"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
Friday 30 September 2011
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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