The cycle of life

The months have melted away into nothing since my trip to and from Australia in January. Since then I have been tucked away in Southampton, continuing on with everyday life.

I should briefly account for the past six to eight months. In summer 2016 I transitioned from Spain to Southampton, working on the Pre-sessional course again. In September, I enrolled onto a masters course (Applied Linguistics Research Methodology) as a part-time student. At the end of October, I began working part time as an administrator in recruitment and admissions at the university. I began working as a youth group leader at Victory Gospel Church in September.  I also joined the gym and signed up for the half-marathon again. On top of that, I take an evening class in Russian at university. So it means that my timetable is like this:

Mondays I go to the library and study all day. Tuesdays I am in the office all day and I usually go to the gym or circuits after a long day of sitting at a screen all day so I can let out all my pent up energy. Wednesday I go to lectures and stay on campus studying or attack the gym again until 7pm when I have my Russian class on Avenue Campus. Thursdays I am back in the office and then on Fridays I am in the office until 1pm and then I usually head to the library in the afternoon. At about 6:30pm on a Friday I leave the library and head to church where I spend the rest of my evening helping out with youth group, meaning I usually don't get home til about 11:30 at night.

My weekends are free (which is necessary...!) so that I can catch up on work, do a bit of running, shop, see people etc. Having this balance between professional work and academic study is a life-saver; just when one thing gets monotonous I can turn to the other. It gives me a routine and a salary.

Lately people have been asking me "What are you going to do after next year?" As in, what do you plan on doing when you graduate and finally enter into a world where you need to contemplate a solid career.

It's a difficult question to answer. No doubt I'm not the only one who feels this way either; I know many people I've asked who don't really have a response to it either. Now I don't want to write yet another article about being a millennial and why this makes it difficult to find yourself in your twenties, why careers are only the bane of your life and why no-one really wants to stay in their job anymore... but I do find myself looking at the job situation these days and wondering if I have made the right choices.

On one hand, I have friends and peers who have already made a start on their careers, having graduated from university a good three or four years ago. If I had graduated with them, where would I be now? I'd probably have a little more money and maybe a promotion ahead.

On the other hand, I have friends like me who have not made a start on their careers yet but are maybe working their way through a masters degree or PhD (or taking another year to work abroad and keep life interesting).

Both  have their virtues and faults. I can't say that I regret the past seven years of independence since I left high school. At the same time, there is always a side of you which questions how it would be if you had taken a different path. It is also natural to wonder what lies ahead of you, what you cannot see, in the distant or not so distant future.

When people ask me now, "What are you going to do after your masters degree?" I never seem to have one simple answer. At university (the first time round) if someone asked me that question, it seemed easier to come up with a response. I was exploring the idea of being a French teacher or even just teaching English so I could easily move abroad and work. The more I did placements in schools however, I started to get the feeling it wasn't for me. I worked as a teacher on and off for about three years and in the final year of that, my mind was elsewhere in terms of careers.

In July 2015, I graduated from university with a job lined up to teach English in Spain for a year. I knew I still had to think about what the next step was though. In January 2016, I applied for funding to do a PhD in linguistics. This was halfway through my year in Spain. I loved living abroad but I didn't enjoy my job. I found myself keen to be learning again, doing research, writing about linguistics etc. A couple months later, I got rejected for the PhD funding. I had to re-evaluate my next steps a little. So I took a weekend trip to Barcelona, to see an old friend who was visiting. On the way, I met a girl from South Africa in a car share. Sometime in the four hours we were chatting, she asked me about the course my life was taking and I confessed that I was torn between two solid options:

Become a teacher? Start my career with a good starting salary and become fully qualified within two years? After that the only way is forward - you are on a career ladder and you have security.

The other option was to pursue a masters in linguistics. For me, that seemed full of risks. There was no salary, some funding but not enough to live on and after a year there was no job to just walk straight into.

Within an hour of talking to Amori, the ex-teacher from South Africa, she convinced me to do something I was more passionate about. She said "It sounds like you really enjoy linguistics - you seem so passionate about going back to study. Whereas you don't seem thrilled to become a teacher". And in order to be a full-time teacher, you need to enjoy it.

When I began university I wanted to be (don't laugh) a journalist. Until I realized that the life of a journalist is not at all glamorous. It's tough, work is hard to come by, forget being paid well and it is not at all predictable. Somewhere between my first and second year at university, I lost touch with the idea of writing, smothered the desire with the more practical plan of becoming a teacher. But then, when I was living in Spain and teaching again for the third or fourth time since starting university, I realised that I really had to make a final decision. It is hard to let go of something that you've been working towards, even when you realise it isn't for you.

So here I am, back in Southampton, almost finished with the first year of this masters degree. I have to say, this year has been a lot of fun. But every time someone asks me about the future or whenever I look at recruitment websites, my mind goes blank. I find myself thinking...all this work...for this job...or this job...or this job...?

I guess that life has a funny way of being cyclical sometimes. I started university with an idea, not fully formed, but an inkling about where I knew I wanted to go. Then six years later, after some detours, this idea came back to me in the form of an opportunity that presented itself. I met a journalist-filmmaker in town one day who was advertising for a campaign she had recently set up in Southampton. After some discussion, it transpired she was looking for volunteers to take part in community journalism for the city - "small but with potential". It all came about so suddenly - and right in the middle of academic work deadlines - but more than the project itself, what fuelled me was the spark I felt inside when I thought about writing again. She told me to call her so I found myself a couple of weeks later sitting in her workplace listening to her telling me things about her life as a journalist-filmmaker. As she talked, things were slotting together in my mind. After graduating, it felt as if my degree from university was an unfinished puzzle, which is what made me pursue a masters - as if that would help put the pieces of the puzzle together finally. Over the course of this first year, it still looks like an unfinished puzzle. But now what she was saying about her job - "...I need help interviewing...transcribing...no, that's so time-consuming - summarise! In your own words...write..."

Is this or is this not exactly what I have been doing anyway for the past five years? I thought to myself. She was telling me about the opportunities there were in her project.

"You find the story you want to pursue, find it by asking the right questions. And as a writer, you are unstoppable."

I suppose that I would finish this post by writing one final time, how the cyclical nature of life is not always designed to frustrate us. Going in a circle can also lead you back to something you started but never really finished and I think that would describe exactly what happened with me and this city. 

Australian Holiday Part II

We drove down the wide, suburban roads from the airport past Adelaide's centre in Nat's truck. Every single car I could see was enormous. It seemed that no-one had heard of Smart cars, Mini Coopers or Twingos. Every single car had a monstrosity too it that said "I was made from the fiercest iron, born for the roadless deserts". The more I gazed out of the window, the more fascinated I became with all these four-wheel drives.

Eva wasn't so happy about being awake past her bedtime. She'd had a dazed and sleepy look on her face the whole time in the airport lobby but only now did she begin to whimper, crease up her face and then howl.

Although I'd experienced many a car tantrum with multiple toddlers in my days of being a French nanny and had never particularly enjoyed them, I sympathised with my niece who had been woken up and forced to sit still with an uncomfortable seat belt around her for forty minutes. Not to mention she was surrounded by new strangers who resembled her mother but weren't.

We finally approached South Pacific Drive, the destination. On entering Kate and Nat's garage, Eva perked up. I was so tired I could hardly process anything. We passed the patio on the way to the house and then we were finally there, in Kate and Nat's house.

It was a surreal experience, finally being in the very room I'd  been Skyped into for months. On top of that oddity, it was such a different type of house than the houses of the U.K; built for summer rather than horrible damp winters. There were sliding doors, mosquito screens and air conditioning fans outside. It reminded me a little of our houses in Thailand.

It was almost 11pm and Anna and I were exhausted but we collapsed in the living room with our suitcases, taking it all in. Eva had perked up now that she was not chained down to her carseat. She began interestedly peeking into our suitcases and she let out a delighted shriek from mine.

She'd unearthed my pink, slightly battered stuffed rabbit that I have had since my own toddler days. I take him with me whenever I travel, out of habit. A little piece of familiarity in changing landscapes can be comforting.

"Teddy," Eva said proudly, cuddling him in her arms. Admittedly, he was exactly the kind of thing she would notice in my suitcase; a fluffy and pink thing with a face. Not to mention he is extra-specially charming. But I made a mental note to keep a tab on him in case he mysteriously "went missing" into her toybox of other teddies.

Not long after that, my eyes were closing by themselves. We went to bed and finally...finally I fell asleep, dreaming of absolutely nothing.

The next day and the weeks that followed all somehow blurred together. It felt natural to all be together again and there were even times when it felt as if we'd known Eva forever. Boxing Day was a little overcast but we went to the beach anyway and took some body boards with us. Because of the wind, the waves were high and powerful, capable of pulling you under and pushing you back to shore in one fell swoop. Nat told me that the basic rule of bodyboarding (and I suppose surfing) was to get behind the wave before it was fully formed. When it started emerging, rolling up but not quite rippling, you were to paddle in the opposite direction towards the shore. As the wave gathered speed, so did you, until you were actually carried onto the rolling current before it rippled and broke into a full wave. By that point, if you have successfully been carried onto the wave, as it breaks, you are actually on top of it and stay afloat...and the rest, is surfer's paradise.

It all sounded very straightforward. I soon found that it was not.

For the best part of an hour, I was out in the waves, paddling madly, forwards and backwards trying to get the timing just right. Either I saw the wave just as it was breaking and had to duck under, which carried me backwards, or I almost got on top of it for a split second only to realise that I wasn't quite on the current but under it. Which made me go under as well.

My nose, ears and throat filled with water and the constant ducking and being pulled backwards made my head spin. But it was addictive. There was something about the fresh cold water, the strength of the waves and the adrenaline I felt every time I saw a roll in the ocean ahead that made me stay for just another try...then just another...

I finally got on a wave. I started paddling towards the shore, rather half-heartedly, as I saw another forming. I didn't really think I'd get on it, just another one which threw me off mid-course, I assumed. But before I knew it, my board had risen above the water and I could see the beach ahead. As the wave broke, I did not go under. Rather, I glided over it, gathering speed as it crashed tumultuously onto the shore. My board slid neatly onto the sand without so much as a drop of water touching me.

I leapt up excitedly and ran up the shore.

"Did you see me?" I shrieked at the others who quickly shushed me. Eva was fast asleep on the sand so I silently motioned to the sea.

I don't think anyone quite understood it like I did. Nat, who had just swam in, gave me a high five but really, how could explain what it had felt like? After an hour of struggling against the sea, I had wanted to give up. But even as I had felt that defeat, the rush of excitement at seeing another wave approaching, another potential, had kept me there in the sea. Even though my feet couldn't touch the ocean floor, my eyes watered with the salt and my shoulders ached from paddling, seeing one more wave approach was addictive.

Now that I had finally done it, I couldn't get over how amazing the feeling had been. I looked on at the surfers passing by with a newfound respect and understanding. I knew what they were looking for, what they spent hours out in the freezing cold, sometimes shark-infested oceans. It didn't matter. I finally knew what it meant to "catch the perfect wave".

There were times in those two weeks when Anna and I lost track of where we were and what day it was. Eva came to see us first thing when she woke up, knowing where to find us. We went to the beach again many times; we sat out on the patio in the soft light of evening, drinking wine and cooling ourselves down after in the air-conditioned living room. I went running down the esplanade a few evenings in the time I was there. The esplanade was about seven miles long and ran along the coast. The cliffs overlooked the wide, blue ocean and even at eight thirty in the evening, when the clouds were forming and the sun was setting in for the night, you could see the surfers still out there, little dots and specks on the surface of the water. They were still determined to catch one, the wave that would carry them straight back to shore.

As much as we tried to escape and lose track of it, the time finally came for us to leave. It was a Sunday and the day had been fairly quiet. Now we all sat together in the living room, Nat's family and Kate, whilst Anna and I packed our suitcases.

Outside it was still humid and summery, even at 5 o'clock in the afternoon. Eva walked barefoot around the patio, humming to herself and trailing my pink teddy bear absent-mindedly around with her. I didn't have the heart to take him from her just yet.

Driving down the highway to the city, Anna and I took in the surroundings a final time; trees, kangaroo signs, the huge SUVs. Eva had finally fallen asleep in her car seat, one fist clenching around a teddy of hers. In the background, a song called Daydream Believer played softly. Kate turned up the volume because it was our song, hers, Anna's and I's. But a couple of minutes into the song, she changed the track. We didn't say anything to each other, but we all had tears creeping up into our eyes.

We arrived at the airport two hours or so before our flight. Adelaide airport was smaller than I remembered, although I had been very tired when we'd stepped off the plane two weeks ago. Eva was in good spirits after her nap. Her curiosity got the better of her as we checked our suitcases in. She hopped onto the giant, industrial scales and giggled to herself.

"Eight kilos," I read aloud. "That's the best it's ever going to be Eva."

After we had been through security, we went to get some dinner. During dinner, Eva could not sit still, began to fidget and whine. I reached into my bag and produced the magical pink teddy which quietened her. After dinner, there was still some time and Eva was still fidgety so we decided to all walk to the end of the airport and back. Outside the giant glass windows that overlooked the runway, the sun was setting in magnificent pink and orange streaks. The runway was oddly empty; there didn't seem to be that many planes coming in or leaving at this time of day.

We stopped by the window so that Eva could watch a jumbo jet take off. We tried to guess where it was flying to; Perth? Sydney? Auckland? We didn't know.

Not long after it seemed, the inevitable was upon us. It was getting late and Eva was beginning to grow tired. It was past her bedtime again; we had a flight to catch and they had a forty minute drive home. But goodbyes are usually easier than this, at least for us. We always avoid those goodbyes, the three of us, we're not very good at them. We've always tried to make them as brief as possible because otherwise it's too difficult. We got into the line to go through the second security, Duty Free. Then that was it, Anna and I took our turns. We hugged Nat, kissed sleepy Eva goodbye and then Kate. It was a quick hug from both of us each to our dear sister, the missing third of the pie. I kept myself together. They turned and walked away and I couldn't look back, not at Eva's tiny blond head or Kate and Nat's disappearing silhouettes. But because Anna was there, I allowed myself this once to burst into tears, even though I knew she didn't want me to.

Once we were in Duty Free, we distracted ourselves with the souvenirs and interesting things you can get from Australia which are considered "Australian". Wanting to cheer us both up, Anna bought some souvenirs; matching Australia t-shirts.

Once we'd boarded the plane, it was eleven o'clock at night and I felt quite sleepy. Anna and I watched X-men: the Apocalypse together and then I found myself falling asleep quite naturally, unlike the last plane trip.

I wish that there were a way to write more, to say in detail about everything that we did in Australia. I wish that I had been quite disciplined and written a daily journal entry, which would have given facts, not a waffling beginning and end, the story of an airport once more. But this travel was different. It wasn't about seeing Australia, holding a koala bear, swimming with a dolphin or photographing a wild kangaroo in the garden. It wasn't about having a barbeque or meeting a group of surfer dudes or going snorkelling with some jellyfish and coral. It was where my sister is. Where she is now, this is it. The reality of the trip hit me like a ton of bricks: Australia is far. The world is huge and we are at opposite ends, north and south, east and west. But what made Australia special was that it was ours now. It wasn't just somewhere we had travelled to and kept a few photos and passport stamps for the scrapbook. It was a place we would always return to, in one way or another. Our family was there and that meant we were there too.

When I woke up from my sleep, four or five hours had passed and I had no idea what time zone we were in. I thought about the next part, when would we return?

One day we would. "Anna," I whispered, because everyone around us was sleeping. She opened an eye groggily "Maybe next time we can visit Perth."

Australian Non-working Holiday (So Basically Just a Holiday) Part 1

As I write this one, I am currently on a flight from Manchester, England to Dubai. I am sitting in a row of three and I have my laptop, my USB with study notes, an essay to write and a whole 16 hours left of transportation to go until I reach my destination:

Adelaide, Australia.

It's kind of a long story how I've ended up on this flight. I am travelling with my sister Anna and the reason I spontaneously decided to write about this (instead of doing my essay) is because all of sudden, this journey has brought on a crazy wave of nostalgia that takes me back in time by 10-15 years. Wait a moment, I see my airline food approaching.

(45 minutes later)

Where was I? I just ate pudding and drank red wine in a plastic cup. Aside from the fact that plastic cups remind me of student house parties, it feels pretty grown up having red wine on a plane. I think that's because I've never done it before. We're flying over the Black Sea now, about halfway to Dubai.

So nostalgia. Let me explain. The last time I really had a long flight with just Anna was 17 and a half years ago, which seems like a lifetime now. I was with her and Kate (Anna's twin) who now lives in Australia with her little daughter. That's right, we're not just sisters now, we're aunties to a kid. Anyway. In 1999, we were flying from Bangkok to London and our brother was due to be born that summer, so it was a tactical move on our parents side to get us out from under our mum's feet for the last few months of waiting around for him to be born.

So me, Kate and Anna, we had this flight all to ourselves, with no parents. Only the flight attendants, who kept an eye on us from afar. I have to say, my memory of that flight is a little blurry now, except that I remember feeling very carefree, excitable and a little mischievous since there were no parents to tell us what to do.

This was the first of many adventures we would go on as a three, including this current trip to Australia. When we were children, we did these flights a lot because we lived in Thailand. It became pretty normal but then we moved to the U.K when I was eleven and from then on, all my travels remained in Europe. I have become a bit obsessed with visiting France, speaking French and doing things like cycling around Spain but Kate and Anna, in eternal twinship, went roadtripping round America and then went separately back to Thailand as adults. Anna even visited Cambodia, something we'd never done as kids. Kate's trip to Thailand later resulted in her meeting an Australian man, which eventually cumulated with her living in Adelaide with him and our niece. Which brings me nicely to how Anna and I ended up on this flight to Adelaide.

Our current flight to Dubai is six hours. I'm not averse to being on a plane, it's just in over a decade I haven't done any significantly long plane trips. I think I was beginning to block out the ones from childhood because I don't remember feeling so uncomfortable.

This flight will be the longest I have ever done. Thailand to England is only ever 12 hours, excluding stopovers. This one to South Australia is 18-21 hours excluding stopovers. Our stopover in Dubai is only 1 hour though, which initially I thought would be a bonus because we get there quicker...but I didn't know what was about to hit me.

(Later, after Dubai, Plane 2)

Sorry that last bit made it sound like we were on the verge of plummeting to our deaths in the ocean; nothing of the sorts happened. The time in Dubai was around 2am when we took off. I was beginning to feel a little tired but Anna and I had already worked out that sleeping at this stage was not going to be a good idea. We would arrive at 9pm into Adelaide, which meant that we'd have a whole night ahead of us. Sleeping then instead of now would help the dreaded jet lag. Except it was hour 1 of a 12 hour flight, 12 hours no stops! This never happened on the childhood planes.

The childhood planes of the 90s also did not have such elaborate technology, which I mused over whilst browsing the entertainment section of my mini screen. I've never flown with Emirates, which is a pretty posh airline as it is. The last time I flew to Thailand and back was with Uzbekistan airline, which was memorable for all the wrong reasons. When we touched down in Uzbekistan I remember every single light on the plane went out. And the airport was caged in with barbed wire fences and men with machine guns patrolling outside.

Anyway back to the point, the entertainment is better now. Much wider selection of films, individual touch screens and you can now watch the plane's journey through satellite (I guess that started when Sat Navs did). Just writing that last bit makes me feel old, I mean, there's now a generation that doesn't know the pre-Sat-Nav era...I can comfort myself and assure you all that I was REALLY young back then (implying I am still young now).

Anyway I was a little fascinated with the plane's journey through space (well the atmosphere). Anna was less fascinated, seeing as she's a more frequent flier than me.

"Stop that Rachel, " she sighed glancing over at me, eyes glued to the screen. "It's going to make this journey seem SO much longer than it actually is!"

Admittedly there came a point where we had flown beyond India and now all that remained between our plane and Australia was gigantic ocean. Occasionally I flicked the screen back to the satellite in between watching episodes of Brooklyn 99 (also a TV show of this new shiny generation). As we got closer to Southeast Asia (no Thailand stopovers, to my chagrin!), exotic names popped up on the screen, presumably of islands around Indonesia.

"ANNA! PERTH!"

Her head jolted up as I pointed excitedly at the screen.

"Ugh," she groaned, "Why can't we just land there! I'm dying. I also need a wee."

This was a problem. We had window seats and the seat closest to the aisle was occupied by a woman who had been asleep the whole flight. We didn't want to wake her up but we were both dying to get up, go to the toilet and stretch our muscles. My legs felt like they were seizing up, another flight problem I never experienced as a child. That circulation, risk of deep vein thrombosis thing doesn't affect kids, probably because the majority of them can't sit still for five minutes.

(Later)

We had four hours to go. Perth was now in the distance behind us but the vast expanse of Australia ahead of us. Adelaide was still many miles away. My throat was dry as the desert beneath us and my nose started to bleed, something which did sometimes happen as a child. There's something about the cabin air pressure that does it. I managed to stem it with that hot towel thing the air stewardess gives you at random points in the flight (why do they only give you like 1 in the entire flight? Those hot towels are my favourite bit of flying) I wish we could have more hot towels and less airplane food. The wine en route to Dubai is now a distant and bitter memory.

(Two hours to go)

Anna and I felt like death. We were desperately trying to stay awake but we were both losing the plot slightly with the efforts. I switched the plane satellite off and flicked through the films. Mamma Mia seemed like a bright and cheerful thing that could perk us both up at this stage.

Half an hour into it, I felt like I wanted to punch Amanda Seyfriend in the face. Even Meryl Streep was annoying me, so I switched it off, put my heavy head in my hands and screamed (internally). The problem with being an adult on a plane is you can only scream internally, unlike children who can get away with shrieking for hours on end. I also became aware of my own odour. I had accidentally packed my roll-on deodorant in the suitcase in the hold and not hand luggage. I kept my hoodie on (which was actually Anna's hoodie) so as to keep the smell in.

(30 minutes to go)

There was a soft bing sound and the seatbelt sign came on. The flight attendant's smooth voice came over the loudspeaker:

"We will begin our descent to Adelaide, please remain seated and refrain from using the restroom".

"Finally, I've only been waiting my entire life!"

I switched the satellite screen on again. There was a little line under the plane that marked out the plane's route. The line plummeted down now, as if there was a little invisible slide for the plane to get into Adelaide.

But every minute seemed to drag. The invisible slide didn't seem to be happening, until finally, FINALLY, the clouds parted and LAND! HOUSES, ROADS, TREES appeared beneath us. Then faster and faster we approached, into what I could only assume was a balmy summer's evening bathed in twilight...

(Later)

Anna and I managed to get ourselves off the plane fairly quickly. It seemed like quite a small airport, certainly smaller than Manchester and Dubai. I finally took the hoodie off and handed it to Anna, as the outside temperature was 27 degrees.

"Rache, this stinks," Anna said matter-of-factly, indicating the not-so-fresh hoodie that I'd been wearing for 20 hours.

(Post-passport control, luggage reclaim, in the ladies bathroom)

Anna and I brushed our teeth for almost five whole minutes. I was reunited with my deodorant (to every in the vicinity's relief) and I also got hold of a hairbrush. I still looked and felt like I'd been to war.

As we exited the toilets, an incredible vision fell into our eyeline. The captains and the cabin crew had exited the plane and were walking towards us in their uniforms. The captains looked like Tom Cruise in Top Gun only blonder, more tanned and more Australian-sounding. The crew members behind them were beautiful, with perfectly poised hats, uncreased skirts without even a smudge of lipstick out of place. They looked...

"They look excellent," I breathed aloud, to Anna who giggled but from the look on her face she definitely agreed with me. There were two captains. We didn't look excellent ourselves, but I thought it was a pity we hadn't been able to meet them during the 12 hours we'd been in cabin pressure, sleep deprivation hell.

We walked out into arrivals. Kate, Nat and Eva our niece hadn't arrived yet so we sat down and sent them a message. The captains and their crew walked flawlessly past, and Anna and I admired them as they disappeared into the distance of the car park, wondering what dreamy existences they were driving back to.

All of a sudden, at the other side of the airport, I saw Kate approaching with Nat in tow.

I finally screamed out loud, a scream which I'd repressed the entire flight, except this one was out of pure joy rather than frustration.

Anna and I ran towards her, there she was in person, in the flesh! After MONTHS of Skype. We all hugged and then behind her was Nat, holding a grown up, taller, longer-haired, blonder little toddler who had been a tiny baby last time I'd seen her. I couldn't quite believe just how gorgeous she was and for a few seconds I was stunned and couldn't speak.

When finally everyone had hugged and kissed and exchanged excitable babbled nonsense, we made our way outside to the carpark, into the warm, balmy SUMMER'S night! It only really registered at that moment that it was Christmas Day and whilst we'd spent most of it in the air, it was worth it for that moment.

(Disclaimer: photo not my own, but a pretty realistic view of landing in Australia)

More to come! Stay tuned!

How to Run a Marathon Part II, Roma Italia (week 38)

At the marathon start line, there was a sea of runners. I really had never seen so many people in Lycra before. The whole thing was very surreal because we were in Rome, it was quarter past 8 in the morning, the sky was pink and behind the sea of heads all you could see was the enormous shadow of the Colosseum and to the side, the pillars and stones of Palatine Hill.

I tried to make my way as close as I could to the actual start line, which was a lot more difficult than it seemed. There came a point where, lost in the sea of Lycra, I couldn't see anything but bib numbers in front of me. The atmosphere was intense. Maybe it was the fact that it was so early in the morning or maybe it was the sight of so many different people, from different countries with different builds, that made the atmosphere buzz. I noticed how male-dominated it was: only 2,777 women out of 13,881 runners. Not only did I feel small, I felt a bit underrepresented as a girl!

At quarter to nine, the horn went off for the "first wave" of athletes in group A, a.k.a the professional athletes aiming to run in 3 hours or less. We, the group D runners were in the "third wave". I started up a conversation with a runner next to me. He was also British and it was his first marathon too. There were definitely nerves in the air, even though he was acting quite breezy about the whole thing - I wasn't so good at hiding my fear!

The horn finally went off for the "third wavers" at 9:05, but as we were so far back from the actual start line, it was a while before anything happened. For three minutes, we were shuffling nervously down the Via dei Fori Imperali, already kicking aside empty bottles of energy drinks. As we got closer and closer, the knots in my stomach tightened more and more. The British runner beside me wished me luck and a good run and we were off!

The first few minutes of running were so different to the first few minutes of runs I had done while training. Firstly, I had no music, there was just the sound of clapping, cheering and feet pounding on the paved roads. Normally, I can't get through a run without listening to a really good beat. The other thing that was odd was the pace. It was much more difficult to actually run at my own pace at this point in the race because of all the people in front. In the half marathon last year, I had to do a lot of weaving in the first ten minutes to get to the people who were running at a speed that I usually run at. However, in the half marathon of Southampton, there were 6,000 runners only and there were over double the amount in Rome. The majority of us were in the third wave too. This is where being small has its advantages: weaving, darting and ducking under elbows!

The first 21 kilometres (half marathon) weren't too bad. I felt good physically but there weren't as many supporters as I'd expected on the sides. However, whenever we came to pockets of them, they cheered us on loudly in Italian - children, adults and grandparents alike all holding their hands out for a high five. The first 5 kilometres of this were difficult. I was feeling ill - the flu I'd caught the night before was kicking in and I hadn't drunk any coffee that morning, only Gatorade. I ran past families cheering me on and I felt a little teary-eyed because I imagined my mum, dad, siblings, brother-in-law and niece on the sidelines and how proudly they would be cheering too if they were there. It doesn't help your breathing to sniffle and sob while you run though!

Things improved. The sun came out. My body acclimatised to a good pace and the crowds of runners evened out somewhat. By kilometre 10, I was starting to enjoy the feeling of running down open streets, sunlight peeking through the leaves of tall trees on either side. There was a distinct "lazy Sunday morning" feel about Rome that morning; even though it was a massive sporting event, everyone on the sidelines looked as if they had wandered out their apartments for a baguette and an idle glance at the runners before heading off for breakfast.

We ran past St Peters Square and the Vatican City around kilometre 19 and then shortly after crossed the half marathon mark. It gave me an energy boost to know I was halfway there!

Then we started running out of the city. For some 10-15 kilometres after that, we were running through suburban nothingness. Things became much more mentally challenging from kilometre 21-27. It was very difficult to feel the same breeziness I'd felt whilst running past beautiful bridges, churches and monuments in the centre of Rome than it was running past apartment blocks and petrol stations! At kilometre 30ish I stopped properly for the first time, not just to fill my bottle but to eat some food. I was very aware of the nausea in my stomach from the flu but I also felt that if I didn't have some sugar and salt, the last 12k would be unbearable. Stopping felt odd. My legs felt like lead. I didn't stop for long, for fear that I wouldn't be able to start again. By this point, my whole body was beginning to ache, not just my legs but my back and my sides. I had been upright for over two hours and I was starting to feel it. As I headed off, water bottle in hand I ran past some truly exhausted looking athletes, one who was actually puking because of the exercise. I was determined not to give up! At this point I had not really run more than 30k ever. I felt like I was truly putting my body to the test.

I managed to keep running along, even though my whole body was aching more and more with each kilometre. The sun was out full blast now, 25 degrees and no clouds, true Roman heat, which didn't help much for hydration. My lungs now felt like they were leaden too, the blocked nose and achey chest made worse by so much running. At kilometre 35 I slowed to a walk so that I could text Ben and Debs to start making their way to the finish line. Half an hour more, I told myself. Then you can lie down. Then I started to run again.

It didn't get easier. The next seven kilometres steadily got more and more difficult and I slowed down. My shoulders started to droop and I bet I looked very different to the bouncing, bubbly, excitable pre-21 kilometres Rachel that I had been in the first hour and a half. But it wasn't unbearable. I kept telling myself, not long now. Come on, keep going!

I finally got to kilometre 41 and I wanted to cry in frustration. No more running! No no no no no no. I could actually see the finish line, 500 metres away, although I couldn't speed up, like I'd done in the half marathon, because of exhaustion. My whole body was so tired, it felt like it had done an all-nighter and was just a few steps away from a bed!

I came up to the finish line, hardly believing as I crossed it, that I'd been there just that morning, with nerves in my stomach and so much anticipation. I could barely speak because my throat was so dry but I managed to say "woohoo!" to myself before turning to someone on the sides for water. My first priority was fresh, cold water. My next priority was my shiny, gold medal. My final priority was walking to a church 100m away where Debs and Ben were supposedly going to meet me.

With the medal around my neck, I hobbled to the church, going through some slightly illegal barriers on the way (security personnel were surprisingly lenient with me, I suppose it was because I'd just run a marathon and I was either delirious or in too much pain to walk in a straight line). At the church, I lay down on the steps, my back aching. The effects of 3-4 hours' sleep and no coffee kicked in. I think I must have dozed off for at least half an hour. The sun was beating down on me. When I woke, I tried to get up and look for Ben and Debs, who still hadn't answered my text. But when I got up, I felt completely faint. I also felt like I was going to vomit. I hobbled towards the barrier I had come from and the policeman stopped me. I told him that I needed to find my friends but he said it was cut off and I had to go a different way. Suddenly, black spots appeared in my eyes and my knees started giving way so both policemen grabbed me under the arms. I started crying, I think from exhaustion, illness and general pain. They put me in the shade and an Italian woman and her daughter nearby rushed over to see if I was ok.

They stayed with me until Ben and Debs arrived. The daughter spoke English and let me use her phone. They were waiting for her father to arrive who was also taking part in the race. I felt a bit bad that they had to see the worst of me; crying, sniffling, almost vomiting with nausea but they were very good about it! When Ben and Debs arrived I was a quivering mess but they hoisted me up, got me a milkshake and lead me to a shady indoor café where we celebrated with pasta. I was feeling too sick to eat anything so all I did was sip the milkshake in a daze.

When we left the café an hour later, there were still runners going past. That made me feel somewhat proud of myself. My time was 4 hours and 25 minutes in the end and I came 1160th out of 2777 female athletes. (I later worked out this was in the 41st percentile of women in the marathon). Out of 13,881 runners, I was the 8,840th to cross the line, which isn't world class athlete standards but it isn't bad either. Not for a first attempt.

Post two and a half hours, I finally felt like I was a human again. Of course, my legs were aching and I was only really manage to walk whilst wincing and limping but I got a victory ice-cream and a victory photo.

Debs and I (and THE MEDAL!)

In the end, it wasn't exactly what I had expected. I had envisaged a smooth recovery, less flu and sleep deprivation the night before and a victory steak at least an hour afterwards. I hadn't expected sunstroke, tears, borderline delirium and inability to consume anything solid afterwards. The one thing I remember very distinctly from the race was really pushing myself to the maximum. Throughout, especially as it got closer to the end, it was very difficult to keep running. It felt like it would never end and my body had never felt so knackered.

I really am proud of myself for having done it. Sometimes I can't believe it. When I first told people I was considering a marathon a couple of years ago they were quite sceptical - "you know that forty-two kilometres is a long way, right?!" - but I knew I could get there if I worked hard. Would I ever do it again? Maybe. I still have a lot of life ahead of me and I'm definitely not going to stop running anytime soon. But it's a lot nicer to do 5k in the park for fun than it is to drag yourself through the scorching streets of cobblestoned Rome!

And that's my story of the Rome marathon 2016. One that I will tell my children, and my grandchildren, when they don't believe me I'll have the shiny medal to prove it! That little old Rachel was a determined little runner in the day!

If you would like to donate/support/find out more information about the charity that I raised awareness for (The Waterfall Trust, located in Southampton), here is the link to their website: http://thewaterfall.org.uk/

Here is a link to a page you can donate to: https://mydonate.bt.com/charities/thewaterfall

And if you like the look of their vision and you're also a keen runner, you can sign up to run the half-marathon for them in April 2017! 

How To Run a Marathon Part I: Roma, Italia (Week 35)

Another month has passed in Spain but my most recent destination landed me on the other side of the Mediterranean sea in...ROME.

For over 2 years, I have been thinking seriously about running a marathon. When I lived in France on my year abroad, I was there during the Paris marathon. It looked like one of the most incredible routes ever but at the time, I was struggling to do 5k without stopping. I chatted to a couple of people who had done it and was totally in awe. I added “Paris Marathon” to my mental bucket list.

In September 2014, back at university, I decided it was time to push myself. I was dithering over whether to sign up for the Paris marathon. I still wasn't 100% confident as 42 kilometres is an extremely long distance to walk, let alone run. I signed up for the Southampton Half Marathon with my keen flatmates instead and began training.

My flatmates and I went to Parkrun on Saturdays at 9am. It was only 5k but the first week was not fun. I dragged myself out of bed every weekend (well, sometimes WAS dragged out of bed) at 8am, cycled to the park in the cold, ran til I gave myself a stitch and then we'd all come home for a fry up!

As the weeks went by, I found myself improving. Bit by bit, the stitches disappeared, my muscles began strengthening and my PB (personal best) times got shorter. One week, I ran 5k in 25 minutes – six minutes shorter than my first Parkrun in October.

The months got warmer and in training for the half-marathon, I went on longer runs. At the time, I had never run more than 8k. When I first ran 15-17km with my flatmate (a month before the half marathon), I felt like I had achieved something impossible.

On the day of the half marathon, I pushed myself as hard as I could. It was beyond anything I had ever experienced before, sports-wise. There were moments, running up hills and on uneven pavements, where I felt like I was going to fizzle out because I was so tired. However, when I crossed the finish line at 1 hour 57 minutes, I was taken aback. I had written down on the sign up sheet that I was aiming to finish in 2 hours 30 minutes.

After the half marathon, even though my knees were stinging and my quads were aching, I knew that I was going to sign up for the full marathon. I realised that I could do it now. The distances which had once seemed impossible to me were achievable. Not only that, but I had beaten my personal goal by over half an hour. It told me that not only was I capable of running a half marathon but that I was capable of running one well.

So...after graduation and summer and moving to Spain for new experiences, I decided to make it official. I had been toying with the idea of the Paris marathon...until I realised that there was also one in Rome. When I looked at the Rome marathon online, the Eiffel Tower faded from my mind and was replaced by the Colosseum. Images of Italian streets, stone fountains, ancient bridges and enormous pizzas were dancing around in my head. Because I had never visited Italy and I had read so much about Rome, I decided that it would be the perfect place to be in for such a long run. It would be unforgettable; there would be so many things to see while running and I could fuel up on as much pasta as I needed before the race.

So six and a half months later, I got on a plane from Alicante, my stomach queasy with nerves. In spite of all the intense training I had put myself through (long runs over 3 hours at times), I was worried about the big day. I suddenly started to doubt whether I could handle it!

I landed and travelled to the centre. I had arrived a couple of days before the race, so that I could see some of Rome beforehand (and eat and eat and eat). Deborah, my old housemate met me there, taking the role of travel companion and honourary Roman cheerleader. There was a surprise visitor – our friend Ben – who had decided at the last minute to come and cheer me on too! I was so happy that I had supporters because I had signed up without really thinking about who I would go with originally.

Before they arrived late on Friday night, I checked into the hostel (which was pricey and didn't really seem like a hostel), feeling somewhat disgruntled at the reception desk man who informed me of an unexpected 14 euro “city tax” charge. After arguing a little with him and admitting defeat, he then slammed a blue gift bag on the desk muttering “This is for you”.

I thought it must have been a complimentary gift bag that came with the price of the hostel (which was odd, since hostels don't ever do that) so I immediately felt guilty at having argued with him. There was a pretty, nice smelling flower in it as well which made me feel worse.

In my room, I opened the bag up and a range of emotions came over me. Delight – ferrero rocher. Confusion – a banana. “How on Earth did he know how appropriate this is?” - a bottle of energy drink. Mingled terror and intrigue – an ancient photograph of a Roman cave or church made entirely of human skulls with no writing on the back.

I didn't really understand what all of it meant but at that point I was pretty exhausted from travelling all day. And hungry. I found a pizzeria nearby and had my first pizza in Rome. When I finished, it was about 11:30 but I was much more awake so I decided to do some late night exploring. With my map, I set off to find the Trevi Fountain, which ended up being a 25 minute walk from the hostel. I couldn't stop staring at everything I saw on the way; so many monuments, ancient Roman architecture, signs in Italian (I could decipher a lot from my knowledge of French and Spanish).

When I reached the Trevi Fountain I was taken away for a few moments. Aside from there being hundreds of tourists taking selfies, even at midnight, it was worth the long walk and I sat by the fountain for another half an hour, taking it all in.

When I got back to the hostel, Debs rang me saying she would be arriving soon. I went out to meet her when she was downstairs at about 1AM (ironically I was doing the receptionist's job because she rang twice and no-one was actually on the desk).

Lo and behold, she'd brought Ben along! I hadn't been expecting two cheerleaders for my marathon! It was reminiscent of the half marathon the year before, as we'd both participated in that. It turned out that Ben had been the one to supply the gift bag at the hostel. Suddenly everything made sense. The gatorade, the banana, the morbid postcard..! All Ben's careful planning to ensure appropriate race preparation; not an uncannily appropriate gift from Discovery Hostels Roma. We all had a good old laugh about that for about ten minutes.

The next day we got up bright and early in order to get to the Marathon Village to complete my registration and pick up bib number and race pack. Being accustomed to long queues, bureaucratic complications in foreign languages and general drama, I ensured we got there as early as possible. As it turned out, there were no queues at 9:45 when we arrived and I managed to get everything sorted in 15 minutes! Ironically, it took me 20 minutes to get OUT of the Marathon Village because, similar to Ikea, it was set up so that you had to walk around and around and around passing various stalls with reps handing out leaflets for MORE marathons to sign up for (Ha, as if).

Once I got outside we all went across the road to a café for breakfast. Italian coffee...yummmmmyyy. Italian pastries...DOUBLE YUMMY.

We set off from the café around 11 and I had to gloat a little upon seeing the long queues beginning to form outside the Marathon Villages. Early bird catches the worm! I didn't do any gloating out loud just in case any of the bigger runners heard and I got trampled on at the start line the next day.

We had reservations for Vatican City at 2:30pm so we did some wandering, ending up at the Colosseum and Via del Fori Imperiali which is where the Start/Finish line was. We had lunch (pasta of course) in Piazza Venezia, where I would be running through twice the next day, once at the 500m mark and then again at the 41.5km mark...

After that we made our way to Vatican City. What an incredible moment that was, approaching St Peter's Square from a distance, seeing one of the most influential and well-known buildings in all of Europe.

The afternoon was a bit overwhelming in terms of everything we saw. Impressive was certainly the word that came to mind again and again, particularly in St Peter's Basilica, which was one of the biggest and most ornate churches I've ever been in. The pieces in the museums, from Leonardo da Vinci to Michaelangelo's paintings in the Sistine Chapel, satisfied my art-loving soul. But I have to admit it was overwhelming, like being in the Louvre in Paris. There's just so much to see, too much to see all at once and so many people crowding you. One of my favourite parts of the Vatican museum was a hall of maps, commissioned by Pope Gregory XIII Boncompagni (absolutely no idea who that it) in 1581 and created and put together by a team of artists. 

There were also so many sculptures, so ornate and so incredible that photos don't do them justice. I think I'm going to have to go back to the Vatican one day and take in things I barely noticed this time around because of being herded through with the crowds.

After going around the museum, Sistine Chapel and Basilica, we spent some time in the actual square, basking in the last remaining rays of sunshine of the day. It was also lovely seeing the sunlight sparkling through the fountains on either side of the square.

We finished the day off in Trastevere, which is supposedly the “cheap” area to eat in. It wasn't necessarily cheap or expensive but it was beside the River Tiber and we took a stroll under the Garibaldi bridge before dinner.

After eating (more pizza and even a cheeky glass of red wine), we headed slowly back in the direction of the buses to the hostel. By this time, I was feeling a little achey and was sneezing a lot. There had been a bug in our flat in Spain that I had managed to dodge...until that moment. I guess it was just my luck that my immune system would start packing it in the day before a massive sporting event.

We were pretty exhausted and a little lost finding the buses back into the centre. So exhausted from walking that we all stopped at one point to read the map and simultaneously, without consulting one another, we all squatted down at the same time to read the map (I suppose standing was too strenuous for all of us) which made an Italian woman actually stop and turn in her tracks in bewilderment and ask us “Excuse me, may I help you?”. I don't know why, but it made me laugh hysterically and I was still fighting back laughter as she walked off after giving us directions to the station.

That night I slept badly. I tossed and turned, unable to drop off due to street noise and crazy Roman party animals and also because overnight, I had suddenly gotten a blocked nose and developed a cough. My alarm “woke me up” at 6:30AM and I felt wide awake, perhaps cause I was suddenly jittering with nerves and anticipation for the day ahead. I think in total I had barely slept more than 3 hours and my chest was starting to hurt a bit from coughing.

We took the Metro to the stop closest to the marathon start line. On the way, we saw hundreds of fellow runners in their T-shirts and bibs. We got off the Metro and this is where Debs took a pre-race photo with me, then took my bag and belongings, wished me luck and I made my way through the long walkway to the marathon start line!

Week 29...

This is a blog post which is very, very late. I realised about a month ago that it's been about six months since moving to Spain and in that time I have written two blog entries, in the space of the first month.

My excuse would be that things got busy but I think it's more truthful to admit that I also got lazy. In the 4-5 months that I have been absent from the blogosphere, there have been many developments in my life. First and foremost, my first ever niece was born in November. She is now now about 4 months old and lives in south Australia with her parents, living it up amidst kangaroos, koalas and big waves. I have already made provisional plans to visit this November; just need to find a cheap flight and maybe Australia will be my next big travel adventure!

In addition to that, my housemate and fellow cycling aficionado Katherine left Lorca in December. That was quite sad, but the bike trips will always be in my memory and the photos will always make me smile. We made the most of three months; travelled through the mountains and beaches, visited Seville, Granada and Cartagena, cities with some of the most beautiful Moorish-influenced architecture and culture that I've ever seen. Since then I've realised that travelling in the country you're in can be much more exciting than trying to get to as many places as you can in one year; with each new city, I can see “Spanish” in the culture, even if that “Spanish” has variations depending on the regions.

Since January, Claire my long-time friend from university has been living with me and the other girls in the apartment here in Lorca. Unfortunately, there have been some major issues relating to work. In a nutshell, the Spanish government has a bizarre and slightly ridiculous system for managing temporary employment in education. She's been here 2.5 months without being able to start work and don't ask me why. It's the kind of frustrating crap that you deal with when you work abroad and try to go through that country's system (spoken by someone who has done it a few times now). However, she has officially been given a start date now which means that I won't be alone here for the next 2 months (hopefully!). I don't know if I could handle Lorca on my own.

We also travelled to Valencia together at the end of January, which was an interesting experience. The city itself is huge; we didn't make it to the beach but we did walk around the entire city and had one of the most delicious meals I've eaten in Spain yet. Valencia is THE place where paella is traditional, so although it might sound cliché, we enjoyed a paella there. And it did not disappoint.

January is never the most wonderful month in the year in my opinion. Neither is February. Even in Spain, it's a bit chilly and generally not as cheerful as spring and summer. Disappointingly, I experienced a break-up at the end of January, which threw me into an unsteady state emotionally for a while. Valentine's day weekend was spent at home in the UK, instead of spending quality time with the boyfriend. The end made me teary for a while; but no relationship is ever perfect and long distance ones can bring on strange emotions. Spending quality time and physically being present with your other half is so important and sometimes we underestimate, on a day to day basis how important it is. Skype is great but it never compares to being able to be with someone physically. That is something I thought about a lot, on Valentine's day weekend when I was holding my little niece, singing to stop her crying and reflecting on the fact that I wouldn't hold her again for almost a year. Sometimes it feels as though it physically hurts not to be able to hold or hug someone you love for a very long time. The only thing that makes that hardship better is that when you next see them; it is so much more special to be in their presence.

A couple of weeks after my mid-February trip home I went to Barcelona to see my long-time friend Dora, who I lived with in Paris. She was travelling there for a holiday and seeing her again was magical. It was another realisation that although Skype is a lifesaver, it doesn't do justice to seeing someone in person; snuggling under a duvet with them watching a film, dancing around in club or walking along a street laughing like crazy, which is what you can't recreate in an electronic world.

The week following Dora's visit to Barcelona, my other long-time friend from university, Husyan came to visit me. We spent the weekend in Alicante, eating gelato, watching sailboats in the marina, sunbathing on the beach and doing quite a few childish things like riding the merry-go-round and using the swings on the beach. It's okay though, being childish like that reminds me I'm still not an adult at heart, which is a relief. It was one of those weekends that left a warm glow with me and the train ride home to Lorca in the evening sunset wasn't as tiring as usual.

The week after Husyan came to visit, this week, was the last week of school before Easter. It also happened to be the weekend my sister Anna came to visit me. This week feels like it has been make or break time with Lorca. It seemed to reach a point this week where being here is too much. It feels as if the months from Christmas onwards have just been getting more and more difficult psychologically. This is a small, tight-knit community and if you don't have family or close groups of friends here, it's difficult to integrate. I always knew it would only be 8 months and I've done the 6. Since January, I've been feeling more and more disheartened being out of my comfort zone and by having to maintain relationships with people who are far away from me.

Over the past few months at work, I've allowed myself to fall into a trap of not being proactive. For me, working in a primary school is difficult. It's not like anything I've ever experienced and I'll openly admit that I am not that keen on being a primary school teacher. However, I have learnt a few things about myself in this job and one of them is that I enjoy being around small children and entertaining them in short bursts but full time is too much. However, it's no excuse for getting lazy, so I'm going to try and push myself a little harder at work after the break.

Anna and I stayed in a spa hotel in Alicante, which was the perfect getaway to celebrate the next stage of my stay here. First I have the Easter break and I have made travel plans (hopefully the next post will fill more in on that) and then I have the last two months which will conclude this journey through Spain. It has been one of the more difficult times I've spent abroad which I suppose is why I haven't written much in my blog this time round. However, I'm determined not to give up. The next two months are summer months and we'll have the best weather. But more importantly, I don't want to leave with bitterness about the difficult things I faced here. This time has been transient, challenging and at times when I think it is about to get better, it seems to have gotten worse. In spite of this, I'm determined not to give up and leave because there's part of me that thinks “If I left before I'd really given it 100%, given it everything and tried as hard as I possibly could have, would I one day look back and wonder what could have been?” I know that when things are bad, they don't stay that way forever. Carrying on through difficult moments becomes an essential part of success.

I've really waffled on quite a lot here. Before I embark on the last two months here, I've got my travelling week with me, myself and I, which I will update with soon!

Adios for now.  

Weeks 5 & 6

Hello!

So this is now my sixth week in Spain and I’d like to think that things are finally becoming a bit more “normal” and “settled” (??) Well I’ve been working at the primary school now for two weeks, after a difficult stop-start month in October. It seems like everything is sorted paperwork wise; I’m also moving into a new flat this weekend, which is going to be fun. Mainly it’ll be nice just to have some independence, which will provide me with more routine hopefully.

So, last weekend Katherine and I decided to test our new bikes’ stamina and we cycled to Aguilas again. It was a lot quicker this time as we knew the route. We also decided to take the road rather the beaten mountain track (which was a tough uphill climb, but nonetheless quite satisfying) and we got to Aguilas in 3 hours. Once we got there, we “checked in” to the beach house, dropped some things off and then headed out on the bicis again!

We cycled ten kilometres down the coast in the direction of Almería. We actually ended up crossing the border of Murcia into Andalusia, which was quite exciting. Some of the views were absolutely amazing. Lots of mountains, winding roads and coastline…

Flying off over the deep blue sea!

Cycling through the fields!

Cycling buddies

Spanish architecture

Andalusian coastline

More flying

We got to a small town somewhere near Pulpí which was called San Juan. Once there, we sat on the (quite windy) beach and ate like an entire massive bar of chocolate between us (we’d just cycled 60 kilometres in total). The sun came out and it was simply beautiful so I decided to get my bikini on!

After that we went to a restaurant for beers and calamari. Then we sat back, feeling a bit full, a bit sleepy and watched the sun go down. Once it really started setting, we got back on our bikes and headed back to Aguilas. We stayed overnight in the beach house, woke up lazily the next morning (best thing ever to have a really good night’s sleep after a long day of sun, sea and intensive exercise), had a late breakfast (which ended up being hamburgers and chips because I think we needed to replace burnt off calories from the day before).

Then we took the 2pm train home to Lorca – there are three a day here: 7AM, 2PM and 7PM…

On the train we got a little “lecture” from the conductor guy on how to “store” bikes upright on the train. They looked like they were getting a bit hurt and the angle in which they were stored was really weird. I wish I’d taken a photo.

Anyway we both got back in one piece (and the bikes too) and the rest of my Sunday was pretty chilled. I went for a run round Lorca (even though my muscles were a bit stiff from the cycle ride) and then church in the evening.

That was all on Halloween weekend. Halloween itself was actually noneventful, except amongst the kids at the primary school. I ended up getting roped into telling a “Halloween story” to years 1, 2 and 3 which was quite cute. We got to dress up, so I ended up walking round Lorca with cat whiskers and a nose on my face, which got quite a few laughs out of localers, including Rúben who I bumped into outside of the library during my break.

Anyway at the other school I work at (a private language academy) we did a “skeleton/bones” themed week. We also decorated the classroom with pumpkins and various other Halloween type things.

I guess teaching is ok. There’s Christmas next, which could be a lot more fun than Halloween if we manage to spread enough Christmas spirit, music and crafts into the humid air of Lorca! I enjoy doing creative activities, the kind of thing I wasn’t really able to do as much when I worked in a secondary school in France.

The week after Halloween was pretty dull if I’m honest. At the primary school, I’ve been given the task of doing the science oral exams with years 2 and 3…testing them to see if they know the functions of the respitory, circulatory and digestive systems. At least it will be over by the end of next week.

In terms of how I feel, things are getting better. My initial month didn’t leave me jumping for joy exactly. On the contrary, there were some moments where I absolutely wanted out; I even found myself looking on Skyscanner for planes home. Thank goodness I pulled myself together.

 The only way I can describe it was that this place is not exactly what I expected. It’s relatively big but it’s got quite a small-town mentality. If you’re not Spanish, you stand out like a sore thumb. I guess Katherine and I got a bit fed up of being pointed and stared at in the first few weeks which was why going to Seville was so good because it’s a bigger city with more students. Lorca has its charms but I never realised that fitting in to a Spanish town could be hard work. Little by little, my Spanish is improving and little by little I am uncovering things about this place that are helping me to understand how to live here. And maybe by the end of next year, I will have a new plan for my life and whatever happens, I think it will be worth the effort to have stayed here and become fluent in Spanish.

Fingers crossed!

Here are some photos of my new flat. I'll try and get better ones soon!

Hasta luego guys!