Some last views of my beautiful city 
Darling, darling Chloe;
A hectic two weeks of relentless travelling hindered production of this essay, which has almost doubled in size in order to include the events post-dating it's primary inscription. I can only apologise for this, as though I had ample time between the illegally acquired internet decided to take it's revenge and restrict any contact in the down-time available between flights.
The past two weeks have included a sum total of eight flights, seven cities and countless rendezvous which have done nothing but increase my happiness levels to an immeasurable high; although I do predict substantial flooding in Santiago after this weekend; the bottled up tears (which surprisingly have not been released for at least a month and a half, an incredible acheivement in my dry-eyes...) will be unleashed on an unprecedented scale as I bid adieu to Santiago and my Spanglish cronies for a month in the south sans internet connection. This, however should pose no grand issue in terms of contact, as due to my fantastic new contract I have 900 minutes reserved for your beautiful ears...
I have played host to my Daddy and his girlfriend, and shown them both Santiago's sights and nearby beaches in a short but sweet visit, allowing for some serious tourism photography, aswell as several shots I am rather proud of when me and Tommy decided to climb a nearby hill in the rain as a hangover cure - it worked fantastically until the sound of nearby motorcross riders had a detrimental effect on our on-edge brains and we utterly convinced ourselves about the existence of a man with a chainsaw through the trees who preyed on Sunday afternoon tourists. I was on the point of ringing my mother to say my goodbyes when we saw the bikes, and even then the inbred visage of the rider had us rooted to the spot as we were convinced he had gone to find his brother/cousin/uncle rolled into one and beat us to a pulp. Happy times. The view from the top, (see above) however, was unbeatable, and the choice of taking the road home eased our troubled minds...
Despite the tristesse of goodbyes, I believe the Erasmus year has run it's course and shall be glad to return to England's fair shores. This is by no means unaided by the spontaneous internal combustion of excitement which next year is causing. This has served to light a fire of ambition under my previously happily sedentary Erasmus behind; a force of energy, which shall be much helped by the introduction of a routine at the camp. The 9 'til 12 days of constant exercise shall slim and tone my beer rounded frame, and I shall return free of my lazy attidue. As we have planned, and as shall be strictly followed, our routine of library and gym attendance shall sculpt our minds and bodies into work-free, intellectually stimulating goddesses at the weekend, smoke-less and lighweight.
After Pangea, and minimal sleep, I made my insomniac way to the airport, and spent the five hour break in Madrid in the glorious sunbathed park, planning the year to come and deciding that I, and hopefully if you should so wish your delightful self, shall plunge full-steam ahead into forging our future careers - I intend to contact the Big Issue North offering my services, and spend any non-studious time in the library writing for them and the student paper. This, of course, after the mandatory perusing of The Times and completion of the crossword.
My visit to Alicante, as well as a break from the harrowing routine of late, drunken nights, opened my eyes to my detiorating attitude to boys. Six of the three of us were happily married, two of us unhappily single. Lauren the third is recently and contendly single, and her stance on the situation left me reconsidering my own. The three in relationships had not been in search of their media-naranja, and had happened upon their soulmates by chance. Their butterfly-filled lives reaffirm my faith, whilst leaving me slightly envious. However the stark contrast between the singleton desperately in search of butterflies and she who is happy with her situation decided for me the position I would rather be in. Despite the slight longing for affection there is no doubt in my previously cynical mind that I shall find butterflies along the road, and searching for this where and when possible is only making me lose faith. On this note I journeyed to Barcelona and had the most incredible night at sonar, with not a whisper of boys on my mind, and decided this is the key to contendedness...
On an utterly different note, I am halfway through a Salman Rushdie novel, The Ground Beneath her Feet and strongly recommend it's perusal. I don't know if you are familar with Midnight's Children or The Enchantress of Florence, but if not I shall bring both to our literary abode next year and force them upon you. I have yet to read The Satanic Verses but it is next on my list, and if it lives up to the previous quality of writing and storyline I expect it to be a masterpiece.
Tell me all your news my lovely, only the hope of our lovenest next year is keeping the pain of completing my time here at bay.
Yours adoringly,
Hannah xxx
Tourism snaps from Daddy's visit
