The Final Countdown (Oh, I slay myself)

For God’s sake. No sooner do these drops banish the painful otitis to the hell from whence they came, then the phlegm and the stuffiness returns with a vengeance.

This is getting beyond a joke now; I’m rarely ill, but I have been ill without respite for two months now from various things. The antibiotics I’m taking may not work on the phlegm rubbishness, but they’ll work on the otitis, the fungal infection and the nausea. I’m twenty-three, for God’s sake! I shouldn’t be this ill for so long—I’ve got plenty of that to come in old age. Er, touch wood.

Ach, well. As long as I’m okay enough to be prancing down Las Ramblas and eating my tapas and drinking Sangria on Monday, that’s enough.

Speaking of the impending Spanish trip, I e-mailed the hotel where jaffacakequeen and I are staying in Spain. My brother translated my letter into Spanish for me and I sent it off.

Got a reply. In Catalan. They had understood everything I wrote, they knew I was English and therefore speaking any form of Spanish was a triumph for me, yet they replied in Catalan. >:

Fortunately, my brother understood that, too, and translated for me. I looked online and found out from other reviews that they have a habit of refusing to speak anything other than Catalan at that hotel. Fine, be proud of your heritage and language-- but dude, don't annoy the very people who keep you business!

Unfortunately, I don’t think my Castillan Spanish is going to go down well with them. Ah, well. I can always do the ignorant tourist thing and just launch into English with them.