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.