I wish you were here
Before it's too late this could all disappear
7:15am. Dawn in C'an Pastilla, and (pretty much) all is well with the world. I draw the curtains of Room 323 to reveal a panoramic view of the Tramontana Mountains, before standing on the balcony and breathing in the fresh Mediterranean air. A year ago I was sweating more than Pete Burns at a 'Guess The Sex' Competition, as the pressure of the Swansea presentations threatened to overcome me. But now, life is opening up like never before, and I can relax once again in the company of great people. Hopefully this account of the week's events will be less autobiographical than Swansea, and focus instead on the events and the characters that will make up this incredible week. One thing's for sure: with no more field trips on the horizon, it's going to be a long, LONG time before we experience another week like this one.
7:45am. After discovering a goldmine last night at the local supermarket "EROSKI", I fancy taking an early morning stroll down there again. Menorca and Ibiza slowly rise from their respective slumbers; Menorca looks in a puzzled way at his mobile phone, which is playing a bizarre and frankly tuneless ringtone. The song is loosely based on some sort of reggae jingle (if reggae had been recorded by mediocre British men in their late 30s), while the words are sounding more cringeworthy with each listen.
*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life
*incomprehensible*
Spanish lullaby
*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life
*incomprehensible*
Spanish lullaby
*incomprehensible*
Sunshine of my life...
[repeat to fade]
Later on today, Menorca will admit that this ditty is quite possibly the most appalling ringtone known to man.
Down in the streets of C'an Pastilla, nothing is stirring. The local SPAR is still closed, as are a litany of streetside cafes and souvenir shops. I round the corner to Eroski and, to my horror, discover a sheet of corrugated iron blocking the doorway. Shut. Clearly the local siesta is not restricted to the afternoon, but quite what the residents do when they run out of milk in the morning is anyone's guess. I prepare to head back to the Hot Linda empty-handed, when on my left I spot a newsagent/craft shop hybrid. The advice we were given before leaving Glasgow was to avoid the local water like the plague (ironic, since swallowing the aforementioned water would probably lead to a localised plague of sorts), so we've been forced to buy bottled water instead. But you can hardly argue when the shops are selling 5 litres for 80 cents. I bound out of the shop, proud of my purchase, as if I've just won my hundredth cap in international football. But I bet this doesn't make as many headlines.
Proud: Beckham
8:00am. Breakfast at the Hot Linda, and I take my seat with Menorca, Bilbao and Murcia. Rumours are swirling that the staff have imposed a ban on the smuggling of water into the restaurant, which would correlate with the scenes of last night, when students were charged €2.40 for the privelege of sipping from the local streams (metaphorically). Officer Dibble is scanning the restaurant with his radar-like eyes, looking for his chance to pounce. I decide not to bother opening my recently-purchased water bottle, opting instead for a banquet of cereal, milk, croissants, bacon, egg and sausage. The sausage is a bit watery, granted, but I'd say it's pretty darned tasty. The buffet table in the centre of the room has some rather bizzare contents, though. There's even a supply of peas and chips at the far side.
Hold on...peas and chips...at breakfast? Valladolid thought he was seeing things.
Breakfast, anyone?
9:00am. Today's festivities will centre on a bus tour of the island, taking in the Tramontana Mountains, Palma's Old Town and the flat plains of Inca. And Sa Pobla. Lovely Sa Pobla. We locate Denis Norden at reception, who leads us down to the beach with vigour and haste. Remarkably, the vast majority of shops are still shut, prompting me to wonder if the town of C'an Pastilla EVER wakes up. At the beach, Cordoba is walking the promenade with a confident swagger when all of a sudden he trips on the pavement. As he struggles to regain his composure, Denis Norden turns round and starts chuckling wryly. Behind that laid-back, non-commital demeanour, I get the feeling that Norden has a rather dark sense of humour. Which is fair enough, as long as it doesn't catch up with him one of these days.
"WOAH!"
Denis Norden promptly collides with a bicycle rack, falling forwards into the solid metal structure and almost completely losing his footing. What was that I was saying about humour catching up with you, Denis? As Norden struggles back to a standing base, I start laughing to myself about the calamity of it all. But I shouldn't mock: if this chain of events continues, I'll probably be the next one taking a pratfall.
Pratfall: Ronnie Corbett
9:15am. A recuperating Denis Norden launches into a detailed description of the Majorcan economy, which revolves mainly around tourism. The majority of the group projects this week will involve tourism in one form or another, so it's all relevant stuff. Quite what the relevance is of a trip to the peri-urban zone of Sa Pobla is another debate for another day, but Norden kicks off the day with a fairly interesting speech. The main distraction in all of this is Benidorm, who is repeatedly shuffling sand onto Vigo's foot for no apparent reason. Strange. Very strange indeed. Vigo doesn't seem to mind, either.
10:00am. The tour finally hits the road, heading west towards Palma then looping North-West in search of the Tramontana Mountains. They're not hard to find, rising 4,000 feet from the plains of Central Mallorca. I will alternate between the spellings of Majorca and Mallorca for the next seven days, but I guess we'll just have to live with that. Come on, you all do it too.
A signpost to Arsenal's new stadium at the Emirates, no doubt
10:30am. The village of Bunyola, home to a quaint railway station and sitting amidst the stunning scenery of Western Majorca. Tenerife gathers together a group of about thirty students (we seem to have split into multiple factions somewhere between C'an Pastilla and here, but I'm not sure how or why), and begins explaining the agricultural history of the Mallorcan mountains. The most striking feature to me is the shrubbery on the hilltops: the mountains of Scotland are some of the most spectacular and famous on Planet Earth, but there's certainly no plant life on the summits of Goatfell or Ben Lomond. Just random tourists like me, getting lost on moors. Tenerife then describes the physical geography of the plains underneath, referring to them as the 'Piedmont'.
"How do you spell Piedmont?", asks Cordoba.
Tenerife looks bemused at the simplicity of this question
- "P I E D M O N T."
He turns round and starts talking again, describing the underlying plants of the area as 'Carob'.
"How do you spell Carob?", asks Benidorm.
Tenerife is shocked at the percieved lack of linguistic skills of his geographers.
"C A R O B."
He shakes his head and returns to his speel, asking the students to draw a 'field diagram' detailing the physical geography in front of them. I'm slightly confused that Tenerife is talking to us about physical geography, after I spent 10 weeks doing a Human Geography class with him. Anyway, he finishes his speech by reminding us of a theory known as 'McSherry', which is something to do with the cultivation of land (or something like that). Turning to Cordoba and Benidorm, in a moment of supreme satire, he proclaims,
"Now that's spelt, M C - Sherry."
The man's a comic genius. The group chuckle heartily. Cordoba and Benidorm look humbled.
11:00am. The tour continues apace, with the town of Valledemossa next on the agenda. Certain questions remain unanswered as the bus enters a magnificent vallery filled with greenery. Namely - why in the heck did Bilbao ask Tenerife where the next Real Mallorca game was being played? That's hardly a geography question, after all. For the record, their next game is on Saturday, when they'll be playing away from home. And I bet you they lose 2-0. I bloomin' well bet you.
Gran Canaria leads us to a local car park, amidst protestations from Benidorm that he "looks under pressure". He promptly tells us to sit down on the ground (do you know how uncomfortable tarmac is is 20C heat, mate?) and starts reading from a pre-drafted sheet of paper. It's an interesting speech, all about the recent influx of foreign millionaires and celebrities like Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones. Benidorm watches with an increasing smirk on his face, convinced that the whole speech has been nicked from the gossip columns of OK Magazine. But Gran Canaria continues regardless, even arguing that the Spanish government bailed out Douglas and Zeta-Jones when their cultural centre failed to reach its monetary targets. All in all, it's an interesting dose of human geography, which makes his final remark all the more stinging for the physicians among the group.
"And now, Lanzarote will tell you about some rocks."
Ouch. I wonder if that line will ever get back to Lanzarote. Part of me hopes so.
Douglas: Bailed out
11:30am. Lanzarote does indeed talk to us about some rocks, up on a hillside above the town. But not before Cordoba asks to take an impromptu toilet break in nearby shrubbery. And so does Benidorm. And Valladolid. And practically half the class, from the looks of things. It turns out that Lanzarote never hears about the sarcasm shown by his esteemed colleague Gran Canaria. Which is just as well. The ensuing fight would have been quite ugly.
On the way back to the coach, Denis Norden seems quite agitated. A fellow survivor of Prestwick Academy (or P*******k A*****y) Jerez, asks what the matter is. Norden replies with typical honesty:
"Where have the other staff gone? They've all b******d off!"
The character of Norden is beginning to shine through. He may have the voice of the presenter from 'It'll Be Alright On The Night', but his persona is gradually resembling that of Victor Meldrew from One Foot In The Grave.
Persona: Meldrew
12:30pm. At long last, the capital city of Palma is reached. I don't know much about this place, except to say that it's very big, so I have absolutely no idea what to expect when the coach veers onto the promenade (or is that more of a British word?). The sight before me is nothing short of stunning. An overwhelmingly dimensioned Cathedral is staring me in the face: ornate, historic, and almost too daunting to consider entering.
Funny, I'm sure I met a woman like that once.
Pictures don't really do this sight justice, so I'll show you one anyway. WWE commentators describe the 7-foot, 500-pound giant 'Big Show' as the Largest Athlete In The World (and the way he assaulted Floyd Mayweather at Wrestlemania, who would disagree with him?), but I think Majorca Cathedral could legitimately lay claim to being the Largest Church In The World. No matter what angle you view it from, however far away, it takes your breath away, almost literally.
Largest Athlete In The World
Largest Church In The World?
12:45pm. Outside the Cathedral, Denis Norden sets the scene brilliantly, describing Palma as an energetic and dynamic hub of Majorquin life. Above us, the sun is blisteringly hot, forcing many students to tap into their finite supply of Sun Tan Lotion. Norden then cooks up a bizarre plan, which involves us walking round the city for the next hour "noting down anything interesting", then returning to the buses at 2pm. Bear in mind, this is during our lunch hour, and we've not eaten anything since we had those watery sausages at breakfast. Suffice to say, there won't be much note-taking over the next hour.
Speaking of those sausages, Cordoba is beginning to feel a bit ill this afternoon. He's blaming the sausages for his prolonged queeziness, and the likes of Benidorm and Vigo aren't sure if he'll last the day in this searing (sp?) heat.
1:00pm. Rather than following Denis Norden's instructions and "noting down anything interesting", 108 of us are instead seeking out the best venue for lunch. I run into Bilbao at the top of the hill next to the Cathedral, and he looks as clueless as the rest of us. The map of Palma we were given by the Geography Department is, with the greatest of respect, about as reliable as a Scotland manager's contract. The street names are faded, the scale is too small, and we can't read a ruddy word of it. So we go walkabouts in search of the ideal restaurant/patisserie/Subway. On the way we bump into Elche, a Level 3 student who is leaving Glasgow University in the summer but decided to come along for the trip anyway. The irony is, he's a Subway employee back in Glasgow, but he can't locate the local Subway for me out here. Mark my words: before the week is out, I'll have held a very special Spanish Subway Marathon!
1:30pm. Completely out of the blue, and by accident rather than design, we seem to have stumbled into the city's main square, the Plaza Mayor. And what a square it is. It puts Burns Statue Square in Ayr to shame (no offence to the Bard). We recently passed Valladolid, Alicante, Zaragoza and others at a streetside cafe, but Zaragoza gave the premises a negative review. Emphatically negative, in fact. So we're wandering about the place looking about as lost as Pete Doherty at a 'Round The World' Sail. With no boat.
Round the corner, Elche locates a sign for a local McDonalds. "It's in the Plaza Cort", he says, "let's follow this sign." Yes. I know it's one of those reprehensible global brands that exploits its workforce, tramples upon the local culture and fills its food with fat. Allegedly. But we're ruddy starving here, and we'd happily take a Big Mac or McChicken Sandwich for a suitable fee. However, upon following the sign, problems arise. We turn round, and the other side of the sign is pointing the OTHER WAY! What the heck is this, a cruel trick being played on us poor British tourists? Is this what happens to supporters of globalisation: they get played like fools abroad?
We're almost at the point of admitting defeat when we find a local bakery serving delicious baguettes for €2:50. Ah, bliss. I get the feeling I'll be purchasing a lot of these over the next week. Up at the Plaza Mayor we run into Menorca, so along with Bilbao and Elche we stroll back down to the promenade. Well, we think we're going in the direction of the promenade. Truth be told, none of us have any proof.
1:45pm. Further downhill, a range of people including Benidorm, Valladolid, Barcelona, Valencia and Sevilla are roaming the streets. Sevilla will join myself, Barcelona and Valencia in researching gentrification this week, but since I know absolutely nothing about gentrification (I'm still struggling to explain its definition to people), I hope Sevilla's knowledge of the subject is vast and wide-ranging. Then maybe I can do my bit for the team by doing the presentation on Wednesday.
*insert fear*
2:00pm. I'm increasingly worried that the coach will leave for Sa Pobla without us (they're not even taking head-counts this year: what the heck is that all about?) but Barcelona, Valencia and Sevilla reassure me otherwise. At the promenade, there's still no sign of Menorca, Ibiza or Bilbao, prompting fears that they lost their bearings up at the Plaza Mayor. I left them high and dry to purchase my €2:50 baguette, and not only am I worried about the bus situation, it also looks like I "dingied" them. That will become one of the most reguularly used phrases of the weeks, along with "gentrification". And "I should tell her how I feel".
Finally, Menorca, Ibiza and Bilbao show up, to my immense relief. Cordoba, on the other hand, is still missing. Benidorm confirms his whereabouts in a chat with Lleida and Santander, and it's not good news.
"Cordoba got a taxi home - he's been sick after eating those watery sausages at breakfast."
Uh-oh. Those watery sausages at breakfast, the ones everyone had...including me. And I enjoyed them, which adds to the confusion somewhat. This does not bode well, but the first thing to establish is Cordoba's health. Lleida says he'll probably be fine in a few hours, and Santander describes it as a mild case of food poisoning. Both girls look rather worried as they say it, though.
Behind me, the lecturers are far less concerned. Denis Norden and Lanzarote are laughing off the 'sausage' theory, clearly implying that Cordoba's ill health is due to a few too many beers last night. Given that none of us got that drunk last night, I'd question their sincerity on this issue.
I should point out, of course, that Cordoba, Valladolid, Benidorm and the others did try to get drunk last night. They just didn't find anywhere that was lively enough.
3:00pm. The coach convoy roars past Inca, not even bothering to stop for a brief foray into the town. Tenerife explains that the drivers are "not really for stopping", and that we must travel onwards to Sa Pobla with haste and gusto. Why, I'm not so sure. By all accounts Sa Pobla is hardly Midtown Manhattan at the best of times, and on a Thursday afternoon the town is as deserted as a Paul Burrell book signing (3 people turned up, apparently - they must have some deep-rooted psychological problems). Tenerife gathers everyone round for another charismatic promo explaining the agriculture of Sa Pobla's peri-urban zone. Only Tenerife could make it sound remotely interesting. Talk then turns to the new motorway between Palma and Inca, and Tenerife struggles to remember the journey time prior to the road's construction.
"Denis Norden's here somewhere...ah, there you are sitting over there. Denis, how long did it take from Palma to Inca when we started running this trip?"
Denis chuckles heartily, shaking his head.
"That was 20 years ago - I'm an old man now, I've forgotten these things!"
Tenerife scowls, retorting - "He's lying! You can't get the staff these days." The comical interlude gets me thinking about who would win a real fight between members of the department, should any underlying tension explode one day. I speak to Madrid, who is the oldest member of our gentrification group, and one of the more knowledgable and articulate members of the squad of 108. His money would be on Tenerife if it came to a fight. "He's got that moustache: I reckon he's an es-SAS man", notes Madrid.
3:15pm. We prepare to leave Sa Pobla which, interestingly, has now broken the record for the most easterly point I've ever stood on Earth. Although I wouldn't mind travelling further East with Nerina Pallot (she could visit her father's family in India, and it would get the two of us away from this wretched weather), the truth is that I've never escaped the clutches of Western Europe. In the meantime, Tenerife warns the students of the impending danger on the main road, pleading with us to stop and wait for the traffic to quieten.
"Stop there, stop there, stop there, stop there......"
Everyone keeps going. Tenerife shrugs his shoulders in a admission of rare defeat.
"......Keep going then."
Nerina: Would enjoy warmer climate
4:00pm. The coach convoy takes a detour that could best be described as bizarre, snaking through a bunch of country lanes at about 12mph. it's like commuting in Guernsey, this. Only without the morning fog and roadside honesty stalls. Ibiza is sat next to me, but in scenes reminiscent of the journey home from Swansea, the two of us are too tired to attempt speaking to each other, Can you get jetlag from a 3 hour flight? It sure feels like it.
Of the 122 hardy souls who returned from Swansea on that interminable coach journey, a full 108 have stayed on to Honours Geography and made the trip to Majorca. Only fourteen people are missing this time, but unfortunately, two of them are Newport and Merthyr Tydfil. I didn't really get to know Merthyr much in Swansea, a decision I now regret wholeheartedly, but I spent a lot of time with Newport that week. Then she seemed to disappear off the face of the Earth, and I haven't seen her once since Swansea. In retrospect, actually, that was probably a blessing in disguise. She had a lot of baggage, in more ways than one. And I'm not talking the kind of baggage that Smeaton handles.
Tenerife grabs the in-house (or in-bus) microphone, and introduces Gomera to us. Gomera will be our interpreter for the week, but does not teach geography at University like the other staff members. We're not too sure about the direction of his introductory speech, in which he encourages us to "look out the window and note the geography you see". That's sound advice, I suppose, but if I try and note it all, I could be here a while.
Neil Oliver: Notes all examples of geography
Cartagena is still singing: it's a megamix of all the songs we enjoyed in our childhood. And, indeed, some of the ones we didn't. I drift off in a strange hybrid of consciousness, unconciousness, half-consciousness and deep thought. It's been a mammoth year for all concerned, but we've essentially got six months off after the end of this trip. I'm not happy at all about that: if I was in charge, every week would be like Swansea and Majorca, free from the stresses/mediocrity of normal life and in a great environment filled with banter. And unforgettable incidents......
*FLASHBACK*
Monday 3rd December 2007
We sat there like we did every Monday. The jukebox played a variety of pop and rock classics, including (but not restricted to) Billy Ocean, Johnny Cash and The Eagles. They don't make 'em like they used to. Well, not usually. The host rifled through the sheets, totting up the scores with precision and accuracy. Valladolid, Benidorm, Marbella and Santander waited pensively for the all-important announcement. Then it came.
"And the scores at the end of that round...'The Chinese Tractor Racers' are still in front with 28 points...'Honey I Bukkaked The Kids' are 2nd with 24."
Ah, the relief. The intangible relief. It was Monday Night at the Liquid Ship pub quiz, and the 'Tractor Racers' were on the way to another victory.
"Round 4 is the Lucky Dip round. Question 1 - how many Oscars did the Godfather Part II win?"
We didn't have a ruddy clue. Valladolid's flatmate would probably have known, as he comes from America, is currently studying Film & TV and knows everything there is to know about The Oscars. I, on the other hand, hate all movies. Apart from comedies. Valladolid decided to text his flatmate, while Marbella and Benidorm peered at their own mobiles in a search for inspiration. Who could they text that would know the answer? Was this even legal? Would we get ejected from the premises for breaking the pub quiz rules?
Comedic: Ace Ventura
Unconvinced by our chances of finding the correct answer, I sat shuffling my feet and looking at the ground. Santander, desparate for some sort of inspiration, leant over the candle sitting atop the table, as if changing her position would somehow alter this drastic aituation.
It altered the situation alright. And drastically.
I could smell burning.
Looking up from the ground, I felt myself recoiling in horror at the brutal scene before my eyes. Santander's hair was on fire!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Benidorm glanced up from his text messaging session, and pulled a face that suggested he'd just pressed the 'Detonate' button on a nuclear bomb (in a drunken incident, no doubt). Marbella was too shocked to move, rooted to his seat in a split second of horrifed panic. Valladolid was still texting, for pity's sake. And I didn't know what the frig to do with myself. How was she going to extinguish the flames? She looked absolutely terrified, flailing her head about manically. How did this happen? Fire in Glasgow - what if it was terrorism? Where's Smeaton when you need him?
In a moment that will earn him critical acclaim and plaudits for a long time to come, the pub quiz host leapt from his lofty perch and sprung to Santander's aid, grabbing her jacket from behind her chair and wrapping it over her head in an act of superb spontaneity. The flames were out. Glory be to the lord above. Valladolid had only just looked up from the text he was sending, and had missed the whole thing. The pub quiz host, who had one eye that looked strangely different from the other (luckily they both worked tonight), jumped back atop his chair and wryly smiled.
"Sorry about that - things are really heating up in this week's quiz."
With disasterous death (alliteration) now averted, Santander was the butt of jokes for the rest of the night. The pub quiz host would later remark that the entire incident was caught on CCTV, and that the aforementioned footage was "hilarious". But life is to meant to be lived to the full, and if that means swirling your flaming head around in full view of the general public, then so be it. Selfishly, I was just glad it wasn't me on fire (although my hair isn't as long to start with), and we could get on with winning the pub quiz. We secured 20 bottles of Stella Artois that night, but got the £175 question wrong. And yes, it was a Geography question. We might be able to tell you all about the geo-spatial relations between urban planning and agricultural pedestrianisation (made-up phrase), but apparently we don't know that Argentina is bigger than Sudan.
You'll never guess the song they played at the end, either. It was another Johnny Cash classic, a song with great rythym and meaning. A song that has stood the test of time. And a song that wasn't wholly irrelevant, given the events earlier on.
Ring of Fire.
*END OF FLASHBACK*
4:30pm. The coach grinds to a halt, jolting me back to life. I was having a dream that Ibiza was sat next to me on the bus talking to me, which is almost 100% accurate, except he's not actually talking. I hate to admit it, but today has started to drag. As the hours wore on, I felt more like a pensioner on a Dodds bus tour (stereotypical) than an Honours Geography student on a field trip. But never mind, the Gentrification project will start tomorrow, and business will pick up then. Tenerife then grabs the mic and announces that, contrary to popular belief, the coach tour has still not finished yet.
*turns to camera like Harry Hill, sighs impatiently*
We are instructed to leave the bus with our belongings, walk past an aquarium that we randomly stopped at and head to the beach. When we finally get there, Fuerteventura hits us with a 20-minute tirade about the commercialisation of the Majorquin coastline. He seems like he's on the rampage, but I'm not quite sure why. He's the only staff member that got to go to Swansea last year and Majorca this year, so I'd say he hit it rather lucky.
5:00pm. Fuerteventura is still talking. He certainly has a lot to say about the touristification of Palma's shoreline, but I'm now becoming more concerned with the rumbling of my stomach than any offshore platforms or coastal seabed erosion. A random dude with a moustache walks past, but even his attention cannot be kept by this veritable blitz of Physical Geography. Then, Fuerteventura starts asking us questions. Hrmph. Fuerteventura knows his coastal onions, I'll give him that, but the vast majority of people here are doing Human Geography projects. This is going to be about as fruitful as Simon Cowell's search for the "next big British Superstar" on the 2004 X Factor, which left us with Steve freakin' Brookstein.
Brookstein: 'Superstar'
Fuerteventura asks us what the major characteristics of storms are. Out of nowhere, Getafe springs to life and replies, "Flooding." Ah, things just got interesting, Getafe's woken up. Fuerteventura fires back: "What causes flooding then?"
"Tidal surges."
"It's a storm surge, not a tidal surge", retorts Fuerteventura, "Now why am I correcting you?"
Getafe's response is a beezer.
"I don't know, I had to be corrected."
The group breaks out in a snigger. Fuerteventura is momentarily in a state of shock, then retreats from battle and asks the rest of the group, "What happens when there's a storm?" Looks like 1-0 to Getafe from where I'm standing. Getafe scares Fuerteventura.
5:15pm. Hierro takes over the reins and gives an interesting talk on the provision of tourist services for Brits and Germans, in Magaluf and Arenal respectively. Magaluf sounds like a scream, albeit an expensive, booze-fuelled train wreck of a scream. Somewhere amidst this speech, Hierro somehow manages to proclaim his support for Scots folk music, a decision that pleases me greatly, and will please fans everywhere of Runrig, Wolfstone, Capercaillie et al.
Runrig: Endorsed by Hierro
5:30pm. Full circle. Our walk along the promenade (I've decided that word must be French: it just sounds it) takes us back to the beach at C'an Pastilla, where Denis Norden will give one last brief speech. It's a moment that Valladolid will rightly describe as 'Deja Vu', except it's not quite as interesting as the video for Beyonce's No.1 hit 'Deja Vu'. But then, what on earth is?
Walking along the beach, it's obvious that Valencia and Barcelona have been inseparable since their meeting at Swansea last year. So inseparable, in fact, that Barcelona's habit of quoting Alan Partridge endlessly has worn off on Valencia, without her even knowing it. This evening, she's describing the weather conditions in C'an Pastilla as "hotter than the sun", but I'm sure she doesn't know that the origins of that quote lay in an Alan Partridge scene involving an 800C apple turnover.
Interesting: Deja Vu video
5:45pm. In the midst of a football kickabout, Denis Norden (who unfortunately doesn't join in) asks if any of us have ever been to Palma before. Alicante replies, "I came here when I was 12." Norden is inquisitive, and responds, "is it how you remembered it eight years ago?" "Well, no, it felt a lot bigger back then," says Alicante. Given that Alicante was probably about half the size at the time, I guess that figures. Although as that Father Ted sketch showed, gaining a sense of perspective and size can be more difficult than you think.
7:00pm. Dinner at long last...isn't it? Well, no, not as it turns out. We'd originally been told that food would be served at 6pm every night, but by the time Lanzarote enters the room and launches into his review of the day, it could almost be time for Coronation Street to start. Oh, wait...we're an hour ahead of the UK aren't we? Scrap that analogy then, that just complicates things.
Lanzarote congratulates us for our stellar behaviour in the hotel last night, and draws our attention to the group of French students staying on the floor beneath us. "While we salute your good behaviour yesterday, and we're well aware of the din created by another group in the hotel, we wouldn't want you to go launching any revenge attacks tonight." Don't worry, Lanzarote, I'm sure we're all sensible enough to to resist any such notions of vengence. Cooler heads will prevail. There's nothing to worry about.
...absolutely nothing...
7:15pm. When I got back to the hotel I observed a fascinating game of crazy golf transpiring in the park beneath me. Zaragoza and Malaga were playing, amongst others, so I ask inqusitively who won the contest. Zaragoza raises his hand in victory: a proud, defiant gesture from a multi-talented sportsman. If only Adam Sandler had shown this kind of composure on the golf course, none of that carnage would have ensued.
Carnage: Sandler
The time comes for our supervisors to be allocated, and the system is haphazard to say the least. The lecturers walk about in a random fashion, asking the groups if they've been given a supervisor yet, until every group has met a suitable staff member. Time goes by ("so slowly" - Madonna 2005) before finally a Human Geographer approaches us. And what do you know, it's Denis Norden! Denis asks us a few brief questions about our impending study of gentrification, nods his head repeatedly and says,
"Well yeah, that could work I suppose, but if you want to do it another way then that could work as well."
Hmmmm, interestingly non-committal from Norden. This kind of interlude will occur regularly for the next seven days.
7:30pm. After a wait that is more painful than an in-ring dentistry session with Ricky Hatton, dinner is finally served. I'm perfectly happy with the night's offerings of salad and chicken, but across the camp, unrest is beginning to grow. Valladolid is incensed at the quality levels, or lack thereof, of the breakfasts and dinners, while Benidorm is worried about the health of Santander, who is suffering from an illness of her own. It's claimed that the paramedics were called out earlier this afternoon, after an incident involving abnormally low blood-sugar levels. Combining this with the Cordoba food poisoning scandal, one has to suggest that culinary standards in the Hot Linda are anything but flawless.
The Fire Drill map. In case I need it.
8:30pm. Time to head on up to Room 320, and properly get this show on the road. The 'sole purpose' of this field trip is to prepare us for our Honours Dissertation, and the various research methods we'll have to apply when we do the real thing in the summer. With that in mind, Barcelona and Sevilla are using their room as a base for crucial Summit Talks, G8 style, as the seven of us gather together to discuss our research methodology for gentrification.
The famous Quacking Torch
Unlike the dissertation, success or failure will not hinge on an 8,000 report, but instead on a 10-minute presentation (*insert fear*[CAPS LOCK]). Madrid, who I'm inclined to call the unofficial head of the group, has a range of ideas of how to impress the lecturers during the talk on Wednesday morning.
"Fuerteventura is obsessed with Physical Geography. He talks about nothing else! So why don't we incorporate physcial words into our presentation? He'll love that!"
"Yeah", says Barcelona, "you could describe how the areas of gentrification in Palma are reminiscent of a U-shaped valley or something."
"Or talk about the erosion of the working-class population from the Old Town", says Sevilla. Valencia giggles at that one.
"I know!", says Madrid, "Las Palmas is a feminist, isn't she? So she's bound to give us good marks if we somehow bring feminism into it."
I scowl somewhat. I studied feminist geography in February, and I saw right through the sham.
Madrid, though, is hatching a plan: "Rather than talking about gentrification, we could discuss the 'ladyfication' of Palma!"
The group chuckles heartily. Even though this discussion is only meant as a parody of the real presentation, it's still very entertaining. All parodies are entertaining.
"Or how about this", says Madrid, "since both men and women are getting displaced by the rising house prices, we could call it the 'Hermaphrification" of Palma!!!"
We're pretty much in hysterics by this point. But the comedy continues, as Barcelona inexplicably brings Michael Jackson into the conversation (I don't mean he literally turned up and started speaking: that would be quite a creepy experience), and we start thinking of ways that Jackson lyrics could be incorporated into the presentation.
"For the working class people, gentrification is bad, it's bad, you know it!"
"If you're getting priced out of your home, it doesn't matter if you're black or white."
"Right, that's the end of our presentation, now beat it!"
Unfortunately we can't think of anything for Thriller or Billie Jean, which is a great pity. I try to dream up one last parody, to keep the humour going a few more seconds.
"Has gentrification...led to an increase in smooth criminals?"
Bingo. Zaragoza and Madrid like that one, despite their polarising (good word) views on gentrification itself. Obviously, the time eventually comes to work, as we read some books on gentrification that we found in Glasgow. We didn't actually bring the books out with us: we just copied and pasted them as e-journals to our respective USBs. To steal/adapt a Jasper Carrott joke, I always wonder if e-journal is something a Yorkshire person says when they find a journal on their doorstep.
Carrott: Eeeee - Journal!
10:20pm. Denis Norden was supposed to meet us at 10pm, but it seems that his meeting with the Regional Identity group (including Menorca and Tarragona) has inadvertently overrun, much like the careers of all Osbournes. Eventually at 20 past he stumbles in, perching awkwardly on the table and moving rows of beer bottles as he does it. The half-hour conversation, much like the one three hours earlier, goes like this:
"Well yeah, that could work I suppose, but if you want to do it another way then that could work as well."
No-one could accuss him of trying to enforce his own views on the group, that's for sure. Norden stumbles off into the night having completely forgotten about our Daily Risk Assessment Forms. That's fair enough - none of us could be bothered filling them in anyway. I say my goodbyes to the group, but not before Barcelona asks me what my favourite Alan Partridge line is. I can't think of one on the spot, so I respond that my favourite scene was when Partridge had the dead cow dropped on him by irate farmers. Still makes me laugh today, that one.
Partridge: Deceased cow problems
10:50pm. Along at Room 323, I knock to see if Menorca or Ibiza are in. The response is quieter than the audience at the Brit Awards (have you ever noticed how rude and unresponsive they are to EVERYTHING?) so I decide to call my family in Prestwick via my ridiculously expensive Sony Ericsson K550i price plan. The news is not good for poor old Gretna FC, as it looks like they might not see out the weekend. Outside Room 325 I hear a fair bit of chatter, so decide to survey the scene. Inside are the room's three occupants, Valladolid, Marbella and Alicante, as well as La Coruna and Benidorm. They seem to be deep in thought as they examine the glossy pages of Zoo Magazine, determining the most impressive makes and models, the best shapes and specifications, and the most desirable rides on show. And after that, they look at the cars.
Benidorm sits me down. "Here McLovin" (they call me McLovin from Superbad, even though I don't have buck teeth), "this will help to educate you. Now, take a look at this page of women, and tell me which one you would most want to chat up in a nightclub."
This is a most perplexing question. I request more details.
"Do you mean, which one is the best looking?"
"No no no - which one do you think you'd have the most chance with?"
I'm not too keen on answering that, as it implies that the women on the page are all rather...how do you say it...easy? I'd rather stick with my original assumption, and pick the most attractive.
*turns to camera like Harry Hill* After all, this is what field work is all about.
Scanning the page, it appears obvious that, while all the candidates boast their own respective assets, only one has brunette/red (it's difficult to tell from this angle) hair. Since honesty is the best policy, I duly select her. "Good choice, McLovin", says Benidorm.
Valladolid grabs the smutty magazine, observes the pages and lets out a cackle - "He picked her because she looks most like Gibraltar!"
Woops. Have I been rumbled here?
I fall back onto the bed in mild humiliation, as the others laugh just as heartily as the gentrification group were a few minutes ago. But for altogether different reasons this time. Benidorm taps me on the stomach (I'm still not sure why), and in the confusion I let out a high-pitched scream. It's more than a tad embarrassing, but luckily it takes the attention away from my recent admission.
11:10pm. Valladolid, Marbella, Alicante, Benidorm and La Coruna are heading out to search for a club (or a lively bar: whichever's nearest), but I've already decided to stay in tonight and have a relatively quiet night. Speaking of Valladolid, I do apologise for the less-than-flattering picture of you and Vigo at the top of this journal. And I will strive to replace it with a more fitting JPeg. When I'm next at a computer with proper photo-editing software.
I'm stood on the balcony of 325, and from here the quickest way to 323 is to hop the balconies like some sort of risk-taking Colin Jackson. Unfortunately, I have only a fraction of Jackson's athletic prowess, so I'm going to have to clamber along the balconies with much less finesse. And I'll not be breaking the 110m hurdling Olympic Record either.
Finesse: Colin Jackson
I examine the balconies. They've been designed in such a way that it's remarkably easy to climb from room to room, so Lanzarote has warned us to lock all our balcony doors at night in a security measure. Alicante then joins me on the 325 balcony. He looks very worried for me.
"McLovin...what are you doing?"
"I'm going to climb over to my room."
And with that, I leap onto the barrier between 325 and 324, flinging my right leg over the other side. It's all going very well: I feel perfectly stable and safe up here. I'm not even remotely drunk at this stage. But then I turn round and face Alicante, and he's looks like he's having kittens (not literally, I think it's an old phrase).
"What if you fall off?"
No, no, there's no danger of that happening because...oh...wait a minute, he's got a point. Instead of having my back to the wall, which would be the much safer way of doing this...I'm facing the wall. Which means that behind me is a 40-foot drop to an unforgiving crazy golf course.
"Shengus!"
I hurriedly clamber off the dividing barrier betwen 325 and 324, landing on the comparatively safe ground of 324. Alicante had a point there, you know. One gust of wind and I would have been in amongst putting balls and ridiculous underground tunnels and stuff like that.
"That was so dangerous McLovin, you could have fallen off!"
Yes, good point Alicante. But then, you also said it was dangerous when I had my phone on Flight Mode during the flight yesterday.
11:30pm. Having negociated the second barrier the traditional way (if there is a traditional way to balcony-jumping) with my life intact, I'm back in the sanctuary of 323. Menorca and Ibiza have returned from their respective group meetings, and are partaking of a couple of inexpensive San Miguels, so I join them. It's been a long day, and I'm not sure if the field trip has quite sprung into life yet. But we've been hampered by dodgy timetabling, dodgy food and a bus tour that was as energy-sapping as a Freddie Flintoff nightime paddle. But tomorrow, the field trip really begins. Our research will take us into Palma's Old Town, where we'll have no restrictions and no limitations. It'll be up to us to decide if Gentrification really is pricing out the working class from Palma, and along the way, it'll be a heck of a journey.
Flintoff: Worse for Wear
[I should tell her how I feel.]
1:00am. Just about time to go to bed, and Ibiza has uncovered a glorious scam in the in-room TV. Channel 14 is assigned to a German station, but Ibiza has noticed that if you switch the TV off then on again, 14 suddenly starts showing BBC Three! Ok, it's not the best of channels (it was responsible for unleashing Little Miss Jocelyn, one of the few TV shows that I believe deserves unabaiting criticism), but it does show nightly double bills of Family Guy, so it's good for something.
Menorca recalls the bizarre sight earlier today of Denis Norden exiting Eroski with a bag full of wine, laughing and proclaiming loudly: "That's me got the supplies in!" Surely I've not landed up with a drunkard as my Project Supervisor, eh? This of all weeks? It's bad enough that we'll all be 'drinking in moderation' for most of the week anyway, but if Norden gets plastered too then we're all stuffed. And I mean that in a metaphorical sense. I think......
*Family Guy segment, overheard whilst drifting in and out of consciousness*
Brian: Ugh, I can't believe you're serving a three year sentence. It seems so harsh.
Lois: Well, the only upside is that its given me time to think about why I ended up in here. I guess I was stealin' because I was so sick of the same old routine, I felt like I had a void in my life, like, like, there was a secret hole in me--
Quagmire: Giggidy.
Lois: --and I was tryin to fill that hole with all kinds of expensive objects, and things--
Quagmire: Giggidy-giggidy!!!
Lois: --and I felt wonderful with all those things fillin' that hole.
Quagmire: GIGGIDY-GIGGIDY-GIGGIDY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Lois: I did this to myself, so I'm just gonna have to lay back and let the penal system teach me a lesson.
Quagmire (in deadpan voice): That one is also sexual.
*to be progressed*
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