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.