Crossing the Desert

So, the trip to Cambridge brought upon some unlucky consequences. The first of them being that the city itself is not as magical or appealing as it was before I actually went there. Reminds me a lot of Coimbra - an old traditional city that breathes from the undergrad students' life. Cambridge is very alike, with a parallel culture of colleges, balls and parties, made by and for the college students. And, boy, may I tell you, those parties are hideous. Another thing, the youth in Cambridge and the not-so-youth in Cambridge are two tottally distinct layers of society. While the later is unusually well-behaved and nice - the first is a modern portrait of scumbaginess, especially the girls, that seem to dress like cheap whores, almost every single one of them, whose only purpose is to show as much leg and boob as they can, with no aesthetic regard whatsoever.

All things considered, for someone who would drop there on a parachute, doesn't seem like the best of places to be spending three years.

But the worse thing was that I spent most of the time there sick. It all began with small shivers and the occasional fever, evolving to air shortage and blurred vision. Everything while on of my travelmates pushed us through endless and endless walks through the city, when all I yearned was for a bed. It wasn't pretty and I don't plan on repeating a trip under those conditions again.

When I came back to Portugal, things only got worse. My throat and tongue swollened to gargantuan levels and little white dots sprouted everywhere. I had fevers as high as 39.7ºC and, with the tireless help of my sweet girlfriend, managed to cope with the first day and a half. Then, I went to the doctor. Apparently, the closest hospital with an emergy service from where I live is Santa Maria, a huge general hospital. Like I feared, ER in a general hospital is messy, fast and with low quality. The doctor barely saw me or talked to me, the blood analysis was the basic-est of basics and the waiting times were painfully long.

After returning home with a brand new package of antibiotics, yet another great thing happened. Taking advantage of the antibiotic regime, a nice bunch of fungi invaded my tongue and mucosa, making the single act of eating an experience as painful as carving needles on your own mouth. So, here I am, not knowing what's a solid piece of food since Tuesday, and yet not knowing when I will. The doctor in Guarda, who I went to see yesterday, was much more polite and attentive than the Lisbon one, prescribed me with antifungics and something to gargle, and motivated me on holding on just 4 or 5 more days.

It's being a hell of a week. Can't wait for all this to end...