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.