist starts casting off lifts for no apparent reason, do not follow suit.

This particular Turk's Head had been on my wrist since late June. As with anything one wears for such an extended period of time, it had simply become a part of me in much the same way that tall ship sailing became a part of me -- stealthily, but firmly. Unfortunately, for some reason, it started to turn my skin an odd colour which was not the normal colour of tar being transferred to skin. As there's no handy clasp, (It seems impossible for one to distance oneself from the siren song of the sea so easily...) I was forced to take a knife to it. If there had been any other option I would've gladly pursued it, but it was not to be. I feel strangely incomplete now, but thoughtfully brought a nip of twine in case of just such an emergency and so, as soon as I'm dermatalogically stable, I'll have a new one.

5. The Booking High.
This last point is arguably the most important, simply because it contains the very essence of what I love (And occasionally hate) about my life at present. Traveling alone allows one the ultimate freedom of deciding all the who's, what's, when's, and where's without necessarily needing to explain the why's. Generally a simple "Because I can" is sufficient. This always leaves me feeling a little giddy when I decide to actually cement the next step of the journey (most recently, I booked myself a flight to Rome, so my thoughts are already skimming ahead to the future of February 5th, when I will move on once more), and leads to much twiddling of fingers and tapping of toes and cavorting and grinning and other signs of ill-contained glee and excitement.

I'll elaborate on this theme when I next find time to write because:

a) We're straying dangerously close to prehistoric alligator territory.

b) This is more than long enough already.

c) Rome is just the tip of the iceberg.

Instruments of the Apocalypse

Alarmingly enough, it seems that the pressure in my sinuses (In mucosa per square nostril) is now actually great enough to prevent my synapses from firing. Case in point: I sat down to start this installment over an hour ago and have yet to succeed in getting more than three coherent words out. Still, in the interests of science, I must persevere. So: This week! What a week it has been! What glorious heights and despicable depths! What grandeur! What deplorable horrendousness! In short: A wondrous world of contradiction awaits.

Basically: I stayed in a hostel, I met some people, I found my missing enthusiasm, I got very sick, I took a test, I started classes, I ate food, I didn't eat food (more common), I wrote a letter, I found an apartment, I walked a lot, I dropped a class, I was exposed to many birds, I went to sleep.

And now, in stereo! (Technically impossible due to the fact my nose is currently full of this fellow and his associates, and Graham Chapman is not my brother) So, perhaps more accurately, con detalles.

The Salamanca Youth Hostel was, in and of itself, utterly soulless. Apart from being terrifyingly clean (I'll give it that much), the place lacked any useful attributes. No kitchen, no internet, no nothing. Luckily, I met some lovely people there, and had my failing faith bolstered by the fact that they were, by and large, in the same situation as I; New students in search of accommodation or mad nomads in search of whatever it is us mad nomads are searching for. I enjoy the company of both. Really, the most important aspect of it all was the location. The centre of Salamanca is hemmed in by a ring road which roughly follows the Medieval city limits. All that is good and holy lies therein. By such reckoning, my first 5 days in the city were actually spent outside the city and thus my initial impressions were somewhat warped. The Hostel, however, lies within this magical boundary, and is therefore a worthwhile place to be. Driven mad by lack of food and a raging sore throat, I ventured forth on my first night in search of nourishment. Although I ultimately found what I sought, more important things were encountered beforehand.

The state of disillusioned pressimism into which I had sunk at the command of illness, exhaustion, and hunger was no match for the sheer beauty and antiquity of the city's most ancient sector. Between domed chapels, towering University buildings, landscaped squares, and cathedrals bristling with spires, I wandered in a daze, overcome by the unnatural glow of Salamancan sandstone -- a mix of mellow gold and ripening peaches -- and the ever-present chattering cries of the swallows who make their homes behind the ears of saintly statuary. Unforunately, and I promise this is the only cynical pause I will make in an otherwise rapturous series of impressions, the massed quanity of avian life residing in the intricately carved façades leads (logically) to an overpowering presence of guano. The smell is breathtakingly robust and worth a postcard home all on its own.

Anyway, la ciudad. El centro. Streets thronging with people, lights twinkling, smells wafting, architecture impressing, &c. I finally got myself a sandwich after revelling in my rediscovered traveler's glee for an hour or so. At last, things were back to the way they should to be -- and I was feeling keen. With my sensibilities thus restored, I returned to the hostel and slept and awoke and traipsed off to the University for my placement test. Mostly harmless, although the oral portion of the exam proved difficult because I had relatively little voice left, and ended up squeaking a lot. Not so great for my dignity, but the man seemed to understand well enough. Perhaps he knows something of canaries and their mysterious ways -- See: Guano.

I could go into everything else in detail, but our friend the leitmotif is at it again and I may have to ingest something shortly to avoid passing out. Therefore: commencing Reader's Digest Mode once more. Started classes (3), mostly enjoyable (2), sole difficulty of having to defy certain norms in order to arrive on time (1). Explanation: Two of my classes take place in Edificio de San Boal, in the Northern section of the city. The rest of the University buildings are in the Southern portion. One needs 15 minutes to get from one building to the other -- and that's walking quickly -- and yet someone thought it would be possible to give me the following schedule: 9am - 11am Grammática (San Boal), 11:05 - 12:05 Historia de España (Universidad), 12:10 - 1:10 Literatura de España y Latinoamericana (San Boal). I tried to make this work. It doesn't.

Combined with the fact that the history class was far beyond my level of linguistic comprehension, I decided to switch to something more sensible. In the meantime, I also found myself a room with a host of other students. Although the place is outside the ring of enchantment, I boasts some fabulous flatmates and a whole load of character. It's also quiet, which is an adjective rarely used to describe the centre after dark. I moved my things in yesterday and fully unpacked my backpack for the first time in ages. Cooking, drinking of tea (Oh sweet, sweet bliss), homework, letters, showering, sleep. Muy bueno.

Even on the health front, perverse progress has been made. Generally, when moving through the cycle of the common cold -- although I firmly believe that this is something far more sinister -- I find that the relocation of the symptoms to my sinuses is generally the beginning of the end. And while my cough still sounds remarkably like Death's own ebony maracas, I can now swallow without wanting to gargle vast quantities of novocaine and my temperature seems to have descended to an acceptable level. Considering how enthused I've been in spite of my ill health these past few days, I can only deduce that once I am cured I will be unstoppable.

The order of the day this weekend is rest and relaxation, combined with trying to bolster my vocabulary and cooking tasty things and writing letters. Hopefully, by Monday, I will be hale and hearty once more, ready for more cranium-swelling mornings in the Land of Multilingualism. In case anyone feels the urge, I will be reachable at the following address until February 1st -- or rather, until however long before that date it takes to send me something. (I understand my readership is of a somewhat more global nature these days, so you'll have to work that one out for yourselves.) Lucy Bellwood, Calle de Don Bosco, 13, 3º A, 37004, Salamanca, España.

There. That's it. I'm done.

On Beds and Other Maladies

This blog has been languishing in draft form for the last several days simply because I can't figure out what voice-set I'm going to use to write it in. Allow me to explain: When I write, I do so in a particular tone. Unfortunately, as I am a porous mass of brain tissue, I tend to absorb the tones of other writers currently within my sphere of reference. When presented with a wide variety of styles, my brain tends to go a little haywire, leaving me unable to figure out which gear is which in my liguistic nodes and thus: Garbage ensues.

I was really trying to avoid that. Just to give a little attempted explanation, I've been reading: The Autobiography of Charles Darwin (Regency/Victorian tone, lots of snuff, juicy details about the sex lives of orchids), The Road to Samarcand by Patrick O'Brian (1950's linguistic stereotypes, a noticeable lack of political correctness, "Gee," "Swell," yetis), and this (Zombies, vitriol). Literature aside, the battle for my brain has also been joined by the Forces of Cultureshock. Its diabolical horde attacks in two prongs: American (My current hosts -- East Coast, no less) and Spanish (The country I am physically in). I hadn't realized just how deeply I'd nestled myself into my British identity until I was brought face to face with my countrymen once more. The phrase "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" comes to mind. Between trying to remember my original accent and bringing everything down a few notches in the vocabulary department, I've fairly exhausted myself.

It's not that I don't miss California, because I do. It's lovely. (And apparently full of water. Sorry guys.) It's just that there are some things about America that I'd like to forget exist, like the fact that within it are people who still use this "word" with impunity. (Among other things) My spelling skills are rapidly undergoing schizophrenic breakdown after trying to remember which side of the Atlantic prefers "re" to "er," and something deep in my soul started to sob when I realized there was nothing in the kitchen cabinet resembling proper tea. I'd like to go home now, please. And by home, I mean the one where they like books and distrust Budweiser -- as opposed to the other way 'round.

And furthermore (!) since I've been stationary for more than 48 hours, my body has decided, as it so often does, that now would be a good time to succumb to all the foul germs I've been exposed to in my pilgrimage from up North. I am, very graduallly and with great stealth, misplacing my voice -- something which surprises me every time I go to say something and find that I sound one notch closer to Louis Armstrong. Still, considering the sheer gross tonnage of Vitamin (The one word whose pronunciation remains stable no matter where I am. Cheers, mum.) C and Echinacia I've consumed, something's got to give. Whether it's the virus or -- well...we'll leave that for a later post. Suffice to say it remains to be seen, but I'm sure you'll all be the first to know about it.

Frankly, this has all been a load of blather. I should say something of substance. I'm in Spain -- Salamanca to be precise, although I think I already established that in my last update. I'm trying desperately to find some sort of permanent accommodation for the next month. As of this afternoon, I'll be moving into a hostel downtown for the next four nights, hoping to locate some other international travelers interested in establishing a nomadic utopia in the Plaza Mayor. We'll see how that goes. Apart from gulping down throat rememdy tea, I'm also bracing myself for tomorrow morning, when I'll be taking my placement exam at the University. As of now, it isn't the language classes I fear, but the two electives I signed up for -- mainly because they'll be taught, I believe, entirely in Spanish. This is terrifying. I'm not sure what I was thinking. Between History of Spain and Spanish and Latin American Literature, I may be reduced to a whimpering pile of preterite and pluperfect conjugations before the week is out, but as I only have an hour of each every day, I may survive.

Held against the gleaming lifestyle of the past month, things here were looking fairly grim to begin with, but I'm trying to have patience and give this whole experience a chance. At some point I know I'll be able to get back to my blissed-out, romanticised traveler's mind-set and regail you all with stories of how fabulous my itinerant lifestyle is, but there have to be some bad times to hold up to the good, yes? Yes.

So until I find myself once more before a montior with a few handy hours to spare, adieu. And to the sterling folk who wrote me cards for Christmas: You will most certainly not be first against the wall when the Revolution comes.

As a pancake, my friends. A giant, oaken pancake.

I'm very tired.

The above is probably what you would call the subject line of this email. The theme of this epic verse. The thesis statement of this essay. The capital of this country.

Very, very tired.

As an organized human being, which I am, allow me to lay out the factors which have contributed to my current state in a familiar format.

a) Work. While not tiring in and of itself, working at Borders drove me to return to my natural "morning person" state. Regardless of the previous day's activities, this meant that I regained the ability to arise without fail at 7am every morning. Good for work, bad when combined with:

b) Debauchery. See: The Slug and Lettuce, 12 hour overtime shifts, sociopathic coworkers, obscure literature (and where to find it), very plain kebabs, taxis, the King of the Moon (See also: pupation), Wii Sports, Cornwall, badgers (stoats and weasels included), things beginning with K, large bottles of champagne, and a small, nondescript residence on York Street. Culminating in:

c) Travel. The need to move back and forth between places very frequently. Over to London, down to Cornwall, up to Cambridge, home to Horseheath, back to Cambridge, into King's Cross, up to West Hampstead -- pause for three hours of sleep -- down to Victoria, out to Gatwick, up to 30,000 feet, into Madrid, underground on the Metro, up to the train station, onto the train, Westward Ho, pancake, pancake, pancake -- and some sleep -- off train, into Salamanca, up stairs, through door, onto sofa, and cut.

Basically, if you compress throse three factors in a period of the last four days, with a bridge somewhere in the middle consisting of completely unexpected, surreal bliss -- you have my current mental state. In a word: shattered. Not that I haven't had a grand old time doing it all, but between enjoying Christmas, finishing work, cavorting into the New Year, packing, eating, driving, rarely sleeping, and leaving -- I'm all out of hydrogen fuel cells. Or is it bubble gum? Who can say...

As a matter of fact, it seems wise for me to leave the land of descriptive narrative for the time being and get some rest before I embark on my apartment search tomorrow, but to recap (In case any of this actually made sense...or rather didn't, which is far more likely):

I'm alive. Barely.