All I’ve done this week is lie in bed, attempting my best to not throw up from coughing too hard. So much for my grand European adventure. It seems my body can’t keep up, and the February wind in Madrid is like the knife behind a deceptive veil of 40-something degree weather (or some such metaphoric nonsense). Everyone is going to Seville this weekend, and I will be staying behind, nursing my cough and waiting with squinty, envious eyes for everyone to come back. Maybe I’ll treat myself to a flamenco show and a tasting menu.
I’m waiting to go to a doctor–Dr. Rubén Borrás–who, for such a Spanish-sounding name, has an amazingly genial, American accent over the phone, who told me, “there, there” when I coughed too hard to spell out my last name for him. I can’t wait to be all drugged up so I can step outside the house. Having too much time in bed means (1) I’ve signed up for my own Netflix account and (2) I’m growing more and more depressed and crazy. And–really–those are two qualities of which I already more-than-ample amounts.
On a slightly deeper note, I think the greatest lesson I’ve learned in my time abroad, so far, is that one can never really run from one’s problems, but must turn to face them. Running away from Boston really hasn’t been as significant a change as I thought. It’s my mental state that needs to change, and no amount of romantic cobblestone lanes, grand gothic churches, and places named after Goya can change that.