My friend Jon had an interesting comment to my last post. He said:

Unfortunately Jon, you’ve missed the boat on this one.

It’s not that I’ve stayed in academia because I’m not sure what else is out there, or that I’m timid of leaving school. I’ve stayed in academia because that’s been Plan A all along. For the most part, I enjoy the system.

In fact, I think life would be a helluva lot easier if I decided to go work as a mathematician in industry. The opportunities are more numerous, the pay and benefits are much better, and I think my personality is slightly better suited for life outside the ivory tower (though the longer I stay in the system, the harder it becomes to differentiate the part of my personality that is inherit and the part that is molded by the system).

Do you remember when our teachers were giving speeches on our behalf at our high-school graduation? Do you remember what mine said about me? (Of course not). She said, “I’m pretty sure he’ll be staying in school his entire life.”

She didn’t mean it as an insult or a joke, but as a statement of fact. Even then, I was sure of my career path. We’re all so confused about what we want to do in life at that age, but I sure as hell wasn’t.

And even now, minus some small quibbles, I’m still pretty damn sure. Almost everybody I know has had to go through revisions in their Plan (with a capital ‘P’!). Very few undergraduate students who once imagined themselves doing a postgraduate degree end up doing one. And yes, a lot of postgraduate students are doing their degree out of confusion about what else to do in life.

But for me it’s always been Plan A. There is no Plan B.

It just occurred to me that I’m supposed to be ready to graduate next year.

Yes, that’s right. Next year, at this time, I’ll be let go—to either spread my wings and fly, or to plummet to my doom.

And then to a lifetime of sitting in coffee-shops, hopelessly trying to convince chicks that being a doctor in maths is just as good as being of the sort that wear stethoscopes and run around in hospitals.

(We save lives, you know. Every friggin’ day.)

Where did time go?

I don’t feel ready for this. High school was only five years ago. I still remember it so well. I’m still living in the past. I’m not ready to grow up.

Aha.

There’s nothing like the bewilderingly cold grip of panic and the firm grip of fear to put your ass in gear.

I need to make more time in my life.

To do…y’know other stuff.

The next two Spain travel logs should be coming in from my travel companions. Please heap all complaints about “why is it taking so long?”, onto them.

*Snigger*

June 22: Barcelona, Spain

“Those white pants are what gives Phil his super powers” (Neil, in Spain)

Before I came to Spain, I purchased a pair of white linen pants from Marks and Spencer.

They were awesome. Beyond awesome.

So awesome that when I first wore them in Spain, I couldn’t stop raving about their awesomeness. (E.g. “I’m going to wear these pants every single day for the rest of my life”).

They were airy, breezy, cool, and let’s be honest, made my butt look good.

Those trousers were so awesome, in fact, that both my travel companions decided they needed trousers just like mine.

(“We can’t all wear the same thing,” I said exasperatedly).

Barcelona, then, originally planned as a 1-day pit stop before France, ended up as a 1-day mission to find two pairs of white pants.

“They’re not quite the same as yours,” Neil said, posing in his new pants, twisting and turning before the mirror.

“How very European,” I said.

The city of Barcelona—from what we could see, which is to say, very little—is a lot like Montreal: A bustling metropolitan area, mixing the old with the new, plenty of cafes and restaurants and transit systems, and shops upon shops upon shops.

Other than the partially successful mission to locate two pairs of white trousers, there was little we could do since we were still lugging around our possessions. Barcelona was only a stop on our way to France. Dan had already spent some time here, and we were all eager to spend time with the French.

I do remember a few things. Dan wanted to visit the Plaza de Toros Monumental de Barcelona, an interesting brick building, constructed with a mixture of Moor and Byzantine influence, and known as the unique location in Barcelona where bullfighting events are held.

And then we headed to the train station, where we discovered that there were no more train tickets to Narbonne, France, and we would have to take a bus there.

So we had to wait. Until 1 AM.

We explored the area near the bus station, which was a little bit farther away from downtown, but still not suburbia. We stopped by the supermarket, bought milk, cheese, bread, and cherries — then ate dinner, sitting on a bench and watching the world go by.

I suppose for the people that passed before us, it was rather amusing to see a white guy, an indian guy, and an asian guy, all speaking with American accents, sitting on a bench with backpacks and suitcases arranged all around, and passing each other plastic cups filled with what looked suspiciously liked white skim milk.

You just don’t get that kind of wholesome fun these days.

Time for a lesson in logic:

We made it to the bus station on time.

The bus left for Narbonne on time.

The bus arrived in Narbonne on time.

We did not arrive in Narbonne on time.

June 19-22: Lloret de Mar, Spain

“Okay,” Dan said, turning around mid-stride to stare at me and Neil, who were characteristically trailing behind, “Does everyone have their soap packets?”

At that particular moment, we were walking back to our hotel, located in the resort town of Lloret del Mar, on the eastern coast of Spain.

We were also out of soap.

Hence the question about soap packets, which we had acquired earlier from the hotel management and, not wanting to return to our rooms, decided to cart them around for the rest of the day.

I felt around in my rear pocket. “Yeah.”

Neil patted his shorts. “Um…,” he said, “I think I lost mine.”

We all groaned. For whatever reason, soap was hard to come by in Spain, especially in a resort town.

This predicament, by the way, would be remedied in unimaginably wondrous ways when we purchased—for the bargain price of 2.50 Euros—what was to be known for the duration of the trip as the Holy Grail of liquid soap.

But more on that later.

Lloret de Mar was not my kind of place.

By day, it was a beach town. Near the hotel, there were two beaches we frequented. They were filled with frat-boy-looking twenty-somethings, attractive tanned women, and a fair number of orange-skinned retirees.

By night, the old men and women, and children all retired to their rooms, and the night-life began. Of course, by night-life, I mean lots of noisy clubs with rainbow strobey light and thumpidy-thump music, and scantily clad women, dressed in intriguing furry boots.

“Do you want to see tits?”, someone waving a handful of pamphlets asked as we walked by.

“Sorry,” Neil grunted, “We’re going somewhere.”

He persisted. “You don’t like big tits?” he asked Dan.

“I love—love—big tits,” Dan said (a little bit too enthusiastically), “But we’re going somewhere.”

I just smiled at the man and said nothing.

I remember two things about our brief stint in Lloret de Mar.

The first had me and Neil waking up at 4:50 AM and walking to the main beach, just so I could get some photos of the sunrise. You don’t get those kinds of sunrises in Oxford or London— you know, the kind where the sun peaks over the ocean, and golden rays stream towards you, glittering off the water. What a sight!

My second memory was of the three of us, sitting at the outside patio of our hotel, enjoying the night breeze, and enjoying a rather large bottle of Canadian Whiskey we’d bought for 10 Euros at the local supermarket (alcohol here was nearly cheaper than water). Most of the hotels inhabitants were gone, and it was just us, a bottle of booze, and more snacks than you could shake a fist at.

After Lloret de Mar, we headed towards Barcelona.