Harry's gone.

I'm slightly bummed about this, partially because he's one of only two (out of several) flat-mates I've actually spoken with in my two weeks here so far, and partially because it was just last night that I finally learned his name, from a mutual acquaintance who mentioned it in passing.

Harry (or, in my mind at the time, “the Dutch guy”) and I went out for sodas on the third night of my first, torturously endless holiday weekend here in Salamanca, and he turned out to be pretty interesting.  Fortyish but looks much younger, he's a judge, like an actual judge, back in the Netherlands who is on a 10-month sabbatical and has been rethinking his career choice.   Before I arrived, he'd attended the same school I'm attending, Tia Tula, for a few weeks, and now he was just hanging out, watching a lot of Spanish TV.   I got the impression that he wasn't all that satisfied with Tia Tula or with Salamanca in general; he and I were definitely on the same page in our frustration with the nightlife here.   More on this presently.

I hadn't learned his name until last night because we were introduced when I first arrived, after 20 sleepless hours of transit, by our landlord (still don't know his name, come to think of it), in rapid Spanish, and I just plain missed it and never found a good moment to ask him again.   Once we'd gone out for sodas and talked for that long, it just would have felt silly to ask, like that “Seinfeld” episode where Jerry feels he can't ask his date's name once he's made out with her.  Anyway, after that, our paths didn't cross much, but it was nice to have an apartment-mate with whom I'd formed at least some sort of bond, which is more than I can say for most of the others who have come and gone.  I don't even bother trying to keep track of them anymore. The people in the bedrooms on either side of mine, I have yet to exchange a word with.  It's just like that here.

When I'm in the flat, I'm mostly in my tiny but functional room, doing my homework, listening to Spanish podcasts, re-watching the brilliant Abre Los Ojos (remade as the truly shitty Vanilla Sky), anything to keep the sound of spoken Spanish playing in my head.  There's almost no reason to leave the bedroom (to do so, incidentally, requires the key to open the door, which is stupid and indescribably annoying and strikes me as potentially useful only to kidnappers) when I'm here.  The living room consists of a dinky, uncomfortable-looking couch and a sad excuse for a television.  The kitchen, when I arrived, was such a disaster area that I decided then and there never to use it, as that would absolve me of the responsibility of cleaning it.   That's worked out so far.  There are two bathrooms, one of which is taken up mostly by the washing machine, which I haven't used yet, as a) I don't know how, and b) We don't seem to have a dryer, so I have to ask someone what step two would be.  Perhaps Elizabeth, the other flat-mate with whom I've broken the ice. Elizabeth is a 30-ish Venezuelan who's been here about a month and turned out to be quite sweet and willing to help me practice my Spanish. Which is a relief, because now that Harry is gone and the three fellow Tia Tula students I became the most friendly with are leaving, Elizabeth is practically the only one left I can talk with. If we don't get some new cool students on Monday, the next two weeks are going to feel like twenty.

Vamos a ver.

* * *

At the risk of sounding pity-seeking while goofing around Spain for five weeks, those first few days were a bit rough going.  I arrived in the late afternoon on a Saturday, and because Monday was a national holiday known as Assumption Day (Don't know.  Didn't ask. Had no one to ask. And it's clearly some religious thing, so...didn't care anyway), I wouldn't be starting school until Tuesday.  So, two and a half days to kill in a strange town in which I knew no one, and though I'd been spending the last few months studying the native tongue, had almost no experience conversing in it.  Beyond that, I discovered when I arrived that I would need adapters for the plugs for all my electronic devices, but all the stores that sold them were closed by the time I arrived Saturday and wouldn't re-open until Tuesday.  So there went use of my laptop, phone and iPod for the long weekend.

What to do but explore?   Salamanca is a relatively small (154,000-ish) university town, about 120 miles northwest of Madrid. It's developed a reputation as a perfect place for foreigners to learn Spanish, so it attracts a lot of students such as myself, albeit mostly ones closer to college age.  Because of the largely 20-something population, its nightlife was also highly praised in much of the internet research I did that drew me here.  I read somewhere that there are 2,000 bars in Salamanca; I can't confirm this, but don't doubt it for a moment.  Hell,  I can see at least five from the front door of my building, two of them within actual sneezing distance.   The one next door is called El Oscuro Lado (“The Dark Side”) and is apparently “Star Wars”-themed inside.  I haven't had the pleasure yet, but I have visited Jacko's, the entirely sincere Michael Jackson-themed bar that serves all its drinks in 32-ounce cups along with a complimentary bowl of pork rind snacks, just like MJ would have wanted it.   Several of the drinks are named after Michael's songs, but no, sadly, I did not see a “Jesus Juice” on the menu.

Sangria, by the way, is big here.  I like the taste of it, but it's got far more sugar and juice than alcohol, so the net effect of it is akin to drinking an enormous cup of fruit punch.   Red wine and Coke is big here too, and that's just weird.   Mainly, I stick to beer, aka cerveza (properly pronounced with the Spanish lisp, “Thair-VAY-tha”).  Most of the bars serve tapas as well, but I haven't really gone that route much, partially because I still get nervous about ordering food in Spanish, and partially out of fear that I'll get something and either not like it or not have my hunger satisfied by it, so I'll have to get something else and another beer to go with it, and pretty soon, I'll have spent my quota for the day and not even enjoyed it.  I know, that's not how you're supposed to think while traveling, but I figure the thriftier I am while in Salamanca, the more I can enjoy the succeeding ten days of travel around the rest of the country.  This isn't supposed to be the fun part.

But I digress.   So those first three days were about exploring the city, which I did with a mix of fascination and frustration, mostly the latter, and not just because of how easy it is to get confused there, though that doesn't help.  Unlike in America, street signs are not on poles on every corner, but embedded into the walls of the buildings. Sometimes. If you're lucky.   Basically, you turn a corner, peer up at the building and hope to see a sign there, and then even if you do, you might still be confused, because the streets tend to change names without warning, every block or so.

More to the point: The bars, almost all 2,000 of them, are practically deserted all day, if open at all.  Okay, nothing strange there, but they are also largely dead at night, until – and it was several days before I finally earned this – about 2 A.M.  Which may invite a response like, “Huh?” Or “WTF?” Or “For God's sake, why?  What the hell are they doing all night until then?”  Apparently, they're eating dinner, which is taken very seriously here, and doesn't start until much later than the evening than American dinner (part of this might be connected to the sun schedule; currently, the sun goes down around 10.  That part's kind of cool.).  So it's a domino effect: If you don't start dinner until, say, 9, and it lasts until midnight, you're obviously not going to feel like going out for drinks until 2 at the earliest.  Then you stay out until, I dunno, 5, sleep until 10, and go to work.  Which probably sounds hellishly sleep-deprived until you consider the nice, long siesta they take in mid-afternoon, and suddenly, it sounds just awesome.

So until 2 or so, there's beer, beer, everywhere, but barely a drop being drunk. Not that a bar being empty prohibits drinking there if you really feel like a cold one, but drinking alone in a desolate bar gets old fast.  To be clear on this, though: Salamanca is more than just bars, restaurants and cafes.  There are some lovely parks, and of course the centuries-old University and some equally ancient, incredibly huge and ornate cathedrals.  Also, gift shops.

And to clarify further: It's not that the town is dead before 2.   Far from it.   They don't really go out to drink until late, but there are lots of people out and about at all hours of the night (it's not the least bit unusual to see young kids out for ice cream with their parents at 1 a.m.), particularly at the Plaza Mayor, which is sort of the town center, and fortunately, a five-minute walk for me.  It's basically a big square plaza lined with outdoor cafes.   The square is barren all day and then packed at night, frequently with musical acts, sometimes seemingly in competition with each other.  On my second night here, I counted at least three countries at musical war with each other in the Plaza.   I was surprised a soccer game didn't break out.  (Heh...Sorry.  Of course, I mean "football".)

 Point being, it's not a town, particularly if you have no one to talk to, in which the hours fly by.  Again, not to complain, but just to clarify my state of mind, by the end of the three day weekend, Salamanca was starting to feel like the island on which Patrick MacGoohan was imprisoned.   A pleasant enough place to be trapped, certainly, but how, how in God's name to fill all these hours?   So I read, walked around, had a beer, napped, read some more, and counted the hours remaining in the day.  Going out for sodas with Harry  provided the first substantive conversation I'd had in what felt like weeks. (Actually, I'd come to Salamanca after a summer in the even more desolate Las Vegas, so in fact, it probably had been weeks.)  Basically, I was desperate for school to start, praying that it would provide me with, among other things, some paths to a social life of some sort here.

And it has, to some degree, but the people I've grown the closest to are leaving as I type this, so I don't know how the next two weeks will play out, and now, on top of that, Harry's gone.  But I'm glad I at least learned his name before he left, and without having to ask him.

Weird, though. He really didn't seem like a Harry.