It is Sunday afternoon. I can smell carne asada outside, which is usual for a Sunday. Julia is playing a Whitney Houston song after I accidentally reminded her of its existence by shouting abuse at someone in the barrio who also feels the need to play it on a loop, along with I will survive. I am staring into the face of the fact that two thousand words I should have written this week are incomplete. More like a paltry thousand, in Spanish I feel I should point out. In my essay career so far, my best word-time ratio was a cool thousand in an hour, sat on the bottom bunk of the green room at
My word count has not been helped by the clocks stealing an hour of my time and the way I punctuate my days with useless activity; absentmindedly listening to BBC podcasts featuring Richard Dawkins and some infuriating woman who is under the strange impression that religion is a serious business, rediscovering the Walk the Line soundtrack, holiday-skinning my legs, writing this, making a splendid salad sandwich, watching a portion of last night’s DVD with Spanish dubbing and subtitles just to watch the strange disparity between the two, and deciding that afternoon tea should be indulged, and going to buy a Bimbo cake to eat with my tea. It was probably memories of
Apparently this week, the temperature this week is going to hit forty degrees. Likelihood is I won’t see it. I hope not. I spend inordinate amounts of time in one room in the uni, to the point where four walls just do not seem sufficient. In moments of weakness I lean up against the air-conditioner to feel my skin cool and watch what passes for television in this country. I think it’s the worst I’ve seen, and I’ve lived in
I went on holiday over the Easter holiday.
To get to
Guadalajara was great; a clean, white hostel with high ceilings and books, cycling through the city (not me, obviously), squares and cathedrals, Tlaque Plaque and I have to say the worst meal I have had in as long as I can remember. I never know you could make pasta so truly repulsive, but failing to cook the flour in a cheese sauce is a good start. I felt worst for Becky; a painful chest infection, having to watch me nose-bleed at inconvenient moments and then a plate of raw flour and slime.
We moved on to Guanajuato and my new favourite place. It’s not that hard to be my new favourite place; it requires cafes and good places to eat, cobbled streets and colour, trees and hidden plazas, interest, at least one market, the ability to walk most places. A Mexican Margie running a bed and breakfast is an added bonus. Oh, and cable television. Being deprived of television does at least give it a great novelty, especially when you discover the strange culture shock of being able to watch some mid-nineties Changing Room episodes at breakfast time in