A minutae of your time

Wow, 8am’s really do suck. And lack of sleep sucks even more. I’ve often wondered about that fabled 7.30, which is the middle of the night as far as I’m concerned, since prior to London I hadn’t seen that many 7.30’s since school. I’m on 4 hours of sleep, and the sheer magnitude of alarms buzzing is what has managed to get me out of bed. First, there was cool dudes’, and I’m starting to get the impression that he might not be home, since his alarm is still blaring. Then, there was mine, and 30 seconds later (not scientifically measurable when you’re in bed, but I felt like a wanker if I had to say "some indeterminate amount of time between 8am according to my clock and 8am according to Ángel’s") Ángel’s alarm went off. 25 minutes later I was awake, typing away saying "I’m not going to uni today", but sheer stubborness (and that I’ve missed too many classes already, and the idea of going to sleep with cool dudes’ alarm still going off seems to warrant another use of the ‘suck’ phrase) got my ass out of bed.


But problems arise immediately, as I realise that airport security stole my water bottle (blackmarket water bottles and deoderant, anyone?). So, what to use as a back-up . . . the mouth wash bottle? Nah. The empty bottle of water? If anyone saw me swigging out of that in the cafeteria I’d have to tell them that I was Irish ("but it’s vodka." "Yeah, uh, the Irish invented vodka." "The Irish invented Smirnoff?" "They sure did." "I really don’t think they did." "No, see here, where it says ‘bottled in Latvia? That’s a province just south of Dublin."). I opt with having to buy a coke at lunch time.

I set out with my trusty camera, and it's off to the metro I go.




Of course, I start the day missing the metro (it wasn't because I was taking this photo), which in turn makes me miss my train. Going to be late. Crapola.




El metro, y el tren.


While at Getafe station I notice two things: first is a girl in high heels obviously very fashion concious, and yet she’s wearing MC Hammer pants. Her ass looks like it’s hanging around her knees. I opt not to take a photo of this, as taking pictures of a random girl’s butt is by and large not a good idea unless it’s Thursday. The second thing I notice is a cute girl who I’ve seen before at the station. I guess she missed her train too. She looks like a brunette Russian, and makes me wonder if I’m in any of her classes, as I’m having a bad case of "hey, you look familiar, but I don’t know where from."


One thing saves my morning from sucking: starburst! Bought in Oxford, smuggled onto the plane and abandoned in my jacket, I find that I have enough to keep me going for a while. So I’m stuck on the train for 28 minutes, and it occurs to me that I need a book. Or a newspaper. There’s usually a newspaper around here somewhere, but not today. I also see a girl with the same fashion sense as Magda and decide that they’re both Polish. As I’m heading into Nuevos Ministerios my mind wanders onto superpowers, the most useful at this hour would be teleport. Who wouldn’t like an extra hour in bed? Yeah.


As I head onto the metro this guy tries to budge infront of me on the escalator but I’m too quick. Denied! Remarkably, despite being late, I arrive to class early. I forget that there’s a bus service to my building, so must use that the next time I am genuinely late.


Within ten minutes of Coloquial Español the unthinkable happens . . . my pen explodes. My left hand looks like it’s come from a Nigerian who’s been attacked by a BBQ and then by punks with black spray paint. Yeah, the euphoria of starbursts are starting to wear off. It was around that time that the girl next to me turned and said "hey, you’ve got weezil’s on your face."


The class was long and dull, but surprisingly useful. The next class, Italian cinema, was a baffling mystery. Last Tuesday we had a new lecturer who said that she’d be taking over, and redesigning the course structure after complaints against the former lecturer. And yet our former professora arrives as if nothing has happened and goes back to the old system. That was confusing point number 1. Number 2 was when she popped in The Legend of 1900, an American film dubbed into Spanish, and then she leaves the room AND DOESN’T COME BACK. Whack-job. So we’re watching Tim Roth play the piano and the only link this has to Italian cinema is that the director is Italian. And one of the hobos says something in Italian as well, but that’s about it.
1pm – starving, and shovel food into my face in one of our many cafeteria’s. This is the nicer one, but more expensive, but as a result it’s not as packed as the others. I also snap off a few shots of my faculty. 4 main buildings, lots of fucking stairs, 3 or 4 cafeteria’s, more libraries, and several thousand students.




One of many hallways, one of many classrooms. Notice the convenient seating arrangement, meaning that if you're in the middle, you are TRAPPED. In other classrooms this can mean that you have six people on either side of you.


A word on fashion here: dreadlocks are in. Mullets are in. Rat’s tails are in. And to cap it off: a single dreadlock at some weird angle is in. Use your imagination – it’s awful.





I have two classes in this building, one being on the fourth floor.

You see that monolith in the distance? I have a class in there. The building on right in the middle pic is where I have lunch, and you see those freaking stairs? Yeah. There are tonnes of them. So, I have to get from the lower floors of the monolith to the 2nd floor of the building just above these three, up all those stairs, and do it within 5 minutes.

As tiredness is kicking in I start to think about the Top Gear episode that awaits, and then hunker down for lunch part deux with the French – Camille and Oceane. We have but half an hour and they death stare me when I produce a camera. Apparently it’s bad hair day and there were some comments about balls being stapled to the ceiling, or at least that’s what I imagine they were saying.

Cokey goodness while staring into an Italian textbook, and one of the nicer cafeteria's on campus.

Italian suckd again. Here’s why: imagine learning a foreign language from someone who doesn’t slow down, doesn’t explain, doesn’t use gestures (and somehow she’s Italian), no drawing, but instead will repeat the phrase or word until she’s satisfied that you can say it, regardless if you know what you’re talking about. If I didn’t have 40 Italian friends here I’d say "balls to this, I’m leaving." But the Italians are nice, I just happen to have a dud of a teacher.

Home! Clean up the lounge as it’s my turn, watch Top Gear, laugh, load photos, listen to music, and wonder if my eyes are about to implode from tiredness.