Making my way through the mediteranean metropolis of Palma de Mallorca by most eloquently asking for directions on the street I eventually managed to attend the intensive spanish course which would - hopefully - earn me the scholarship for september. Not having any clue I consequently entered a classroom for intermedios basicos where I - starting to memorize all numbers from 100 to a thousand in spanish - felt quite comfy! Unfortunately some observant teacher stuck me into the course for intermedios superiores some three days later. But it goes without saying that I managed to have a fairly pleasant time at this class full of female russian language students and spanish-freshmen. Not fooling away my money I got to know two pretty hidious slovenian guys who - not having neither any clue of spanish-language nor of finding a residence in this mere catalan city - exhibited a quite familiar style of humor when trying to speak german after having a cup of coffee in our descretely extended lunch brake.
Knowing about not having a chance of getting laid with one of the frigid russians I hopped on the next opportunity of spendig some fun-time in Palma and joined Matjaz and Bojan on their adventurous ride to the university. As these two master’s students had come to Mallorca by car we - once again - challenged the incredible road network where Matjaz, Bojan (aka Trifko) and I figured out how mallorquin style of driving really must be tought in driving-schools:

So, Maria-Magdalena-Veronica-Ana-Martina-Sonia. Brauchst di ned fürchten vorm Fahren, wir gehen’s ganz langsam an… Schau - gehst langsam runter von der Kupplung, gibst a bissl Gas beim Wegfahren und !”%!(% SCHNEIDST DEN WAPPLER DER GRAD AUF DER RECHTEN SPUR IM KREISVERKEHR FÄHRT DAMITST DIE AUSFAHRT ERWISCHST (%&”/!”&
Na schau, woar ja scho’ ganz guat.

It goes without saying that slovenians are quite familiar with this style of driving. Therefor after checking out the strategically carefully picked location of the university campus of the UIB, 7.5km outside the city, we kept going, finally deciding to move in together for the following couple of months. Wisely having delayed signing the contract for my first apartment I was free to join these two crazy chicks on a tour through the most fancy districts of Palma looking for a mansion that would fit their expectations. Of course I was the only one mildly understanding what newspaper ads and shields hanging on diverse balconies were saying, so I was officially announced austrian translation machine. Three tough days of driving around the city, entering derelicted buildings, calling landlord after landlord and real estate agency after real estate agency where followed by pure agony and chronic remorse… more to come

So this is what I do… three and a half weeks after the arrival at my island I haven’t eaten much, or gone to see the city. Basically I’m living on a terrace somewhere half way between Palma and the Airport, but hey - what the hell… I got internet!! Looks like three weeks of abstinence and abslolute abstemiousness of alcohol or partying finally paid off!

But well - let’s have a look. Tremendous exaggeration doesn’t take us nowhere. So here’s what really happened:
I got to Palma on September 3rd - all alone, all lost in a city where they even pronounce prevalent names like Burgerking or Microsoft in odd ways of twisting tongues. Luckily a nice mallorquin guy had supported me with just enough information to manage one third of my way to the apartement I rented via telephone some days ago. Since I had to agree on switching rooms with some funny spanish who instantly didn’t want to move out of the 300m² flat I rented a room at primarily I was excessively delighted that Arturo had found me some other place to crash at: 200m², two french, two spanish and me, next to Placa d’España (somehow the Westbahnhof located on a kind of Gürtel-like ring around the inner city). So there I was. Calling my landlord trying to figure out how to find the very street I was supposed to be at one-and-a-half hours earlier I ended up taking a cab to go like five times around one block to access the ludicrous one-way-system of Palma de Mallorca the right way and to stop just 120m from where I first jumped on the taxi… generously paying 6,50 EUR of course (since I had two suitcases an obviously reasonable sum).
Entering the apartment in C./ Patronat Obrero No.28 I was fairly impressed by the palace-like look of my accomodation - not that it was that big, but as empty and cold as the entrance hall of an medieval castle with rooms the size of one of these fancy little dungeons we all got to appreciate so much watching 1960’s bw-knights-movies. Luckily the french (and only) guy I met there within the following four days was sincere enough to demonstrate his interest in my arrival by going to bed right after I entered the flat. Thus I grabbed the Mallorca-GuideBook my lovely mum got me the other day to figure out how to get to the institute the next morning, where I was supposed to start my spanish course last friday. Cozily snuggling on the diligently placed pallet in my room I fell asleep right after the gastly beeping noise coming from some construction site hushed.