And it was goodbye from me…

Before deciding on my next port of call, some thought had to be given as to what exactly I was going to do when I got there.

Although waitressing and bar work had been instrumental in improving my language skills and plumping up my bank account, I had really had about enough of it. Besides, the unsightly thread veins making their presence felt from standing fourteen hours a day were even more undesirable now I was newly single.

Yes, it was definitely time to find something a little more civilised to do with my working day.

It was my dear mother who provided me with an alternative – English teaching. Certainly it appeared to be a skill that would travel, as well as being an excellent way of meeting people; so before I could change my mind, I signed myself up for an intensive TESOL course (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages) near Nottingham.

It would entail at least a month spent in Blighty eating some of those wonderful crumpets… what? sorry, I meant studying ferociously; but where was I going to go after that?

Getting away from the superficial nature of the tourist industry and trying for a more cultured existence somewhere on mainland Spain was what appealed most, and then it came to me: I would go to Granada

I had already met enough ‘granadinos’, and ‘andaluces’ in general, to know that I enjoyed the company of the more laid-back souls who hailed from the South. The city was not on the coast, it was a popular university town and offered a wealth of history having been the last bastion of the Moors in the Reconquest of Spain by the Catholic Kings.

The only aspect of my chosen destination that might have raised a questioning eyebrow or two, was Manolo.

In light of everything that had transpired between me and the faithless gypsy, it may seem odd that I was prepared to choose Granada. But with his family living over an hour from the city in the small village of La Peza, I reckoned on the chances of us bumping into each other in the street being minimal enough to render it a pretty safe option.

So Granada it was.

And with that came another idea: why not take the opportunity of being in such a learned environment, and in possession of bank account plump with two season’s worth of practically untouched wages (it’s hard to find time to spend when you are at work seven days a week…), to take a Spanish course ensuring all my grammar, learnt thus far by ear alone, was actually correct?

And then at the end of it, why not take a Spanish exam to prove my competence in the language?

With plans for self-improvement flowing thick and fast; any sadness at the thought of leaving the island that had been my home for almost two years was swept clean away on a rip-tide of adrenalin and excitement.

The time in Mallorca had been the most incredible experience, and one that I knew could never really be repeated no matter where I found myself in the future –  memories of the excitement involved in turning my life around in the context of a new country, and in a new language, was something that would stay with me forever; the more unpleasant aspects of the previous two seasons fading into nothing more than an atmospheric backdrop to a coming of age.

Rubia (the pronunciation of my name was a little beyond many Spaniards, so they stuck safely to ‘Blondie’) had achieved what she had hoped to achieve: a bucket load of new experiences, a smidgen of added maturity and a surprisingly reasonable level of spoken Spanish.

It was at that point, and with my departure looming, that I developed an unhealthy obsession with photography.

For days at a time I could be found wandering the streets; camera slung around neck like a Japanese tourist, snapping at every swooping seagull, every familiar street and building, every sunrise and every sunset that I happened across.

I tracked down all the characters I had come into contact with in and around Puerto Alcúdia, (with the exception of those lucky tourists who had benefited from my waitressing ministrations) – Fatima, the fat jolly Senegalese lady who braided and beaded the holidaymakers hair, Jesús who sat outside restaurants and drew wonderful caricatures for giggling customers, Carmen and her delightful husband Javier who ran La Barca, Francisco and Francisca the only locals who regularly drank at my last place of work, Paco and his family, Angela who sold t-shirts, Cristina who sold perfume and many, many others.

Bodily forced into posed huddles, they were duly captured for posterity and a big dollop of nostalgia.

It was all so vivid at the time, and yet when I look back over those cheery faces now, it embarrasses me to admit that I can barely put names to most of them; and even when I can remember the names, I have difficulty recalling where we met or the experiences we may have shared.

It would appear that the memories section of the human brain is not infallible, and photograph album labelling – however tedious – a rather useful invention.

Eventually I could put it off no longer: bleary eyed and with a painfully thumping head to remind me of the riotous and boozy send-off I was treated to from friends and acquaintances the previous evening, I packed myself and my belongings into a taxi, and set off towards Palma airport – destination Granada and stage two of my Spanish adventure…