The air is still, the sky grey, in the early throes of a typical Paisley afternoon. You lean against the singular pain of glass supporting the Gilmour Street bus stop, poised and ready for the arrival of the No. 300 service. The stop is Non Smoking. That's good news. Around the corner chugs a bus full of families and locals playing 'Happy Hardcore' at the back, but you board regardless. Apart from anything else, you want to distance yourself from the rather neddy looking guy at the other stop. You jump on, suitcase in hand, and shove a rail/bus-link ticket in the driver's face. A year or two ago he probably would have refused it. That's how life always used to be. But in 2008 he nods his head uncharismatically and says "right pal". Life has changed in the last year.
Paisley has changed too. But not for the better.
As the bus approaches the M8 flyover at Junction 28, it takes a swinging left turn, jolting the passengers as it suddenly undertakes a guided tour of the Renfrew road system. Roundabout after roundabout after roundabout: the bus negociates a route with more twists and turns than a Heather Mills court case. Eventually it circumnavigates a long-stay car park, turning 270 degrees and re-crossing its original path. Straight ahead is a mess of temporary crash barriers and road blockades. And concrete blocks. It's 2008 in the Western World, and the bus is being restricted by concrete blocks. The driver chicanes between each line of blocks, finally breaking free and pulling up outside the Main Terminal of Glasgow International Airport. You thank him profusely, stepping off the bus to be faced by a scene of quiet contemplation.
Glasgow Airport is still a building site after the horrific events of June 30th 2007, when two maniacal terrorists drove a blazing car into the terminal building. Allegedly. It was supposed to kill hundreds of little children flying out for their summer holidays. It was supposed to kill your brother, who was flying out for New York that very weekend. It was supposed to kill the Scottish way of life. But it failed. Scotland came out fighting, stronger than ever before, led by a baggage handler by the name of John Smeaton. And now a year later, you too stand charged with the task of coming back stronger than ever. You stand charged with the task of topping the greatest week of your life. Topping the Geography field trip to Swansea. Topping the untoppable. Can you do it?
Well, maybe with a little help from your friends...
Wednesday 12th March 2008
And if you wanted to
Then there's nothing left to do
Let's start a band
12:30pm. Striding through the automatic doors and immediately bearing left, I locate a queue of people packed to the rafters with geographers. Most of them are strangers to me, which is surprising given the remarkable number of people I met at Swansea. However, I can locate a couple of staff members mingling with students and distributing the soon-to-be-invaluable Majorca Handbooks. For argument's sake, let's call them Las Palmas and Lanzarote.
(Oh yes, the coded names have returned. But this time, in Spanish.)
Towards the front of the queue are two students named Zaragoza and Malaga. Both gentlemen will be in my group as we carry out a research project on the gentrification of Palma city centre, but for now they remain out of reach at Check-in Desk 32. Behind me, a guy I know from Swansea and the occasional Thought lecture, Oviedo, joins the queue, so I go over to chat to him. Before we know it, we're at the front of the queue getting asked if we're "travelling together" (I'd rather it wasn't worded like that, but yes, we might as well sit together) and if I have any "sharp objects" in my belongings. Already cruising in autopilot, I answer "yes" before realising my mistake. I haven't had much sleep or rest recently, as the weight of Geography projects has gotten on top of me slightly, but I should really try and be more attentive. Otherwise, security will haul me out in front of the building and Smeaton will give me another doing.
Doing: Smeaton
1:00pm. One by one, people are showing up. Menorca has texted me to say he's at the back of the queue, which is a relief. I'll be rooming with him and Ibiza for the next week, and they're both solid guys, as the phrase goes. After checking in, I scour the queue to find any more familiar faces, and immediately pick out Barcelona, Valencia and La Coruna. Barcelona and Valencia are now a couple, having formed in the most unlikely of places, my Physical Geography group in Swansea. As Tony Blair once said, now is not the time for soundbytes, but I felt the hand of history on my shoulder at the time.
La Coruna introduced herself to me after Swansea, and due to the relevant social circles moving the way they do, I've gotten to know her quite well over the last year. Barcelona and Valencia, on the other hand, have been continually out of reach of me, and it's irked me ever since Swansea that I spend practially no time with them. I usually sit at Geography lectures with other people, and I'm always worried that it looks like an intentional snub. With that in mind, the only logical decision was to join their research group for Majorca, so here I stand discussing gentrification with the two of them (and talking about Alan Partridge with Barcelona). It could almost be Swansea again. I like that.
1:15pm. Lanzarote hands us the Official Majorca Handbooks, and we frantically turn to the photos page to see how we all look. Only, there's a problem. Yes, the field trip hasn't even begun yet, and the Geography Department have botched it up royally. On the page for students with Surnames A-M, only two photos have been printed, while the rest of the page is whiter than a Ku Klux Klan shareholders' meeting. La Coruna jokes that the Department can't get anything right - she's still waiting for the return of an essay she wrote in December, mainly because Betws-y-Coed (he's not coming to Majorca, so that's his Swansea name) is so busy at the moment. I'm slightly miffed, as I was looking forward to putting faces to names, and now I only have names. I feel incomplete, much like the audience of 'Lily Allen and Friends' after half of them walked out.
Ku Klux Klan: 'Not anti-black, just pro-white'
I ask La Coruna where Valladolid and his mates are. Valladolid is one of my closest friends, especially after the post-Swansea binge of April and May that seemingly took in every bar and nightclub in Glasgow. And especially after I kept sleeping on his spare couch without properly asking. La Coruna informs me that Valladolid et al have "gone to Frankie and Benny's". Unfortunately, I don't quite hear her. In an attempt to pretend that I did, I reply, "So are they maybe at Burger King then?" La Crouna looks confused, and responds with a smile, "No, I'd say they'll probably be at Frankie and Benny's, Craig." Ah, yes. Good point. Given that you already said they'd be at Frankie and Benny's, they'll probably be at Frankie and Benny's. I decide I need to properly wake up.
Menorca and Ibiza are further up the queue, and joining them is Farajan. Menorca and Ibiza are trustworthy people to room with, so I have nothing to worry about as I embark on my first ever trip to the "Med"(iterranean). Getafe, on the other hand, is examining the damage from the terrorist attack with an eery look of calm on his face. Given his anti-Blair, anti-Bush political views, I'm slightly worried by his reaction to the whole thing.
Getafe scares me.
1:45pm. After heading up the escalators and towards International Departures, I run into Valladolid, Benidorm, Córdoba, Vigo, Alicante and Marbella. They're storming out of Frankie and Benny's, and they don't look too happy. Seven days pass before I get a full explanation of the events that transpires, but Bilbao eventually explained all. To cut a long story short, the group asked the waiter if they could use any meal deals on the premises. The waiter took the hump, proclaiming loudly "NO!" When the group noted that all other branches of Frankie and Benny's offer student deals, the waiter took leave of his senses, barking, "Look, if you want deals, then go to Greggs." So go to Greggs they did. As for me, I just went straight to Greggs from the outset. There's no real point spending an extortionate amount of money on airport food, especially if your flight later experiences turbulence.
Scooch: Cause air-related nausea
2:15pm. Most of the group are now through Customs and mingling in the duty free area before Gate 20A. Menorca is more optimistic about the trip than when I last spoke to him on Friday night, but then, Friday was a very strange night. Very, VERY strange. I spent a truly enjoyable evening in Maryhill at a band night with Merthyr Tydfil, raising funds for her impending trip to Trinidad. However, we then went to Cheesy Pop at the QMU, where I was punched in the jaw by a former Subway worker. Then physically threatened outside by a random scumbag ("Was that you on the dancefloor, EH? D'ye want tae go at it?"). Then we got back to Menorca's flat, and his neighbours had kicked three holes in the door in a drunken incident. So it wasn't really the ideal time to chat about Majorca. But in the cold light of day, he's relishing the opportunity to live it up in the Mediterranean Sea with 107 Geography colleagues.
Staff members Las Palmas and Gran Canaria are still perusing the newspaper stands at WH Smith, so there's no rush. To their left is a woman who looks like Susan Kennedy from Neighbours. Little do I know it at the time, but we'll eventually find a lookalike for her husband in Palma. Seriously.
2:30pm. I run into Alicante, a passionate foot-soldier for the Tartan Army, outside the entrance to Dixons in International Departures. He has quite a spring in his step, and is especially looking forward to the inevitable post-presentations booze-up on Tuesday night. Will a jaunt to Magaluf be on the cards, he wonders? However, trouble is on the horizon. We glance at the increasingly-invaluable Majorca Handbook, turning to the timetable for the week ahead, and there is a rather large discrepancy. The presentations have been moved from Tuesday evening to - get this - Wednesday morning at 10:30am.
Yes, without our permission, we've been given another day of work and our last night of fun in Majorca has effectively been cancelled. Way to go, guys. Alicante is fuming, and begins planning some sort of mutiny, in a move akin to Ahmed's classic "military coup" in Big Brother 5 (the best series). I'm not sure if it'll catch on, though. Staff members like Gran Canaria and Fuerteventura can be notorious for shouting down voices of dissent, and it's highly unlikely that any such coup will profer much success. Even if Alicante is a "raging ginger", as Marbella correctly points out.
2:45pm. La Laguna is sitting across the departure lounge with a bunch of guys I've never seen before, including Sabadell and Logrono. Technically, all Geography students are supposed to attend the Thought and Techniques lecture that operate throughout term-time, but I guess they must have had problems with their alarms. Um, all of them. Every morning. Anyway, I make a point of saying Hi to La Laguna, as I don't see her that much. The last time I spent proper time with her was in January, at another mad flat party at Valladolid's, when she noted her displeasure at my omittance of her "beautiful looks in the Swansea Blog". This was an oversight on my part, so I'm happy to set the record straight here and now.
Do You Feel The Power Of The Gladiators? (AWOOGA)
3:00pm. Through in Gate 20A, all is quiet. All, that is, until a familiar face rounds the corner and takes his seat. This guy has been my Cities lecturer and Dissertation Adviser for the last few months, and in Majorca he will become our Group Adviser too. I wish I could provide a Spanish place name for him (all the other staff members this year are named after Canary Islands), but after Menorca gave him a new nickname in January, it just stuck. You see, when this guy speaks he sounds remarkably like a legendary TV figure. In fact, close your eyes and it could almost be him (almost sounds homosexual). Ladies and gentlemen, I'm talking about one of the stars of this impending trip. Mr. Denis Norden.
Legendary: Norden
3:15pm. After taking a bus trip round the tarmac (what the heck is this, Hope Street at rush hour?) we finally board the FlyGlobeSpan craft, charged with the task of taking us to the Balearic Isles. Denis Norden and the rest of the staff have taken their seats at the front, leaving us students to slum it further up. Oviedo is next to me, and the inimitable Cartagena is to the left of us, but we can already hear some commotion behind us. We turn round to find Santa Cruz getting harangued by a drunken bald man with a fat stomach and a voice like a bingey foghorn.
*turns to camera like Harry Hill* Funny, I'm sure I met a woman like that once.
Anyway, the man is not for quietening down and immediately launches into a slurred routine which will last the duration of the flight, covering such subjects as: his sexual history; his toilet habits; his hatred of the city of Aberdeen (I don't think I've ever heard the "sheepsh****r" insult before, so that was a true relevation) and his general penchant for being a drunken bald man with a fat stomach and a voice like a bingey foghorn. Poor Santa Cruz is caught in the crossfire as the man, surrounded by his giggling and slightly immature mates, hurls a string of sexual innuendoes at her. Before launching into his version of the classic song, "Give me hope, Santa Cruz; Hope, Santa Cruz!" To be fair, that one is quite funny. The first of seven times.
Eddy Grant: Gained inspiration from Santa Cruz
3:30pm. After a safety demonstration that is almost drowned out by the confused ramblings of Drunken Bald Man With A Fat Stomach And A Voice Like A Bingey Foghorn, we turn left along the South-West runway of Glasgow Airport and the Boeing 737 roars into life, hurtling down the tarmac and jetting off into the Scottish sky. No terrorism in Glasgow today: the only terror is being caused by the hooligans two rows behind us, who are beginning to live up to the reupation bourne by a generation of scummy British twats flying to Spain and destroying the Costas. That was almost racist. And justifiably so.
4:00pm. Having flown over Ayr (a good metaphor for my relationship with the town), we're heading south over England. Oviedo has been chatting to me on and off since take-off, but it's quite difficult to hold a decent conversation on such a noisy plane. As far as socialising goes, the Subway Marathon it ain't. In addition, Drunken Bald Man With A Fat Stomach And A Voice Like A Bingey Foghorn is now too much to bear, and while Cartagena seems to lapping up the double entendre on show, Oviedo has had enough, reaching for his iPod and attempting to escape to a zone far away from this wretched Boeing 737. Good choice, I think, so I open my own MP3 Player (I've stopped calling it an iPod now because, well, it's not really an iPod) and listen to Nerina Pallot humming. I can guarantee that this will be my only mention of Nerina Pallot humming for the duration of the blog, unlike Swansea where I mentioned Nerina Pallot humming every day. So from here on in, there will be no more mentions of Nerina Pallot humming. Um, except that one.
Nerina Pallot: Must stop mentioning her humming
5:00pm. Duty Free are trying to sell me some overpriced tat. I find that ignoring them does the trick, although perhaps that's a trifle rude.
5:30pm. Somewhere over France, the pilot now delivers an impassioned speech explaining the plane's geographical position over the Bordeaux metroplois. He then remarks that the temperature outside the jet is as low as -55C, drawing a series of gasps and giggles (alliteration) from the students on board. Is it really -55 outside? Wow, it sure doesn't feel like it. I just hope these windows are quadruple glazed, that's all I can say. If a ned comes along outside and starts hurling bricks at us, we've had it.
6:15pm. "This is your cabin crew speaking, we will soon be beginning our descent into Palma. Could you please ensure that your seatbelts are securely fastened, and also note that the local time is now 7:15pm?"
Oh, fine then. I guess I'll just have to re-write that bit then.
7:15pm. "This is your cabin crew speaking, we will soon be beginning our descent into Palma. Could you please ensure that your seatbelts are securely fastened, and also note that the local time is now 7:15pm?"
Jeremy Beadle: Before his time
7:35pm. I'm in the process of discussing with Oviedo whether cash-stricken Gretna will see out the weekend, when out of the window I see a line of mountains on the horizon. Hurriedly I open the shutters (which were lowered after Cartegena complained about the sun's glare, justifiably), and reveal a stunning Majorquin panorama. The North-West Tramontana Mountains are quite unlike any other mountain range I've seen in my life: shaped so meticulously, so uniquely, they could almost have been carved from granite.
Wait a minute, I better not say granite on this plane...Drunken Bald Man With A Fat Stomach And A Voice Like A Bingey Foghorn will utter something racist about Aberdeen.
7:45pm. The plane starts stacking behind a veritable slinky (sp?) of aircraft circling over the centre of the island. There's something strange about looking out of a plane window and seeing another plane beneath you. Almost...a bit...unsettling. Like you think something bad's going to happen. Anyway, we steadily lose more and more height before flying over Pollenca (the town we were supposed to stay in this year, until the hotel got fully booked) and straighten up over the settlement of Inca, making a beeline for the Southern runway at Palma International Airport.
We're nearly there. In five, four...
...
...tres, dos, uno...
...
(Whatever the Spanish for "touchdown" is)
Made it. At the age of 20, about 17 years after everyone else, I've made it to the grand country of Spain. I'm here on Mediterranean soil with 107 of the best darned geographers you're ever likely to find. And for the first time ever in life, I'm embarking on a field trip with no fears, no reservations and nothing holding me back from having the most enjoyable week known to man. Um, unless I make myself do a presentation.
*insert fear again*
8:00pm. The walk to reclaim our baggage is longer than a Tommy Sheridan lie under oath, but it does give us time to ponder over the scenes we witnessed on the flight. Bilbao too was annoyed by the actions of Drunken Bald Man With A Fat Stomach And A Voice Like A Bingey Foghorn, and we deduce that if he had said "Santa Cruz" once more, we would have been forced to take physical action against him. In three hours, he only came out with about three good lines, which is not a good strike rate. The only one I can actually remember is when he said, "If you say thesis with no teeth, it sounds like feces", but it's up to you to decide if that's humorous or not.
8:10pm. At Customs, most of the group seem to be lining up in the right hand queue, even though there are two booths straight ahead. It gets to the stage where we genuinely believe the left hand booth is closed, or used for foreign nationals or illegal immigrants or something. Then out of nowhere, Getafe zooms on in and takes his place at the top of the left hand queue. Security waves him through without a second glance. A group of us rush to the left booth, overtaking Valladolid, Benidorm and others. I think I'd rather be with Getafe than against him on this trip. Getafe scares me.
8:30pm. Admidst hot and humid conditions, we board the bus for a (ridiculously) short journey to our base for the next week in C'an Pastilla. And what a base it is. Situated on the shores of the Metiterranean Sea, with golden sand all around, C'an Pastilla is a holidaymaker's dream. But the surroundings, of course, make up only 1/3 of a holiday. If you're simplifying things, as I like to do. The 2nd third is the people (sorted), while the 3rd third is the accommodation.
With that in mind, the coach pulls into the street brilliantly named Octavio Augusto, grinding to a halt right outside the front door of the Hotel Linda. Probably named after Linda Barker, now I think about it (with the Spanish version of her show entitled 'Changing Hotel Rooms', no doubt). A receptionist comes to the door, her gaze transfixed on the bus of Scottish students now invading her workplace. She breaks into a smirk, but not a happy smirk: a knowing, prepared smirk. Lanzartoe, the leader of the field class, reads her mind as if he were a clairvoyant.
"Here comes trouble!"
It's almost like she's had an epiphany of the week to come. And secretly, she doesn't like what she's seen.
8:45pm. I meet with Menorca and Ibiza to take the keys for Room 323, our home for the next seven days. And negociate a safe key, which costs me a 10€ deposit in the process. Hrmph, I hope I get that back, otherwise the whole concept of procuring a safe - to protect my resources - will be deemed an ironic failure. We get to the lift, ready to board, when a bulky man who probably works as a bouncer in Magaluf at weekends stops us. "Two to a lift", he says. Later on, Menorca will remark that he looks like Officer Dibble from Top Cat. So here's a picture of the aforementioned officer (Dibble, not the guy from the hotel).
Officer Dibble: Lift Enforcer
9:00pm. The room is up to scratch. Not the largest room I've ever seen (that distinction would to go Paul Burrell's room full of stolen Diana jewellery), but packed full of furniture and decent lighting. And, unlike Swansea, a satellite TV. Ibiza switches it on, and starts searching for English-speaking channels. Quickly we decide that the only fully functioning one (apart from CNN, which he doesn't like) is BBC World, so we wait for the news jingle at the top of the hour and jive to the nightclub-style beat. You know the one - it plays at the start of the Six O'Clock News every night, and on News 24 every hour.
BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BEEP-dumdumdum-BOING!!!!!!!
Now I'm ready for dinner.
9:10pm. Downstairs, a large queue has gathered outside the restaurant. I didn't think the food was too shabby at Swansea, so I'm eager to see what they've got lined up for us here. Officer Dibble shows us to our seats, and myself, Menorca and Ibiza are joined by another student, Murcia, on the way to the buffet table. I've never met Murcia before, but he seems a decent chap from our first chat together (I think I said something about the array of onions on show). The quality of the food will prove to be a MAJOR talking point in the days to come, but I find no real problem with the first night's offering of soup, salad, chicken and pork. Perhaps on Tuesday night, after my seventh straight serving of chicken, things will be very different.
I pass Santa Cruz, who is having dinner with Barcelona and Valencia. Still reeling from witnessing the drunken shenanigans of Drunken Bald Man With A Fat Stomach And A Voice Like A Bingey Foghorn, I ask if she's alright after her three-hour mid-air haranguing. "Oh it's ok", she replies, "It was another Santa Cruz he was talking to most of the time". Ah, fair enough, I needn't have worried so much. The guy was still a twat though. And how must the other Santa Cruz have felt, whoever she was?
Zoe Lucker: Mile high shenanigans
9:30pm. Lanzarote organises a meeting in the restaurant, and attendance is compulsory. He outlines the plan for tomorrow, which will involve a coach tour of some of the more interesting and dynamic settlements spread across the island. And Sa Pobla. He then underlines the code of conduct with regards to the hotel - no shouting, no running about, no staying up late disrupting other guests and no drunken parties in rooms. That pretty much rules out another Floor 4 Party then, doesn't it?
Before leaving us to enjoy the evening, he announces with delight that he has a gift for us - "The Missing Page has arrived!" He whips out 108 copies of the photos page from the now-valuable Majorca Handbook that was botched earlier today at Glasgow Aiport, and scarpers off into the Majorquin night. In the melee, I fail to procure a copy, but luckily my co-group member (or sub-group member) Zaragoza agrees to hand over his. He'll just have to go without one for the duration of the trip, but he hastily reassures me that "I wasn't wanting it anyway."
9:50pm. Menorca and Ibiza have decided to take a wander to find the nearest supermarket/bar/all-night club, so the three of us head downstairs. Officer Dibble is chatting to the staff, which include Tenerife and Hierro. Hierro was only introduced to us last week at the pre-Majorca labs, but he seems like a scholar of much integrity. Tenerife already fits that bill, having lectured to us since the nervy days of Level-1 back in Autumn 2005. Boy, life was different back then. But Tenerife's reputation for first-class lecturing has remained, and it's a major plus point that he's on the trip.
We leave reception and head south to the crossroads, before turning back to observe our base for the next week. Wait a minute...that sign on the wall...it can't say what we think it says...can it?
Who the heck is Hot Linda? And can I have her MSN? Please?
Outside, we run into Valladolid, Alicante and Marbella, who are also looking to stock up on a supply of alcohol. Uh, and cheese and bread, and stuff like that. And maybe preserves, too. The six of us head west down a slim but well proportioned road (steady) which heads down to the Mediterranean Sea. Most of the shops and cafes seem to be on this road, but crucially, they're all shut tonight. Finally, at the top of the last lane on the right, appears a lit sign bearing the word "EROSKI".
It could be almost be the Russian word for Erotica, but this efficient mimimart ends up becoming a key base for much of the week. If we need 5 litres of water for 80 cents, or 6 San Miguels for 2€, all we need to do is head to Eroski. Can you imagine what would happen to the British way of life if we started selling six beers for £2? The house would fall in. Makes you wish you were European.
One thing that doesn't make me wish to be European, however, are the songs. The 15 minutes I spend in Eroski are 15 of the most unpleasant of the day, thanks to the endless stream of audio garbage clogging my ears from the in-house speakers. They call it "music" over here, but in our country we call it "Eurovision" and laugh at it with Terry Wogan. But then they give us "Nil Points", so who really has the last laugh, I wonder?
Chortle: Wogan
11:00pm. Back in Room 323, Menorca and Ibiza have cracked open the alcohol and are toasting the start of a new field trip. I'm all for falling asleep (I haven't had a proper rest since Christmas, and technically speaking, Christmas isn't a holiday anymore), but they suggest going downstairs to the hotel bar-lounge hybrid. I quickly down the last 1/6 of my San Miguel and head down with them, where I discover a barman who looks like Portugese footballing star Nuno Gomes.
11:30pm. A beer down here costs 3€ (I've just dicovered € signs on this computer: Allelujah indeed), and with the San Miguels in the room working out at approximately 22.77p at the current exchange rate, I decide not to purchase alcohol from down here for the duration of the week. The Bar-Lounge Hybrid is quiet tonight, although the lecturers are sipping away on the local liquors and generally acting with less stuffiness than they sometimes would in Glasgow. They sometimes get a bad name collectively, but if you exmaine them on merit, they're actually tremendously friendly and helpful people. As we'll see. Most of the time.
Nuno Gomes: Works in Bar-Lounge Hybrid
12:30am. Upstairs, Ibiza has allowed me to utilise a bottle-opener that he has helpfully provided. It's a life-saver (not literally), as I would never be able to access these cheap San Miguels otherwise. Out on the balcony, we sit and watch the world go by in C'an Pastilla "town centre". It's not a very big place, and compared to my estimations of Palma and Magaluf, not very lively. But it'll do. it doesn't seem to have any rough elements (the only swarm of youths we passed on the way to Eroski were some nine-year-olds having a kickabout, so it's hardly Drumchapel out there), and the beach is only five short minutes away.
Menorca and Ibiza are chatting away about their respective home-towns of St. Andrews and Eaglesham, and comparing and contrasting the differences between the two. Almost sounds like an outline for a Cities essay for Denis Norden. The two have met before, but didn't really know each other until they were flung together for this trip. It all happened very quickly a couple of weeks ago: I had just arranged to share a room with Menorca via text, when Ibiza texted me to say he'd put my name down to share with him. In the end it all worked out perfectly, and I can already tell at this early stage that there'll be no tension whatsoever between the three of us.
"I've just seen a ghost. Coming up after the break, watch me look at more ghosts."
1:30am. There's nothing on the telly (so there are some similarities with the British culture over here), so I decide to head to bed. Menorca waits up to continue his smoking, which we believe is permitted on the balconies. I'm not sure if I've publicised this well enough or not (sarcasm), but I'm not the world's biggest fan of smoking (not sarcasm), so I jump off the table on which I am uncomfortably positioned and head into the room. Why the heck did they put us in rooms of three then only give us two outdoor chairs? It's political correctness gone mad.
[What would I do if she were here now?]
1:45am. Bedtime. It's been a long day at the end of a very, very, very long term, and there's a week of hard work still to come. But now, at last, I can take a bit of a breather. Other people have it much, much worse than me at the moment, so I hopefully won't be getting too self-consumed with my own "problems" on this field trip. Already I'm beginning to notice a bit of a difference from this morning in the way I talk to people. Swansea made me believe I could talk to anyone and do anything, which I still can, but in the ensuing year I worry that I've become just a bit too self-centred for my own liking. Lord knows how everyone else must feel talking to me. So the hope is that Majorca will put me back on Earth to an extent, reminding me that while I'm not inferior to strangers, I'm not superior either.
I have to listen to people's points of view; their opinions; their thoughts, in an attempt to make new friends and gentrify (buzzword of the week) my existing friendships. And I have to be a tad more polite to them. It's a tough task, but over the next week I'm going to try and put myself in their shoes. If I were them, how would I feel at having to listen to my conversation? It's a rather complicated forumla on paper, but it makes sense in my head. Hopefully by next Wednesday, after another ultra-intense field trip, I'll be a more complete person again, just like after Swansea. One thing's for sure, I won't have to worry about doing a presentation this time......
*FLASHBACK*
Wednesday 16th January 2008
The room was looming. The door was open, a thin light escaping from the inside. I walked towards it with a nervous hesitation. What could possibly lie in store through that door? Success? Life? Joy? Happiness? Or pain, misery and suffering?
"You'll be fine", said Valladolid. "We'll have done more work than anyone else."
This was not the door to heaven or hell, as the description may have inferred. This was the door to Room 501 in the Geography Department. And I was about to attempt my first presentation in over five years.
We walked in, and took our traditional seats on the right of the room. There were only eight people there this time round (Barcelona, Valencia and Santa Cruz recently jumped ship to a Thursday tutorial), but the way my nerves had jangled over the past month, it could almost have been 800. In November 2005 I scived a Geography tutorial in a room almost identical to this one, leaving a girl to do an entire presentation on her own. The audience was about a dozen that day: she apparently managed fine, but I wouldn't have stood a chance.
So now, in 2008, I had finally worked myself into a position where I could concievably do a presentation. And I just couldn't wait to get it over and done with. This was supposed to be how Swansea ended, but I ran out of the appropriate levels of testicular fortitude at the last minute.
The tutor went through the groups one by one. There were only three: this wasn't exactly the Pope's Easter Sunday Message. San Sebastian, his post-Swansea girlfriend Estepona and Pamplona were first up. The group involving Cantabria were next. Typically, we were the last to go. The tutor looked me in the eye, completely oblivious to the personal torture I had endured since the disastrous presentations of Standard Grade English.
"Right - away you go."
Could I do this? Could I really get it done? It's eight frigging people, it should be well within my capabilities.
Then I remembered the two beta blockers I'd taken that morning. And, odd as it may sound, suddenly I had the belief.
"Eh, right, we were reading the chapter “Arguments for a Humanistic Geography” by Stephen Daniels, from the book ‘The Future of Geography’. But, eh, it kind of ended up being ‘arguments for and against’, rather than just being one sided."
I wasn't shaking.
Ten minutes later Valladolid and I had finished the presentation, and I still wasn't shaking. The relief was overflowing, if that sentence makes sense. All my fears in life were crumbling like an Apple Pie in the Hotel Linda, and there was nothing stopping me now. The ghost of presentations had been put to bed.
Only...had it?
The next night I was mingling with students and staff after a special guest lecture at the Charles Wilson Building, Tenerife was there, as was San Sebastian, Estepona and the unique Llanelli. I received a text message from Valladolid congratulating me for the presentation the day before. But with it came a word of warning.
"Dont get ahead of yourself mate lol! Mind it was 8 ppl, we sat down and u read 4m a sheet. Good start though."
He had summed it up perfectly. I had done my first presentation in over five years, yes, but could it really be deemed a 'proper' presentation if I wasn't even stood up? It became clear that the ghost had only partially been put to bed. Some of the outer lining of the ghost, and the head, still swirled around my daily life. Metaphorically. And the only place to kill it off clearly and concisely...would be Majorca.
*END OF FLASHBACK*
Wuh...huh? Who's that? I've been woken up in the middle of the night at the Hotel Linda, and it's not Menorca or Ibiza to blame. There are a group of French teenagers maurauding down the corridor of Floor 3, making an almighty din and disturbing the sleep patterns of 108 Honours Geography students. I'm not very happy about it. But then, this is what a field trip's supposed to be all about, isn't it? Late-night drama, women worries, possible presentations, strange goings-on. This was what made Swansea so legendary in the first place. It might sound a bit odd, but I wouldn't mind seven more days of the same, please. After all, if everything goes exactly to plan, it won't make a very good story, will it...?
Don't worry: I don't think everything'll go to plan......
*To be extended*
No comments:
Post a Comment