With the end of the Strasbourg Sunday Slump, you'd be forgiven to think that homesickness is a thing of the past for the lonesome European traveller, such as myself. However I have bad news. I'm not immune to the sickness of home, pining for a homecooked meal, a fully stocked fridge and shopkeepers that understand what I mean when I say "hi, do you sell houmous?"
But that isn't the way it goes, and as I sit here eating the last of my rationed McVitie's digestives, drinking tea that I had to make in the microwave - oh the audacity - and having a fight with the IP unblocker trying to catch up on Gogglebox, the slump sets back in. So, with the massive differences between France and Spain, how does this particular sophisticated, witty and modest(?) student deal with the inevitable bout of homesickness?
As we should all be aware by now, I really REALLY like shopping. I shop a lot. I buy clothes and make-up A LOT. This is starting to sound like the beginning of the film Confessions of a Shopaholic, but for me, nothing is nicer than a new lippy, or strolling through Madrid with a Starbucks and getting mightily sidetracked by Bershka (they only have one in the UK mum, you must understand!). It's just a nice bit of retail therapy. But when I realise there's things I actually have to buy, like food and books and the odd postcard - or seven - it's time to reel in the splurges of new dresses and eyeliners and think of something new. Which I found, bizarrely in the last place I thought I would.
Strasbourg had several Irish Pubs and Bars. One was two doors down from my apartment, and our other local was a two minute walk. Here in Alcalá, there's one run by my favourite people on the planet, George and his wife, who's name none of us remember. Free popcorn and crisps on demand, €2 drinks, karaoke nights (yes, I have performed numerous times and regret none, I have many more tunes to grace the stage with) and the most keen and enthusiastic Erasmus coordinator with the best memory for names I have ever met. Don't even get me started on the weekend I spent in the most glaringly obvious Irish pub in the centre of Madrid, where when trying to find it, my thought process was: "hmm, it's down this street, I'll have to keep a look out for the na...OH WAIT, could it possibly be the place with the person-sized Irish flags and Guinness sign? That place called O'Neill's?" It was. Which is where I got very passionate about rugby, even learning what a conversion was. Get me.
Which is why I think the best thing for a Spanish Slump, or any slump really, is an Irish Bar. And in a place like O'Neill's, you might just learn a little something, to be sure.
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