"You must not mention the war, never the war, must not not NOT exacerbate tensions between Germany and Britain at this time of fiscal uncertainty in the Eurozone...and while you're at it, leave the Jews out of it too."
Thus is my preparation for mein very first trip to the Fatherland and if you think careless humour at the expense of one of the darkest hours of Europe's troubled history constitutes a dreadful lack of respect for the sensitivity of the subject you can sod right off because there's plenty more non-PC merriment where that Fawlty Towers reference came from.
Yes, no sooner am I back in Madrid than we are off on our grand Abenteuer across the Alps to a land flowing with...well if not milk and honey then plenty of beer and bratwurst! We've been talking to each other in our best German....accents (well, its all about getting into the spirit of the thing) for the last month and the stage is set for our journey to Frankfurt Christmas markets.
And true to form we are no sooner in the queue for Ryanair discussing the cut and thrust political issues of the day i.e Merkel driving the Euro train all guns blazing into the abyss when one of our party becomes an instant heroine when she utters the thoughtful phrase;
"I mean, what ever happened to not letting Germany take over the world?"
And so it begins. Incidentally, I rather believe Cameron had the same thought last week...
Take off, landing and a couple of hours of sprechensing with a German girl called Teresa later we were in Frankfurt Hahn and were in for a surprise.
Let me clarify; we have not a word of German between us. It was all we could do to stutter out Vier to the bus driver in a tragic attempt to communicate that we would like four tickets to Franfurt centre please (diabolical Michael O'Leary rubbing his hands in glee at his cunning use of satellite airports...airsmallnaturalcoves more like) Thus we were unable to understand any of his furious verbage and gesturing which occured when we hopped on the bus, found no seats, people perched on the steps down to the WC and when we turned around to say "My good man, there is no space for us weary travellers!" what came out was "Ahhhhhhhhhhh?"
"Seeet, seeeet!"
He wanted us to sit. He had a fearsome moustache. And so sit we did. In the aisle of the coach, for two hours into Frankfurt itself. It was like a wonderful hallucinogenic dream and definitely not like being transported. Most certainly not. Why, White Christmas was playing softly on the radio and the lights on the Autobahn seemed almost like the twinkling of Christmas trees. The occasional elbow in the back of the head nonwithstanding, its always nice to try new seating arrangements.
Frankfurt am Main (or Main-hattan given the striking cluster of skyscrapers which give a very New York-esque skyline) has definitely gotten into the Yuletide spirit by going mad on wee twinkling lights and an iciness that threatened to crystalise our bone marrow. Even the Christmas trees were freezing their baubels off. But that did not deter us as we tottered up to our hostel to be greeted with the first clue of exactly what sort of trip this would be.
WOS! World Of Sex! Peep shows daily! Unpronounceable German of a dirty nature!
Granted, the fact that we play Spot a Prozzie for teh lolz on any given Madrileno night should have long ago stripped us of any residual squeamishness about a sex shop next door and to be fair we were most appreciative that the mannequinns were themselves in a holiday mood dressed up like Mrs Claus after half a bottle of vodka and and a twinkle in Mr Claus' eye. But still...
The second clue came as we tottered up to our dorm room. Twas my first experience of a dorm room. I had great expectations of making friends from around the world, of like minded eurotripping individuals...of perhaps sleeping with my passport and euros secreted about my person. What I, nay, none of us were prepared for was Crazy Wolfgang.
Picture it if you will; we're all sitting on bunk beds, planning dinner when the door clicks ominously and He enters; giving the phrase two left feet new and terrible meaning. He is cloaked in weirdness and a fog of cigarette smoke and cheap beer. He appears to be as old as time itself. He raises his head, cocks it to one side and sways at us like a snake charmer.
"British?"
We make no reply. The silence that follows this query is loud yet nevertheless you can hear four young female minds panicking at once. It sounds rather like mice screaming.
"You like this?"
He thrusts a CD case at us, waving it like twas the Stone Tablets and he was Moses. We had to say yes, those plastic things have sharp edges. We were all staring at a pink cover emblazoned with a name resembling Chumbawumba wondering if we could get away with replying "British yes, and we got the damn Yanks involved the last time you people tried something like this so piss off!"
The Great and Terrible Wolfgang then decided to stagger off for a while; in which time some of us ran down and had urgent lawyerly chat with reception and the rest of us wondered about using some chalk to draw a sort of Maginot Line or at least learn to sleep with one eye open.
Relocation, relocation later we were ready to hit the town, lack of German regardless and find a recommended restaurant we had high hopes for. Now the normal setbacks occurred; indeciphirable maps, crazy men headbutting tram signs and jabbering away at us and the like but eventually we rocked up at a dark little tavern with the name "Proletariat" proudly displayed ouside.
Inside we were greeted by a man with the most beautifully done make up I've ever seen in my life. I was tempted to ask where he'd got that just-so shade of Cherry Plum. He wore black and held himself in the manner of kings. For the sake of cultural mick-taking lets call him Fritz.
Fritz let forth a stream of German. We hold our own;
"Veir" we counter proudly; indeed there are four of us, now he must lead us to a four seater table. Easy peasey ja!
I say table, I mean bench of scrubbed dark wood with trestle chairs. The tavern is lit by candle bulbs, there are exposed beams of wood, gingham curtains, eartherware jugs and a hum of chatter in German which lets us know we are in for an authentic night. And so we find that Fritz not only speaks English but can recommend us specialities. I opt for the schnitzel; in poetry speak, I'm feeling the food, not German, no good.
Schnitzel turns out to be breaded chicken and not something like jellied goose livers and it is the first time in the history of comedic writing that such a circumstance has produced disappointment. However the green sauce with it is yummy and germanic and complements the chicken so well its almost like it wants to get it into bed.
But the schnitzel is nothing, nothing (yes I Bold and Italiced) compared to the Apfelwei or apple wine. This substance is served in large stoneware jugs painted blue and goes down a treat. We are asked would we like some soda water with it. We wonder why. Fritz informs us it is to dilute the wine. We look at him as though he has sprouted another effeminately painted head. Dilute the wine? Certainly not. It is then that Fritz chuckles and informs us of an old German phrase "The liver grows with practice." It is then I glance around and note that every table has bottles of soda water surrounding one lone jug. I then stare thoughtfully at our now diminished second pitcher of apfelwei and wonder if this is one of those times when we feel sober as judges until the time comes to get up whereupon we feel dizzy, black out and wake up in French Legion uniform on a steamship to Calcutta.
Dinner comsumer, free chocolate pudding from Fritz om-nommed, bill paid we wander back into the frosty German night to make our way back to our hostel on Kaiserstrauss which we will later come to learn is the vice trade, red light, repent ye sinners centre of Frankfurt am Main.
But to get to that later you'll have to tune in next time where you will find debuachery, political protest, culture, Christmas spirit(s) and much more lurking in the city where any citizen would be proud to proclaim "Ich bin ein Frankenfurter!"
xo
Wednesday 14 December 2011
Sunday 4 December 2011
Franco my dear, I don't give a damn
"Shake, shake, shake señora; shake ya body line!"
Back in the USSR boy...that is to say in Banco de España Metro station where three lads, possibly from Jamaica, possibly taking the piss, are giving the steel drums the beating usually reserved for Rangers fans who, after stumbling the wrong way out the pub, drunkenly find themselves looking at a sign saying Falls Road. Well, would be if the sign weren't covered by a tricolour. There, Harry Belafonte, the Beatles and Northern Irish political homour all in one. Who says you don't get value for money?
Anyway I wouldn't mention the dynamic trio but relentless Caribbean rhythms coupled with a now rare sunshiney afternoon have induced me to just go for it and shuffle out a one-two step while going past them. They love it and Award for Most Dreadlocks gives an extra special drum roll. Fellow metro passengers suspect I may be higher than a kite.
Of course we're back in Madrid!
But all is not well in the Pridelands, Simba. The term "credit crunch" has been given a new and dreadful meaning as a series of unfortunate events conspire to leave us pondering the ultimate "get 40 credits or its strike, yer out" from Cambridge, there is the curious case of the noises in the nighttime coupled with the magically disappearing electricity bills. Roll up roll up folks, see the mysteries of Spanish banking. Watch as we transfer money to Natural Gas, marvel as you continue to recieve notices of payment due!
There's the Virgin Mary perched atop the fuse box we are afeared to take down least the "electric seetiation" gets any worse (blog soon to be available in Ulster Scots). There's the sensation of sheer defeat as we turn our radiators on and don winter coats in the capital of "sunny Spain." One enterprising chappie has scratched the "S" off the tourism board's disgustingly cheery motto leaving the slogan "Smile, you are in pain." Well done that man; its enough to make you want to take your Erasmus grant and run off to Benidorm; sun loungers, Irish bars, expats, you name it, we've got the stereotype! Ah, maybe in the interests of plausible deniability you should all forget I was drawing up this grand scheme.
But not to worry, as Jane Austen said, "Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery!" Or other keyboards and it is on that note that I must draw your attention to an astounding bit of good news and a bit of an in joke!
It all started when I wandered into that famous Starbucks, the friendliest in the world, last week. I had been overjoyed to see their Holiday menu proudly displayed on a cheery green and red background and had at last, seeing as it was now December, decided I could now treat meself to a Toffee Nut Latté.
I wandered in, shrugged off my coat and, like Houdini sauntering out of the audience after they've seen the chest he was locked in crushed under a ton of steel, the response was instantaneous...
"H'Aileen!! Pero, adonde te has escondido? Pues, no importa mujer, que hay?
Aileen! Where have you been hiding? Ah, sure it doesn't matter, what's new?
At once, I was wracked with a terrible realisation! The dear staff of Starbucks hadn't seen me in a month for when my darling relatives came over in the autumn time they brought me a laptop! A laptop to swap with my own poor excuse for an internet-recieving model! One day I'm a regular caffeine addict tapping out entries from my seat in the corner and ordering "lo normal" my usual, the next I've woken up on my bed, still fully clothed, cradling the laptop, surrounded by Stumbleupon, Facebook, Sporcle, Wiki, Imdb, Watchseries and all sorts of unbelieveable internet garbage. I had abandoned my beloved Starbucks! Of course explaining all this requires an advanced level of Spanish or at least the will to communicate so I summoned my best "sorry to have jilted you" smile and uttered;
"Que hay? Pues, parece que hay Navidad! Teneis el toffe nut latté? No lo hubiera perdido por nada!"
What's new? Christmas is here! Do you have the toffee nut latté? I wouldn't miss it for the world."
And so all was well.
Apart from that there's quite a lot to get caught up on! I realise Paris took over from those heady days of Halloween and internet explorature (because I don't trust them thar new fangled Chromes and Firefoxes) and so you missed carving pumpkins (messy fun) and introducing Cambridge Formal hall to our piso (even messier fun, damn international rules) and the realisation that if I won the Lottery I would invite the Cambridge expats of Madrid and environs to a lunch on a Wednesday, then triumphantly tell them all to get the f**k home quickly, grab a bag, I've got us flights, hotels and formal tickets WE'RE GOING TO CINDIES TONIGHT!
Then of course, miss out on all of Thursday, come up smiling on Friday morning, gather those that Erasmus made us leave behind in Cambridge then tell them to get the f**k to College quickly, grab a bag, I've got us flights, hotels and as much free entries with chupitos as possible WE'RE GOING TO SPAIN!
Of course, granted by Sunday there would be a lot of confused, still hungover people making an involuntary exchange pan-Europe with no idea where they are nor why they've woken up cuddling a policeman's helmet but sure, that'd be half the fun.
Lessee, what else...There was the switch on of Christmas lights in Sol square, presided over by not even one token celebrity but a sterling mariachi band, finally realising that "Tienes fuego" means "Do you have a light" not the literal translation of "Do you have fire?" thus stopping my reply of "M'not Prometheus mate" and the visits (plural) to the great Prado museum where I saw Goya, Picasso, Monet, Matisse, Caravaggio, Rubens and much much more and what has now become my favourite art gallery. Mind you I could count the number of art galleries I've been to on Captain Hook's remaining fingers. Reason for my fervent admiration is that I've never been so sure the best way to experience a place would be to wait til 'twas empty, then slide across the vast echoing halls of marble on stockinged feet to Shaggy's Mr Bombastic (the Mr Bean version of course). Superb stuff...
But there I leave you, for I am now watching snow sweep across the UK with an expression of glazed horror, occasionally shaking my head and muttering "No, no, no, no, no" for, though at any other time the seasonal precipitation would be welcome, I swear by all the gods I will NOT be snowed into Madrid on Christmas Day." If things should deteriorate so by the 23rd December (otherwise known as date I flee the Iberian penninsula) Ryanair cancels its flights I have already designed my hitchhiking route from Madrid to San Sebastian to Orleans to Paris to Callais to Dover to Birmingham to Holyhead to Dublin to home. And I promise, if this should happen, I will make a special live blog and keep you all updated and amused this Yuletide season.
Before all that though, there is time to worry about getting snowed into Frankfurt which is our destination this weekend and, if all goes well, my first time in Germany should make for an interesting blog.
xo
Back in the USSR boy...that is to say in Banco de España Metro station where three lads, possibly from Jamaica, possibly taking the piss, are giving the steel drums the beating usually reserved for Rangers fans who, after stumbling the wrong way out the pub, drunkenly find themselves looking at a sign saying Falls Road. Well, would be if the sign weren't covered by a tricolour. There, Harry Belafonte, the Beatles and Northern Irish political homour all in one. Who says you don't get value for money?
Anyway I wouldn't mention the dynamic trio but relentless Caribbean rhythms coupled with a now rare sunshiney afternoon have induced me to just go for it and shuffle out a one-two step while going past them. They love it and Award for Most Dreadlocks gives an extra special drum roll. Fellow metro passengers suspect I may be higher than a kite.
Of course we're back in Madrid!
But all is not well in the Pridelands, Simba. The term "credit crunch" has been given a new and dreadful meaning as a series of unfortunate events conspire to leave us pondering the ultimate "get 40 credits or its strike, yer out" from Cambridge, there is the curious case of the noises in the nighttime coupled with the magically disappearing electricity bills. Roll up roll up folks, see the mysteries of Spanish banking. Watch as we transfer money to Natural Gas, marvel as you continue to recieve notices of payment due!
There's the Virgin Mary perched atop the fuse box we are afeared to take down least the "electric seetiation" gets any worse (blog soon to be available in Ulster Scots). There's the sensation of sheer defeat as we turn our radiators on and don winter coats in the capital of "sunny Spain." One enterprising chappie has scratched the "S" off the tourism board's disgustingly cheery motto leaving the slogan "Smile, you are in pain." Well done that man; its enough to make you want to take your Erasmus grant and run off to Benidorm; sun loungers, Irish bars, expats, you name it, we've got the stereotype! Ah, maybe in the interests of plausible deniability you should all forget I was drawing up this grand scheme.
But not to worry, as Jane Austen said, "Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery!" Or other keyboards and it is on that note that I must draw your attention to an astounding bit of good news and a bit of an in joke!
It all started when I wandered into that famous Starbucks, the friendliest in the world, last week. I had been overjoyed to see their Holiday menu proudly displayed on a cheery green and red background and had at last, seeing as it was now December, decided I could now treat meself to a Toffee Nut Latté.
I wandered in, shrugged off my coat and, like Houdini sauntering out of the audience after they've seen the chest he was locked in crushed under a ton of steel, the response was instantaneous...
"H'Aileen!! Pero, adonde te has escondido? Pues, no importa mujer, que hay?
Aileen! Where have you been hiding? Ah, sure it doesn't matter, what's new?
At once, I was wracked with a terrible realisation! The dear staff of Starbucks hadn't seen me in a month for when my darling relatives came over in the autumn time they brought me a laptop! A laptop to swap with my own poor excuse for an internet-recieving model! One day I'm a regular caffeine addict tapping out entries from my seat in the corner and ordering "lo normal" my usual, the next I've woken up on my bed, still fully clothed, cradling the laptop, surrounded by Stumbleupon, Facebook, Sporcle, Wiki, Imdb, Watchseries and all sorts of unbelieveable internet garbage. I had abandoned my beloved Starbucks! Of course explaining all this requires an advanced level of Spanish or at least the will to communicate so I summoned my best "sorry to have jilted you" smile and uttered;
"Que hay? Pues, parece que hay Navidad! Teneis el toffe nut latté? No lo hubiera perdido por nada!"
What's new? Christmas is here! Do you have the toffee nut latté? I wouldn't miss it for the world."
And so all was well.
Apart from that there's quite a lot to get caught up on! I realise Paris took over from those heady days of Halloween and internet explorature (because I don't trust them thar new fangled Chromes and Firefoxes) and so you missed carving pumpkins (messy fun) and introducing Cambridge Formal hall to our piso (even messier fun, damn international rules) and the realisation that if I won the Lottery I would invite the Cambridge expats of Madrid and environs to a lunch on a Wednesday, then triumphantly tell them all to get the f**k home quickly, grab a bag, I've got us flights, hotels and formal tickets WE'RE GOING TO CINDIES TONIGHT!
Then of course, miss out on all of Thursday, come up smiling on Friday morning, gather those that Erasmus made us leave behind in Cambridge then tell them to get the f**k to College quickly, grab a bag, I've got us flights, hotels and as much free entries with chupitos as possible WE'RE GOING TO SPAIN!
Of course, granted by Sunday there would be a lot of confused, still hungover people making an involuntary exchange pan-Europe with no idea where they are nor why they've woken up cuddling a policeman's helmet but sure, that'd be half the fun.
Lessee, what else...There was the switch on of Christmas lights in Sol square, presided over by not even one token celebrity but a sterling mariachi band, finally realising that "Tienes fuego" means "Do you have a light" not the literal translation of "Do you have fire?" thus stopping my reply of "M'not Prometheus mate" and the visits (plural) to the great Prado museum where I saw Goya, Picasso, Monet, Matisse, Caravaggio, Rubens and much much more and what has now become my favourite art gallery. Mind you I could count the number of art galleries I've been to on Captain Hook's remaining fingers. Reason for my fervent admiration is that I've never been so sure the best way to experience a place would be to wait til 'twas empty, then slide across the vast echoing halls of marble on stockinged feet to Shaggy's Mr Bombastic (the Mr Bean version of course). Superb stuff...
But there I leave you, for I am now watching snow sweep across the UK with an expression of glazed horror, occasionally shaking my head and muttering "No, no, no, no, no" for, though at any other time the seasonal precipitation would be welcome, I swear by all the gods I will NOT be snowed into Madrid on Christmas Day." If things should deteriorate so by the 23rd December (otherwise known as date I flee the Iberian penninsula) Ryanair cancels its flights I have already designed my hitchhiking route from Madrid to San Sebastian to Orleans to Paris to Callais to Dover to Birmingham to Holyhead to Dublin to home. And I promise, if this should happen, I will make a special live blog and keep you all updated and amused this Yuletide season.
Before all that though, there is time to worry about getting snowed into Frankfurt which is our destination this weekend and, if all goes well, my first time in Germany should make for an interesting blog.
xo
Thursday 24 November 2011
A Parisian Odyessy Part 3; Notre Damnit it's all so beautiful
Where last I left the constant reader we had just dragged ourselves in at six in the morning, needlessly shushing each other and visions of sugarplums...I mean beds...dancing in our heads. Apologies, that last may have been because the Starbucks at Alonso Martinez has finally brought out its Christmas menu. Yes, I am fully aware we have not yet said goodbye to November. Please. Allow me my simple pleasures in the form of a gingerbread latté in a papercup with all snowflakes on. Anyway, back to Paris.
Alarms were duly set for noon, yet verily was I up and raring to go ten minutes before it sounded. I don't know how, I was operating on six hours sleep in the past fifty-two but perhaps it was my endorphins throwing in the towel and concurring that if we were going to collapse into our club sandwich at lunchtime we may as well enjoy ourselves doing it.
The plan for the day was Montmartre and to meet another dear friend who had found herself living in Paris by various twists of fate. This delightful quartier is found lurking behind the Sacré Coeur and if Galeries Lafayette is Paris in a ballgown, Montmartre and Pigalle is Paris in a negligée. In the former you find the Moulin Rouge, prostitutes a plenty and lots of stange leather things. In the latter you find an abundance of cafés, bookshops and gnarly denizens variously busking or watching life go by. We had a coffee and a tarte au citron of such deliciousness I abandoned all hope of ever finding joy again in Montmarte surrounded by tourists laughing, Parisians smoking and falling autumn leaves. It was all desperate French.
Aprés tout it was time for us to wander back down the white stone steps at the front of the Sacré Coeur to meet my dear hosts in front of yon merry-go-round off of Amelie. This was at first a stroke of romantic genius on my part but failed to take into account the sellers of bracelets
The sellers of bracelets all have terrible grins and stalk around the bottom of the Martyr's Hill (Montmartre) and every so often will lunge at your wrists in an attempt to affix to them a frayed bracelet woven of thread. They will then charge you an exorbitantly high price for this piece of tat which you are unable to get off your wrist given the nature of the knot they have tied. Mainly its best to avoid them at all costs but I am half minded to advise the readership the best course of action is to run screaming at them as one would a flock of belligerent one-eyed Parisian pidgeons. This would be purely for my own amusement and thus very wrong of me. But funny, terribly funny to imagine...
Of course after having made our way down the steps, on my part imaginging if I would roll or bounce witha misplaced foot, we gave the aul gluteals a bit more of a stretch walking up and into the basilica itself. It was (well, presumably still is, though I haven't checked BBC news in a while) beautiful, there was a choir of blessed sisters (collective noun, a superfluity; well I suppose too much is better than nun at all!) and the songs they sang reverberated around so that you could feel them in the soles of your feet. Much nicer than Notre Dame, no hunchbacks though, juts some very nice holy brethren.
Next on our magical mystery tour as the Champs Elysees. Actually it wasn't so mysterious as 'twas my dearest wish to see it and so I dragged everyone to Paris' high street where all shops and things is. But there was Cartier and Swarovski just where a cool young man was bodypopping like there was no tomorrow; Vuitton and Guerlain where we witnessed a Michael Jackson lookalike busting a move in sparkly gloves; at one end you have the Place de la Concorde where despite its name, the guillotine gave Antoinette and Robespierre a short back and sides; and at the other the looms the colossal Arc de Triomph, commissioned by Napoleon who had a lot to compensate for. He was very underwhelming, a disappointment really. Never had any confidence with the ladies. Marie-Louise must a been a patient woman.....to think only five foot six...
Night was once again falling as we made for that glorious staple of student life; pasta in any sort of sauce available and made our plans to head to the cinema. A film all in French! I was astounded to be able to understand any of it, but even more astounded at the prices those damn Frogs will charge for a wee bag of Pick n Mix. Not amused. Even moreso when I compared it to Woolworths, remembered that great emporium had shut up shop as it were and became very melancholy over the recession. But not for long; oh never for long.
Because at last bed beckoned and eight hours sleep were paid to the sleep debt, which never seemed to matter before university, and in the morning it was sunny and clear and I was for a-wandering.
Goodbyes said, it was time to wander round the city on my own. Or at least, within a few streets of Notre Dame. Postcards purchased I was able to find a terribly nice café which outdid itself in coffee and strawberry tarts and I sat next to the window alternately scribbling missives and writing the Parisian Odyessy. I was worried they'd throw me out after an hour, but surely not. A budding Baudelaire staring thoughtfully at a little notebook is excellent for business, I'm amazed they don't hire people to give this exact effect; I'd do it in a minute, it felt like a bohemian rhapsody. And all this was topped by a cherry when a group from Ohio wandered in, guffawing loudly, sat just next to me taking off their coats, knocking my little table in the process and sending my postcards tumbling to the floor which in turn caused the serveur to rush over, not to take their order but to pick up my correspondence and say;
"Les américains, huh? Ne t'en fais pas, petite." (Americans, eh? Pay them no mind darlin.)
Granted it would have been complete idiocy to say this aloud in English. Sarkozy would probably have recieved a sharp note from Obama. But he didn't have to say it at all and after months of "I speek eeenglish, don worry" as an answer to your query said in a foreign language, it was nice to be trusted as a francophone, not a franco-phony.
So I toddled off out of Paris touristland, muttering bye-byes under my breath, and caught the Metro to Porte Maillot where my bus would leave for Beauvais. All was well, followed the signs for Sortie, climbed up the steps, glimpsed the station in the near distance and made my jolly way towards it...until I was stopped by six lanes of inner-city traffic.
Okay, thats all right, I say to myself, I shall walk down to a crossing or some such. Except there is no pavement and the grassland is punctuated by hidden hollows making walking in kitten heels a tightrope act. But verily I see someone mere yards away and assure myself there is indeed an escape.
That is until I've walked for another five minutes and come to the realisation I am in the middle of a massive fecking six lane roundabout with no way out. I've passed the fella with the backpack three times now. We have begun exchanging the flash of smile when two human beings realise that each is in the same awful situation of not knowing what the hell's going on. On the fouth sortie, we stop and shake hands.
"Er, parlez-vous francias? O espanol? Or English even?"
"My English is better than my French, Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"
"Oh, not a word of German I'm afraid. Are you, ah, lost too? I'm Aileen by the way" (well, he was an attractive German)
"Hans Gruber, yeah that about sums it up. Been on this damn roundabout for 35 goddamn minutes. No way out, you see"
"Yes, yes, I know! It's all traffic, not a pedestrian crossing in sight. Shouldn't be allowed. What do we do? What do we do?! Make a break for it? Its our only chance. Let's go!"
"No, no! Calm down mein Freund, already lost an Italian backpacker to a minute sixteen rush of madness. No...we're going to have to play this smart."
Hang on, that may have got a bit out of hand there but it would take a genius who hadn't noticed the Die Hard reference to realise it was not an impeccable narrative of true events. In the end me and a German toruist (called Michael disappointingly enough) decided to boot it across six lanes of traffic in a barely sufficient lull.
The journey home from these places is never really interesting, which is odd because you find thousands of petites moments on the way There, but Back Again was never the thrilling bit of the Bilbo's story. It was all very quiet until I got into 39 Santa Engracia, dropped my bag, wondered if I could be arsed to go make some scrambled eggs, went to switch on my bedroom light which promptly exploded and plunged the whole flat into darkness and ended any chance of hot food. And so the credits roll and the screen fades on a Parisian trilogy, until all that is left is a cinematic
Alarms were duly set for noon, yet verily was I up and raring to go ten minutes before it sounded. I don't know how, I was operating on six hours sleep in the past fifty-two but perhaps it was my endorphins throwing in the towel and concurring that if we were going to collapse into our club sandwich at lunchtime we may as well enjoy ourselves doing it.
The plan for the day was Montmartre and to meet another dear friend who had found herself living in Paris by various twists of fate. This delightful quartier is found lurking behind the Sacré Coeur and if Galeries Lafayette is Paris in a ballgown, Montmartre and Pigalle is Paris in a negligée. In the former you find the Moulin Rouge, prostitutes a plenty and lots of stange leather things. In the latter you find an abundance of cafés, bookshops and gnarly denizens variously busking or watching life go by. We had a coffee and a tarte au citron of such deliciousness I abandoned all hope of ever finding joy again in Montmarte surrounded by tourists laughing, Parisians smoking and falling autumn leaves. It was all desperate French.
Aprés tout it was time for us to wander back down the white stone steps at the front of the Sacré Coeur to meet my dear hosts in front of yon merry-go-round off of Amelie. This was at first a stroke of romantic genius on my part but failed to take into account the sellers of bracelets
The sellers of bracelets all have terrible grins and stalk around the bottom of the Martyr's Hill (Montmartre) and every so often will lunge at your wrists in an attempt to affix to them a frayed bracelet woven of thread. They will then charge you an exorbitantly high price for this piece of tat which you are unable to get off your wrist given the nature of the knot they have tied. Mainly its best to avoid them at all costs but I am half minded to advise the readership the best course of action is to run screaming at them as one would a flock of belligerent one-eyed Parisian pidgeons. This would be purely for my own amusement and thus very wrong of me. But funny, terribly funny to imagine...
Of course after having made our way down the steps, on my part imaginging if I would roll or bounce witha misplaced foot, we gave the aul gluteals a bit more of a stretch walking up and into the basilica itself. It was (well, presumably still is, though I haven't checked BBC news in a while) beautiful, there was a choir of blessed sisters (collective noun, a superfluity; well I suppose too much is better than nun at all!) and the songs they sang reverberated around so that you could feel them in the soles of your feet. Much nicer than Notre Dame, no hunchbacks though, juts some very nice holy brethren.
Next on our magical mystery tour as the Champs Elysees. Actually it wasn't so mysterious as 'twas my dearest wish to see it and so I dragged everyone to Paris' high street where all shops and things is. But there was Cartier and Swarovski just where a cool young man was bodypopping like there was no tomorrow; Vuitton and Guerlain where we witnessed a Michael Jackson lookalike busting a move in sparkly gloves; at one end you have the Place de la Concorde where despite its name, the guillotine gave Antoinette and Robespierre a short back and sides; and at the other the looms the colossal Arc de Triomph, commissioned by Napoleon who had a lot to compensate for. He was very underwhelming, a disappointment really. Never had any confidence with the ladies. Marie-Louise must a been a patient woman.....to think only five foot six...
Night was once again falling as we made for that glorious staple of student life; pasta in any sort of sauce available and made our plans to head to the cinema. A film all in French! I was astounded to be able to understand any of it, but even more astounded at the prices those damn Frogs will charge for a wee bag of Pick n Mix. Not amused. Even moreso when I compared it to Woolworths, remembered that great emporium had shut up shop as it were and became very melancholy over the recession. But not for long; oh never for long.
Because at last bed beckoned and eight hours sleep were paid to the sleep debt, which never seemed to matter before university, and in the morning it was sunny and clear and I was for a-wandering.
Goodbyes said, it was time to wander round the city on my own. Or at least, within a few streets of Notre Dame. Postcards purchased I was able to find a terribly nice café which outdid itself in coffee and strawberry tarts and I sat next to the window alternately scribbling missives and writing the Parisian Odyessy. I was worried they'd throw me out after an hour, but surely not. A budding Baudelaire staring thoughtfully at a little notebook is excellent for business, I'm amazed they don't hire people to give this exact effect; I'd do it in a minute, it felt like a bohemian rhapsody. And all this was topped by a cherry when a group from Ohio wandered in, guffawing loudly, sat just next to me taking off their coats, knocking my little table in the process and sending my postcards tumbling to the floor which in turn caused the serveur to rush over, not to take their order but to pick up my correspondence and say;
"Les américains, huh? Ne t'en fais pas, petite." (Americans, eh? Pay them no mind darlin.)
Granted it would have been complete idiocy to say this aloud in English. Sarkozy would probably have recieved a sharp note from Obama. But he didn't have to say it at all and after months of "I speek eeenglish, don worry" as an answer to your query said in a foreign language, it was nice to be trusted as a francophone, not a franco-phony.
So I toddled off out of Paris touristland, muttering bye-byes under my breath, and caught the Metro to Porte Maillot where my bus would leave for Beauvais. All was well, followed the signs for Sortie, climbed up the steps, glimpsed the station in the near distance and made my jolly way towards it...until I was stopped by six lanes of inner-city traffic.
Okay, thats all right, I say to myself, I shall walk down to a crossing or some such. Except there is no pavement and the grassland is punctuated by hidden hollows making walking in kitten heels a tightrope act. But verily I see someone mere yards away and assure myself there is indeed an escape.
That is until I've walked for another five minutes and come to the realisation I am in the middle of a massive fecking six lane roundabout with no way out. I've passed the fella with the backpack three times now. We have begun exchanging the flash of smile when two human beings realise that each is in the same awful situation of not knowing what the hell's going on. On the fouth sortie, we stop and shake hands.
"Er, parlez-vous francias? O espanol? Or English even?"
"My English is better than my French, Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"
"Oh, not a word of German I'm afraid. Are you, ah, lost too? I'm Aileen by the way" (well, he was an attractive German)
"Hans Gruber, yeah that about sums it up. Been on this damn roundabout for 35 goddamn minutes. No way out, you see"
"Yes, yes, I know! It's all traffic, not a pedestrian crossing in sight. Shouldn't be allowed. What do we do? What do we do?! Make a break for it? Its our only chance. Let's go!"
"No, no! Calm down mein Freund, already lost an Italian backpacker to a minute sixteen rush of madness. No...we're going to have to play this smart."
Hang on, that may have got a bit out of hand there but it would take a genius who hadn't noticed the Die Hard reference to realise it was not an impeccable narrative of true events. In the end me and a German toruist (called Michael disappointingly enough) decided to boot it across six lanes of traffic in a barely sufficient lull.
The journey home from these places is never really interesting, which is odd because you find thousands of petites moments on the way There, but Back Again was never the thrilling bit of the Bilbo's story. It was all very quiet until I got into 39 Santa Engracia, dropped my bag, wondered if I could be arsed to go make some scrambled eggs, went to switch on my bedroom light which promptly exploded and plunged the whole flat into darkness and ended any chance of hot food. And so the credits roll and the screen fades on a Parisian trilogy, until all that is left is a cinematic
Fin
Thursday 17 November 2011
A Parisian Odyessy Part 2; Sightseeing; just an Eiffel of everything really
About halfway through the 19th century, Napoléon III got out of bed one morning and decided he wanted a wee bit of modernisation. Now, being an Emperor this involved less hunting out the Dulux colour charts for the kitchen and more summoning Baron Haussmann to discuss restructuring his capital city. This is the reason for the wonderful boulevards which lounge spectacularly through Paris and open the City of Lights to the sky. There, eddication by the powers!
160 years later, an Irish tourist is making full use of the wide open spaces to gawp out the windows of the airport shuttle and resist the urge to take snapshots or nudge the snoozing Spaniard beside me to tell him "I'm on my holidays" and if he's just going to loll against the glass, can I have the window seat?
My stay in Paris was made possible by wonderfully accomodating friends, because at my time of life you are wary of booking a hostel least you not be kidnapped and sold to a Bedouin cheiftain. It would happen to the blonde Scandinavians just out of high school and that would just upset me. Besides, hostel owners don't provide you with the most delicious baguette (freshly baked) and cheese (possibly Camembert) you've ever tasted. Really the only eloquent way to sufficiently describe the succulence of the combination is om nom nom nom nom nom nom nom.....
Autumn in Paris is by far the best way to experience the season. The trees laugh at the universe's suggestion "Now, we were thinking brown for lack of chorophyll" and get their bling on, with gold and red and maroon and chestnut and well they just go all out really. It was very cold and clear and there were contrails making a tic-tac-toe game out of the blue sky. The Christmas decorations were up, the streets were thronged and we were at The Galeries Lafayette because I was in Paris and feeling expensive.
Well I felt expensive right up until we walked in and luxury took one look at us and asked if we would be paying by card or cash and more cash?
It was exquisite; All the attendees were dressed in black , hands clasped behind them, and they ever so bemusedly arched their eyebrows every ten seconds. There was Chanel and Dior and Hermés and Bvlgari and Gaultier and yes I am fully aware that on beholding I would not appear to be able to pronounce much less know these names but one of my shameful secrets I can now exclusively reveal is that I have yet to miss an episode of Sex and the City and know my Yves Saint Laurent from my Ralph Lauren. There's an extra "t" in the former there yousee...
So, assuming my best "Mah faaaaather owns Bah-clays" expression (as though everything amuses you but if it bothers you a large man will appear and snap its fingers like a Kitkat; others have informed me I look like a stunned goldfish) and we went to see Paris from atop the Galeries. And is was exquisite. I felt like I was cheating on Madrid who was at home washing the dishes.
And so we drank in the beauty of our surroundings until twas nearly lunchtime. Then there was a beautiful moment. It comes when two or more human beings are thinking the same thing at the same time and is so magical we often call it love. Unless of course it's that horrible moment when both are thinking "I'll give it five more minutes and then if he/she doesn't Facebook chat me I'm burning all my things and moving to a nunnery/monastery." It began with "Ah, there's a MacDonalds just down here..." and the smiles on the faces of your kinsmen let you know we are one in purpose. The purpose being a MacFlurry and desperately wanting to order a Happy Meal because its got all you want to eat and it has a toy!
Feeling disgustingly americanised yet not because sweet lord ah-mighty what do they put in that special French fries sauce? we saunter to Notre Dame past a town hall that could play a Disney castle convincingly. The Catherdral was beautiful but one still cannot work out where the flying f**k the famous Rose Window was.
We gazed upwards at a stained glass window, afternoon sun streaming in, the predominant colour a soft rose. It was built in a perfect circle and the faces of the saints were picked out in loving detail. We "Ahhhh'ed" in appreciation. And turned to walk on...
...and came face to face with a window which looked exactly the same. This caused raised eyebrows, squinting round to see if anyone had noticed and once again settling into a suitable expression of wonder...
...until we set up off a flight of stair and found another window, exactly the £$%&ing same as the two before. So I attempted my most respectful "here lads, sod this for a game of soldiers" and snuck on earphones to accompany the sighseeing with the soundtrack to The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Who needs a guidebook?
Ah, the light had faded and my feet were very nearly walked off me but it was time to head out on the razzle! Which involved of course bringing the fine Spanish cultural pillar of botellon to France. I dot E, buying du vin and drinking it in front of the Eiffel Tower which was lit up like a bride on her wedding day/night, delete as appropriate to your sensibilities.
This was magical, but more so was our daddle to le Marais, where one can find art galleries, museums, gay bars and a lot of Chinese people. If all that together is your thing. We got kicked out of the line for a hip happening gay bar daddy-o, as a matter of fact. Despite my protestations of "You like men, we like men!! Can't we work upon this mutual interest?" and "Well how do you know we're not lesbians?" Granted if I'd reversed the order this approach may have worked better.
Nevertheless we ended up in a lovely bar called Enchantuer a wee way down the road. And this is where, in al the bars in all the Marais, I met a homesick Spaniard.
We had been talking in French to a group of party goers and switched to English for some reason or other when this boyo (rather attractive boyo, mind you) made a sound like a punctured porcupine and said "Non, non, pas en anglais. C'est trop d'un effort en francais quand meme, s'il vous plait." No, no not in French, it's too much of an effort as it is, please."
This arouses my, ah, curiousity and I ask "Quelle langue préférez-vous?" What language would you prefer?
"L'espagnole." He quasi(modo)-sighs. As to the effect of my next words, I never ever seen a man smile so genuinely, in such a dark bar, without any mention of say, whipped cream or handcuffs. Made me frankly ashamed of my mind.
"Pues, hombre, sí quieres hablar en espanol no te falta más que pedir."
Well son, if you want to speak in Spanish all you have to do is ask."
So we talked about Madrid, what was happening in Spain, if I liked it, if I preferred French or Spanish, I began to wonder if we would get around to whether I'd met his granny and if she was alive and well. And at the end of all this he gave me a rose.
While this was heartachingly romantic; everyone gave me a rose... Spaniard, dear new friend who wished not to accept his from a creepy Frenchman and the bartender who gave me a rose and two cheek pecks after we sang Over the Rainbow together, the Israel UnpronounceableSurname version. Had we had another hour I could have had a bouquet.
And so Part 2 draws to a close, as we wander home over the Seine, through the Ile Saint Louis and in the predawn glow I chuck a rose into the Seine and wonder where it will wash up, perhaps far away, once it has been swept out into the English Channel on the shore at Dover. This is far too flipping romantic, the damn flower will get ground to pieces in the locks at the Oise, but hey, I'm feeling romantic.
And so my friends, don't forget to miss the thrilling conclusion to this triumvirate spectaulaire! Witness the Sacré Couer, Montmartre, the Champs Elysees possibly as you've never seen them before or wish to again! And last but by no means least, me, trusted on my own to roam around Paris and find my way back to not-so-sunny Spain! It promises to have you on the edge of your seat, on the arm of the sofa, clutching the screen in amazement then getting bored and wandering off for a snack...
Á toute a l'heure xo
160 years later, an Irish tourist is making full use of the wide open spaces to gawp out the windows of the airport shuttle and resist the urge to take snapshots or nudge the snoozing Spaniard beside me to tell him "I'm on my holidays" and if he's just going to loll against the glass, can I have the window seat?
My stay in Paris was made possible by wonderfully accomodating friends, because at my time of life you are wary of booking a hostel least you not be kidnapped and sold to a Bedouin cheiftain. It would happen to the blonde Scandinavians just out of high school and that would just upset me. Besides, hostel owners don't provide you with the most delicious baguette (freshly baked) and cheese (possibly Camembert) you've ever tasted. Really the only eloquent way to sufficiently describe the succulence of the combination is om nom nom nom nom nom nom nom.....
Autumn in Paris is by far the best way to experience the season. The trees laugh at the universe's suggestion "Now, we were thinking brown for lack of chorophyll" and get their bling on, with gold and red and maroon and chestnut and well they just go all out really. It was very cold and clear and there were contrails making a tic-tac-toe game out of the blue sky. The Christmas decorations were up, the streets were thronged and we were at The Galeries Lafayette because I was in Paris and feeling expensive.
Well I felt expensive right up until we walked in and luxury took one look at us and asked if we would be paying by card or cash and more cash?
It was exquisite; All the attendees were dressed in black , hands clasped behind them, and they ever so bemusedly arched their eyebrows every ten seconds. There was Chanel and Dior and Hermés and Bvlgari and Gaultier and yes I am fully aware that on beholding I would not appear to be able to pronounce much less know these names but one of my shameful secrets I can now exclusively reveal is that I have yet to miss an episode of Sex and the City and know my Yves Saint Laurent from my Ralph Lauren. There's an extra "t" in the former there yousee...
So, assuming my best "Mah faaaaather owns Bah-clays" expression (as though everything amuses you but if it bothers you a large man will appear and snap its fingers like a Kitkat; others have informed me I look like a stunned goldfish) and we went to see Paris from atop the Galeries. And is was exquisite. I felt like I was cheating on Madrid who was at home washing the dishes.
And so we drank in the beauty of our surroundings until twas nearly lunchtime. Then there was a beautiful moment. It comes when two or more human beings are thinking the same thing at the same time and is so magical we often call it love. Unless of course it's that horrible moment when both are thinking "I'll give it five more minutes and then if he/she doesn't Facebook chat me I'm burning all my things and moving to a nunnery/monastery." It began with "Ah, there's a MacDonalds just down here..." and the smiles on the faces of your kinsmen let you know we are one in purpose. The purpose being a MacFlurry and desperately wanting to order a Happy Meal because its got all you want to eat and it has a toy!
Feeling disgustingly americanised yet not because sweet lord ah-mighty what do they put in that special French fries sauce? we saunter to Notre Dame past a town hall that could play a Disney castle convincingly. The Catherdral was beautiful but one still cannot work out where the flying f**k the famous Rose Window was.
We gazed upwards at a stained glass window, afternoon sun streaming in, the predominant colour a soft rose. It was built in a perfect circle and the faces of the saints were picked out in loving detail. We "Ahhhh'ed" in appreciation. And turned to walk on...
...and came face to face with a window which looked exactly the same. This caused raised eyebrows, squinting round to see if anyone had noticed and once again settling into a suitable expression of wonder...
...until we set up off a flight of stair and found another window, exactly the £$%&ing same as the two before. So I attempted my most respectful "here lads, sod this for a game of soldiers" and snuck on earphones to accompany the sighseeing with the soundtrack to The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Who needs a guidebook?
Ah, the light had faded and my feet were very nearly walked off me but it was time to head out on the razzle! Which involved of course bringing the fine Spanish cultural pillar of botellon to France. I dot E, buying du vin and drinking it in front of the Eiffel Tower which was lit up like a bride on her wedding day/night, delete as appropriate to your sensibilities.
This was magical, but more so was our daddle to le Marais, where one can find art galleries, museums, gay bars and a lot of Chinese people. If all that together is your thing. We got kicked out of the line for a hip happening gay bar daddy-o, as a matter of fact. Despite my protestations of "You like men, we like men!! Can't we work upon this mutual interest?" and "Well how do you know we're not lesbians?" Granted if I'd reversed the order this approach may have worked better.
Nevertheless we ended up in a lovely bar called Enchantuer a wee way down the road. And this is where, in al the bars in all the Marais, I met a homesick Spaniard.
We had been talking in French to a group of party goers and switched to English for some reason or other when this boyo (rather attractive boyo, mind you) made a sound like a punctured porcupine and said "Non, non, pas en anglais. C'est trop d'un effort en francais quand meme, s'il vous plait." No, no not in French, it's too much of an effort as it is, please."
This arouses my, ah, curiousity and I ask "Quelle langue préférez-vous?" What language would you prefer?
"L'espagnole." He quasi(modo)-sighs. As to the effect of my next words, I never ever seen a man smile so genuinely, in such a dark bar, without any mention of say, whipped cream or handcuffs. Made me frankly ashamed of my mind.
"Pues, hombre, sí quieres hablar en espanol no te falta más que pedir."
Well son, if you want to speak in Spanish all you have to do is ask."
So we talked about Madrid, what was happening in Spain, if I liked it, if I preferred French or Spanish, I began to wonder if we would get around to whether I'd met his granny and if she was alive and well. And at the end of all this he gave me a rose.
While this was heartachingly romantic; everyone gave me a rose... Spaniard, dear new friend who wished not to accept his from a creepy Frenchman and the bartender who gave me a rose and two cheek pecks after we sang Over the Rainbow together, the Israel UnpronounceableSurname version. Had we had another hour I could have had a bouquet.
And so Part 2 draws to a close, as we wander home over the Seine, through the Ile Saint Louis and in the predawn glow I chuck a rose into the Seine and wonder where it will wash up, perhaps far away, once it has been swept out into the English Channel on the shore at Dover. This is far too flipping romantic, the damn flower will get ground to pieces in the locks at the Oise, but hey, I'm feeling romantic.
And so my friends, don't forget to miss the thrilling conclusion to this triumvirate spectaulaire! Witness the Sacré Couer, Montmartre, the Champs Elysees possibly as you've never seen them before or wish to again! And last but by no means least, me, trusted on my own to roam around Paris and find my way back to not-so-sunny Spain! It promises to have you on the edge of your seat, on the arm of the sofa, clutching the screen in amazement then getting bored and wandering off for a snack...
Á toute a l'heure xo
Wednesday 16 November 2011
A Parisian Odyessy Part 1; Getting there by hook or by crook
"Oh, we're all going on a...reasonably priced city break...with no more worries for a...day or two!"
I am taking dreadful liberties with Cliff Richard as I run round our flat preparing to leave for gay Paris (note to self; check if this description is still allowable under SOS Homophobie guidelines. Author would not wish to cause unintentional offence...not when intentional offence is so much more fun.)
The flat is empty, as the others have wandered off to Marrakech. That's the way it goes on a year abroad, we go where the wind takes us, and if we happen to leave one of our number alone so she feels it acceptable, nay, necessary to re-enact Tom Cruise's dance scene from Risky Business then so be it.
Pizza consumed, dance scene complete, it was now time to catch the Metro at one in the morning. No sleep was on the cards for the weekend. This is a sentiment that would come to be regretted/regretten but that mattered not because, like so many things, that was a problem for tomorrow's Aileen. And I am not that unhappy wretch yet.
I arrived at Alonso Martinez and toddled down the stairs nodding amicably at the little old cleaner who looks like Manuel from Faulty Towers. I generally nod or speak to everyone, which makes me very unsuited for village life back home especially during those times when civil blood makes civil hands unclean over "what her Karen said about our John that time at your Bernadette's wedding, so don't give them the satisfaction of speaking to them."
This is where gentle musing descends into "ohshitohshitohshit" as I realise my plan of catching a train at quarter past to catch a train at twentyfive past to tie in neatly with when the Metro stops at half one works in world built around my plans and forgets about the fifteen minute gap between arrivals. I panic and make a snap decision...nothing for it but shelling out for a taxi to Plaza de Cibeles and the bus.
"Oye, oye mi hija! Que vas a otro sitio? Que pasa?"
This is Manuel; and he has asked "My daughter, are you going somewhere else? What's wrong?"
I do not wish to be rude and explain the predicament with "Tren...retraso...aeropuerto...no puedo"
He replies; "Sí, si nena! No te preocupas, que vas a llegar Que corres como el diablo, no esperas, corre!"
"Yes, yes pet. Don't worry, you'll make it. Just run like f**k, don't wait, run!"
And so with his cries echoing behind me I do exactly this...run like blazes and arrive at the metro to the airport just as the buzzer signalling the Closing Of The Doors sounds. It was rather Disney. I genuinely believed this was impossible, but continued anyway on the advice of an old man and so the day was saved and I got my ass to the plane on time. A short Disney film to be sure but Morgan Freeman if you're tuning in there's a casting opening for Manuel in the movie adaptation of A Cautionary Tale...call me...
The Crook in the title can be no other than Michael O'Leary who abuses me dreadfully on occasion but yet I always go back to dear Ryanair sooner or later. On this particular occasion it was his cheery insistence that Beavais is a hop, skip and a jump away from Par-eeee. No, no, no, dearest Michael, that was a description of your landing.
It was because the pilot was from Dublin and was possessed a a beautiful lazy southern lilt that these next words washed over us almost unnoticed;
"Ah, right now ladies and gentlemen, we're going to be attempting to land in Beauvais in the next five minutes or so. If we are, for any reason, unsuccessful in this attempt we'll...ah..get back to you shortly with more information."
None of the Spaniards caught the mere suggestion in the remark, that getting back to us might just mean buying us a drink in the Afterlife bar and discussing how big those flames were back there. Nasty suspicions rose in my mind and caused me to look out the window...
...whereupon I saw nothing. This was not necessarily comforting as seeing nothing meant that two feet from the window a dense, clinging fog obscured everything from view. I instantly reassured myself that flying these days is all done by lasers and infra-red and such and the pilot is only really there for the look of the thing.
This opinion was quickly revised as the tarmac suddenly loomed out of the mist and the pilot took evasive action which was to swoop back up into the sky. Good plan that man. When in doubt, retain altitude. No one has ever successfully collided with the sky.
Eventually land we had to and I can only presume that Ryanair will now be refitting chair covers and tutting over nail marks. I enjoy a bit of life or death action as much as the next lady but I would prefer next time for wings not to graze the runway, if Michael doesn't mind.
La France, la belle France. Nous sommes arrivés. The extra ninety minutes in a bus would mean nothing...for, as we shall see in the next thrilling installment, it pales in comparison to baguettes, Hermés, Chanel, Haussman's doing with Paisian architecture what Colonel Sanders does to chicken, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower and much much more debauchery...
Apologies for a blogging trilogy, the first of which dealt with planes, trains and automobiles. I love travelling in ways that begin to seem slightly deviant if you squint.
Á toute a l'heure xo
I am taking dreadful liberties with Cliff Richard as I run round our flat preparing to leave for gay Paris (note to self; check if this description is still allowable under SOS Homophobie guidelines. Author would not wish to cause unintentional offence...not when intentional offence is so much more fun.)
The flat is empty, as the others have wandered off to Marrakech. That's the way it goes on a year abroad, we go where the wind takes us, and if we happen to leave one of our number alone so she feels it acceptable, nay, necessary to re-enact Tom Cruise's dance scene from Risky Business then so be it.
Pizza consumed, dance scene complete, it was now time to catch the Metro at one in the morning. No sleep was on the cards for the weekend. This is a sentiment that would come to be regretted/regretten but that mattered not because, like so many things, that was a problem for tomorrow's Aileen. And I am not that unhappy wretch yet.
I arrived at Alonso Martinez and toddled down the stairs nodding amicably at the little old cleaner who looks like Manuel from Faulty Towers. I generally nod or speak to everyone, which makes me very unsuited for village life back home especially during those times when civil blood makes civil hands unclean over "what her Karen said about our John that time at your Bernadette's wedding, so don't give them the satisfaction of speaking to them."
This is where gentle musing descends into "ohshitohshitohshit" as I realise my plan of catching a train at quarter past to catch a train at twentyfive past to tie in neatly with when the Metro stops at half one works in world built around my plans and forgets about the fifteen minute gap between arrivals. I panic and make a snap decision...nothing for it but shelling out for a taxi to Plaza de Cibeles and the bus.
"Oye, oye mi hija! Que vas a otro sitio? Que pasa?"
This is Manuel; and he has asked "My daughter, are you going somewhere else? What's wrong?"
I do not wish to be rude and explain the predicament with "Tren...retraso...aeropuerto...no puedo"
He replies; "Sí, si nena! No te preocupas, que vas a llegar Que corres como el diablo, no esperas, corre!"
"Yes, yes pet. Don't worry, you'll make it. Just run like f**k, don't wait, run!"
And so with his cries echoing behind me I do exactly this...run like blazes and arrive at the metro to the airport just as the buzzer signalling the Closing Of The Doors sounds. It was rather Disney. I genuinely believed this was impossible, but continued anyway on the advice of an old man and so the day was saved and I got my ass to the plane on time. A short Disney film to be sure but Morgan Freeman if you're tuning in there's a casting opening for Manuel in the movie adaptation of A Cautionary Tale...call me...
The Crook in the title can be no other than Michael O'Leary who abuses me dreadfully on occasion but yet I always go back to dear Ryanair sooner or later. On this particular occasion it was his cheery insistence that Beavais is a hop, skip and a jump away from Par-eeee. No, no, no, dearest Michael, that was a description of your landing.
It was because the pilot was from Dublin and was possessed a a beautiful lazy southern lilt that these next words washed over us almost unnoticed;
"Ah, right now ladies and gentlemen, we're going to be attempting to land in Beauvais in the next five minutes or so. If we are, for any reason, unsuccessful in this attempt we'll...ah..get back to you shortly with more information."
None of the Spaniards caught the mere suggestion in the remark, that getting back to us might just mean buying us a drink in the Afterlife bar and discussing how big those flames were back there. Nasty suspicions rose in my mind and caused me to look out the window...
...whereupon I saw nothing. This was not necessarily comforting as seeing nothing meant that two feet from the window a dense, clinging fog obscured everything from view. I instantly reassured myself that flying these days is all done by lasers and infra-red and such and the pilot is only really there for the look of the thing.
This opinion was quickly revised as the tarmac suddenly loomed out of the mist and the pilot took evasive action which was to swoop back up into the sky. Good plan that man. When in doubt, retain altitude. No one has ever successfully collided with the sky.
Eventually land we had to and I can only presume that Ryanair will now be refitting chair covers and tutting over nail marks. I enjoy a bit of life or death action as much as the next lady but I would prefer next time for wings not to graze the runway, if Michael doesn't mind.
La France, la belle France. Nous sommes arrivés. The extra ninety minutes in a bus would mean nothing...for, as we shall see in the next thrilling installment, it pales in comparison to baguettes, Hermés, Chanel, Haussman's doing with Paisian architecture what Colonel Sanders does to chicken, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower and much much more debauchery...
Apologies for a blogging trilogy, the first of which dealt with planes, trains and automobiles. I love travelling in ways that begin to seem slightly deviant if you squint.
Á toute a l'heure xo
Sunday 6 November 2011
Portrait of the Artist as a Drunk Woman
Now I understand many of you won't have asked for this; indeed many won't have had any idea this was a distinct possibilty given the impeccable narrative thus far but the "artist" has thought it is high time the readership comes to terms with the inevitable coupling of free mojitos and reasonably priced pina coladas...a Victor Mildrew-esque rant against prices in Madrid's cocktail bars and the inaugral drunken blog. Hang on I've read over that sentence and it lacks oodle foodle tapas whay-hey!!!!! There, that should set the tone... Anywho...
Last week, Madrid woke up one morning and decided it was autumn. Tuesday you're prancing around in Tshirts laughing at Spaniards in their winter coats; Wednesday you've woken up to grey skies and golden leaves skittering around everywhere on a gale that just blew into town (ahaha, weather related humour.)
The problem with this dashed weather is that it leaves one unable to walk out the door without serious thought to the consequences...that is mere days ago I could wander down to Dia to purchase several bottles of wine and brandy for a fiesta, in my flip flops...a feat that lead to Que tienes fiesta este noche, no? (Are you having a party tonight?) Since my Spanish wasn't equipped to deal with my normal response of "Yes, Hercule Poirot, we are having a bit of a shingdig as it happens, how did you ever work it out?" I come out with "No, no, its all for me!" in a joke that not so much flops as leaps suicidally off the Empire State building...apparently I now AM capable of downing two rosés, two bottles of brandy and some decorative cinnamon sticks on my own thank you so very much Día's checkout finest...don't tell my mother, I probably could if dared...
Despire the perpetual drizzle the artist did manage to make it out this very night it the spirit of science and enthusiastic research (I can now freely find free mojitos, shots and sangria anywhere in the city at any hour of day...I believe that ability alone should be enough to earn me a place in Heaven...) The bars were lively, the restaurants packed, the tapas flowing and the fine tradition amoung Spanish men of verging on sexual harrassment alive and well...thus it may be time to indulge in a little renditon of Madrileno nightlife...
It begins with Día, that holy place where a carton of wine costs 55c and a bottle €1. This is to be drunk at leisure..savoured as it were, with a little music in the background. I have a penchant for Sinatra followed by Jay Z; some find this a little like tuna and chocolate, I leave it up to your gentle judgement.
Now I say the next is heading out...this is a Northern Irishism which means killing the sound, groping for coats and jackets and striding purposefully into the night hellbent on causing some mayhem... or finding the nearest MacDonalds...all previous intention seems to fade away on Gran Vía when you see the Golden Arches and remember you can play the "Spot a Prozzie!" game. Record stands at 25 in one night.
After that you can take it two ways...you can wander in and out of bars, freebies in each, until you inexplicably end up at the Fontana de Oro, the "Golden Fountain" Irish pub which seems to attract aimless party-goers like a black hole attracts matter and in which you should never EVER dance with Columbian men. I'm only telling you for your own good, they're no Fred Astaire...
Or you may gravitate towards one of Madrids many clubs; open til six thirty, guaranteed to offer music to make you move til the wee small hours of the morning. Also damn fine measures in the mixers...
I apologise for the concentration on the tipsy wonders of Spains capital...hey, it's what you do to keep the punters amused...but also of greater merit is the food in the tucked away eateries dotting the fine city. Three courses, wine and complementary bread for €10 and everything tastes like a stereotypical Goodfellas mob boss cooking for his nephew. You know, like;
"Tony, whassamatta you? You look thin! Here, sit down, I get you something to eat...what you mean you don't want nothing? You tastes this. I swear is like the angel Gabriel hisself, he make the pasta. You crazy, you know that...you eatta this sauce, you go to your maker happy..."
And so forth...I can't promise they'll say exactly that but I'll surely have a go at Marlon Brando's Sicilian accent.
Now, first blogging under the influence complete I have to admit its not that shabby...mainly because I have been tracing every sentence with one wobbling finger and conducting my disjointed train of thought with a cup of Tetley's, occasionally the tea will make a spirited leap for the freedom but I have thus far managed to contain the bugger; which has made me absurdly pleased with myself.
Toodle pip chappies and as I promised you a "One Foot in the Grave" type rant you should now imagine me and you; linked arm in arm as we wander home through the leaf strewn, breezy Madrilenan night; wending our way past treelined streets and late night tabernas, waving a "No, gracias" to promoters handing out club flyers. And as we stroll under delicate balconies and sculpted stone a Norn Irish voice echoes into the night;
"€10 for a pina colada? €10!! I don't believe it! I could have flown to Cuba for a rum based cocktail and felt better about the damn waste of money...unbelieveable, next they'll be telling me a ham sandwich costs enoughto bail out the Greek banks..."
xo
Last week, Madrid woke up one morning and decided it was autumn. Tuesday you're prancing around in Tshirts laughing at Spaniards in their winter coats; Wednesday you've woken up to grey skies and golden leaves skittering around everywhere on a gale that just blew into town (ahaha, weather related humour.)
The problem with this dashed weather is that it leaves one unable to walk out the door without serious thought to the consequences...that is mere days ago I could wander down to Dia to purchase several bottles of wine and brandy for a fiesta, in my flip flops...a feat that lead to Que tienes fiesta este noche, no? (Are you having a party tonight?) Since my Spanish wasn't equipped to deal with my normal response of "Yes, Hercule Poirot, we are having a bit of a shingdig as it happens, how did you ever work it out?" I come out with "No, no, its all for me!" in a joke that not so much flops as leaps suicidally off the Empire State building...apparently I now AM capable of downing two rosés, two bottles of brandy and some decorative cinnamon sticks on my own thank you so very much Día's checkout finest...don't tell my mother, I probably could if dared...
Despire the perpetual drizzle the artist did manage to make it out this very night it the spirit of science and enthusiastic research (I can now freely find free mojitos, shots and sangria anywhere in the city at any hour of day...I believe that ability alone should be enough to earn me a place in Heaven...) The bars were lively, the restaurants packed, the tapas flowing and the fine tradition amoung Spanish men of verging on sexual harrassment alive and well...thus it may be time to indulge in a little renditon of Madrileno nightlife...
It begins with Día, that holy place where a carton of wine costs 55c and a bottle €1. This is to be drunk at leisure..savoured as it were, with a little music in the background. I have a penchant for Sinatra followed by Jay Z; some find this a little like tuna and chocolate, I leave it up to your gentle judgement.
Now I say the next is heading out...this is a Northern Irishism which means killing the sound, groping for coats and jackets and striding purposefully into the night hellbent on causing some mayhem... or finding the nearest MacDonalds...all previous intention seems to fade away on Gran Vía when you see the Golden Arches and remember you can play the "Spot a Prozzie!" game. Record stands at 25 in one night.
After that you can take it two ways...you can wander in and out of bars, freebies in each, until you inexplicably end up at the Fontana de Oro, the "Golden Fountain" Irish pub which seems to attract aimless party-goers like a black hole attracts matter and in which you should never EVER dance with Columbian men. I'm only telling you for your own good, they're no Fred Astaire...
Or you may gravitate towards one of Madrids many clubs; open til six thirty, guaranteed to offer music to make you move til the wee small hours of the morning. Also damn fine measures in the mixers...
I apologise for the concentration on the tipsy wonders of Spains capital...hey, it's what you do to keep the punters amused...but also of greater merit is the food in the tucked away eateries dotting the fine city. Three courses, wine and complementary bread for €10 and everything tastes like a stereotypical Goodfellas mob boss cooking for his nephew. You know, like;
"Tony, whassamatta you? You look thin! Here, sit down, I get you something to eat...what you mean you don't want nothing? You tastes this. I swear is like the angel Gabriel hisself, he make the pasta. You crazy, you know that...you eatta this sauce, you go to your maker happy..."
And so forth...I can't promise they'll say exactly that but I'll surely have a go at Marlon Brando's Sicilian accent.
Now, first blogging under the influence complete I have to admit its not that shabby...mainly because I have been tracing every sentence with one wobbling finger and conducting my disjointed train of thought with a cup of Tetley's, occasionally the tea will make a spirited leap for the freedom but I have thus far managed to contain the bugger; which has made me absurdly pleased with myself.
Toodle pip chappies and as I promised you a "One Foot in the Grave" type rant you should now imagine me and you; linked arm in arm as we wander home through the leaf strewn, breezy Madrilenan night; wending our way past treelined streets and late night tabernas, waving a "No, gracias" to promoters handing out club flyers. And as we stroll under delicate balconies and sculpted stone a Norn Irish voice echoes into the night;
"€10 for a pina colada? €10!! I don't believe it! I could have flown to Cuba for a rum based cocktail and felt better about the damn waste of money...unbelieveable, next they'll be telling me a ham sandwich costs enoughto bail out the Greek banks..."
xo
Wednesday 19 October 2011
Of all the gin joints in all the Iberian penisula...
I had briefly considered naming this piece "Aileen in Blunderland" but feel a little Casablanca may in turn lend a little Tinseltown to what has conspired to be a very trying week. If I were Mrs Bennett I would be reclining on a four poster clutching a lace handkerchief to my brow and crying out for someone to fetch the smelling salts to restore my poor nerves. That's how it went down.
What a terribly awkward week. I'm in Starbucks again trying to look artsy and not at all like I had to Google the correct spelling of "hankerchief." Even now as I try to remember what I wanted to write I must shudder in remembered social embarrassment. Here's why;
Primero, my assigned uni sort-of-college-mother figure. A dear sweet girl who I ran into on the way out of the UAM cafeteria; but herein lies the rub Hamlet. You can't just spring Spanish speakers onto me. I need time to mentally prepare. It would be like asking Rocky to take on Apollo Creed when the guy's just stepped out of the shower. The man isn't in the zone! He needs some Eye of the Tiger, he needs protein shakes...he needs to run up the steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art and cry out for joy! And so do I! No, what I need is some time to translate "A pleasure to meet you" without accidentally using the noun "placer" which is more for the Belle du Jour sort of pleasure and would just end up horribly embarrassing everyone.
So I froze, open mouthed like a lazy goldfish, and could not come up with a suitable answer to Que tal? which is GCSE Spanish at its best. And because I took my own ridiculous advice "Say anything, nothing could make you look more of an idiot than you already do" and came out with "No sé que decir" (I don't knwo what to say) I'm afraid my poor Spanish guardian is now under the impression I'm more likely to ask for a lollipop than advice on the up and coming issues in mercantile law.
As if the UAM day wasn't spicy enough I have added the game Hide and Don't Seek to the fun. Now I know that a good 80% of you play this game too. Maybe you've never heard of it, maybe you don't realise you do it but don't lie to yourselves when I describe it. Join me in coming clean, holding one hand up to Heaven and say loud and proud "I too have made a complete tit of myself in front of a perfect stranger on a night out and now cannot look them in the eye least I die of shame..."
That's a bit long; we'll cut it down to something we can put on a T-shirt...
Anyway, the perfect stranger is not important. What is important is that they may have witnessed an angry monologue about Spanish internet providers, accompanied by spirited use of a mojito to punctuate amoung other things and now I have to use a mirror to look around Law Fac corridors.
Thus it was that on exiting a classroom I espied the stanger to the starboard side and kept right on walking...
...right on walking into a caretakers closet.
What could I do? They were waiting for another class. The danger would be over in mere moments. All I had to do was sit tight at base camp and hope no one came to use the mop and bucket. Which of course Juan the Janitor did.
"Usted se encuentra perdida?" He asks. Are you lost? (Polite verb form and everything, what a gentleman)
"No, de todas formas no," I reply.
He looks concerned, And so am I because we have just come to the same conclusion at the same time via mental arithmetic. If I'm not lost I must have a reason to be hanging out in his store room, and I'm not letting this get extremely, horribly "Are you trying to seduce me Miss Devlin-y" out of hand.
"Ah ha, ta luego señor..."
Escape number two and somewhere up there Harry Houdini is wondering whether this could have been incorporated into his performances.
Next there was Philosophy of Law; Jurisprudence to we legal folk and usually I, if not kick ass, then serioudly prod bottom in this arena. First lecture, who comes up but Dworkin. Can´t pronounce that if you try to roll the r my foolhardy Latinos. They all look terrifed. Our teacher smiles
"¿Quereis que lo escribo?" she asks knwoingly.
No I don´t need you to write it. I´m all up in this bitch, as I once heard Samuel L Jackson and rather liked the sound of. I am ON the spelling of Richard Dworkins name.
Except the we had to "colocaros en filas para que no podeis copiar" get into alternating rows so you can't copy
Had she seen through my ingenius scheme of sitting behind a Spaniard with a laptop so narry a word was missed? Nope; we had a test. On an article I had not read for the very legitimate reason of having no fecking clue it existeed. And it was multiple choice. And one of the questions was "Who wrote Critics?" Oh the holy mortifying shame of it all.
The last straw that broke the camels back...or summat like that...was a friendly run in with the neighbours. I'm lying, of course, we may have inadvertently held the lift door open while getting up to speed with gossip. A simple mistake, but one that made our vecino climb four flights of stairs. We didn't realise this. I didn't realise this. Thus it came as a shock which made the San Francisco quake of '06 seem like a child's hiccup when she screamed;
"Que cerrais la jodida peurta!" Close the f**king door and then, on opening her door across the hall proceeded to inform her room mate that;
"Estas putas que viven aqui no saben ni siquiera cerrar una puerta! Coño, putas!"
This translates rather charmingly as "Those whores that live across the way don't even know how to close a door! F**king whores!"
If ever a moment called for my best Kenneth Williams style; "MADAM!" that was it. I believe the Carry On reference may have been wasted though.
Other than that, well I don't think I can top that. Now if you'll excuse me I must once again recline on my four poster surrounded by Cadbury's that I may have purchased purely to cheer self up. Best case scenario, glorious chocolate induced food coma. Worst? Well I could take the putas suggestion seriously and set up a brothel. The classy kind. Maybe set up a contract, none of this pay-as-you-come-and-go nonsense. No chintz nor red velvet. Blonde or dark wood? Some tasteful nude prints? Or famous movie sex scene stills!! Yes, this could wor...
I apologise, must leave to ponder an ...ah... unrelated matter. Opinions/advice on entrepeneurship in the sex industry are, as always, very welcome
xo
What a terribly awkward week. I'm in Starbucks again trying to look artsy and not at all like I had to Google the correct spelling of "hankerchief." Even now as I try to remember what I wanted to write I must shudder in remembered social embarrassment. Here's why;
Primero, my assigned uni sort-of-college-mother figure. A dear sweet girl who I ran into on the way out of the UAM cafeteria; but herein lies the rub Hamlet. You can't just spring Spanish speakers onto me. I need time to mentally prepare. It would be like asking Rocky to take on Apollo Creed when the guy's just stepped out of the shower. The man isn't in the zone! He needs some Eye of the Tiger, he needs protein shakes...he needs to run up the steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art and cry out for joy! And so do I! No, what I need is some time to translate "A pleasure to meet you" without accidentally using the noun "placer" which is more for the Belle du Jour sort of pleasure and would just end up horribly embarrassing everyone.
So I froze, open mouthed like a lazy goldfish, and could not come up with a suitable answer to Que tal? which is GCSE Spanish at its best. And because I took my own ridiculous advice "Say anything, nothing could make you look more of an idiot than you already do" and came out with "No sé que decir" (I don't knwo what to say) I'm afraid my poor Spanish guardian is now under the impression I'm more likely to ask for a lollipop than advice on the up and coming issues in mercantile law.
As if the UAM day wasn't spicy enough I have added the game Hide and Don't Seek to the fun. Now I know that a good 80% of you play this game too. Maybe you've never heard of it, maybe you don't realise you do it but don't lie to yourselves when I describe it. Join me in coming clean, holding one hand up to Heaven and say loud and proud "I too have made a complete tit of myself in front of a perfect stranger on a night out and now cannot look them in the eye least I die of shame..."
That's a bit long; we'll cut it down to something we can put on a T-shirt...
Anyway, the perfect stranger is not important. What is important is that they may have witnessed an angry monologue about Spanish internet providers, accompanied by spirited use of a mojito to punctuate amoung other things and now I have to use a mirror to look around Law Fac corridors.
Thus it was that on exiting a classroom I espied the stanger to the starboard side and kept right on walking...
...right on walking into a caretakers closet.
What could I do? They were waiting for another class. The danger would be over in mere moments. All I had to do was sit tight at base camp and hope no one came to use the mop and bucket. Which of course Juan the Janitor did.
"Usted se encuentra perdida?" He asks. Are you lost? (Polite verb form and everything, what a gentleman)
"No, de todas formas no," I reply.
He looks concerned, And so am I because we have just come to the same conclusion at the same time via mental arithmetic. If I'm not lost I must have a reason to be hanging out in his store room, and I'm not letting this get extremely, horribly "Are you trying to seduce me Miss Devlin-y" out of hand.
"Ah ha, ta luego señor..."
Escape number two and somewhere up there Harry Houdini is wondering whether this could have been incorporated into his performances.
Next there was Philosophy of Law; Jurisprudence to we legal folk and usually I, if not kick ass, then serioudly prod bottom in this arena. First lecture, who comes up but Dworkin. Can´t pronounce that if you try to roll the r my foolhardy Latinos. They all look terrifed. Our teacher smiles
"¿Quereis que lo escribo?" she asks knwoingly.
No I don´t need you to write it. I´m all up in this bitch, as I once heard Samuel L Jackson and rather liked the sound of. I am ON the spelling of Richard Dworkins name.
Except the we had to "colocaros en filas para que no podeis copiar" get into alternating rows so you can't copy
Had she seen through my ingenius scheme of sitting behind a Spaniard with a laptop so narry a word was missed? Nope; we had a test. On an article I had not read for the very legitimate reason of having no fecking clue it existeed. And it was multiple choice. And one of the questions was "Who wrote Critics?" Oh the holy mortifying shame of it all.
The last straw that broke the camels back...or summat like that...was a friendly run in with the neighbours. I'm lying, of course, we may have inadvertently held the lift door open while getting up to speed with gossip. A simple mistake, but one that made our vecino climb four flights of stairs. We didn't realise this. I didn't realise this. Thus it came as a shock which made the San Francisco quake of '06 seem like a child's hiccup when she screamed;
"Que cerrais la jodida peurta!" Close the f**king door and then, on opening her door across the hall proceeded to inform her room mate that;
"Estas putas que viven aqui no saben ni siquiera cerrar una puerta! Coño, putas!"
This translates rather charmingly as "Those whores that live across the way don't even know how to close a door! F**king whores!"
If ever a moment called for my best Kenneth Williams style; "MADAM!" that was it. I believe the Carry On reference may have been wasted though.
Other than that, well I don't think I can top that. Now if you'll excuse me I must once again recline on my four poster surrounded by Cadbury's that I may have purchased purely to cheer self up. Best case scenario, glorious chocolate induced food coma. Worst? Well I could take the putas suggestion seriously and set up a brothel. The classy kind. Maybe set up a contract, none of this pay-as-you-come-and-go nonsense. No chintz nor red velvet. Blonde or dark wood? Some tasteful nude prints? Or famous movie sex scene stills!! Yes, this could wor...
I apologise, must leave to ponder an ...ah... unrelated matter. Opinions/advice on entrepeneurship in the sex industry are, as always, very welcome
xo
Sunday 9 October 2011
Just Penelope Cruising
Somewhere, high in our dark flat tower, dwells a mysterious recorder player. I apologise. I've plagurised that line from either Victor Hugo or Disney without any real reason as the mysterious musician is no hunchback but what sounds like a small child desperately attempting to coax beautiful melodies forth. It ain't working. The pobrecito (poor wee one) is either playing the first two lines of Old MacDonald or the very first of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Apparently we need to wait until he gets those down before the big reveal. The suspense is killing me.
Speaking of miniature humans, in the very near future I may be teaching them to speak English. Given my quest for an artsy bookshop to while away the siesta hours encountered unanswerable questions as varied as "We're not currently looking for part time employees, could you rearrange your class timetable?" to "So what first interested you in gay erotica literature?" the next best thing seems to be to bite the bullet, conform to stereotype and pimp my services as a Cambridge educated native speaker.
There is a huge market for this sort of thing in Spain. English is the language of business and everyone, from the ladies in the salons who insist "No, no mira guapa, para los nails? Nails? Yes, good? Yungle rrrrred dahling, it is jur colour!" to sharply suited lawyers jabbering into their Blackberrys on the metro want to speak English.
Skeptical at first; my mind was quickly changed by a giddy vision. Spanish mamas and papas who wish to privately educate their little Maria's and Pepe's will no doubt have full fridges. That amazingly clever kind that dispenses ice for your drink! A TV so huge you almost feel you can high five Andy Dufresne when he escape from Shawshank. A pool with sun loungers and possibly a liquor cabinet for the Sangria! A chance to tak a little sun! And maybe a little light teaching when wee Pepe runs over with the Pimms pitcher again.
"Pimms Pepe, se llama Pimms! In life, a good Pimms is either being served or being consumed. Much as in life people are either giving or taking. Remember that Pepe, it is a parable of our times!" Because I enjoy dispensing unfathomable social commentary with my lesson plan.
Enough of that nonsense, I of course want to teach to enrich the cultural experience of children during this era of great globalisation. Also I believe I would get more out of reading "Charlotte's Web" with suitable voice acting than any two year old. Set it in Jamaica, dress up, make appropriate animal noises. Happy as a clam.
But until someone trusts me with the apple of their eye life goes on and goes on in the form of hotel hunting for relatives who will come to see I'm still alive and bring me delicious things. I know this because the questions "Do you need an adaptor? Sun cream? Spanish phrasebook?" were answered with "Bring me Cadbury's or bring not at all!" I would ask for Ribena but airport security will surely wrest it from their hand luggage in case it's laced with arsenic or a liquid explosive.
Set off into town humming the theme music of Driving Miss Daisy; armed with my abono and a screen print of a Google map covered in Xs. I had but one objective. If at all possible ensure my family are kept well away from prostitutes, sex shops, drug dealers and Carlos in Sol who keeps telling me the end is nigh. This is trickier than it sounds and so locating a hotel which didn't feature "local colour" took two hours, six metro stops, three prozzies and a strange shop conversation with an old Chinese woman about the curious alignment of lines on my hand and what it meant for my prospects of marriage. She couldn't find the "anillito" on the ring finger. "Nunca se casaras!" She looks devastated for me. "You will never marry!" To think I only went in for a Coke...
Ah wait! A fell melody is on the air...
"E I E I O"
There we are, it's Old Macdonald after all. I must go applaud and/or present this maestro with a bouquet of roses. It's only taken him two hours and thirty six minutes after all.
xo
Speaking of miniature humans, in the very near future I may be teaching them to speak English. Given my quest for an artsy bookshop to while away the siesta hours encountered unanswerable questions as varied as "We're not currently looking for part time employees, could you rearrange your class timetable?" to "So what first interested you in gay erotica literature?" the next best thing seems to be to bite the bullet, conform to stereotype and pimp my services as a Cambridge educated native speaker.
There is a huge market for this sort of thing in Spain. English is the language of business and everyone, from the ladies in the salons who insist "No, no mira guapa, para los nails? Nails? Yes, good? Yungle rrrrred dahling, it is jur colour!" to sharply suited lawyers jabbering into their Blackberrys on the metro want to speak English.
Skeptical at first; my mind was quickly changed by a giddy vision. Spanish mamas and papas who wish to privately educate their little Maria's and Pepe's will no doubt have full fridges. That amazingly clever kind that dispenses ice for your drink! A TV so huge you almost feel you can high five Andy Dufresne when he escape from Shawshank. A pool with sun loungers and possibly a liquor cabinet for the Sangria! A chance to tak a little sun! And maybe a little light teaching when wee Pepe runs over with the Pimms pitcher again.
"Pimms Pepe, se llama Pimms! In life, a good Pimms is either being served or being consumed. Much as in life people are either giving or taking. Remember that Pepe, it is a parable of our times!" Because I enjoy dispensing unfathomable social commentary with my lesson plan.
Enough of that nonsense, I of course want to teach to enrich the cultural experience of children during this era of great globalisation. Also I believe I would get more out of reading "Charlotte's Web" with suitable voice acting than any two year old. Set it in Jamaica, dress up, make appropriate animal noises. Happy as a clam.
But until someone trusts me with the apple of their eye life goes on and goes on in the form of hotel hunting for relatives who will come to see I'm still alive and bring me delicious things. I know this because the questions "Do you need an adaptor? Sun cream? Spanish phrasebook?" were answered with "Bring me Cadbury's or bring not at all!" I would ask for Ribena but airport security will surely wrest it from their hand luggage in case it's laced with arsenic or a liquid explosive.
Set off into town humming the theme music of Driving Miss Daisy; armed with my abono and a screen print of a Google map covered in Xs. I had but one objective. If at all possible ensure my family are kept well away from prostitutes, sex shops, drug dealers and Carlos in Sol who keeps telling me the end is nigh. This is trickier than it sounds and so locating a hotel which didn't feature "local colour" took two hours, six metro stops, three prozzies and a strange shop conversation with an old Chinese woman about the curious alignment of lines on my hand and what it meant for my prospects of marriage. She couldn't find the "anillito" on the ring finger. "Nunca se casaras!" She looks devastated for me. "You will never marry!" To think I only went in for a Coke...
Ah wait! A fell melody is on the air...
"E I E I O"
There we are, it's Old Macdonald after all. I must go applaud and/or present this maestro with a bouquet of roses. It's only taken him two hours and thirty six minutes after all.
xo
Wednesday 5 October 2011
The Metrocious State of Public Transport in Madrid
In a spirited attempt not to lurk in our hallway like the ghost of Wifi past I am writng this particular missive at the Autonomous University of Madrid, the good old UAM. In the cafeteria to be precise. Someone is yelling at Mercedes that no hay cuchillas. Mercedes don´t care about no cuchillas. No one does until Luis brings them forth from the dishwasher. I would make a joke about the forks being with him but my jokes are incomprehensible enough when everyone speaks English and yet another pair of Hispanic eyebrows knitted in confusion would only depress me. Maybe another time...
Most exciting news I´ve had all week comes in the form of my €30 abono transporte and another joke. This delightful little card allows me to flit in and out of the Metro and Cercanias train stations without feeding €1.50 into the machine every time I wish to educate myself or wander downtown. In the nick of time too, for I had begun to feel distinctly Scrooge McDuck whensoever I was forced to extract my purse from the depths of my bag and feed 5 cent coins one at a time into the slot praying I wouldn´t reach €1.45 before looking down to see nothing but a terrible emptiness; a symptom caused by the malady "Stoney Broke." Attempt to convey my joy to the Señora in the Tabac was to exclaim "Que abono! O mejor decir, que abueno!" This is an insanely clever pun which loses out somewhat in translation, as the best I can come to in English "What an Oytser card. Or better yet, a JOyster card!" The señora was not amused.
Ah, that leads us on to the title of today´s blog which, believe it or believe it not, has some bearing on current affairs. Using the abono for the first time was a thing of great beauty and may have resulted in some Mr Bean-like antics. I say may, I mean I know no other way to express my own bemusement than to chuckle to myself and talk to inanimate objects a la Rowan Atkinson at his finest.
Anyway, Metro times, and I had no sooner embarked on the journey to Nuevos Ministerios than a chuckle to my left caught my ear. A half shuffle brought two muchachos into view who not only had the all the giggling foolishness of two schoolboys craned solicitously over their first Playboy but also were of the false impression I spoke no Spanish. My eavesdropping presented me with this;
" ¡Mira la blancura de ella! " (I pinched that upside down exclamation mark from Wiki. I´ll explain that Spanish chirograhpical weirdness at a later date)
I had heard this before, "Look at how white she is!"
"Quizas se cayo en una tina de blaquera!" (Maybe she fell in a vat of bleach!)
"Quizas a Dios le olvido la tinta!" (Maybe God forgot the ink!)
I had no idea whether to be shocked or somewhat amused and to be honest at first no idea what they were saying but, after arriving at Uni and furiously flicking through a dictionary I have settled on the view that this is an outrage! Even back home in dear old Norn Iron, where we have the cultural diversity of a packet of Fox´s Custard Creams, it would be considered a socially unacceptable disgrace to take a seat on a bus by the Spains answer to the Chuckle Brothers and exclaim;
"A ha ha ha, looks like God forgot to take these two out of the oven. He´s gone and burnt them!"
Actually that´s not bad. Memo to self re blatant disregard for individual dignity, look up oven, to burn and colloquial gone and done smthg so next time will have scathing reply close to hand.
Yet more documentation was to be picked up at Uni and lo and behold I once again met my nemesis in the form of UAM´S Erasmus office.
"¿Ah, necesito coger mi tarjeta estudiante?" (I need to pick up my student car?)
"¿Eres estudiante de Wham?"
Was I a student of Wham? I had no idea what this cryptic question meant. Yes, I have been known to hum the odd verse of "Wake me up before you Go-Go" and "Last Christmas" is certainly worth a listen come Yuletide, but a student of the great musicians? I decided to communicate my confusion with clarity and precision.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh...."
"Wham! WHAM! Ooo, ah, emay! Wham!"
U.A.M. Or if you´re Spanish and the letter U barely exists on its own; Wham. Perfecto.
Let´s see, what else of note happened. There was the discovery that the "Wham" cafeteria boasts a large selection of alcoholic spirits, most of which you need to get through the average day. Finally purchased a mug from the Chino, for tea may be drunk from a cup but verily tay, the drink that was gifted to the Irish by the gods can be drunk from none other than a veritable bucket. There was the moment of sheer panic when singing along cheerfully to a recent hit went something like this, "Somebody call 911, Shady fire burning up the...wait, wait WAIT! We dont know the emergency services number of this accursed country!" and the horrible sinking feeling and progression of facial expressions never to be equaled when the train to campus starts to slide the wrong way out of the station and the destination reads "Buenas Aires"
Oy vay
xo
Most exciting news I´ve had all week comes in the form of my €30 abono transporte and another joke. This delightful little card allows me to flit in and out of the Metro and Cercanias train stations without feeding €1.50 into the machine every time I wish to educate myself or wander downtown. In the nick of time too, for I had begun to feel distinctly Scrooge McDuck whensoever I was forced to extract my purse from the depths of my bag and feed 5 cent coins one at a time into the slot praying I wouldn´t reach €1.45 before looking down to see nothing but a terrible emptiness; a symptom caused by the malady "Stoney Broke." Attempt to convey my joy to the Señora in the Tabac was to exclaim "Que abono! O mejor decir, que abueno!" This is an insanely clever pun which loses out somewhat in translation, as the best I can come to in English "What an Oytser card. Or better yet, a JOyster card!" The señora was not amused.
Ah, that leads us on to the title of today´s blog which, believe it or believe it not, has some bearing on current affairs. Using the abono for the first time was a thing of great beauty and may have resulted in some Mr Bean-like antics. I say may, I mean I know no other way to express my own bemusement than to chuckle to myself and talk to inanimate objects a la Rowan Atkinson at his finest.
Anyway, Metro times, and I had no sooner embarked on the journey to Nuevos Ministerios than a chuckle to my left caught my ear. A half shuffle brought two muchachos into view who not only had the all the giggling foolishness of two schoolboys craned solicitously over their first Playboy but also were of the false impression I spoke no Spanish. My eavesdropping presented me with this;
" ¡Mira la blancura de ella! " (I pinched that upside down exclamation mark from Wiki. I´ll explain that Spanish chirograhpical weirdness at a later date)
I had heard this before, "Look at how white she is!"
"Quizas se cayo en una tina de blaquera!" (Maybe she fell in a vat of bleach!)
"Quizas a Dios le olvido la tinta!" (Maybe God forgot the ink!)
I had no idea whether to be shocked or somewhat amused and to be honest at first no idea what they were saying but, after arriving at Uni and furiously flicking through a dictionary I have settled on the view that this is an outrage! Even back home in dear old Norn Iron, where we have the cultural diversity of a packet of Fox´s Custard Creams, it would be considered a socially unacceptable disgrace to take a seat on a bus by the Spains answer to the Chuckle Brothers and exclaim;
"A ha ha ha, looks like God forgot to take these two out of the oven. He´s gone and burnt them!"
Actually that´s not bad. Memo to self re blatant disregard for individual dignity, look up oven, to burn and colloquial gone and done smthg so next time will have scathing reply close to hand.
Yet more documentation was to be picked up at Uni and lo and behold I once again met my nemesis in the form of UAM´S Erasmus office.
"¿Ah, necesito coger mi tarjeta estudiante?" (I need to pick up my student car?)
"¿Eres estudiante de Wham?"
Was I a student of Wham? I had no idea what this cryptic question meant. Yes, I have been known to hum the odd verse of "Wake me up before you Go-Go" and "Last Christmas" is certainly worth a listen come Yuletide, but a student of the great musicians? I decided to communicate my confusion with clarity and precision.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh...."
"Wham! WHAM! Ooo, ah, emay! Wham!"
U.A.M. Or if you´re Spanish and the letter U barely exists on its own; Wham. Perfecto.
Let´s see, what else of note happened. There was the discovery that the "Wham" cafeteria boasts a large selection of alcoholic spirits, most of which you need to get through the average day. Finally purchased a mug from the Chino, for tea may be drunk from a cup but verily tay, the drink that was gifted to the Irish by the gods can be drunk from none other than a veritable bucket. There was the moment of sheer panic when singing along cheerfully to a recent hit went something like this, "Somebody call 911, Shady fire burning up the...wait, wait WAIT! We dont know the emergency services number of this accursed country!" and the horrible sinking feeling and progression of facial expressions never to be equaled when the train to campus starts to slide the wrong way out of the station and the destination reads "Buenas Aires"
Oy vay
xo
Friday 30 September 2011
The Spanish Are Mad (Ah)
"Buenas días Hai'leeeen! Que pasa"
"Buenas, buenas todos! Ay, nada de mal hombre."
This is me back in the friendliest Starbucks in the world. I've worked out that the trick to it is sounding like you know everyone's mother, brother, senile maiden aunt and medical history. A lot like Ireland actually where we really do know everyone's mother, brother, maiden aunt and medical history. They can't quite get the name yet. I would try explaining the closest you ever come to the celtic "Ai" at the start is to imitate Joey's "'eeeeeey gorgeous, how you doin'?" but this is a bit forward even for me. All these phonetic problems that plague my existence would have been solved had I gone with the Irish Eibhleann (Evelyn) but I am unusual enough without being Evelyn Devlin, a Dr Suess character.
Enough etymological nonsense; the reason why I am in Starbucks as a pleasant change to our entrance-way is once again the presence of wifi. Because FNAC was as much use as a chocolat teapot.
I wandered down to Micro Clinic in the depths of the superstore. I had everything written down because I didn't trust my Spanish not to betray me. We went to connect to wifi of the passworded sort, as has been the problem for a good month now. I'd tried everything short of sacrificing Steve Jobs to Bill Gates. And lo and behold, there in FNAC, successfully connected to wireless internet.
"Suele pasar" says the technician with a smile. It means "Ah, isn't that always the way?" He is trying to be kind.
"A ha ha ha ha, ah sí, how suele it does pasar." I am trying not to be mortified.
The keys on my laptop curve slightly, whether for aesthetically pleasing reasons or old fashioned comfort, I know not. But at that moment the damn thing seemed to be grinning at me. Back to the drawing board...in our hallway.
Attempt to cheer self up was to compose a welcome message for my €7 spanish mobile. This was hilarious fun and I eventually settled on "Why hello Aileen, You've turned me on." This provided half an hour of uninterrupted smile time and then a good five hours of wondering why God saw fit to grace me with the sense of humour of an adolescent Hugh Hefner.
Another example of this sentido de humor happens on nights out when one of my favourite things to do, apart from bust my sweet moves on the dance flo' (the extra 'or is unnecessary according to Mr Z) is to find the football.
Bear with me. It's not just the football. What you do is wander up to where a bunch of Spanish lads stand around the big screen clutching bottles of Corona and cans of Mahou. You sidle into the middle, clad in a sparkly dress and kitten heels, sipping a cocktail pinker than Barbie's soul. You wait until the ref does something idiotic, which happens about 15 times a minute in a Real Madrid v Barca match. And then, and only then you cry out in the best Spanish accent you can manage "Ay hijo de puta! Que pasa? No me dices que es justo! ie "What are you doing, you bloody idiot? That's not fair ref!" Then you totter off to sing some Cyndi Lauper. And you try not to laugh at the confusion in your wake.
Interesting point, this sort of "But she was a chica!" reaction doesn't happen in the UK and Ireland. You're more likely to get a slap on the back, a beer bought for you and a post match analysis. The Spanish are mucho mas macho.
Other news now and once again Día had been making its vital contribution to our wellbeing foodwise. Or it was until I went in to get a pizza and was faced with a queue longer than Berlusconi's charge sheet. The problem, engineerically speaking were the two aisles that kept one queue from seeing the other. The left hand queue insisted it was in the right, the right hand queue thought the whole thing was up the left. Spaniards were shouting and "Ay Díos-ing" and waving their hands and then one little old duena marshalled her strength and screeched;
"SILENCIO!!"
And by god, silencio there was.
Little old Spanish ladies are terrifying. Their shoes always match their dress, their hair is always coiffed, they wear twin sets of necklaces and earrings. They either smoke profusely or not at all. They are capable of bursting eardrums with exclamations. They choose the same shade of lipstick and nail polish. They express disapproval by pursing their painted lips and if one of them starts to organise a supermarket queue you pay attention or you pay the price.
"Que locura es, eh nena?"
The matriarch is speaking to me. And because what she has said literally translates as "This is madness, isn' it girlie?" there's only one thing I wish to say back to her before I lead the left hand queue to victory. And it's not even in Spanish...
"Madness? No. This...Is...DÍA!"
Maybe some other time...
xo
"Buenas, buenas todos! Ay, nada de mal hombre."
This is me back in the friendliest Starbucks in the world. I've worked out that the trick to it is sounding like you know everyone's mother, brother, senile maiden aunt and medical history. A lot like Ireland actually where we really do know everyone's mother, brother, maiden aunt and medical history. They can't quite get the name yet. I would try explaining the closest you ever come to the celtic "Ai" at the start is to imitate Joey's "'eeeeeey gorgeous, how you doin'?" but this is a bit forward even for me. All these phonetic problems that plague my existence would have been solved had I gone with the Irish Eibhleann (Evelyn) but I am unusual enough without being Evelyn Devlin, a Dr Suess character.
Enough etymological nonsense; the reason why I am in Starbucks as a pleasant change to our entrance-way is once again the presence of wifi. Because FNAC was as much use as a chocolat teapot.
I wandered down to Micro Clinic in the depths of the superstore. I had everything written down because I didn't trust my Spanish not to betray me. We went to connect to wifi of the passworded sort, as has been the problem for a good month now. I'd tried everything short of sacrificing Steve Jobs to Bill Gates. And lo and behold, there in FNAC, successfully connected to wireless internet.
"Suele pasar" says the technician with a smile. It means "Ah, isn't that always the way?" He is trying to be kind.
"A ha ha ha ha, ah sí, how suele it does pasar." I am trying not to be mortified.
The keys on my laptop curve slightly, whether for aesthetically pleasing reasons or old fashioned comfort, I know not. But at that moment the damn thing seemed to be grinning at me. Back to the drawing board...in our hallway.
Attempt to cheer self up was to compose a welcome message for my €7 spanish mobile. This was hilarious fun and I eventually settled on "Why hello Aileen, You've turned me on." This provided half an hour of uninterrupted smile time and then a good five hours of wondering why God saw fit to grace me with the sense of humour of an adolescent Hugh Hefner.
Another example of this sentido de humor happens on nights out when one of my favourite things to do, apart from bust my sweet moves on the dance flo' (the extra 'or is unnecessary according to Mr Z) is to find the football.
Bear with me. It's not just the football. What you do is wander up to where a bunch of Spanish lads stand around the big screen clutching bottles of Corona and cans of Mahou. You sidle into the middle, clad in a sparkly dress and kitten heels, sipping a cocktail pinker than Barbie's soul. You wait until the ref does something idiotic, which happens about 15 times a minute in a Real Madrid v Barca match. And then, and only then you cry out in the best Spanish accent you can manage "Ay hijo de puta! Que pasa? No me dices que es justo! ie "What are you doing, you bloody idiot? That's not fair ref!" Then you totter off to sing some Cyndi Lauper. And you try not to laugh at the confusion in your wake.
Interesting point, this sort of "But she was a chica!" reaction doesn't happen in the UK and Ireland. You're more likely to get a slap on the back, a beer bought for you and a post match analysis. The Spanish are mucho mas macho.
Other news now and once again Día had been making its vital contribution to our wellbeing foodwise. Or it was until I went in to get a pizza and was faced with a queue longer than Berlusconi's charge sheet. The problem, engineerically speaking were the two aisles that kept one queue from seeing the other. The left hand queue insisted it was in the right, the right hand queue thought the whole thing was up the left. Spaniards were shouting and "Ay Díos-ing" and waving their hands and then one little old duena marshalled her strength and screeched;
"SILENCIO!!"
And by god, silencio there was.
Little old Spanish ladies are terrifying. Their shoes always match their dress, their hair is always coiffed, they wear twin sets of necklaces and earrings. They either smoke profusely or not at all. They are capable of bursting eardrums with exclamations. They choose the same shade of lipstick and nail polish. They express disapproval by pursing their painted lips and if one of them starts to organise a supermarket queue you pay attention or you pay the price.
"Que locura es, eh nena?"
The matriarch is speaking to me. And because what she has said literally translates as "This is madness, isn' it girlie?" there's only one thing I wish to say back to her before I lead the left hand queue to victory. And it's not even in Spanish...
"Madness? No. This...Is...DÍA!"
Maybe some other time...
xo
Monday 26 September 2011
Sweet Home Salamanca
"I did not drag myself up before the flamin' postman for a cuppa so weak you could snap its backbone like a Kitkat."
The gravelly tones that echo round our kitchen at seven am are mine seeing as how I've woken up sounding like DI Gene Hunt. Instead of properly being concerned about a locating paracetamol I'm having tremendous fun imitating the Manc Lion and thus am running though my non-PC repetoire of insults, of which there are a surprising amount. The reason I am up before the flamin postman is the exciting prospect of our first viaje (voyage) trans-Espana to Salamanca, the Cambridge of Spain, which is ironic really because I'm sure something about refugee status from Cambridge went on our Erasmus form.
The sharp realisation that thus far any photos of my YA (pronounced "yah") one cares to look at show rather a lot of clubs has awoken a determination to see some Cul-Cha demmit, architecture and libraries and history and ethnic folkways and what not. And boy did we!
Actually the first thing we saw was our hostel. And the first thing we said was "It were a lot nicer online." But nevertheless we threw our bags into the room and headed out into the sixth oldest University town in the world. (But not before cleverly concealing my passport in the pillowcase. No identity theft for me!)
There was a wedding in the Plaza Mayor, cobbles surrounded by sunlit red brick and delicate black balconies, a multitude of Spaniards in their Sunday best and a pretty bride in white with a rose in her hair. Of course being an all female group the inscrutable laws of gender meant we all had to sigh, admire her reception venue, take surreptious photos of her dress and discreetly position ourselves so if she went to lob the bouquet off the balcony we were in the prime spot to snatch it out of the air.
Next we wandered up to Las Catedrales Vieja y Nueva and spent a few hours with the Good Lord. Actually more than a few given our next cultural fix were to be the Nuns with the Buns and the Musical Monks.
How disrespectful of me; I of course meant to say the Convento de las Duenas where the nuns sell you little almond pastries they bake themselves in cloisters and the choir of Cappuchin monks of the Franciscan order who's hymns would make angels weep. The first was yummy and, ah, deeply spiritual of course. The second was a no go as God tends to monopolise the holy brethern on the weekends.
Strolling around a city playing tourist invariably turns ones mind to food and so dinner was a Spanish tapas spectacular with Manchego cheese, Iberian meat, calamares (squid) And, as all culture and no nightlife is nonsensical to say the least we went to a place called Camelot (which, to plagurise Monty Python, was only a club) where Latin remixes of Aretha's "Respect" and Cyndi's "Girls just want to have fun" went down a storm with the crowd who clapped and Olé-ed like there was no tomorrow.
But tomorrow there was and the task for the day was to locate the Rana de Suerte (Lucky Frog) on the extravagantly carved facade of the University. This exericise went from "Oh, isn't it lovely, let's have a looksee" to "Oh, ho, ho the little fellow is tricky to find, isn't he?" and finally to "WE'RE NOT LEAVING THIS SQUARE UNTIL I FIND THE DAMN THING!"
Rana located, a fact which I can only assume means we are cured of all illnesses and gypsy curses we may have accrued, we wandered to the Roman bridge and the Art Deco museum which was insanely pretty. 1920's perfume bottles with original fragrance still inside, brooches in the likeness of bejewelled dragonflies, statues of dancers who could have entered the Vaganova ballet academy without a reference. Our cameras were taken rather sharply from us at the door but clever old me, I have a camera on my phone and spent a good twenty minutes taking pictures from waist height and humming the theme from Goldfinger. 20 photos so blurry a die-hard UFO "believer" would laugh at later I arrived at the Valley of the Dolls. Porcelain dolls terrify me, especially when the toymaker thought a face like a wallnut and freakishly long arms were desirable features. Lost the exit for a while and Goldfinger changed to the Psycho theme.
Lets see what else, there was the heart-stopping moment the taxi we were exuberantly flagging down at two in the morning resolved itself into a police car, the loud exclamation that is was "Too fucking hot!" said in the certain knowledge no one could speak English resulting in a mild "Yes, that is true," from a middle aged man, the other middle aged man who tut-tut-tutted at the white of my arm (Mira la blancura que tienes!) and the tourist photos so cheesy we could put them on toast.
Viva Salamanca and a fantastic weekend, but in a way the nicest little ratito (bit) of the trip was coming back to the capital of Spain, a busy, loud 24/7 kind of place and knock me down with a feather if it didn't in a strange sort of way feel like coming home to the wee Irish girleen from the sticks. Madrid, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship
xo
The gravelly tones that echo round our kitchen at seven am are mine seeing as how I've woken up sounding like DI Gene Hunt. Instead of properly being concerned about a locating paracetamol I'm having tremendous fun imitating the Manc Lion and thus am running though my non-PC repetoire of insults, of which there are a surprising amount. The reason I am up before the flamin postman is the exciting prospect of our first viaje (voyage) trans-Espana to Salamanca, the Cambridge of Spain, which is ironic really because I'm sure something about refugee status from Cambridge went on our Erasmus form.
The sharp realisation that thus far any photos of my YA (pronounced "yah") one cares to look at show rather a lot of clubs has awoken a determination to see some Cul-Cha demmit, architecture and libraries and history and ethnic folkways and what not. And boy did we!
Actually the first thing we saw was our hostel. And the first thing we said was "It were a lot nicer online." But nevertheless we threw our bags into the room and headed out into the sixth oldest University town in the world. (But not before cleverly concealing my passport in the pillowcase. No identity theft for me!)
There was a wedding in the Plaza Mayor, cobbles surrounded by sunlit red brick and delicate black balconies, a multitude of Spaniards in their Sunday best and a pretty bride in white with a rose in her hair. Of course being an all female group the inscrutable laws of gender meant we all had to sigh, admire her reception venue, take surreptious photos of her dress and discreetly position ourselves so if she went to lob the bouquet off the balcony we were in the prime spot to snatch it out of the air.
Next we wandered up to Las Catedrales Vieja y Nueva and spent a few hours with the Good Lord. Actually more than a few given our next cultural fix were to be the Nuns with the Buns and the Musical Monks.
How disrespectful of me; I of course meant to say the Convento de las Duenas where the nuns sell you little almond pastries they bake themselves in cloisters and the choir of Cappuchin monks of the Franciscan order who's hymns would make angels weep. The first was yummy and, ah, deeply spiritual of course. The second was a no go as God tends to monopolise the holy brethern on the weekends.
Strolling around a city playing tourist invariably turns ones mind to food and so dinner was a Spanish tapas spectacular with Manchego cheese, Iberian meat, calamares (squid) And, as all culture and no nightlife is nonsensical to say the least we went to a place called Camelot (which, to plagurise Monty Python, was only a club) where Latin remixes of Aretha's "Respect" and Cyndi's "Girls just want to have fun" went down a storm with the crowd who clapped and Olé-ed like there was no tomorrow.
But tomorrow there was and the task for the day was to locate the Rana de Suerte (Lucky Frog) on the extravagantly carved facade of the University. This exericise went from "Oh, isn't it lovely, let's have a looksee" to "Oh, ho, ho the little fellow is tricky to find, isn't he?" and finally to "WE'RE NOT LEAVING THIS SQUARE UNTIL I FIND THE DAMN THING!"
Rana located, a fact which I can only assume means we are cured of all illnesses and gypsy curses we may have accrued, we wandered to the Roman bridge and the Art Deco museum which was insanely pretty. 1920's perfume bottles with original fragrance still inside, brooches in the likeness of bejewelled dragonflies, statues of dancers who could have entered the Vaganova ballet academy without a reference. Our cameras were taken rather sharply from us at the door but clever old me, I have a camera on my phone and spent a good twenty minutes taking pictures from waist height and humming the theme from Goldfinger. 20 photos so blurry a die-hard UFO "believer" would laugh at later I arrived at the Valley of the Dolls. Porcelain dolls terrify me, especially when the toymaker thought a face like a wallnut and freakishly long arms were desirable features. Lost the exit for a while and Goldfinger changed to the Psycho theme.
Lets see what else, there was the heart-stopping moment the taxi we were exuberantly flagging down at two in the morning resolved itself into a police car, the loud exclamation that is was "Too fucking hot!" said in the certain knowledge no one could speak English resulting in a mild "Yes, that is true," from a middle aged man, the other middle aged man who tut-tut-tutted at the white of my arm (Mira la blancura que tienes!) and the tourist photos so cheesy we could put them on toast.
Viva Salamanca and a fantastic weekend, but in a way the nicest little ratito (bit) of the trip was coming back to the capital of Spain, a busy, loud 24/7 kind of place and knock me down with a feather if it didn't in a strange sort of way feel like coming home to the wee Irish girleen from the sticks. Madrid, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship
xo
Thursday 22 September 2011
Quixote Ugly
Speaking a foreign language is a lot like being a bad politican. You never listen to what the other person is saying, you don't really care what they're saying because all the while you're concentrating feverishly on your own reply so you don't inadvertently say something like, oh for instance "Que embarazoso" before realising it doesn't mean how embarrassing, but "How pregnant" and everyone in the room is avoiding you because of this terrible social faux pas.
This was the case when talking to our academic co-ordinator/useless toothless ornament. All was going swimmingly until I came to the terrible realisation all I could think to say was "Un bocadillo, por favor." Which is nonsense, why would I ask for a sandwich in the middle of talking about a criminal law lecture? Unless I was in desperate need of a sandwich... But why? Hmmm, desperate need of food equals desperate need of sugar, Bingo! As long as diabectico is the same sort of Spanglish hybrid I can say "Soy diabetica, un bocadillo por favor." to avert a medical disaster. Perfect, its all about working with what you know.
Unless of course she's finished explaining all about timetables and is ushering you out the door and in that mental 30 seconds you'd been away trying to conjugate the verb "ser" you've missed everything of importance.
Linguistic adventures don't stop there. Today we're bringing my laptop to FNAC to see what we shall see. I'm afraid I may suffer withdrawal symptoms if its away more than a day getting its wifi life sorted out. Withdrawal from online streamed possibly-illegal-its-all-shades-of-grey-enjoying-creativity-v-intellectual-property-rights movies online. The last such of these featured what sounded like Del Boy and Rodney making a cameo appearance in James Cameron's Avatar (in theatres near you or my laptop)
"What's that you got there then?"
" 'S a Cornetto. I ordered a Magnum."
"Why don't you take it back then?"
"Don't like to make a fuss."
This charming interlude made the plight of the Navi and the pillaging of their ancestral home a little harder to watch when you're wondering if Día would still be open and if the Spaniards have Cornettos.
In other news the hunt for a lovely part time job in an artsy Spanish bookshop took a turn for the surreal yesterday when wandering through Cheuca. Saw a pretty bookshop, saw an opportunity and pottered in to have an ask of a job.
Something wasn't right the moment I entered. A certain growing fascinated horror. Call it women's intuition but I had a shufti at the books on the shelves. "Encontrando el espiritu erotico masculino." One does not need to study Spanish to grasp the meaning. This was to my right. To my left there were some posters of firemen. They were not taking seriously their duties as firemen. In fact I don't see how what they were taking seriously could be performed by a building so advanced in burning to cinders without risking at least second degree burns. I was sure firemen wore more protective gear than that. Fire retardant jackets and so forth...
Enough of that, the point was at this stage I was still walking into the den of iniquity and because of my overwhelming need to be polite was forming the sentence "Would you happen to have any policemen?" I decided rather reluctantly against this and in a manouever known as the Reverse Jobseeker made a complete circle, nodding in a hopefully sage, untroubled manner at the proprietor in his leather waistcoat and walked back out. Leaving CV in next week though.
Besides all that let's see. There were the moments of deep conference when the buzzer rang with a man claiming to be the postman. We were up to now unclear as to how postie got into the building without a key. Apparently he rings and hopes to get lucky. Our obliviouness to this fact had us asking "Do you have post for US" in an effort to ascertain whether he was some form of charlatan. He answered rather amusingly "Well, what flat number are you?" It was not till later til we realised how very strange this must have sounded.
Elsewise UAM related stress levels have turning my lipstick shade from Pearl to Hurricane Pick to Diva Red in a sort of chameleon display of deteriorating mental state, found a shop selling all things British which we raided for Robinsons and Cadburys and <shudder> Marmite. I think I may have been a little too exuberant with the poor lady who I'm sure only wished for a quiet Tuesday morning. There was the advert filiming in Madrid Centre which I found out all about by cunning ways of nonchalantly sidling up beside a policeman who I must say are very friendly here.
Now, I'm afraid I must away with me to FNAC, assuming anyones awake because siesta time here is 2pm to 4 pee em sharp. If for some reason they should blow up my laptop and I never get it back I wish everyone to know it was a pleasure blogging from our front hallway and I'm sure movies are just as good without added audience commentary.
xo
This was the case when talking to our academic co-ordinator/useless toothless ornament. All was going swimmingly until I came to the terrible realisation all I could think to say was "Un bocadillo, por favor." Which is nonsense, why would I ask for a sandwich in the middle of talking about a criminal law lecture? Unless I was in desperate need of a sandwich... But why? Hmmm, desperate need of food equals desperate need of sugar, Bingo! As long as diabectico is the same sort of Spanglish hybrid I can say "Soy diabetica, un bocadillo por favor." to avert a medical disaster. Perfect, its all about working with what you know.
Unless of course she's finished explaining all about timetables and is ushering you out the door and in that mental 30 seconds you'd been away trying to conjugate the verb "ser" you've missed everything of importance.
Linguistic adventures don't stop there. Today we're bringing my laptop to FNAC to see what we shall see. I'm afraid I may suffer withdrawal symptoms if its away more than a day getting its wifi life sorted out. Withdrawal from online streamed possibly-illegal-its-all-shades-of-grey-enjoying-creativity-v-intellectual-property-rights movies online. The last such of these featured what sounded like Del Boy and Rodney making a cameo appearance in James Cameron's Avatar (in theatres near you or my laptop)
"What's that you got there then?"
" 'S a Cornetto. I ordered a Magnum."
"Why don't you take it back then?"
"Don't like to make a fuss."
This charming interlude made the plight of the Navi and the pillaging of their ancestral home a little harder to watch when you're wondering if Día would still be open and if the Spaniards have Cornettos.
In other news the hunt for a lovely part time job in an artsy Spanish bookshop took a turn for the surreal yesterday when wandering through Cheuca. Saw a pretty bookshop, saw an opportunity and pottered in to have an ask of a job.
Something wasn't right the moment I entered. A certain growing fascinated horror. Call it women's intuition but I had a shufti at the books on the shelves. "Encontrando el espiritu erotico masculino." One does not need to study Spanish to grasp the meaning. This was to my right. To my left there were some posters of firemen. They were not taking seriously their duties as firemen. In fact I don't see how what they were taking seriously could be performed by a building so advanced in burning to cinders without risking at least second degree burns. I was sure firemen wore more protective gear than that. Fire retardant jackets and so forth...
Enough of that, the point was at this stage I was still walking into the den of iniquity and because of my overwhelming need to be polite was forming the sentence "Would you happen to have any policemen?" I decided rather reluctantly against this and in a manouever known as the Reverse Jobseeker made a complete circle, nodding in a hopefully sage, untroubled manner at the proprietor in his leather waistcoat and walked back out. Leaving CV in next week though.
Besides all that let's see. There were the moments of deep conference when the buzzer rang with a man claiming to be the postman. We were up to now unclear as to how postie got into the building without a key. Apparently he rings and hopes to get lucky. Our obliviouness to this fact had us asking "Do you have post for US" in an effort to ascertain whether he was some form of charlatan. He answered rather amusingly "Well, what flat number are you?" It was not till later til we realised how very strange this must have sounded.
Elsewise UAM related stress levels have turning my lipstick shade from Pearl to Hurricane Pick to Diva Red in a sort of chameleon display of deteriorating mental state, found a shop selling all things British which we raided for Robinsons and Cadburys and <shudder> Marmite. I think I may have been a little too exuberant with the poor lady who I'm sure only wished for a quiet Tuesday morning. There was the advert filiming in Madrid Centre which I found out all about by cunning ways of nonchalantly sidling up beside a policeman who I must say are very friendly here.
Now, I'm afraid I must away with me to FNAC, assuming anyones awake because siesta time here is 2pm to 4 pee em sharp. If for some reason they should blow up my laptop and I never get it back I wish everyone to know it was a pleasure blogging from our front hallway and I'm sure movies are just as good without added audience commentary.
xo
Sunday 18 September 2011
The Dons and Dont's of living in Spain.
René, I vill say zis only once. Well no, I'll type it once and quickly because I got me a tortilla in the oven. A tortilla con cebolla y huevos y patata y lots of deliciosas cosas (things) and even though its five o'clock the Spaniards consider it lunch. Viva la comida, never mind the vida.
I've established an internet point via ethernet cable in the hallway. Anyone opens the door I'll have to drawl "I've been expecting you Mr Bond" to cover up the awkwardness. I've got my feet up on our chest of drawers, the table we are still waiting to install in the kitchen when the previous tenant finally comes back is in the corner, I can see a little old Spanish lady putting her washing on the line. Just a moment, I must wave now we've made eye contact or she'll take serious Latin offence. Something about bad sex life for seven years or maybe that only works when you're clinking glasses crying "Salud!" Done now...
We've just got back from Los Rastros, the hub of humanity and everything you could wish to buy that'll fit on a stall. It's also the pickpocketing centre of Spain. Now picture the image of outrageously careful, clutching your bag to your bosom and quasi-snarling at anyone who comes within a radius of ten metres. Even a group of well heeled Americanos who in my defence looked like Spanish hobos. Maybe its the new look. Dreadlocks and frayed denim. Anyway even though someone was playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons at the La Latina Metro stop Los Rastros in dodgy with a capital D. And after a while we wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. Hd a peek in to our first police station in Spain, and my first ever to my shame. It was stangely like a doctors office, no drunk and disorderlies nor heavily tattooed dealers just us normal schmeels who'd had a run in with Crime. Byebye musings on career as a hero policewoman. I'd never have passed the fitness test anyway. If you look at my school PE records I have a mysteriously loose shoelace on the same "beep test" day every 15 years. Cunning incarnate, thas me.
In other news I was supposed to be typing this from Starbucks in their glorious air conditioned coffee filled palace. But when I got in yesterday they cried out "Hola!" at my opening of the door. Now this took me aback as at the time I was trying to remember the difference between Tirar/Empujar, Pull or Push? Shocked at this I made a desperate attempt at getting the level of friendly in the reply right and came out with "Muy buenas días a todos!" which is the linguistic equivalent of Uncle Ben booming "Good mornin', good mornin' how y'all doing this fine hot Alabama day?" They then asked would I like my coffee caliente or frio, what my name was, on hearng my name used it after every sentence and ushered me to a table. I was so swept up in this sea of language and desperately concentarting on the next repuesta (reply) that I forgot to ask for wifi. Oy vay. So I took out my wee Madrid notebook, pushed my glasses down my nose and went for arthouse chique and not powerhouse techno. And that was when I heard it...
"Well, whats the craic?"
Opposite me, in the centre of Madrid, in the friendliest Starbucks in the world, was the melifluous roll of a Derry accent. I couldn't not say anything, no way José. And so I met another Norn Irish, and so the Irish takeover of the world through MY-mum-knows-your-cousins-boyfriends-primary-school-teacher-who-knows-your-uncle- who-obviously-knows-YOUR-mum continues. And the Starbucks staff were all grinning, and "Adios-ing" and one step away from a thumbs up "get in there my son" when we wandered out still talking, under the belief they'd facilitated a matchmake that I had neither the heart nor the vocabulary to tell them that A) it was merely excitement to find another person from the Province and B) no marriage was likely unless he split with his boyfriend. And I'm no homewrecker.
Lessee, what else happened. Found Sunny Delight in the chilled aisle of Día and such an forgotten institution of our childhoods it was like finding the Terry Wogan sunning himself as an expat in Benidorm. Mind you I don't think Spain take EU regulations on e-numbers quite seriously enough. Down enough of that "orange" juice and you're seeing pink elephants. Also there was the escalated row over Father Ted's real name, our drill sergeant of an Inernational Law lecturer I MUST NOT call Franco anymore, the constant reappearance of our oven ghost and a certain pondering when my amusement with the Metro will cease as I smiled for a good 5 minutes today on thinking all of us scuttling about underground must surely resemble mole-people.
xo
I've established an internet point via ethernet cable in the hallway. Anyone opens the door I'll have to drawl "I've been expecting you Mr Bond" to cover up the awkwardness. I've got my feet up on our chest of drawers, the table we are still waiting to install in the kitchen when the previous tenant finally comes back is in the corner, I can see a little old Spanish lady putting her washing on the line. Just a moment, I must wave now we've made eye contact or she'll take serious Latin offence. Something about bad sex life for seven years or maybe that only works when you're clinking glasses crying "Salud!" Done now...
We've just got back from Los Rastros, the hub of humanity and everything you could wish to buy that'll fit on a stall. It's also the pickpocketing centre of Spain. Now picture the image of outrageously careful, clutching your bag to your bosom and quasi-snarling at anyone who comes within a radius of ten metres. Even a group of well heeled Americanos who in my defence looked like Spanish hobos. Maybe its the new look. Dreadlocks and frayed denim. Anyway even though someone was playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons at the La Latina Metro stop Los Rastros in dodgy with a capital D. And after a while we wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. Hd a peek in to our first police station in Spain, and my first ever to my shame. It was stangely like a doctors office, no drunk and disorderlies nor heavily tattooed dealers just us normal schmeels who'd had a run in with Crime. Byebye musings on career as a hero policewoman. I'd never have passed the fitness test anyway. If you look at my school PE records I have a mysteriously loose shoelace on the same "beep test" day every 15 years. Cunning incarnate, thas me.
In other news I was supposed to be typing this from Starbucks in their glorious air conditioned coffee filled palace. But when I got in yesterday they cried out "Hola!" at my opening of the door. Now this took me aback as at the time I was trying to remember the difference between Tirar/Empujar, Pull or Push? Shocked at this I made a desperate attempt at getting the level of friendly in the reply right and came out with "Muy buenas días a todos!" which is the linguistic equivalent of Uncle Ben booming "Good mornin', good mornin' how y'all doing this fine hot Alabama day?" They then asked would I like my coffee caliente or frio, what my name was, on hearng my name used it after every sentence and ushered me to a table. I was so swept up in this sea of language and desperately concentarting on the next repuesta (reply) that I forgot to ask for wifi. Oy vay. So I took out my wee Madrid notebook, pushed my glasses down my nose and went for arthouse chique and not powerhouse techno. And that was when I heard it...
"Well, whats the craic?"
Opposite me, in the centre of Madrid, in the friendliest Starbucks in the world, was the melifluous roll of a Derry accent. I couldn't not say anything, no way José. And so I met another Norn Irish, and so the Irish takeover of the world through MY-mum-knows-your-cousins-boyfriends-primary-school-teacher-who-knows-your-uncle- who-obviously-knows-YOUR-mum continues. And the Starbucks staff were all grinning, and "Adios-ing" and one step away from a thumbs up "get in there my son" when we wandered out still talking, under the belief they'd facilitated a matchmake that I had neither the heart nor the vocabulary to tell them that A) it was merely excitement to find another person from the Province and B) no marriage was likely unless he split with his boyfriend. And I'm no homewrecker.
Lessee, what else happened. Found Sunny Delight in the chilled aisle of Día and such an forgotten institution of our childhoods it was like finding the Terry Wogan sunning himself as an expat in Benidorm. Mind you I don't think Spain take EU regulations on e-numbers quite seriously enough. Down enough of that "orange" juice and you're seeing pink elephants. Also there was the escalated row over Father Ted's real name, our drill sergeant of an Inernational Law lecturer I MUST NOT call Franco anymore, the constant reappearance of our oven ghost and a certain pondering when my amusement with the Metro will cease as I smiled for a good 5 minutes today on thinking all of us scuttling about underground must surely resemble mole-people.
xo
Wednesday 14 September 2011
Choked with your own red tape
About that internet arriving on Monday. Pablo came, he saw, he conquered, veni, vidi, vici for all of twenty minutes until I joyously went to connect to the wifi. "Se produjo un error," an error produced itself. Actually an error is producing itself right now as our lights keep fusing. People are running back and forward to the mains while I sit in the dark like the devil himself, lit up eerily by laptop screen.
Anyway, I don't suppose any compscis are reading but if you great gods of technology are there can anyone explain why in the name of God a connection to wifi fails because of a timeout on operating system Windows Vista. The internet particles must move faster than Speedy Gonzales to create a timeout in less than 5 seconds. Oy vay.
I'm using an Ethernet cable to provide a fleeting link to t'interweb and to let you all know never, ever should your families be held at gunpoint by Muamar Gaddaffi himself, matriculate in a spanish university. La Autonoma almost killed us.
We got to Cantobalnco Campus. In 30 degrees of heat. My pale aforementioned Irish skin could not take it. Melanin production was at its height. I was the Wicked Witch of the West, Melting! Melting! And there the fun began.
We arrived at Ori Derecho. Here I must explain that we laboured under the assumption Ori Derecho was a friendly Spaniard who kept sending us helpful emails and asked to please speak to Ori for a good two weeks before we realised two things. ORI stands for Oficina de Relaciones Internacionales. And Derecho is the spanish word for Law. The shame...
Anyway we arrived and waved our printed sheet of classes we were accpeted onto. They were all very exciting indeed, theory of democracy, history of america. japonese, etc
"No, no, no. Aha. Dese you cannot take."
Well that was a prelude to sorting out our own timetables from scratch in an office the size of my living room, sin (without) air conditioning, heading up hopefully every so often to have the same Russian lady shake her head and say "No. no, no, dese are full, jes?"
People were desperate, it was like Ellis Island during the Great Depression. One poor lass was weeping in the corner, actually weeping, and shaking her head to some strange Latin beat.
And then I couldn't matriculate. I hadn't registered. And it is at this point I must point out that the gaps between faculties and offices would have made Columbus give up on finding dry land. I set off, like Frodo with the ring, except I had my passport and Sauron was in the form of a little American MTV-chirpy girl who made my foot itch. And I am not a violent woman. First she told me to love, eat and sleep with my guidebook, then she insulted my Spanish then she did the unthinkable...
"Ah, just two seconds guys, ahah, you need a copy of your EHIC card, alright. I, uh, you can't register without it, okay"
I wish I'd replied with "Bodacious!" What I said (ratcheting up the Irish charm to 12) was...
"I couldn't ever be cheeky and print it off in here, could I?" (All it needed was a Begorrah and Bejaysus but I know my limits)
Ah, no, no sorry but you can go to the Economics Faculty..."
No I couldn't go to the bloody Economics faculty. They wouldn't let me in. The only one that would was Philosophy and that was another continent away and I had no computer ID nor printer card nor wish to be there any more. Then I heard voices. Voices speaking English. A strange accent to be sure but there they were.
And they were Sue and Linda. And they were South African. And they took pity on me in my hour of need and yea verily did they let me login and useth of the printer. And so I was saved...
Until I went back to Ori (department not jovial Spaniard) and they were shut. That whole operation took nine hours. So verily did we go hit the Irish bars for all they were worth and where my Begorrahs and Bejaysus' bought many a free round.
Lessee, after that saga there was the awkward moment with the contortionist on the Metro, a close shave with that Cuban Louis Spence, an actual flat party with more Americans than I've ever seen in my life!! That was exciting. Or was until we woke up the next morning and contrary to all films I've ever seen no one had stolen anything, chundered "everywhah" nor even left the toilet seat up. That sort of thing shouldn't be allowed. Then there was the other Aileen Devlin living in Madrid which became a completely out of the blue barrier to setting up a Santander account and the joke that was blown out of all proportion, the teasing about my skillful heating up of a tortilla that had me making chicken and bacon carbonara for seven.
As we, Frank Sinatra (and I've found out the Spanish say) así es la vida, that's life. Well, mine at any rate.
(Also if someone could actually help with the shagging internet it would be greatly appreciated. It does get so lonely wandering past closed bedrooms doors when alll the worlds on Skype...)
xo
Anyway, I don't suppose any compscis are reading but if you great gods of technology are there can anyone explain why in the name of God a connection to wifi fails because of a timeout on operating system Windows Vista. The internet particles must move faster than Speedy Gonzales to create a timeout in less than 5 seconds. Oy vay.
I'm using an Ethernet cable to provide a fleeting link to t'interweb and to let you all know never, ever should your families be held at gunpoint by Muamar Gaddaffi himself, matriculate in a spanish university. La Autonoma almost killed us.
We got to Cantobalnco Campus. In 30 degrees of heat. My pale aforementioned Irish skin could not take it. Melanin production was at its height. I was the Wicked Witch of the West, Melting! Melting! And there the fun began.
We arrived at Ori Derecho. Here I must explain that we laboured under the assumption Ori Derecho was a friendly Spaniard who kept sending us helpful emails and asked to please speak to Ori for a good two weeks before we realised two things. ORI stands for Oficina de Relaciones Internacionales. And Derecho is the spanish word for Law. The shame...
Anyway we arrived and waved our printed sheet of classes we were accpeted onto. They were all very exciting indeed, theory of democracy, history of america. japonese, etc
"No, no, no. Aha. Dese you cannot take."
Well that was a prelude to sorting out our own timetables from scratch in an office the size of my living room, sin (without) air conditioning, heading up hopefully every so often to have the same Russian lady shake her head and say "No. no, no, dese are full, jes?"
People were desperate, it was like Ellis Island during the Great Depression. One poor lass was weeping in the corner, actually weeping, and shaking her head to some strange Latin beat.
And then I couldn't matriculate. I hadn't registered. And it is at this point I must point out that the gaps between faculties and offices would have made Columbus give up on finding dry land. I set off, like Frodo with the ring, except I had my passport and Sauron was in the form of a little American MTV-chirpy girl who made my foot itch. And I am not a violent woman. First she told me to love, eat and sleep with my guidebook, then she insulted my Spanish then she did the unthinkable...
"Ah, just two seconds guys, ahah, you need a copy of your EHIC card, alright. I, uh, you can't register without it, okay"
I wish I'd replied with "Bodacious!" What I said (ratcheting up the Irish charm to 12) was...
"I couldn't ever be cheeky and print it off in here, could I?" (All it needed was a Begorrah and Bejaysus but I know my limits)
Ah, no, no sorry but you can go to the Economics Faculty..."
No I couldn't go to the bloody Economics faculty. They wouldn't let me in. The only one that would was Philosophy and that was another continent away and I had no computer ID nor printer card nor wish to be there any more. Then I heard voices. Voices speaking English. A strange accent to be sure but there they were.
And they were Sue and Linda. And they were South African. And they took pity on me in my hour of need and yea verily did they let me login and useth of the printer. And so I was saved...
Until I went back to Ori (department not jovial Spaniard) and they were shut. That whole operation took nine hours. So verily did we go hit the Irish bars for all they were worth and where my Begorrahs and Bejaysus' bought many a free round.
Lessee, after that saga there was the awkward moment with the contortionist on the Metro, a close shave with that Cuban Louis Spence, an actual flat party with more Americans than I've ever seen in my life!! That was exciting. Or was until we woke up the next morning and contrary to all films I've ever seen no one had stolen anything, chundered "everywhah" nor even left the toilet seat up. That sort of thing shouldn't be allowed. Then there was the other Aileen Devlin living in Madrid which became a completely out of the blue barrier to setting up a Santander account and the joke that was blown out of all proportion, the teasing about my skillful heating up of a tortilla that had me making chicken and bacon carbonara for seven.
As we, Frank Sinatra (and I've found out the Spanish say) así es la vida, that's life. Well, mine at any rate.
(Also if someone could actually help with the shagging internet it would be greatly appreciated. It does get so lonely wandering past closed bedrooms doors when alll the worlds on Skype...)
xo
Thursday 8 September 2011
Mi casa es tu casa
Madrid is beautiful. There are treelined avenues, there are marble fountains in every square, there are wrought iron balconies and buildings come in every type of colour because Madrileños don't have to settle for that hideous weather proof gray/brown piss-poor nonsense we have. Because of course there is sun.
Well I was assuming there was sun. I was actually assuming the rest of that fabulously evocative description as well because the first hour of my estancia in Spain's capital was spent on the Metro. At rush hour. Dragging a suticase behind me. In theory it was wonderful. Throw my hand luggage over the turnstile, drag the wheely luggage behind. Perfecto.
Throw. Pull! Pull! Pull! For Jaysus sake quickly! Clunk....Balls...
So, trapped in the turnstile for the time it took two security staff to set me free there was time to comtemplate the wisdom of paying an extra €3 for a taxi.
Alonso Martinez. Metro stop we call home and ten minutes away from the piso. The piso we waited for, wept for, sweated for, etc, etc. But first there is the walk and walking through Spanish streets in the evening is a laugh and a half.
No one is quiet; in Spain el Papa "the Pope" must have made it a cardinal sin to go for more than an hour without commenting on someone you don't know from Adam. Brits (and the Irish of course, a feature of the nights where we <ahem> take advantage of €1 bottles of wine is my sheer unjustified outrage at being labelled a Brit. I apologise to a group of lovely Michigan-ites who found this out first hand) sanyway, Brits stick out like a sore thumb.
"Oye, oye, blanquita, blanquita" is one such example of a Spanish greeting I recieved. It literally means "Hey, hey, lil white girl. Why don't you slide on over here fo' minute?" Actually it only means up to the full stop there. I couldn't resist. Tell me you couldn't just hear someone call Big Daddy from New Orleans catcalling.
"Pollo, ay ay, pollo" is another one. It means "Chicken, oy vay, like a chicken." They're referring to my skin colour. Imagine a Tesco packaged free range bird. It's not complimentary.
Our piso. Es fenomenal. It's fantastic. Actually its shabby chic, but its in the centre of Madrid and bygods if our street isn't full of chorros shops (pastry which arrives with a cup of melted chocolate) and cafés. Its because of a café we have internet. I'm sitting in a warderobe as we speak, balancing my laptop on top of some unmentionables and some socks which are mentionable. The Spanish man won't come til Monday. Apparently "Mañana, mañana" does not mean the literal "Tomorrow morrning" but "It'll get done at some stage."
We're also right above Día. Its the Spanish equivalent of a Spar and I can hear David's <beep.beep.beep> of the checkout. The windows of the balcony are open. We and David are practically family. He witnessed that first week when, not to put too fine a point on it, we made absolute tits of ourselves whether be it knocking over a stand of lighters or blank incomprehension when being asked do we want a plastic bag. David (or Da-veed spanish phoenetically speaking) is a proper gent.
We have a Chino shop! Hang on, we're not allowed to call it Chino anymore since finding out it doesn't mean a Chinese person the same way irlandesa would mean an Irish lady, but is basically the same as yelling "Oy Chinky-chinaman!" This is the year political correctness dies for me. They sell everything. EVERYTHING. You want a TARDIS you go to the Chino on the corner. I want a light bulb, fake flowers, jigsaw puzzle, lipstick and a life size statue of the Virgin Mary clutching a cross I go to the Chino. No broma. No joke. Not even about the "Our Blessed Virgin" which scares me slightly. I've apologised for bumping into it three times now.
Other than that we fused all the lights (our way of explaining that a faulty bulb in the kitchen had blown the fuses and we needed a hand was to shriek down the phone to Rosa our landlady "No tenemos luz, no tenemos luz!!" We no have light, no have light!!!) went to a lesbian bar in the dodgy Cheuca district by acccident, found out microwave popcorn doesn't work in the oven, got a lamp from Ikea which makes my little cueva look like the red light district. You must visit to see what I mean. And...well there was the night of which more anon, the one where I was "on the bus" if that means anything to anyone. Then I was captain of our ship. But not for very long. They got tired of singing it. Which I suppose is good in a way because I am not versed in the nautical ways of the sea.
Next week, well Monday to celebrate internet, I shall tell you what hell truly looks like and why matriculating at the La Autonoma was enough to drive us all truly insane.
xo
Well I was assuming there was sun. I was actually assuming the rest of that fabulously evocative description as well because the first hour of my estancia in Spain's capital was spent on the Metro. At rush hour. Dragging a suticase behind me. In theory it was wonderful. Throw my hand luggage over the turnstile, drag the wheely luggage behind. Perfecto.
Throw. Pull! Pull! Pull! For Jaysus sake quickly! Clunk....Balls...
So, trapped in the turnstile for the time it took two security staff to set me free there was time to comtemplate the wisdom of paying an extra €3 for a taxi.
Alonso Martinez. Metro stop we call home and ten minutes away from the piso. The piso we waited for, wept for, sweated for, etc, etc. But first there is the walk and walking through Spanish streets in the evening is a laugh and a half.
No one is quiet; in Spain el Papa "the Pope" must have made it a cardinal sin to go for more than an hour without commenting on someone you don't know from Adam. Brits (and the Irish of course, a feature of the nights where we <ahem> take advantage of €1 bottles of wine is my sheer unjustified outrage at being labelled a Brit. I apologise to a group of lovely Michigan-ites who found this out first hand) sanyway, Brits stick out like a sore thumb.
"Oye, oye, blanquita, blanquita" is one such example of a Spanish greeting I recieved. It literally means "Hey, hey, lil white girl. Why don't you slide on over here fo' minute?" Actually it only means up to the full stop there. I couldn't resist. Tell me you couldn't just hear someone call Big Daddy from New Orleans catcalling.
"Pollo, ay ay, pollo" is another one. It means "Chicken, oy vay, like a chicken." They're referring to my skin colour. Imagine a Tesco packaged free range bird. It's not complimentary.
Our piso. Es fenomenal. It's fantastic. Actually its shabby chic, but its in the centre of Madrid and bygods if our street isn't full of chorros shops (pastry which arrives with a cup of melted chocolate) and cafés. Its because of a café we have internet. I'm sitting in a warderobe as we speak, balancing my laptop on top of some unmentionables and some socks which are mentionable. The Spanish man won't come til Monday. Apparently "Mañana, mañana" does not mean the literal "Tomorrow morrning" but "It'll get done at some stage."
We're also right above Día. Its the Spanish equivalent of a Spar and I can hear David's <beep.beep.beep> of the checkout. The windows of the balcony are open. We and David are practically family. He witnessed that first week when, not to put too fine a point on it, we made absolute tits of ourselves whether be it knocking over a stand of lighters or blank incomprehension when being asked do we want a plastic bag. David (or Da-veed spanish phoenetically speaking) is a proper gent.
We have a Chino shop! Hang on, we're not allowed to call it Chino anymore since finding out it doesn't mean a Chinese person the same way irlandesa would mean an Irish lady, but is basically the same as yelling "Oy Chinky-chinaman!" This is the year political correctness dies for me. They sell everything. EVERYTHING. You want a TARDIS you go to the Chino on the corner. I want a light bulb, fake flowers, jigsaw puzzle, lipstick and a life size statue of the Virgin Mary clutching a cross I go to the Chino. No broma. No joke. Not even about the "Our Blessed Virgin" which scares me slightly. I've apologised for bumping into it three times now.
Other than that we fused all the lights (our way of explaining that a faulty bulb in the kitchen had blown the fuses and we needed a hand was to shriek down the phone to Rosa our landlady "No tenemos luz, no tenemos luz!!" We no have light, no have light!!!) went to a lesbian bar in the dodgy Cheuca district by acccident, found out microwave popcorn doesn't work in the oven, got a lamp from Ikea which makes my little cueva look like the red light district. You must visit to see what I mean. And...well there was the night of which more anon, the one where I was "on the bus" if that means anything to anyone. Then I was captain of our ship. But not for very long. They got tired of singing it. Which I suppose is good in a way because I am not versed in the nautical ways of the sea.
Next week, well Monday to celebrate internet, I shall tell you what hell truly looks like and why matriculating at the La Autonoma was enough to drive us all truly insane.
xo
Friday 2 September 2011
Planes, trains and automoviles
Ryanair was always going to provide blogger-fodder. In fact, they´re contractually obliged to do so which is why Michael O´Leary comes up with such delightfully eccentric/shameless money grabbing schemes. Everything was going smoothly (apart from the two Lithuanians the Garda dragged kicking and screaming off our Ulsterbus to the South of Ireland/Free State/former colony delete as appropriate, one of whom pointed desperately at me crying "My wife, my wife" He was so convincing I look down for a wedding ring.
Irish immigraton aside, all was going well until the boarding gate queue. They were checking hand baggage sizes. And mine wouldn´t fit. I knew it wouldn´t fit because I dragged the little metal "Does your bag conform?" sizing thingy out of side of yon Ryanair woman at the check in and spent 5 minutes swearing in gutter Spanish and French. But i have an ace up my sleeve. May all militant feminists from Emmeline Pankhurst to Anne Widdecombe forgive me for what I did next.
He was a big, burly sort. A few unsuccessful pushings and pullings and I look up hopelessly. I hold out a tinfoil wrapped package and say (untruthfully) "I´m sorry. These are the problem. I can take them out if you like."
"Well, what are they? We don´t have all day here."
"They´re my sandwhiches. My mum made them for me."
He´s snookered. The mother of the small family glares at him as Gabriel would at Lucifer. He has to let me though, he´ll be a filthy jobsworth to the entire boarding queue if he doesnt. His shoulders slump in defeat
"Aye, right, right, carry ´em on pet that´s grand."
The force is truly wtih me.
Apart from that, lessee, I led Donal´s Stag Night Magaluf 2011(they all had T'shirts) to Plaza de Cibeles. As they are fond of saying on Radio One, massive shout out to the lads. Especially Rory who had his own tinfoil wrapped sandwiches his wife made. Bless.
Tune in next week, when I am hopefully not typing from an internet cafe in Sol and where the proprietess does not frown when I say "Hay algo...ah...en el...preeenteeeer?" and ask in perfect English "Do you mean printer? Because there is something here"
Oh the holy mortifying shame of it all...
xo
Irish immigraton aside, all was going well until the boarding gate queue. They were checking hand baggage sizes. And mine wouldn´t fit. I knew it wouldn´t fit because I dragged the little metal "Does your bag conform?" sizing thingy out of side of yon Ryanair woman at the check in and spent 5 minutes swearing in gutter Spanish and French. But i have an ace up my sleeve. May all militant feminists from Emmeline Pankhurst to Anne Widdecombe forgive me for what I did next.
He was a big, burly sort. A few unsuccessful pushings and pullings and I look up hopelessly. I hold out a tinfoil wrapped package and say (untruthfully) "I´m sorry. These are the problem. I can take them out if you like."
"Well, what are they? We don´t have all day here."
"They´re my sandwhiches. My mum made them for me."
He´s snookered. The mother of the small family glares at him as Gabriel would at Lucifer. He has to let me though, he´ll be a filthy jobsworth to the entire boarding queue if he doesnt. His shoulders slump in defeat
"Aye, right, right, carry ´em on pet that´s grand."
The force is truly wtih me.
Apart from that, lessee, I led Donal´s Stag Night Magaluf 2011(they all had T'shirts) to Plaza de Cibeles. As they are fond of saying on Radio One, massive shout out to the lads. Especially Rory who had his own tinfoil wrapped sandwiches his wife made. Bless.
Tune in next week, when I am hopefully not typing from an internet cafe in Sol and where the proprietess does not frown when I say "Hay algo...ah...en el...preeenteeeer?" and ask in perfect English "Do you mean printer? Because there is something here"
Oh the holy mortifying shame of it all...
xo
Thursday 1 September 2011
Waiting for Piso
There is a purple suitcase sitting in our hall. It weighs exactly 19.8kg. This I know, and know well, because blasted Michael O'Leary will only let me take 20kg of my worldly possessions to Spain tomorrow. And it is tomorrow that I leave for Madrid, to find fame, fortune and affordable pillows since the aforementioned Ryanair won't let me take my own. I was going to give one to a small child at the airport, draw a smiley face on it and pay her mother to explain to the stewardess at the boarding gate he's call Mr Biggles and the child can't sleep without him. I won't do this for obvious reasons. I don't have a marker big enough to draw on a convincing smile.
This first entry is called Waiting for Piso. Piso is the Spanish word for flat but might as well mean "needle in a haystack." We couldn't find one. We tried. By all the gods we tried. We encountered suspect Cuban men who spoke and dressed like Louis Spence. The beer belly prevented him from carrying this look off flawlessly. He packed us all in a taxi and took us to a building site. We passed by tents full of naked protestors in main squares who spoke to the air with very animated hand movements. We had to look up "Isobella you can stick your flagrant disregard for contract up your ass and jog off." Lot of tricky conjunctions in that you see. But find one we did, or should I say the brave couple who set off for round two with that Spanish capital did. You've all missed hectic phonecalls in Spanish, limping through two miles of Madrid Barajas airport and trying desperately to remember if the verb "molestar" means to annoy or sexually harass. I must brush up on that as one doesn't wish to presume. But don't worry, there'll be plenty more drama and linguistic embarrassment where that came from.
One last note. As a darling friend said "Aileen, make it funny. No one wants to read serious shit." In the spirit of this plea I suppose I must tell you there will appear some bread-and-butter "What I did today in Spain" but you will be glad to know there will be the spicy gazpacho of misunderstandings and bad luck that sometimes plague my endeavours. For example, you don't want to know I bought my duvet at Corte Ingles, the Spanish equivalent of John Lewis, but you will want to know that typing cortedeingles.es into the address bar in front of your mother who wishes to ensure you buy the appropriate size of quilt will bring up a chat de sexo con webcam where Rosalita is lonely and seeking attention. Fell free to check the accuracy of my claim, there you will find Rosalita. Or not if her shift has finished.This illustrates that truth is sometimes stranger than fiction and forebodes on what may be waiting out there in that strange land.
And so I must bid Ireland goodbye. For the meantime. The timing of my next blog is uncertain. I usually hate the bloody things so feel free to click the "Hide Option" on Facebook's news feeds. They won't all be as long, won't use the words "I mean seriously guys," talk about life affirming experiences nor literachoor as that way lies pronouncing gap year with too many h's and madness.
Adios chicas y chicos, besitos y un fuerte abrazo. That last is too filthy to translate and if that don't have you running to Google translate like good Spanish students I don't know what will.
xo
This first entry is called Waiting for Piso. Piso is the Spanish word for flat but might as well mean "needle in a haystack." We couldn't find one. We tried. By all the gods we tried. We encountered suspect Cuban men who spoke and dressed like Louis Spence. The beer belly prevented him from carrying this look off flawlessly. He packed us all in a taxi and took us to a building site. We passed by tents full of naked protestors in main squares who spoke to the air with very animated hand movements. We had to look up "Isobella you can stick your flagrant disregard for contract up your ass and jog off." Lot of tricky conjunctions in that you see. But find one we did, or should I say the brave couple who set off for round two with that Spanish capital did. You've all missed hectic phonecalls in Spanish, limping through two miles of Madrid Barajas airport and trying desperately to remember if the verb "molestar" means to annoy or sexually harass. I must brush up on that as one doesn't wish to presume. But don't worry, there'll be plenty more drama and linguistic embarrassment where that came from.
One last note. As a darling friend said "Aileen, make it funny. No one wants to read serious shit." In the spirit of this plea I suppose I must tell you there will appear some bread-and-butter "What I did today in Spain" but you will be glad to know there will be the spicy gazpacho of misunderstandings and bad luck that sometimes plague my endeavours. For example, you don't want to know I bought my duvet at Corte Ingles, the Spanish equivalent of John Lewis, but you will want to know that typing cortedeingles.es into the address bar in front of your mother who wishes to ensure you buy the appropriate size of quilt will bring up a chat de sexo con webcam where Rosalita is lonely and seeking attention. Fell free to check the accuracy of my claim, there you will find Rosalita. Or not if her shift has finished.This illustrates that truth is sometimes stranger than fiction and forebodes on what may be waiting out there in that strange land.
And so I must bid Ireland goodbye. For the meantime. The timing of my next blog is uncertain. I usually hate the bloody things so feel free to click the "Hide Option" on Facebook's news feeds. They won't all be as long, won't use the words "I mean seriously guys," talk about life affirming experiences nor literachoor as that way lies pronouncing gap year with too many h's and madness.
Adios chicas y chicos, besitos y un fuerte abrazo. That last is too filthy to translate and if that don't have you running to Google translate like good Spanish students I don't know what will.
xo
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