"I did not drag myself up before the flamin' postman for a cuppa so weak you could snap its backbone like a Kitkat."
The gravelly tones that echo round our kitchen at seven am are mine seeing as how I've woken up sounding like DI Gene Hunt. Instead of properly being concerned about a locating paracetamol I'm having tremendous fun imitating the Manc Lion and thus am running though my non-PC repetoire of insults, of which there are a surprising amount. The reason I am up before the flamin postman is the exciting prospect of our first viaje (voyage) trans-Espana to Salamanca, the Cambridge of Spain, which is ironic really because I'm sure something about refugee status from Cambridge went on our Erasmus form.
The sharp realisation that thus far any photos of my YA (pronounced "yah") one cares to look at show rather a lot of clubs has awoken a determination to see some Cul-Cha demmit, architecture and libraries and history and ethnic folkways and what not. And boy did we!
Actually the first thing we saw was our hostel. And the first thing we said was "It were a lot nicer online." But nevertheless we threw our bags into the room and headed out into the sixth oldest University town in the world. (But not before cleverly concealing my passport in the pillowcase. No identity theft for me!)
There was a wedding in the Plaza Mayor, cobbles surrounded by sunlit red brick and delicate black balconies, a multitude of Spaniards in their Sunday best and a pretty bride in white with a rose in her hair. Of course being an all female group the inscrutable laws of gender meant we all had to sigh, admire her reception venue, take surreptious photos of her dress and discreetly position ourselves so if she went to lob the bouquet off the balcony we were in the prime spot to snatch it out of the air.
Next we wandered up to Las Catedrales Vieja y Nueva and spent a few hours with the Good Lord. Actually more than a few given our next cultural fix were to be the Nuns with the Buns and the Musical Monks.
How disrespectful of me; I of course meant to say the Convento de las Duenas where the nuns sell you little almond pastries they bake themselves in cloisters and the choir of Cappuchin monks of the Franciscan order who's hymns would make angels weep. The first was yummy and, ah, deeply spiritual of course. The second was a no go as God tends to monopolise the holy brethern on the weekends.
Strolling around a city playing tourist invariably turns ones mind to food and so dinner was a Spanish tapas spectacular with Manchego cheese, Iberian meat, calamares (squid) And, as all culture and no nightlife is nonsensical to say the least we went to a place called Camelot (which, to plagurise Monty Python, was only a club) where Latin remixes of Aretha's "Respect" and Cyndi's "Girls just want to have fun" went down a storm with the crowd who clapped and Olé-ed like there was no tomorrow.
But tomorrow there was and the task for the day was to locate the Rana de Suerte (Lucky Frog) on the extravagantly carved facade of the University. This exericise went from "Oh, isn't it lovely, let's have a looksee" to "Oh, ho, ho the little fellow is tricky to find, isn't he?" and finally to "WE'RE NOT LEAVING THIS SQUARE UNTIL I FIND THE DAMN THING!"
Rana located, a fact which I can only assume means we are cured of all illnesses and gypsy curses we may have accrued, we wandered to the Roman bridge and the Art Deco museum which was insanely pretty. 1920's perfume bottles with original fragrance still inside, brooches in the likeness of bejewelled dragonflies, statues of dancers who could have entered the Vaganova ballet academy without a reference. Our cameras were taken rather sharply from us at the door but clever old me, I have a camera on my phone and spent a good twenty minutes taking pictures from waist height and humming the theme from Goldfinger. 20 photos so blurry a die-hard UFO "believer" would laugh at later I arrived at the Valley of the Dolls. Porcelain dolls terrify me, especially when the toymaker thought a face like a wallnut and freakishly long arms were desirable features. Lost the exit for a while and Goldfinger changed to the Psycho theme.
Lets see what else, there was the heart-stopping moment the taxi we were exuberantly flagging down at two in the morning resolved itself into a police car, the loud exclamation that is was "Too fucking hot!" said in the certain knowledge no one could speak English resulting in a mild "Yes, that is true," from a middle aged man, the other middle aged man who tut-tut-tutted at the white of my arm (Mira la blancura que tienes!) and the tourist photos so cheesy we could put them on toast.
Viva Salamanca and a fantastic weekend, but in a way the nicest little ratito (bit) of the trip was coming back to the capital of Spain, a busy, loud 24/7 kind of place and knock me down with a feather if it didn't in a strange sort of way feel like coming home to the wee Irish girleen from the sticks. Madrid, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship
xo
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