The wheels on the bus go round and round... and round

Although my work schedule can heardly be described as arduous, when I finished teaching on Wednesday I felt like a child who has just broken up for the summer holidays and I practically skipped home, happily anticipating satisfying my beach-side cravings and enjoying a week of much-missed home comforts - understandable enthusiasm given that I had gone four months without returning to the Big Smoke. My inexplicable excitement about the eight hour bus journey to Cadiz however is perhaps harder to explain; yet for some reason I had high hopes of a productive trip, taking with me reams of unfamiliar spanish vocab and an empty notebook, ready to be filled with the fully-formed plot of my first short story and a vague plan for the future.

Unfortunately, I did little more than stare vacantly out of the window. Sat directly behind the bus driver, enjoying panoramic views, it was all too easy to simply gaze idly at the scenary. There was certainly no shortage of things to look at. As well as the rocky valleys, sloping rolls of farmland, wind turbines and solar panels, the countryside was dotted with enormous metal cutouts. Every now and then a pair of black horns would appear on the horizon, growing into the hulking outline of a bull as we approached. Not only bull-shaped, occasionally the looming silhouette was that of a donkey... or even a hat-wearing cucumber. Needless to say, the short-story remained non-existant, as did the life plan.

In fact, eight hours day-dreaming - largely about holidays - has merely confirmed that I'm not ready to get a real career yet. Though I never thought I'd admit to enjoying teaching, the perks are plenty. As well as weekend hurrahs in and around Spain, the midweek timetable isn't exactly taxing when compared to the rat race. Take last week for example, when I spent a grumpy Tuesday evening wearily contemplating a hectic Wednesday. To allow for my four-day-weekend I had squashed all of thursday's classes into one day. However, relatively speaking, it was hardly a manic day. None of my students turned up to one class - time for an ice-cream and a bench-side snooze - and I spent most of my final class busily planning with students the fancy dress costume to be worn for a forthcoming fiesta in their village.

Though I do teach a few brokers and traders, who often arrive at class somewhat harrassed and full of sighs, it seems that Spain walks at its own pace work-wise. I know at least half a dozen spaniards who only work four hours a day, lots finish work at 3pm and one has a midday beer and tapas with his boss every day. I suppose the price of such a style is lower wages and a weaker economy... either way, I know which I prefer!

Solitude, squats and spliffs

As most of my friends will verify, I am a naturally early riser. At the end of long evenings and late nights my eyes, lids swollen with sleep, become narrow slits and I involuntarily fade into incommunicative absent-mindedess. On the other hand, I naturally wake up relatively early and, incapable of lazy morning snoozes, am usually impatient to get going. Life as an early riser is a lot more difficult in a land where everyone else seems to run to a different time; it has made impromptu catnaps and general drowsiness a fact of life. On a recent weekend in Granada my particularly stubborn body clock and dubious sleeping arrangments ensured that, despite two boozy nights, I was able to explore the city in the tranquil solitude of the early morning (relatively speaking).

Albeit dry-mouthed and heavy-headed, ambling alone around the streets of Granada as they were slowly waking up was the ideal way to see the city. It showed me a completely different side to the city. A few people were out for a leisurely stroll, newspaper under arm or bag of groceries in hand, waitors weaved idly between the neatly laid tables of empty restaurants, waiting for the lunchtime influx, and shopkeepers shuffled around in their doorways chatting to eachother. The plazas, that a few hours previously had been throbbing with the boisterous activity of late-night drinking, were serene and calm, now occupied by the older generation (the abuelos, as they are known in Spain). All well-turned out in suit trousers and shirt, perhaps puffing a cigar or pipe, they had congregated on the benches to resume the casual chit-chat from the morning before.

There were, however, a few tell-tale signs of the lurid revels of the night before. As I passed one plaza a slightly dishevelled looking Italian caught my eye: a lone survivor from the night-time fesitivites. Swaying uneasily, he was engaged in animated conversation with the abuelos, who, wary to keep their distance from his enthusiastic gesticulations, were either nodding patiently or tutting between their teeth disapprovingly.

I have long since realised that forsaking sleep in favour of the fiesta is a a feature of Spanish nightlife. In Granada in particular, days and nights seem to blur into one long spliff-a-licious, booze-heavy continuum. On the Friday night I stumbled into one such neverending party. Judging by the laundry hung on the roof terrace and the assorted heaps of bedding, the tumbledown building also served as a squat. The three floors were heaving with the fervent buzz and slightly disorientated confusion of people who have been enjoying a non-stop party. Energetic gaggles bounced in sync to a clapped rhythm, singing spontaneously to the strum of a guitar, famished drinkers devoured slices of free pizza dished out from the makeshift kitchen (unfortunately located alonside the only toilet) and those woozy from days of endless indulgence draped themselves over motheaten sofas, spilling over the collapsed arm rests. Add into the mileu a plethora of abandoned dogs that, gladly adopted by the resident party goers, weaved easily through the forest of wobbly legs, tails thumping enthusiastically.

During the night one particular character stood out from the chaos. His face was framed by a thick mat of dreadlocks, accentuating the high-arched curve of his cheekbones, and a patchy beard revealed an elongated jawline. Wearing a simple threadbare shirt and brown hareem pants, it was his eyes that set him apart from the crowd. He had painted elaborate decorations around the sockets: when you looked at him the glimmer of his eyes was lost amongst the vibrant streaks of blues, reds and greens. That night, he seemed to occupy every corner of the squat at once. Rather than shuffling awkwardly through the multitudes, mumbling muffled ´perdonas´, he crouched down low and darted nimbly through the crowd, expertly traversing the squat. At one moment he was perched on the arm of a sofa, spliff in one hand, can of Alhambra in the other, and a few minutes later he was frantically strumming a makeshift bass in the midst of an impromptu jam session. Despite such relentless activity, he showed no sign whatsoever of tiring. As I prepared to leave, resigned to the fact that I lack the Spanish staying-power, he was smiling giddily amongst a gabbling huddle of rastas, half-submerged by clouds of cigarette smoke.

On route to the exit, my eyes slid over an apparently empty corner of sofa, occupied only by the faded black case of a guitar. It wasn´t until I tripped over a pair of legs protuding from beneath it that I realised there was a body sunk deep into the sofa. Half swallowed by the well-worn sofa, with his arms stretched around the neck of the guitar in an affectionate embrace, a man was sleeping soundly, almost invisible behind the guitar.

His figure was some consolation that even Spaniards succumb to sleep eventually.

An update on the Plaza

I´m sad to admit that over the past few weeks my visits to Plaza Mayor have become more widely-spaced. Uncharacteristically cloudy skies and sporadic dribbles of rain have made window-seats in cafés a more appealing prospect than bottom-numbing stone benches and, as a consequence, long afternoons of people-watching in the Plaza have been replaced by a brief stroll across the cobbles on my way home.

I certainly regret that the hours spent whiled away soaking up the ambience of the city´s centrepiece have been curtailed. The everchanging face of the square meant that every afternoon spent bench-side had a different vibe, each day defined by the assorted gaggles of tourists, the random rotation of street performers and the distinct mood imposed by the weather.

The last time I lingered there, about a fortnight ago, the square was buzzing with the jaunty swing of a jazz band. Normally afloat with the melodious tunes of accordion players, the plaza was alive with a relentlessly strummed, rythmic riff and the lively counterpoint of two saxes. Rare visiters to the square, the group injected an energetic, foot-tapping bounce. Of the street performers, some of the regulars looked distinctly put-out: a broad-bellied, heavily moustached violinist retreated morosely from the square, his violin resting over his shoulder, and a sullen-looking Spongebob Squarepants retired wearily to a bench, lighting a cigarette. Even Spiderman, normally the commanding, central figure of the square, had been relegated to a shaded corner, temporarily defunct.

On subsequent visits, when I hurriedly skirted the Plaza en route to class, I did not see the jazz band. However, neither did I see Spiderman. His habitual corner remained empty, his hulking figure nowhere to be seen. Usually such a reliable presence in the square, the absence of his distinct, rotund silhouette was poignant. Given that the last time I saw him he had been uncharacterically unanimated, I started to worry.

Granted, there were an abundance of logical explanations for his temporary absence - perhaps he had wondered off to get a sandwich as I had passed, or had simply taken a day or two off with a bout of flu. However, I struggled to imagine Spiderman tucked up in bed with a snotty nose and a temperature. In fact, it was difficult to imagine the-man-beneath-the-suit at, making it all too easy to dismiss any rational reasoning. I began to fear that he had finally tired of Plaza Mayor and so taken his unique business elsewhere. At first glance he may appear to be something of a peculiarity, out-of-place alongside the majesty of the square. However, his unwavering occupation of the square has cemented his position as an essential resident. For me, he is an essential personality in the Plaza, a defining idiosyncracy of the square. It seems to lack something when he´s not there.

However, my fears were extinguished last Saturday when, with a free afternoon and a forecast of “sunny spells”, I gratefully returned to my favoured bench. Even before I had passed under the arched entrance to the Plaza I could hear the welcomingly familiar bellows of, “Now, scaaaary... now, seeexy!”. Spiderman had returned, and was in his element. As I watched that afternoon, he never paused from his personna. A day of non-stop business, he worked through his trademark repertoire of postures without pause for breath. Contesting a relentless flow of business, on one occasion he didn´t even bother to roll down his mask and stub out his fag before coraling an unsuspecting tourist into position - I am sure that a weathered, overweight Spiderman miming flight with a fag hanging from the corner of his mouth made an illustrative picture of the streets of Madrid.

When I had been seated for about half an hour a group of 16 American señoritas meandered into the square, each sporting a red, silk sash declaring that they were on “Sarah´s Hen Weekend”. Spiderman made a beeline for the group. He ambled slowly towards them in broad, easy steps, and paused a few metres away. Rolling back on his heels, his back slightly arched, belly potruding round and proud before him, he spread his arms wide, palms open, in a welcome gesture. Though a giggly and somewhat apprehensive group at first, being an expert at his trade he had soon coaxed them into semi-circle around him. With his audience in place, he lowered himself awkwardly to his knees in theatrical mock worship of the bride, his heavy belly grazing the cobbles. After, having won over the sceptics in the group, he struggled laboriously to his feet and began authoritatively herding the group into collective poses.

As I walked away, his booming bellow fading into a distant rumble, I smiled to myself. The ringmaster had returned!

Sod it, I´ll sort it out later

Living la vida loca here in Madrid, the good times come in swings and roundabouts. Facing my first visitor-free weekend in six weeks – for which I had carefully organised two days of blank space – I was looking forward to being blissfully lazy and unsociable. However, probably due to a combination of overtiredness and drowsiness (caused by antibiotics taken for a piercing that went badly wrong) I found myself at the wrong end of a trough. Rather than revelling in a weekend of guilt-free nothingness, I was friendsick and craving a night giggling in front of a mindless English gameshow - Take Me Out or Total Wipeout to be precise.

However, by now accustomed to pangs of homesickness, rather than throw myself hopelessly on my bed after work on Saturday, I somewhat reluctantly put on my trainers and went for a run. Although afterwards my body was grumbling with uncomfortable twinges, it had the desired effect. After twenty minutes of puffing my way around Retiro Park I stopped yearning for a night of Total Wipeout and began chewing over a basic blueprint of what to do with myself until 2012. I returned mentally revitalised with a vague plan. Although my hazy ideas will undoubtedly be redrafted several times over, one feature that I am fairly confident will remain constant is travel - albeit as yet I don´t know who I´ll go with, where I´ll go or when.

With travel on my brain, I am now in quandary. Is time to quit my weekend job and start exploring Spain: living right in the middle, I´m ideally placed to explore the four corners. However, it is just as tempting to continue using the welcome wodge of Saturday school cash to pad out my backpacking piggy bank. Just how much should you skrimp and save for a rainy day? When is it okay to think “Sod it, I´ll work as little as possible, live cheap, enjoy myself as much as possible for as long as possible and deal with the problems later”?

Living an adventure is certainly an appealing prospect. I recently found myself sharing a bench with a familiar-looking guitarrist: as I pass the hours between classes rotating between different benches in the city, he strums his way around the tourist hotspots. Curious about his story, I started a conversation. After the obligatory polite chit-chat about the weather, he started to tell me that travelling as a living is easily doable: all you need is a skill that is universal and can be employed wherever you are. For example, he had previously worked as a chef, and many of his friends now scrape a living as clowns or performers. Floating from place to place unburdened by responsibility is indeed a romantic notion, and I´m certainly not against living without luxuries: when travelling I relished the simplicity of living out of a backpack. Similarly, considering that since arriving in Spain I´ve had my wallet, coat, phone and camera nicked, I´m learning (albeit the hard way) to attach less value to material things.

However, a quick glance around at the sorry collection of human statutes attempting to squeeze a euro out of sceptical tourists in Plaza Mayor is enough to expose the rough reality of what is just a romantic idea. When my wallet was swiped and I lost a good chunk of my months wages, not only was I lucky enough to have generous friends, but I also had enough cash in the bank to pay them back. As much as I don´t mind swapping flights for overnight buses and restaurants for market stalls, I don´t think I could forgo the emergency cushion of cash in the bank. When returning from Barcelona recently, I somehow found myself on the verge of missing my flight home with no credit on my phone, no bank cards and less than a fiver in my purse. To say it was a stressful morning is something of an understatement. As such, the thought of being stranded in a foreign country without the emergency option of plastic money is enough to squash any urges to take to the road. I suppose the “I´ll live for the moment and sort it out later” physche is just one step too far for me.

So, it looks like the Saturday job will continue for now... at least until I get dreadlocks, shop exclusively in hemp shops and become a real hippie!

A step beyond slap-stick comedy

More a fan of action movies and comedies than films with any sort of artistic standing, it is fair to say that until a month ago I was almost wholly ignorant of Spanish cinema. Aside from Amenábar´s much-coveted ´Abre Los Ojos´ , my movie repertoire was dominated by flicks featuring Bruce Willis, Hugh Jackman or superheroes. However, surrounded by friends who live opposite a Spanish arts cinema, I felt slightly bashful at my inability to contribute to any cinematic discussions that went beyond X-men or Terminator. My subsequent initiation into Spanish cinema, ´The Spirit of the Beehive´ (El Espíritu de la Colmena), didn´t exactly inspire confidence. Although described by critics as ´profound and affecting´, to me the film was simply two long hours of little dialogue, minimal action, even less camera movement and no obvious plot. More used to the crudely obvious, I think I simply failed to capture the deeper subtleties of the film.

As such, for my second foray into Spanish cinema, I went for something completely different: Airbag. I was warned it was an off-the-wall absurdity, but even so, I wasn´t prepared for such an outrageous, non-stop romp of bawdy sex and clumsy seduction, drugs and alcohol, high speed car chases, random violence and yet more bawdy sex and clumsy seduction. With only a limited command of Spanish it was nigh-on impossible to follow such a vibrantly ludicrous film. Even if I had understood every word, I doubt I would have grasped the plot of this hair-brained rollercoaster of debauchery. England and the United States are by no means short of slap-stick comedies, but the Spanish equivalent explodes the genre onto new levels.

Perhaps this is because the Spanish themselves are that little bit more outrageous.. The film certainly seems to have parallels with my flatmates. Take last Sunday, when I woke up groggily to a thumping electronic bassline coming from the lounge, as an example. Initially, head heavy with sleep, I thought I must still be in the midst of a drunken dream. However, on venturing warily out of my room, I was engulfed in a foggy haze of cigarette smoke and the smouldering blurry light of soft red lightbulbs. The lounge had been taken over an array of unknowns garbling rapid, incomprehensible Spanish, some dancing suggestively, others draped over the sofa, sprawled across the floor or on perched on various pieces of furniture.

Confronted with such a scene at midday on a Sunday, I seriously considered the possibility that someone had slipped something into my glass of wine the previous night and I was having some sort of delayed trip. However, reality was soon confirmed when my housemate, who was wearing a giant, white babygrow (he had obviously pyjama-ed up in anticipation of going to bed), bounded over anxious to check I wasn´t irritated by the impromptu Sunday morning booze-up. Slightly dazed and confused about time-of-day and day-of-week, I mumbled some sort of reassurance in Spanglish and bid a hasty retreat to the nearest café for a hot chocolate and a croissant.

Two drinks and three hours later, I was still somewhat apprehensive about returning to the boudoir: I whiled away most of day in the city and finally returned home at about 7.30pm. I was greeted by the ankle-nips of a scarily hyperactive dog (who I imagine had been making the most of the party´s fuel) and a lounge still bathed a brothel-esk red and abuzz with lively chatter. It wasn´t until about 10pm that the party died down to a manageable rumble and only four were left still standing.

No-one knows how to party quite like the Spanish: clubs don´t fill up until 3am, arriving home at 4am is considered to be a quiet night and it is not unsual for a wild friday night to blur into Saturday – possibly even Sunday as well. In this respect, I suppose that Airbag, for all of its absuridites and hedonism, is simply proportional to life in Spain.

If this is the case, interpreting ´Spirit of the Beehive´ is completely beyond me.

Brits Abroad

In recent pre-match rugby banter, French coach Marc Lievremont claimed that England was the most hated team in the Six Nations, emphasising the common understanding between the French team and “their Italian cousins”. Though he was admittedly just stoking the fire in the build up to a deciding match (a tactic that had little success), Lievremont had a point: the latinate links between French, Italian and Spanish and the resultant cultural ties are undeniable. In comparison, the English seem to inspire hostility across all of Europe. In particular, English tourists have a notoriously bad reputation, commonly viewed as sunburnt, rowdy lager louts, the likes of whom spawned phenomenons such as ´balconing´ (what must undoubtedly the epitome of stupidity). Considered to lack modesty, restraint and respect, ´Brits Abroad´ are infamous for causing general havoc and offence wherever they land.

I can empathise with this: I have never been a fan of intimidating groups of boisterous, boozed-up ´lads on tour´. However, having just returned from a short break in Barcelona, I have found myself coming out in defence of the English. The weekend was a shamelessly Brits Abroad holiday: on landing in Barcelona I was greeted by a friend who, despite the winter temperatures, was proudly sporting light pastel boardies and flip flops (“I´m on holiday!”). He took me directly to an English-heavy international bar just off Las Ramblas to introduce me to his friends - polite handshakes and awkward waves rather than the european double kiss. I soon was glugging the first of several pints of Heineken, from which the weekend drifted by in a tipsy haze of Irish pubs, sing-alongs to English pop songs and McDonalds (one of my friends managing to eat an impressive four cheeseburgers in one day).

However, although we undoubtedly indulged in stereotypical English pastimes, we were still a relatively polite, respectful rabble and as far as I know, we didn´t cause undue offence to anyone: valid proof that not all rowdy British tourists wear matching Magaluf 2011 T-shirts and cause a raucous. After spending five months intensively immersing myself in tapas, siestas and all-things-spanish, I have to confess that I relished this weekend of wholesome britishness. Whereas I usually jump at the opportunity to practice Spanish, when in Barcelona I eagerly retreated to an English bubble, reluctant to exchange even basic Spanish with barstaff. On reflection, although it sounds somewhat paradoxical, living on the continent has strengthened my English idiosyncracies. Granted, I have always been slightly obsessed by a good cup of tea, but now, living in a land commanded by the coffee culture, regular imports of English brews have become essential. Similarly, being a rugby fan in a country completely indifferent has not dampened my enthusiasm, but amplified it.

Living the European lifestyle, as much as I´m enjoying it, has magnified my attachment to the English. Replace national pride with a self-deprecating sense of humour, european argy-bargy with a staunch grin-and-bear-it attitude and over-the-top friendliness with reserved propriety... Even if beer-guzzling-Brits-on-tour didn´t have such notoriety, with so many character quirks is it any wonder that our European “cousin´s” don´t relate well to us?

 

On another note, I have written another article for Letango Tours. Ironically, it describes one of the biggest benefits of living on the continent: The Countdown to Spring.

There´s just not enough time in the day

Despite having resolved that working full-time is not for me, I have taken the paradoxical decision to considerably up my teaching hours and for the past two weeks I have been contesting an unfortunately busy timetable of early starts and late finishes.

I won´t deny that bleary-eyed mornings and weary evenings have been a shock to the system: my efforts to keep pace with the Spanish night life frequently leave me disorientated when my alarm clock sounds at some unseeming hour in the morning. To make things worse, on more than one occasion I have stumbled out of bed to make a cup of tea and bumped into my housemate (equally disorientated) on his return from a night out. Needless to say, pre-dawn chats over glasses of rum, spliffs and teapots only serve to increase early morning confusion.

It´s also been a struggle to adjust to an inconvenient, widely-spaced timetable and I am now spending a disproportionate amount of time on the Metro commuting to the North of the city and back three times a day. Over three hours a day just evaporates into tightly squashed tube journeys and the shuffling up and down of endless escalators.

However, I have been trying to make the most of hours on the metro and early mornings starts to scribble down my thoughts - even if they are somewhat fuzzy. The fact that my last blog for Best Spain Travel was only on the homepage for a measley two days has given me more inccentive to try and write more regularly. Here is the latest: The Mountains Surrounding Madrid.

Its a minefield out there...

It didn´t take many weeks of unanswered applications and curt rejection letters last year before I decided to abandon any hopes of securing a career in London and leave the country: a logical solution when faced with the unappealing reality of unemployment in one of the world´s most expensive cities. However, on reflection, choosing Madrid as the destination seems anything but a logical choice: not only does it have one of the highest rates of unemployment in Europe, I hadn´t so much as glanced at anything Spanish since my last A level exam in 2006.

Even so, however irrational my decision at the time, I – touchwood – seem to have landed on my feet: job, flat, interesting people and lovely weather. Granted, dreams of becoming bilingual within three months were somewhat optimistic: I have been here for just over four months, and only have a basic level of fluency in Spanish - comprehension can still be hazardous and sentences are short, stacatto and restricted by a limited range of vocabulary. However, coping with a modest command of spanish has opened doors to an imaginative range of communication outside of speech: scribbling drawings on napkins, using random props from the street, facial expressions, extravagant gestures, over-the-top intonation... It seems that anyone willing and armed with a smile can converse, be it a dialogue of Italian and Spanish or double dutch and gobbledygook

Luckily, I am surrounded by patient spaniards keen to jot down phrases in my notebook, which is now full of spiky doodles and illustrative diagrams. I have realised that however long spent studying connectors, conditionals and the subjunctive in the classroom, easy fluency will only come after theatrical conversations and frequent misunderstandings, and will more than likely remain elusive until I have been living here for several years or more. Even then, I imagine that keeping track of the forever-changing multitude of expressions will be a challenge. Even as my confidence grows, using these native colloquialisms remains a potential minefield for any non-native speaker. There are phrases that become nonsensical if you miss out a seemingly inconsequential pronoun, words with opposite meanings in different contexts, a surplus of idioms - some vulgar, some cheesy, some snobbish, the confusion of double meanings. On top of that, there´s regional accents, local dialects, slang that means one thing in one city and something different somewhere else... I have visions of proudly delivering a recently-learnt phrase to my boss only to find out it´s actually the spanish equivalent of abusive cockney slang. You never can be too sure what your friends are teaching you after a few beers!

As much as I hate to refer to my A level English text Translations, the quote ´you can learn the language of the tribe, but the password will always allude you´ seems relevant, if a little dramatic: although shaking off clumsy literal translations from English to Spanish is simply a matter of time, learning the subtleties of the language is something else altogether.

Justifying keeping hours empty

As much as I am all for keeping my idle hours empty, I can´t help but feel twinges of guilt when I turn down the offer of a new class. When recently offered a one-hour-a-week conversation class with a beginner, situated only a short metro ride away from my flat, I spent a whole day agonising over whether I should accept it.

Though I may well regret my decision to turn it down when March arrives and I have to pay my rent, I can at least take comfort in the fact that I am making the most my spare hours. I recently stumbled across a spanish tour operator who lives next door, and being a resident tourist myself, have started writing articles for their blog: Best Spain Travel.

I have used my first article, The Timetable of the Madrileño, to rationalize why I rejected that conversation class. I suppose now to justify keeping my comfortable timetable of classes, I will just have to keep on writing...

Keeping idle hours empty

Its February. Everyone has weathered the post Christmas slump and survived the slog through the first month of the year. Society has relaxed back into monotonous routine and holidays are now either a distant memory or a vague future plan. Like everyone else suffering from January Blues, I was dreading the return to normality – groggy early starts, the squash of rush hour on public transport, lengthy to-do lists that eat into already restricted free time...

However, contrary to expectation, I have found myself welcoming the humdrum ryhthm of normality - regular company classes, teaching plans and spanish lessons. In fact, easing myself into the routine of work was suprisingly painless. On reflection, this may have something to do with the fact that I have carefully crafted a comfortable, well-spaced timetable: one that leaves plenty of time for reading, writing, people-watching and yoga. As a result, I am significantly more flexible and well-read that I was at the end of December.

Recently, I have been making the most of my empty hours to revisit my trip to Asia. When travelling, the continual change of situ left little time to digest the adventure, let alone organise it into coherent prose. Now, snuggled under blankets in my flat - teapot on-hand and laptop balanced precariously on my knee - I have time to relive the moments.

As such, although my timetable is somewhat lacking in classes, and I should invest energy in finding more work, I am finding it all to easy to justify keeping my “empty” hours empty. Thankfully, my efforts have not been entirely fruitless and I do have something to show for my idle hours: so far I have had one article published, “Bokor Hill Station, The Forgotten Cambodia” (p.42).

Fingers crossed its the first of many...