And as I listen to the doctor question my language teacher as to the normality or otherwise of her vaginal discharge, I realise abruptly that my Spanish is improving.
Yes, Gladis today decided that we would visit the doctor together; she needed to go, we had a class, it made sense apparently... The whole thing was, as they say, an experience, and one which she of course found wholly entertaining. Throughout the half an hour appointment - an appointment which I might add was disconcertingly thorough - she continued to chat and explain as I sat there, just sat there, weirdly, nodding at what seemed to be appropriate moments. An excellent use of time should I contract a urinary infection somewhere in the Spanish speaking world. Less good for contracting post-traumatic stress disorder.
Meanwhile, time is starting to do that thing where it is really there anymore...as in, you know it's there, because you eat and it gets dark and light and stuff, but in terms of days of week and months? Forget it. My brain is also starting to do that thing where you look at a price and if it doesn't equate to minus 14 pence you get angry about it. However, when you earn 10 Quetzales an hour (about a pound), every cent is meaningful. Plus, it's all relative innit, if you can get a beer for just over a dollar, why would you pay three? Although I think we may be getting slightly carried away, that place where the beer is three dollars has taken on a seeming unattainability, a majesty and snobbishness...us of the grubby-toes peer in through the brightly lit windows, watching the clean and pretty people drink their three dollar beers before we scuttle away into the darkness and the refuge of, well, probably The Black Cat, a suitably cheep watering hole favoured by poor back-packers. In London, however, if I went out and someone charged me just over a dollar for a beer I'd marry them immediately.
K, it's late and I need to eat...mannnn, if I wasn't so busy I'd be the size of a house by now. These people eat carbs like you wouldn't believe, and having coming from London's PR scene I can assure that the local cuisine is about as opposite to the cigarette and sushi diet favoured by publicists in the city as can be imagined. I'm fairly sure I'm turning in a tortilla. Fact.
Hm, I wish I had a sign off...dammit, if only I'd createdof Gossip Girl...maybe I'll just steal the XOXO...yep, ok, that's lame.
Adios.
