How to Fail Your Driving Test

This will be posting twice in a week, which is abnormal for me, but shouldn't be off-limits should it?? 

Anyway, I am currently sitting in St Pancras International in Starbucks, having just said my fourth goodbye to my good friend Emma, from university. (We kept seeing each other spontaneously over the summer not knowing when exactly would be the last proper goodbye!) She kept me company for half an hour – for I have well and truly started my year abroad – ladies and gentlemen...finally I am Paris-bound.

There are still a couple of hours before my Eurostar though and forty minutes of battery left on my laptop. Therefore I am taking this opportunity to kill a bit of time by writing a blog entry...about a particularly stressful episode known as:

“My First Ever Driving Test”.

I say first because there will be at least one more to come, for unfortunately, I did not pass it. The title sort of gives that away, doesn't it? Before I regale you with some of the more amusing aspects of the test, it must be noted that on the whole I drove pretty well. When I say 'pretty well' I mean that the examiner was not physically shaking or having a nervous breakdown when we pulled back into the test centre at the end, as my dad would have put it 'If you were that bad, you would have been able to tell from his face.'

I took it in Ashton, which is not a part of Manchester that I know that well but it's not too difficult to drive around once you know the roads. 

The test was going O.K. (not perfect but not bad) until I got to a small side road. Before that, there had been an unsure moment – for myself and the examiner – where I turned right instead of straight on – I'm not entirely sure what was going on but I had a mini-panic attack and then tried to remain calm. Because I checked the mirrors and indicated right before leaving the junction, it wasn't exactly 'serious' or 'dangerous'. The examiner seemed more surprised than cross. In a bemused tone he simply told me to follow the road round.

In doing this, I ended up re-routing myself to the town centre. Which turned out well because then I got onto a few roundabouts and territories that I know very well from driving lessons – and therefore I drove better.

However, then comes the side road. Actually, even before then, to get to the side road, I had to drive down a completely unfamiliar part of Ashton. This next part is a bit of a blur because everything happened in such quick succession that I don't remember exactly when I started to go wrong.

Perhaps it was the central reservation, which I could not cross until the last minute to change lanes, which frazzled my brain, causing confusion to motorists behind?

Or perchance it was the traffic lights, which changed gracefully to amber to red the exact moment I was approaching the junction edge, causing a knee-jerk, foot-to-brake reaction which I could not prevent?

Or most certainly (or so I thought) it was the fact that when I finally drew to a full halt, I realised with ice-cold horror in my gut that my front wheels were in a cycle-lane-box.

I was so sure that that was the end. I sat waiting for the lights to take an agonizingly long time to change, thinking 'I've failed, I've failed, I've failed...and all because of a STUPID CYCLE LANE!' Never once (or in the past month I've been driving again) have I accidentally gone over the cycle box mark waiting at a junction and on my test IT HAPPENS.

This whole experience has taught me that everything I DON'T do in real life suddenly all happened on my test. Who knows what brought it on – maybe test-condition nerves. Anyway.

We got to a side lane. Driving examiner tells me to pull over – I was wondering vaguely whether he'd say 'I'm sorry Rachel but you're driving like you're in an action-film today. I cannot continue.' 

(Sorry - any excuse to post a photo of Daniel Craig)

But instead he simply said 'I would like you to do a turn in the road. Try not to hit the kerb.'

So I said 'O.K.' and nearly added 'Challenge accepted!' because three-point turns are one of the easier manoeuvres (well, let's be honest they're less stressful than parallel parking aren't they?). But because the road looked a little small, I added 'Is it O.K if it's not done in three?'

He replied 'All I want is that you do a turn in the road, don't worry too much about if it's not done in three.'

I had NOT anticipated just how small some roads can be. In most practise-manoeuvres, driving instructors take you on manageable sized roads (maybe cause they're just getting you acclimatised) but this road was like nothing I had ever attempted. Basically I started off fine...

I turned the car around 90 degrees in a safe manner. But then the problem presented itself. I was horizontal across the road and then reversed back, turning the wheel the other way to get out.

But nothing happened.

I swear, I was trying. I was trying and trying to reverse back, turning the wheel so I could get out, but I kept going back...

braking...

then going forward...

...And then going back.

AND NOTHING WAS HAPPENING. I was NOT EVEN CHANGING DIRECTION AS I DID THIS MANOEUVRE.

I was getting more and more anxious and covered in cold sweat. In that moment, I identified strongly with the Penguin from Wallace and Gromit: The Wrong Trousers in the museum diamond robbery scene. As I lifted the back of my hand to my sweaty forehead, I had a flashback of this scene in particular:

Fortunately, I eventually got myself turned around fully (but there was also a woman waiting – more pressure) and it took me about nine goes in total, making the manoeuvre not a three-but-a NINE-POINT-TURN.

So I failed because of that, basically. That and the fact that test conditions did something funny to my driving – turned me poor from good almost overnight and I can't explain why.

Hopefully on the next one, things will go a little more smoothly. But I'm not ashamed – there are plenty of people who don't pass on their first time. The sad thing is now I have to wait 8 months (or more like 9 months now) to take my next driving test.

Until then, no driving for me in France. My next blog post may not be until next week because since Thursday I've been here (in the Paris region) and my apartment is not yet furnished. So before I can even say the word 'Eiffel Tower', I'm going to be running around my tiny town like a headless chicken this week, searching desperately for kindly strangers who can give me free 'meubles' (furniture).

Not that chicken. But imagine him headless.

And no, before you ask, I am not posting a photo of a headless chicken. Imagine Googling that! Yuck.

Ciao!

Another Adventure in Manchester

Hello!

I believe my last blog post was a while ago...The past week or so has been kind of hectic (or maybe I'm just using this as an excuse to defend my non-bloggatry). (?)

To be honest, everything feels a bit jumbled up and hectic because of the fact I'm leaving for France in a few days (and I'm not reaaallllly prepared! Shh...don't tell Southampton University that).

I am arriving into Paris Gare du Nord at 20:50 on Wednesday evening and then I will make my way to my small village outside of Paris where my appartment is. This is all that is fixed so far: everything else like finding a fridge and opening a bank account is not.

But anyway, my last week in the UK has been fun. This weekend I took a much-needed trip down to Southampton for a few days to rest & recuperate chez Gordon Avenue. I say Rest & Recuperate because this week...something very abnormal happened to me and I had to go to hospital (which never ever happens to me...I am so bad at going to hospital it's been 2 years in Southampton and still I am not registered with a GP yet).

So OK, I will start from the beginning. The other day I walking back home down our road (our neighbourhood at home) and there was loads of rain/wind/generally crap weather and in a particularly horrible gust of wind a small piece of something flew into my eyeball. It really hurt and I couldn't get it out. In short, it felt as though a small tiny beast had lodged under my eyelid and was trying to set up camp.

But I couldn't find it and tried for ages to get it out but in the end I just assumed that it was nothing more than a scratch the pain I was experiencing was a result of a bruised eyeball. My mum said to go to the eye hospital (not like she knows anything specific about eyes anyway) and fortunately there is an eye hospital specifically dedicated to eyes in Manchester. Unfortunately, it closes at 8pm. So I had to go the following morning instead (AT THE CRACK OF DAWN!!!!) to escape the hospital queues. That night's sleep was NOT the best I've experienced. Every 30 minutes when I began to start sleeping deeply (when your eyes start moving rapidly) I woke up because it was agonizingly painful.

So the following morning, I went straight to the eye hospital and I could barely open my injured eye (well, I usually have trouble opening my eyes anyway AT THE CRACK OF DAWN ha ha). But I only had to wait a little while until the eye nurse saw me and kindly checked my poor little eye and discovered a PIECE OF BARK! It was eurghhh....bleurghh...

It was more that I couldn't believe a piece of bark that big had been lodged in my eye all night without me even realising. Well when I say big, I don't mean plank-of-wood type size, I mean big for my eyeball. She gave me medicated eyedrops, which even I understand means “eyedrops that work” as opposed to Ibruprofen which rarely works. So the pain went away within a few days, but my left eye resembles this:

So I guess I might be “a la mode”, considering vampires have made a massive comeback these past few years. And it has turned a few heads, raised a few questions – to which I haven't yet thought of a more creative response than the truth.

But I suppose from afar it simply looks like I've smoked a little too much weed.

Anyhow, I have been back in our old house at Gordon Avenue, spending some quality time with old housemates and friends, doing the park run at Southampton Common (and not blacking out, contrary to what I expected), doing a Sainsburys' shop one last time, getting locked out of the house (for the first time) and just generally being a student in a shared house (something I won't have at all next year considering I am living alone).

Sunny Southampton! (Compared to freezing Manchester..)

The park.

We had a game of mini-golf in town one fine afternoon.

...culminating in some over-enthusiastic golf-club-swinging...

Our student house has been renovated over the summer and I just can't believe I am missing out on this shower next year...

And yes, I did feel very nostalgic (I couldn't quite bring myself to go to my beloved Avenue Campus for fear that it would bring back too many joyous memories) and I did feel very sad not to be joining my housemates in one more year of wonderful student antics. But I also feel excited (and intermittently apprehensive) about the upcoming “First Week In France”. My main fear is probably organizing life. Ie. Acquiring furniture, doing official things like registering with all the various bureaus and social security blah blah blahs.

But that is all. I will have to update my blog the week after I arrive in France. With photos of fridges...and mattresses...

"Just write your dissertation in French so you can finish your degree"

Hello there,

This could end up being a really, really long post (longer than usual, which for someone like me would make it a 10,000 word essay or something) but I think I'll just break everything down slightly and put it in a nutshell.

I've been back in Manchester two weeks now, and only two and a half weeks remain until I go to France. All my friends on their years abroad seem to all be in their respective countries already!

But amazingly, everything seems to be coming into place quite nicely. The paperwork seems to be done (just needs organizing into one file!), finances seem to be in place (thank you Student Loan for being on time for once..!) and last but not least, amazingly so, I have found accommodation.

It was all very simple in the end. The teacher from my school contacted me and said the school could offer me a flat for 300 a month (so not too bad by Paris-y standards).

I was lost in a sea of adverts and flat share offers on Lokaviz and Leboncoin (I gave up on Appartager.com months ago because it appeared only creepy old guys contacted me on there) and I was starting to lose my head a bit. I Skyped my friend Marlena (au pair I met in Mallorca this summer) and told her that when she comes to visit me in Paris in November (flights booked) there was a possibility I would be homeless.

Sleeping under a bridge next to the Seine. Occasionally busking.

So naturally, I accepted the accommodation (not merely because I was getting desperate). There are clear pros: cheaper rent, I know the landlords are sound people, it is actually in Mennecy, right by the school. So I won't have to commute to get to work, which would otherwise be time-consuming and expensive.

There are a couple of cons (there are never simply just 'pros' in life, except for when referring to Daniel Craig).

1. Mennecy is 37km from Paris
2. The flat is unfurnished. And I mean, UN-furnished. Completely.

I will sort out problem number one by getting a bike. (a GOOD bike that functions).

Problem number two is admittedly, easily solvable ---> buy furniture. It just feels so final to buy furniture; the kind of thing you do if you're buying a house, not renting a place for 8 months. But there is a nearby Ikea (so cheaper options are available) and I'm sure there's some kind of French equivalent to Freecycle. I'll just have to scrounge around and make friends with people in the village quickly, and see if any of them are getting rid of a fridge or freezer and jump in on it.

There's also kind of a con-number-three: I think the accommodation is a studio flat, which means...I will be LIVING ALONE.

ALL BY MYSELF. Bridget-style.

That puts a seed of lonely doubt within my sociable and people-loving heart. I always envisaged myself living with some chatty, cultured and FUN Frenchies on my year abroad, with whom I could have aperos, drink wine, cook with and just generally talk non-stop about, well, what we love about France (because French people love France).

(Which puts me in mind of a certain housemate of mine)

In this photo, we were probably lamenting the fact that we were NOT in France.

Anyway, to summarize my flat is 37k from the capital, unfurnished and devoid of housemates. So in short, not what I would have envisaged for myself. Buuut....

I am not worried about being far away. I measured the distance from Cannes to Nice (which is where I lived before) and it's also about 30k. And when I was an au pair, distance never once stopped me having fun. (Seriously. One day I will write a book about my French Riviera Memories and you will see that we once walked 10k just to watch Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 in English).

Secondly, (after giving it some consideration) I have decided that I am not worried about living alone either. Actually, it's perfect. When I was an au pair, my friends and I spent half our lives wishing one of us had a flat to ourselves, rather than having to always rely our host families' (for weekends when we wanted to escape). Maybe if I meet some au pairs out there it'll be perfect if they want to crash somewhere for the weekend! Although admittedly, it isn't exactly ideal in terms of location for socialising...

Which makes the situation a bit of a catch-22.

But I refuse to believe that living alone will be as terrifying as I'm envisaging it will be. It's just that I can't grasp the concept yet because I've never lived alone before. And I have never wanted to live alone!

Aside from all this news on the accommodation front, not much new stuff has been happening. I am surprised at how much I'm enjoying being back at home. It has been fun seeing old friends from college, hanging out with my sisters but also meeting some new friends! So far I have actually gotten to know a few people in our small neighbour Heaton Moor, from going to a church Heaton Moor Evangelical Church, in our area.

I'm only beginning to realise how much there is in Manchester (and its surrounding areas) now I am back here for a bit. In some ways (although my beloved Southampton will always – or at least for now – hold a dear place in my heart) I'm starting to think maybe Manchester holds a little bit of space for me somewhere in my heart too.

I realised something today. Over the past three years, I've put a whole lot of energy and passion into learning languages and going abroad. Many times I don't even see 'going home for the summer' as an option – it's always 'the last resort that I don't want to resort to'.

And I have had lots of fun going abroad and au pairing. It's really changed me – I am much, much more confident than I used to be. Maybe cause I've been out of my comfort zone with relation to making friends and also communicating!

But I realised today that I haven't really 'set up home' in any of these places I've been to. Even Nice,

although I spent a year there, was not exactly 'setting up home'. My home is here; much to my disgruntlement. (is that a word?) I've always wanted to 'set up home' abroad – always. I can't explain it to myself, I've just always like that was where I belong. But the honest truth?

Being abroad is tough. I realised that this summer – finally! No matter how much you want to be abroad and set up your life there, being a foreigner in a foreign land still isn't easy. There are many reasons why.

And yet, here I am realising this now as I am about to head off abroad once more. I almost feel like holding up my hands and saying “ENOUGH!!” and hoping someone will say “Okay...you don't have to go abroad AGAIN Rachel. You've done enough time doing French in France. Just write your dissertation in French and you can finish your degree, no year abroads required.”

I do feel a little weary – three years and I all I've been doing is focusing on where I can go abroad! That feels like all I have been doing. It's not that I want to 'settle down' – I would just rather go abroad somewhere and commit to 2 or 3 years there – maybe more. I've done the 'exchange' thing – just staying somewhere a few months at a time.

But I do think this year is going to be good. Who knows, it might eventually even help me to find a job (that's the dream after graduating!). And I can't complain because I'll be getting paid AND I'll be in lovely France speaking lovely French.

I just hope that this year will restore my (slightly-wobbly-after-this-summer) faith in being abroad.

Time will tell.

Welcome to England. Here we drive on the LEFT.

Hello from England!

I am finally back...no more Mallorca for me! (Well maybe until next summer, if I decide to go back). Actually, in typical me fashion, I am already planning my next summer. And the next one is five months long..!

(Just a quick clarification before I proceed, I changed my name on facebook. Not to be cool or anything, just because it will be easier next year when I'm teaching if people (ie potential students) can't find me so easily on facebook if they try. You just never know in this day and age, so it's best to err on the side of caution).

Anyway, having been back a week now, I have to say it has been surprisingly fun rather than depressingly cold, rainy and boring as I anticipated. The weather has been okay (for England), no rain as of yet. And I have been reunited with both my sisters and my family for the first time properly since April.

The only thing(s) that have caused me great stress this week are:

1. Driving
2. Paperwork, Finance and Accomodation for Paris.

It has only just sunk in properly for me exactly how unprepared for the end of September I am. I have officially booked my ticket on the Eurostar for the 25^th September, London St Pancras to Paris Gare du Nord. Fingers crossed I'll arrive and magically have somewhere to live by then.

The second issue is of course, driving. I have booked my test and now I am panicking slightly. There are two types of people in the world, those who have passed their tests first time and give you positive feedback and people who did NOT pass first time and are sceptical. It's hard to know which ones to believe. I don't want to go into my test with the frame of mind that I'M GOING TO FAIL but equally I don't want to go in cocky and assured that I'll whizz through it no problem.

I have been out twice this week in our old battered Ford Focus (with both of each parents) and to tell the truth, there have been some hair-raising moments. Bearing in mind that it has been 2 months since I've been driving and in those two months I have been accustomed to 'driving on the right', European style.

When approaching a roundabout, my father said “I want you to turn right at this roundabout”. Now, I know that means, “choose the exit on the roundabout which leads right from where you are now” but for some bizarre and unknown-to-anyone-including-myself reason, I decided that I would ACTUALLY TURN RIGHT at the roundabout.

As soon as I had started to emerge and turn right my father began yelling and screaming “WHAT ARE YOU DOING THIS IS A ROUNDABOUT!”

And, lo and behold, I realised with a horrifying jolt in my stomach that it was. There was a bus approaching onto the roundabout going in the opposite direction to me. For a split second I was incapable of doing anything except for sit in sheer panic and watch the situation unfold before my eyes before coming to my senses very quickly and turning sharp, sharp sharp to the LEFT to follow the roundabout around English-style. All I can say is that, fortunately I didn't stall, which would have made the situation a lot worse.

But I have to say, if that had been a driving test, I somehow don't think I would have passed.

It's not an abnormal thing to do when you've been used to right-lane drivers for an extended period of time. In fact, in a car with my father driving through France this Easter in a rented car, there was a terrifying moment when he emerged from a junction and stayed ON THE LEFT whilst approaching a hairpin bend into a tunnel until I reminded him “WE'RE IN EUROPE!” and he suddenly swerved JUST IN TIME onto the right before a driver came whizzing through the tunnel “in our lane”.

However, it is nonetheless one of the craziest and most dangerous situations you could get yourself into, driving onto a roundabout the WRONG WAY. Imagine if it was busier (I was driving at night). I don't like to imagine it actually. I would have written the car off for sure.

So, driving needs some polishing up. I have to say, it's not that I can't drive well. I just need to practise everything methodically and get used to English roads before I take my test. In Mallorca, drivers were crazy and not exactly safe on roads. The same in Nice, when I was there. People had a much more 'laid back' attitude in Nice (to driving). Everything from parallel parking in impossibly small spaces to driving by centimetres from parked cars was 'acceptable' in Nice. I guess you have to be one of those really experienced drivers in order to get away with this – but the bottom line is you can't drive this way in England and 'get away with it'. You will get caught. And made to pay.

So, driving is just one of those things I have to try and do without losing my head and just get on with it while I have the chance. Cause next year, I won't. I think I'm having the same frustrations in a car that I was having this summer with language. Speaking Spanish was frustrating for me because the majority of people assumed, before I had time to prove myself, that I barely knew Spanish. When in reality, I knew a lot more than they realised. There was one incident, in the last week of my stay at a house party, which makes me so mad I still get angry thinking about it.

We were surrounded by lots of Mallorcans who all spoke English to some degree, some more than others. One of the guys who spoke English to a lesser degree (but assured me had spend a year 'studying' in Florida) had been talking to me in English all night. I didn't mind, but then I said to him “Podemos hablar español” because MATE we are in Spain (not England, not Florida) and I am supposed to be practising.

Well of course he didn't really care or bother changing to Spanish; I guess he just assumed that I didn't know enough and that he knew more English. (In reality, he didn't).

Anyway it didn't bother me until later on that night when we were outside by the pool and I overheard him behind me chatting to my friend (who speaks amazing Spanish and is fluent). He was talking about me, obviously assuming I couldn't understand.

(This was all in Spanish. And yes, I did understand every word).

“But your Spanish is amazing! You're really, really good. Your friend there, she doesn't speak much at all, does she, and she hardly understands does she?”

I gave him a very withering stare at this point, but he didn't register because he didn't know I was listening/comprehending. My friend proceeded to explain that I did understand but didn't know as much as her because I'd only been learning 2 years.

He then looked at me, a little bit worried, then back at her and then said “But – that means we can't talk about her? We can't have a private conversation because she understands everything we're saying?”

I don't often feel like punching people (and if I had tried, he was a lot bigger than me and probably could've knocked me out) but I was very tempted to go up and give him a very sharp and hard slap across the face. What an idiot anyway, I consoled myself with, not before giving him another evil look.

The thing is, I've written about this before: people should not be THAT condescending when it comes to language learning. He may have had a point that my Spanish isn't great. But it's never OK to say that about someone when they're learning a language. And I would never say that about someone learning English.

It's kind similar with driving (OK, maybe not completely the same). I know I'm a relatively inexperienced driver, but when I go out on the roads with instructors/parents/anyone and I make a small error (or big error) it's a complete knock to my system. It then leads people to believe that I'm completely unsafe on the roads, that I can't think for myself and that I'm going to crash the car.

Now I know exactly why people might think this (learner drivers are the most risky on roads of course). And I understand that people SHOULD think this because sometimes I do risky things like with the roundabout. But 95% of the time, I don't! I am a pretty safe driver. I keep to speed limits and I generally do what I've learnt about checking mirrors, stopping distances, waiting for traffic etc. But of course, it's the 5% which makes all the difference. The 5% of the time when I'm not concentrating and I end up doing something stupid is what counts against me. And then it's like a shock to my system the way someone insulting me about language is a shock to my system.

I guess we can't be perfect in anything. And maybe there's not much point in worrying about the 5% of the time I get something wrong on the roads or when I'm trying to speak in a foreign language – the best thing is to forget it, keep going and try again.

a) I did reverse around the corner perfectly last night after three goes (and in the dark).

b) And I DID learn a lot of Spanish this summer (compared to what I knew two years ago – zilch – it's saying something that I can hold a conversation for up to an hour and a half about life, careers, crime and poverty and Mexican culture. I talked to the host mum a lot about this).

Guess it just a matter of 'practise makes perfect'.

Stressful things aside, there have been some good moments this week. I walked into our garden the day I got back only to discover we have a TRAMPOLINE!

It's such a shame that my family decided to get this when I am 21 and not 12. I'm just imagining the amazing sleepovers I could have had with my girlfriends if we'd had this trampoline then.

Anna and I went to Lyme Park (which is one of my favourite places in England) the day I arrived home from Spain. Unfortunately we didn't get any photos (it was nice, sunny weather) but this is what it is.

Actually, Lyme Park is where the BBC filmed the 1995 version of 'Pride & Prejudice' - Stockport's greatest claim to fame! Below is a still from the film, Darcy and Lizzie walking through these grounds. We've climbed up these steps numerous times! (You can see the house in the background).

So as you can see, in spite of all my moaning about it and insisting that Mallorca is better, England is a very beautiful country. There's so much green here - even OUR garden is looking good. Could be my parents, having taken up gardening, having a mid-life crisis. 

Anyway, now I'm off to 'sort my life out' (lots of paperwork still awaits me, groooan).

Laters!

Ninja Tortilla Girl

Holaaaaaa.

Now for the ultimate post about Mallorca...Because that's right, come tomorrow at 12pm, I will be landing in Manchester Terminal 3 and thus bringing a bitter end to the sunshine, beaches, tapas and Sangria of my two-month summer on this wonderful island.

It's so ironic that in my last 48-72 hours here I have had some of the funniest moments (and coldest beers) thus bringing me to the fluctuating conclusion that I'd rather stay another two months until the summer season is well and truly finished. But in spite of this conflicting “should I stay or should I go” syndrome, it's probably best if I leave on a good note (rather than during another Blue Spell).

My last weekend on the sunny shores of Mallorca has been pretty – in the words of my housemate Miriam – amazeballs. It included another epic road trip. Me and four friends rented a car (by the name of 'Manuela Torres' – yes, we named her – like we named Jesús) and drove her round the east side of the island to Porto Cristo (where there are some caves) and Cala Romantica (the beach).

To be honest the caves were fun but a bit overpriced (14 euros to walk around and the 'promised' boat trip through the water in the caves turned out to be a bit of a scam) but I suppose if you go to an island, you can't leave without saying you've at least visited some of the caves.

Felt a bit like Indiana Jones/Aladdin

There was a concert in the caves. That was the best part. The lights were switched off and everything was pitch black and then this eerie music started playing softly and echoing off the walls and three or four long, lit-up boats emerged from the shadows and went around the caves in a circle, disappearing off into the shadows with the eerie music still playing. It was only about 10-15 minutes long but it was the weirdest and most beautiful thing.

(Just to clarify...these aren't actually my photos, I found them online. But it looked like this!)

It reminded me a lot of the scene in the Phantom of the Opera when Christine is taken down into the Phantom's lair and they play the famous theme song...

After the caves (Cuevas del Drach), we stopped off at at supermercado (how I'm going to miss buying bread for 18 cents and mineral water for 25) got ourselves some picnic food and went to a beach not far from Porto Cristo called Cala Romantica.

I guess it was kind of romantic.

Saturday night was a bit epic as well; seeing as we were supposed to go to a beach party in Palma Nova, we had geared ourselves up for fiesta time immediately after our road trip (because Manuela was our car for the whole night until 12pm the following day, so we thought it would be worth making the most of her). However at about 8pm we got a text from our Spanish friend (who had invited us) that apparently the party on the beach was practically non-existent.

So we ended up going to a house party followed by a night out in Palma – long story short, I arrived home at 7am the following day, still unshowered from the beach/road trip, depleted of both energy and money. (Sunday is payday for me).

So after sleeping it off until about 11am (badly, because of the background noise of chickens, dogs and the blinding morning light of Mallorcan sunshine – you either shut the windows and have total darkness but are left to swelter like a pig OR you open the windows and get some breeze but are kept awake by the light and/or the stupid ROOSTERS which crow from 3am onwards) I got out of bed and just chilled out until the afternoon when I went into Palma to hang out with Marlena.

Sundays in Palma are weird because the streets are very, very dead. It's kind of nice though. We went and had a little picnic by the library (which, I didn't realise was the library at first because it looked as if it were about to be shut down for good, graffitied and locked)...

...and then went to our favourite ice-cream parlour which sells ensaimada (I have already posted about ensaimada). All I can say is...QUE RICO.

(Just to refresh your memory)

And of course, there's always room for a little 'Tinto de Verano' (basically Sangria without the fruit). On Sundays it's one euro! (Montaditos our favourite place for drinks).

Last night was Tuesday and therefore the last tapas evening for me (and many of the au pairs). We are dwindling more and more in numbers now, but it was fun nonetheless (and of course, dirt cheap). I took the last bus home (11:20) and then for some reason, could not sleep at all when I settled down to sleep at about 12:30. Tapas is yummy, but the portions are tiny and you get a beer with each one. And you know what beer on an empty stomach does to you?

Makes you more hungry.

So I couldn't sleep at all. Partly because of the humidity (which even now, after 8 weeks, causes problems), partly because of the DAMN PERROS (dogs for those of you not speaking Spanish) and partly because my tummy was growling for some foooooooood! (Proper food, not mincey little tapas-portioned size food).

I knew for a fact that in the fridge there was leftover tortilla from the night before. And I hadn't had proper dinner. I lay awake for a couple hours fantasising about this tortilla, but not being able to work up the courage to sneak downstairs and help myself. The problem is I thought the boy (whose room is next to mine) was awake because we crossed paths on my way to the loo at about 1am and also his light was on.

For some reason, it's ok if your parents/family catch you raiding the fridge at 3am because you don't really have to explain yourself in your own household. But when it's someone else's house, there are definite (unspoken) boundaries about this.

It got to 4am and I was still awake, hungry and roasting in the Mallorcan humidity. I told myself that unless I ate something I was going to stay awake for four more hours fantasising about food. So I crept as QUIETLY as I possibly could out of bed, across the hall, downstairs into the kitchen...

I was like a ninja with the tortilla. I don't think I've ever grabbed anything out of the fridge so quickly. I didn't even rewrap the clingfilm back over the plate, I just took the nearest slice and ran (quietly). 

In hindsight, I shouldn't have been SO het up about taking a little bit of tortilla at 4am (there are probably worse things a host family could find their au pair doing in the dead of night...). But anyway.

Even after eating the damn tortilla I couldn't sleep. I stayed awake hour after hour, trying to sleep (you know what I mean – that cycle of 'if I sleep now I'll get 3 hours...if I sleep now, I'll get 2 hours').

So I stayed awake until 8am, went downstairs made some coffee (actually I tried to make some coffee) and ate some more tortilla. My excuse was I had not slept so it was merely an extension of tapas. The coffee machine refused to work and made so much noise trying to make coffee that I think the neighbours 2km down the road could hear.

So this is what I had to settle for:

Reality

Vs. Dream

I was starting to get into that jittery, sleep-deprived state where you start seeing double unless you sit down and when you sit down you fall asleep – or try to sleep standing up. So I had a cold shower, which seemed to work...

Until I made the stupid decision to just 'have a lie down' on my mattress. In my towel and everything. I just fell asleep straight away. And then I woke two hours later at 11:30am and felt like death. Death whose eyes had been scratched out!

It's true what they say about all-nighters (intentional or otherwise) – you need to go the whole night with no sleep whatsoever because if you get that 1 or 2 hour window of unconsciousness you will wake up feeling ten times worse.

So I did my best that day and drank like 3-4 cups of strong (instant) coffee (the machine refused to work still). That machine has hated me all summer, I swear. Every time I try and make coffee it's actually like taking part in the lottery – there's a CHANCE you'll get a coffee, but don't pin your hopes on it, just keep trying.

But do you know what the crazy thing is? I couldn't sleep TONIGHT EITHER. The exact same thing happened. I was tired, by the way. All evening I couldn't stop yawning and promised myself 'an early night'.

After 12am I couldn't sleep and before you know it it's 4am and my alarm is for 5:30 because I have to be at the airport for 7am and that means we have to leave the house at 6:15. And I have not slept yet.

What. is. Happening!

I guess I'm just going to put it all down to 'the-last-two-days-of-summer-delirium'. I think my week has been so eventful that maybe my body is only now catching up with it all. In a way it doesn't really matter, the moment I get home I can have a long siesta and mess up my sleep pattern anew in time for this bank holiday weekend at home.

But still, Mallorca has been great fun.  

My Mallorcan Mini-Life

Hello. It's been a while. Possibly over a week! I keep meaning to post updates little and often, so that these posts aren't so long (because I read over some of the stuff I'd written in my last post and I think I'm gonna try to start making them shorter for the sake of time). I've been very busy though.

Well as you can probably see there have been some updates to my beloved blog (I just figured out how to make tabs at the top – amateur that I am). Nothing really exciting, but there is a map of the world which I used to make tabs of people and places I want to visit (if you're not on there, send me an indignant message and I will happily add you. And hopefully visit you before I die).

There's also a link to my profile which is a bit boring (because everyone has facebook, so who really needs a 'profile' anymore?) but I suppose it makes things look a bit more Bloggy. Whatever that means.

Anyway, just one more week in this delightfully sunny island known as Mallorca, Spain and then I'm back to the dreary and cold Northern lands known as Manchester. The reality of returning to the UK is upon me now and although in my last entry I was all nostalgic for England, I know that going back means three very imperative things:

1. Sorting out my year abroad (accomodation, documents, CRBS and so much paperwork that I can't even begin to comprehend the intricacies).
2. Working (possibly with Cancer research again....groan. Money is money though).
3. Taking (and passing) my driving test FINALLY. You cannot begin to imagine the dread I feel at this.

But with regards to the latter, as my sister and members of my family keep cheerfully informing me “You might surprise us all Rachel...and pass on your first time.” Well. I only hope that's true...

I sometimes have nightmares of this happening on the day of my test, even though this has never actually come close to happening...

I am actually quite a safe driver, in spite of what people assume about me based on my rather reckless and careless attitude as a cyclist and pedestrian. However, there was one very panicked and heart-stopping moment (for myself and my instructor) in a lesson once where I was waiting in traffic downhill and temporarily mixed up the brake and accelerate pedals when I released the park brake to go.

That was only once though. And I've never made the same mistake again.

But so anyway, the prospects of going home is better than the prospect of staying in Palma for the rest of September without an au pair in sight. (Everyone for the summer is leaving by the end of August).

So now there is one whole week left before leaving. And weirdly, although my last post was all about the blues and homesick vibes I was getting, I feel a little bit wistful thinking about the fact that the beaches, the tapas bars and the sun will all go on partying without me once I've left Mallorca. I guess it's simply a case of “You always want what you can't have” and “the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence”.

(In England's case, the grass actually IS always greener at this time of year simply because Mallorca's grass got burnt to brown desert the moment the summer sun appeared from April onwards).

And needless to say, there have been times in the past 2-3 weeks where, when I've felt at my worst, I've continually said to myself: NEVER AGAIN AM I AU PAIRING.

I think it's true that au pairing definitely has an expiry date and there's only so many summers you can live with a family and look after their kids for 2-3 months whilst inhabiting their personal lives and space. But the truth is, I've had some of the best and funniest moments of my life au pairing and I wouldn't change those experiences for the world.

I mean, who knows if I'll do it again? Towards this part of the summer, things always get a little hazy and when the delirium sets in (like it is now) I begin to say irrational things. The bottom line is, I've never been with a 'bad family' so to speak. I've always had independence, I've always had fun and I've always had the beach at my disposal. So maybe it is simply delirium from the intense summer heat that makes me indecisive about whether I'll do it again.

Looking back over the past 7 weeks from the beginning until now is quite a satisfying thing to do. When I think about the things I've done, the places I've been to, the hilarious moments and the exciting memories and the relationships I've built here, it's almost like I've built a mini-life here in just two months. I love the fact that now I know Mallorca – I know the places on the map and and know which buses go where, which bars sell the best Sangria, ensaimada and tapas.

(Just in case you were wondering, the thing on the right is ensaimada. It is somewhat similar to a pastry, but in actual fact it is a little cloud of heaven covered with icing sugar that melts in your mouth.)

Which is encouraging because it shows me that regardless of some of the difficult moments I've encountered, I've managed really well. It tells me that I am cut out for this (living independently in a foreign country shizzle). Even though I've done it before, for much a much longer period of time already, I was starting to doubt myself this summer when the blues hit me.

With all the fun I've had here, I think one of the best things I've learnt in the past 7 weeks is that no matter where you go, who you meet there and what you do, you must always have a focus and stay grounded. Being yourself and remaining true to your personality is the most important thing. It's sometimes easier to blend in and just be like everyone else. But if you're not afraid to do what YOU want, be independent and don't let others change that then everything becomes so much easier. I think you start building your mini-life abroad when you stay grounded and don't change your stripes.

Some pictures from my weekend. The penultimate one. Watch out – the heat is setting in and things are about to get REALLY delirious in the next few days...

Starting with the best (and oldest) handmade ice cream parlour in Palma.

 "...So this summer,I went to Mallorca...

...and ate it"

Found a pink Vespa. 

A Bulgarian picnic with pasta salad, tortilla, chocolate chip cookies, LOTS of beer (Cruzcampo) and a strong Bulgarian liquor called rakia (homemade and unavailable in shops).

The perfect time of day for a picnic.

Getting a bit giddy (I blame the copious amounts of cruzcampo and rakia we were force-fed)

The picnic lasted until 3AM...

Big fat olives. Mmm.

Spanish picnic essentials: water, olives, bread, tuna and tortilla. The cheap way to do a beach day.

Marlena photo-bombing the scenery. In good taste.