Livin' la vida local

It is, at last, a glorious day in the Spanish capital. After a few months of hiding the sun has once again haltingly shown his face, much like a middle aged executive who, on returning shamefacedly from a wild six months in Rio with his hot young secretary is unsure of how his affection will be recieved. He needn't have worried, Winter is forgiven and forgotten.

This drastic climate change (warning! warning! controversial issue broached!) means that heavy coats have been banished to the back of wardrobes, sandals have made a welcome reappearance and girls, it's time to treat that skin you're in with some shea butter and almond body scrub followed by an intense mosturizing session with those trusted brands you love. Apologies, have been reading a little too much Cosmo of late...I must admit their section on finding romance was inspiring. Any ignorant hack would assume the inaugral piece of advice  "Get a Date" skipped over several steps and was just bloody idiotic. But they couldn't accesorize a floral print dress if it killed them.

Anywho, what with spring having sprung I have taken it upon myself to wander the streets where I live. And they are beautiful streets when the sun is shinging. Calle Santa Engracia herself is a wide avenue lined with trees and little boutiques and cafes. Soon the proprietors will start dragging metal tables and wicker chairs onto the pavements and they will be filled with Spaniards in siesta hour, aproveching of the three hour lunch break. As you walk down towards Alonso Martinez square, where my neighbourhood Starbucks hangs its hat, you pass buildings of red brick and white stone, the type that glitters when the sun hits it.

The Square itself is busy with traffiic at many, if not all times, and they circle round a marble fountain that is lit up at night. The business district is just to the left and you always have droves of professionals in suits, clutching take-away coffee cups and mobile phones, jabbering away in Spanish, French and occasional English. One of the best, presumably vital to the economic well being of the nation, exchanges I have overheard was between and Englishman in a long tweed coat and an American in what he has assumed is a daringly fashionable trilby.

"It just goes to show no one listens to the British anymore. If we had done what I said in the first place then we wouldn't be in this horrible mess, would we old boy?"

"Ah, what? Sorry, you caught me there. Mind wandered, what did'jah say?"

"Doesn't matter..."

But that's up Calle Genova, and it's just past here that things get interesting for a while. For as a dear friend was told by a colleague;

"Mira, el calle Genova es como un río que no cruce ningún hombre respetable"  See here, Genova street is a river which no respectable man would dare cross 

For it is here that we have the small district of Cheuca, where everyone wants to take you to a gay bar...

We can stroll casually past Cheuca for now, it is ten o'clock on a Monday morning and it's denizens have not even begun the precarious task of finding their clothing and leaving a note on the refrigerator. However, be careful never to ignore it in future. There are some of the best cocktail bars and Italian restaurants, the most interesting kinck knack shops and proliferation of rainbow flags you will ever see. My fondest memory is of myself and another dear friend wandering past on our way to Gran Vía (Madrid's high street) and glancing into a DVD (clears throat meaningfully indicting a severe lack of clothing on any actor) shop and glimpsing the shopkeep in studded leather collar carefully and elegantly making his way along the "Hot out of Africa" selection with a pink feather duster. Bless.

If we walk this wise we can make our way down to Plaza de Colon (giggle, I know I would) where we see the biggest Spanish flag in existence. It blots out the sun to plant life directly underneath and constitutes a hazard to low flying aircraft. Beside it the National Library sits and teases bibliophiles like myself. This is Recoletos and it is a treelined shady (in the treelined sense, not the Del Boy sense) pedestrianised avenue that leads down to Plaza de Cibeles and, if you let it, straight on to the Museo del Prado where all the art and things is.

If you are ever in Madrid when I am not there to take you out and about then rest assured the Prado is one of the places I would have dragged you in fiendish delight. We'd do the sensible art trek like work out where the Carravaggios and Picassos are and go soak in history rather than landscapes. If there's an exhibition on we'll go there and feel all cultural. Except we can't go to the Hermitage one...I may have been ever so slightly shouted at after I took Tzar Alexander's throne for a themed chair for visitors and plopped down upon it to survey Russia's treasures. It looked like a damn cheap imitation of a not very good dining room chair. Are museum staff allowed to swear like that? How was I to know this was utterly forbidden without a velvet rope to proclaim it as such? Anway, the point is we can't go back there. 

The point is that I have to run and pick up a small child who I will endeavour to teach English to without imparting an Irish brogue nor a tendency to daydream. And on a day like today when the sky is achingly blue and so much life is going on outside I am afraid all I will teach him to do is sigh beside an open window and lament the great expectations of parents.

xo

My Good and Faithful Cervantes

I wonder how many budding Robert Langleys amoungst you have spotted the Bible quote in the title? I wonder if you have spotted my clever wordplay? I wonder if flamingos know they're pink because they eat shrimp from waters rich in aqueous bacteria and beta carotene? Or would they have an identity crisis if they knew they should be a ratty grey colour? But enough of that mainly what I'm wondering is whether I could kick a decent living out of this authorship lark and how to adeqautely go about it?

The staff of Starbucks, Alonso Matrinez are already under the impression I am writing a novel of great skill and import. I wander in (having sussed out that Empujar means Push long ago) and order me usual roll de canela and tall mocha (having given up even trying to order anything else; I was tempted by the exciting vanilla cappuchino but staff seem to have unfairly and suspiciously decided that any change would mess with my mojo and have thus forbidden it) and sit down with glasses puched down my nose, silver earrings a-dangling and type away to the rhythm of "Puttin' on the Ritz"

There are quite a lot of helpful tips out there for aspiring wordsmiths. Of course quite a lot of them have to do with shameless self promotion and I find this concept appalling. It is here, in the room of my mind marked "Philosophical Struggles" in black type on the door's window, that I muse on the grim reality of making a living from writing. I imagine it sort of like a private eye's smoky base of operations....

"NO!" <Artistic Temperment knocks over a side table> "We cannot pedal our creativity like common whores!"

<Common Sense looks up> "It's this or become a lawyer. And you know what are marks are like, it'd be a one stop train to Shysterville"

<Id hiccups> Whiskeyville? By gods I wish we lived there...anyone for more wine?

<Ego grabs bottle> You've had enough...and artistic temperment has a point...shouldn't the writing speak for itself? Surely if it's good enough it'll reap it's own rewards."

<Greed is leaning against a wall, counting Euro notes> Spiritual rewards? Well I suppose we could pay the rent with that glowing feeling that we're doing what we love, but I like money better...

<Depression lounges in the shadows> Why bother with anything? Glory is fleeting, riches need keeping, it's rejection and heartbreak and fool's gold we're seeking.

<Optimism in the face of all the odds> Shut up you morose poetry hack! See here everyone, we'll give it a go; if it works it works and if it doesn't then...Id! How much wine do we have left?

<Id> Enough to start a party in everyone's circulatory systems!

<Optimism> Good anthropomorhism yourself! We'll become drunken lowlifes! It was good enough for Wilde, it'll be good enough for us!

Parts of psychology cheer and I myself drift back to listening to a law lecture wondering if at times I might cross that invisible line between eccentricity and insanity in my own head...

Anecdotes aside I am a firm believer in the idea that you can do whatever you want to do, Disney platitudes aside, it's just that you have to throw yourself into it hook, line and sinker. You can't sit typing a screenplay, chortling at your own wit and assuring yourself that some day you'll submit the thing to New Line Cinema and the money will roll in. This only works 0.5 times out of ten. You have to be out contacting editors, snapping up business cards, taking on part time jobs, writing articles and interest pieces and poems and submitting every damn day. Freelance internet, world's your oyster, and so on and so forth...

Sorry, I've just been distracted awfully...still sitting in Starbucks you see because it has gotten to that wonderful stage where I only have to act delightfully foreign and they give me more free wi-fi's. I wander up to the counter and proclaim;

"Ah, es wi-fi? Sí? Lo necesito lo, que ahora? Muy bien el...ah..seeeg-nal? Not even going to bother translating that effront to Spanish

"Fine, fine, fuck, here, just take it. Take it and stop butchering my language, you're making my ears bleed!"

Sorry, the surprise! There is a Spanish couple just across from me. They think they're shaded by the pillar. They're not. They are exchanging gifts. I don't know why. It's past Valentine's day and I know because I spent Valentines in an illegal Morrocan shisha den lamenting. He has just unwrapped a lovely looking watch. The surprise is that she has just unwrapped something lacy which looks like the equivalent of two sequins and a bootlace. I must admit I only caught a flash of this. She then shoved it back into the wrapping and is too much of a lady to storm out so they are finishing their coffee in silence. You're not getting any 'til Judgement Day, my son...

Ah, Spain the humour you provide and all I have to do is sit here and sip theatrically from an empty cup so they don't throw me out of a full-to-capacity Starbucks. But enough insight into my state of mind! I promise such flights of fancy will be gone with the wind next week when we will get back to our normal schedule of extracting the michael from the Iberian Peninsula and SEX! DRUGS! and ROCK AND ROLL!

Well, maybe less sex. And the closest I ever got to hard drugs was inhaling some sugar... And we have to have consideration for other people so we can't do rock and rolly things like throwing TV's out the window and playing loud uncouth music. But Spanish piss taking? Oh yes, oh yes indeedy...

xo

I Don Juan To Miss A Thing

As I may have taken pains to note before, the slow drip of bureaucracy in Spain is like treacle in the wheels of life. And not nearly half as sweet.

This week I travelled for two hours, there and back again, return fare, ida y regreso just to rock up at UAM and told to stand in a queue for 45minutes before having my language insulted and made to sign more pieces of paper than a paedophile on day release. And all this because I wanted to pick up another subject. Not because I was failing, or lazy, or deliberately difficult or because things had all gone horribly wrong. In point of fact they had  gone horribly wrong last term but I have come up with the rather fiendishly brilliant plan of patching up credits missed with a shirtload this side of Christmas. Yes you read shirtload correctly. Trying to cut down on gratuitous swearing should Paramount finally acquiesce to buying the rights to A Cautionary Tale and we have to keep this shirt PG13. Flocking difficult though...

Anyhow, the grey and dismal depths of the Law Faculty’s Secretaria. You’d find more cheer in a kirkyard, more human feeling five minutes before the Dower Jones closes trading and more tranquillity in Northern Ireland. On the Shankill Road.  On the 12^th Night.  Disgruntled Spaniards were slamming their hands on the tables and I swear someone slapped one of the Admin staff with a glove over a single credit. I consider myself lucky to have survived with my dignity intact.

Elsewhere in UAM my attempts to “make friends” continue with varying results. I am now in the disappointing position of knowing Spaniards names. “But Aileen!”  I hear you cry “Is this not a glorious step forward in Ibero-Hibernian relations?”  Granted, maybe you didn’t quite put it like that but I never use short words where multi-syllables will do...

The problem is this; in my own head since September I have been in class with Fringe, a chica who cuts her hair with a ruler and a Stanley knife.  Carlton, a jovial chico the spitting image of that beautiful half man from Fresh Prince of Bel Air. The Aviator, because of the jacket. The Suit, because of the suit. Imagine my disillusionment then when they become Anna Maria, Juan, Carlos and Jesús.

At the moment I’m writing this in UAM. In an OBLIGATORY TUTORIAL scheduled for half 4 pee em sharp. It’s ten to five, no one’s here. Well, I say no one, the entire class is here, I’m here but the teacher could be doped to the gills with opium and cavorting in La-La-Land for all we know. Actually at this point I remember my “Mean Girls” and attach a legal disclaimer noting the use of comedic exaggeration and the author’s own sure and certain knowledge Mrs Suarez  is merely having coffee somewhere reassuring herself that  “No pasa nada” and “Mañana, Mañana.” This all sounds very petty of me but when you take into account the fact this has happened nine times in total for various tutorias we were forewarned would bring down the wrath of God to miss you start to see where I’m coming from.

What else is new? Remember those little Marias and Pepes I sought to be paid to teach when my forays into the world of gay erotica went horribly wrong? If that last sentence made you choke on your post-Hall coffee/post-lecture espresso/tay at bedtime then serves you right for not keeping up with developments...

Anywho, have managed to secure gainful employment as a tutor to a lovely child who’s grasp of English far outstrips my Spanish. It is at this point I regress to Aileen the Primary School Teacher who existed in my career imagination circa the years 2004/05. In my own mind I was Miss Honey, the delightful matrice from Matilda. Flora print dress, happy smile, soft cadence of voice, the works.  I was somewhat cheerfully and then again horribly surprised to find out there’s more of the Dickensian Wackford Squeers about my methods of teaching.

“What’s the next word on that list, boy?”

“Ah, cleeeeen...”

“Clean, SEE-EL-EE-AH-EN, verb, active, to scour, to make bright! Next!”

<seated at desk> “Ah, dog...”

<striding womanfully about the room, one hand gesticulating to the Heavens> “Dog, DEE-OH-GEE, noun, domesticated mammal, Latin family canis! Next!

“Ah, hour...”

“’’Ooouuur,  noun, composition two consonants separated by a diphthong , unit of time...why on Earth do you look so confused?”

“Ah, what ees an our? It is said ow-er,  no?”

<Moment of contemplative Northern Irish silence> “That’s it, I’ve had enough!  Write out “I will not correct my teacher” twenty times and that’ll learn ye!”

“Ah, you mean teach me?”

“NOW!”

Oh the joys of the sacred art of imparting knowledge...

And so life goes on in the Wide World beyond the walls of Cambridge. Telefonica people came to install new internet. Well, they said new internet, there was a lot of wire and drilling and cursing going on. I answered the door in fluffy pink slippers and overlarge knitwear cardigan clutching a cup of tea. This poor idiot child image coupled with the necessity to mime a couple of unknown Spanish words (actually his mime for cepilla/brush would have made a great dance move for Kanye West himself) gave them to understand I didn’t speak a word of Spanish. This made for great fun when I wandered into a protracted swearing session and innocently asked what tu puta madre might mean.

These shenanigans aside, its lunchtime and I am off to cook pasta. Yes I am well aware its 5pm and most of your tummies are starting to rumble with the promise of dinner/Hall but I won’t have that glorious meal until half ten tonight. And it will probably be more pasta because in Santa Engracia a meal isn’t a meal unless you are in danger of carbohydrate overdose. You drown the damn penne in tomate frito and pour it from saucepan to plate in a never-ending stream. You lament the ability of spaghetti to fit into your pot. You are in constant fear of NOT COOKING ENOUGH PASTA! Truly the food of kings.  And as for how we are able to eat such quantities of Italian goodness? Well, that’s (with apologies to the Latin purists) where we found the  motto of the House of Erasmus, now engraved above our door, words of wisdom as sage and true for the consummation of pasta as for dealing with our terrible yah abroad curse;

« Marathona est, non est sprintus »

xo

A Blogger for your Valentine's

“Tell me when will you be mine? Tell me cuando, cuando, cuando! We can share our love divine; please don’t make me wait again! A’hWhen will you say yes to me?”

I am wandering round our piso warbling tunelessly in the style of Engelbert Humperdinck. Yes I could act my age and stick on some Bruno Mars and Taylor Swift or whatever the young ‘uns have on them there eyepods. But when it comes to love songs I prefer the old smoothies like Sinatra and Tony Bennett who always manage to hide away a note of sadness in their songs, even the ones where a dame hasn’t just broken their hearts.

Yes of course it’s Valentine’s Day! In an unusual and uncharacteristic turn of events the author hopes that if you have someone they’re a good someone, if you want someone God willing you find someone and if you don’t want someone then get here with cocktails and a disco ball because (even though I hide the fact I’m a hopelessly sentimental old romantic of the second category) you’ll be the most especial fun to get drunk and play Twister with!

The readership might muse why I have chosen to dedicate a blog to a holiday despite notable lack of consistent practice of the like beforehand which would indicate custom (sorry, International Law slipped in there) and alleviate the strangeness. But put down that copy of Freud, you’ll go blind, and dejame explicarlo.

Before I left for Madrid, after  exclamations of how warm it would be (minus 3 wind-chill atm given the north easterly wind which has just come from frolicking about in frozen Ukraine)  how laid back life would be (to the point of never ever getting anything sorted because “No pasa nada, why are you so stressed? Has the electric done anything more than spark? No? You see! It’ll be fine; I’ll just keep coming and going because I forget bits of my equipment!”) and how cheap the alcohol would be (actually no complaint there, we drink a €4 bottle on very special occasions, and splash out on €5 rum) the most common exclamation any Iberian bound Erasmus hears is “Oh you’ll have to watch out for those gorgeous Spanish men/ladies.”

Now, I’m no gonnae lie hens, the vast majority of the population is easy on the eye. Typical dark skin, doe eyes, the whole shebang. I must note there are an alarming number of ginger-haired persons who I run to embrace as brothers before they speak and come out with Spanish so accented and fluent and an address in Madrid that am forced to muse on exactly how many Irish stag parties and lads holidays make their way to Shagaluf, the number who get lucky with the ladies of Spain and the statistical likelihood of offspring resulting from such a drunken encounter.  If this keeps up the whole Spanish genetic code could drastically change, populating the country with pale, freckly children who begin to trace family trees in confusion! But I digress.

You’ve already read what the Spanish think of us...cast your mind back to previous mentionings of Blanquita, Blanquita and the occasional Guapa. It is however how the Spanish see themselves which is much more interesting.

Up and down this entire country people are not backward about coming forward. PDA’s are everywhere; a couple of Spaniards, hands lost in the back pocket of one another’s jeans, whispering sweet nothings between pecks on cheeks and lips. This is so common that on one of my own forays into the mysterious world of Latino romance I found out they had never heard of a term for public displays of affection nor did they associate any neither shame nor self consciousness with the notion. I realise this is an issue on which we are all divided and I myself vacillate between smiling at a young couple holding hands and biting my tongue on the Metro to prevent informing an older couple that I may not object to seeing it, but I do object to hearing it and most especially to tightening my death grip on the rails least the carriage should sway and I inadvertently join in on it.

The problem with the Latin attitude to sex and romance is that as well as this public side there is an undercurrent which tells them it is fun because it is in some way (for such a Catholic country) naughty and wrong. There can be a prevailing immaturity to sex which prevents a couple being partners. Me Tarzan, you Jane. I Man, you Woman. Daddy like, etc, etc. You find the gender difference in strange ways like when the ladies get into clubs for free, holding open doors is a sacred duty and there is the ever present tendency for the Spanish man to place a guiding hand on the small of “his” woman’s back and usher her all the time. This annoyed the holy hell out of me...

The confidence so many Spaniards exude is amazing and at times absolutely hilarious. A favourite move on the dance flo’ is for the young gentleman to sort of go down slightly on his haunches dancing in front of the senorita and then wiggle his shoulders with arms outspread. It sort of looks like he’s worshipping her bellybutton.  As well as being at times confused with why this attention is directed at me, I must struggle to keep a straight face for to laugh at this ridiculous peacock display from above would be akin to wounding the young man. A Spaniards pride is his castle.

Therein lies the rub Hamlet, because all this unnecessary focus on “sexing yo’ right up mama” is actually mind numbingly boring after a while. You can see the look in the Erasmus ladies eyes, “This is all very lovely Pedro but I’ve just realised I have not had a laugh all evening. I’ve had to content myself with a polite smile while you try to look down my top and rain dance my navel.” In the slightly skewed words of the Black Eyed Peas “Where is the fun?”

Sin embargo and however I am now absolutely sure that there are other sorts of “here for one night only” fun, not necessarily related to the often wild criminal behaviour justified as the Craic, which the Spaniards with their “more is more” attitude would be perfectly placed to indulge in and would certainly prove my theories on Benidorm and its environs. At least for the gentlemen. Ladies you will have to first get over Pedro’s disbelieving indignation that you have not swooned in a state of overwhelmed stimulation the second he takes his top off.

There is however some genuine romance hidden amid the snake hips and smoky Spanish eyes. Whilst wandering the streets you often come across an elderly couple, hands held tightly against the cold or a world that has become strange. Spanish mamas and papas are jointly devoted to their families and share smiles over the cuteness/cheekiness of their children, something I noticed while picking up friends at the airport. A tall Spanish lady winked at a newly arrived businessman as his twins raced up to say hello in clearly new dresses and black patterned shoes. Suitably warned by his mujer to take notice of these facts he swung his arms  wide and cried;

“Ay, mira las guapas que sois!” My God, look at how beautiful you are!

This paternal conspiracy and complete sharing of lives must be romance, or what else be?

But enough of all that, it is a beautiful sunny Spanish morning, the flatties of Santa Engracia art decided to go to a gorgeous Moroccan restaurant which looks as authentic as lamb tagine and ever hopeful sap that I am I am conjuring visions of meeting my future husband on our Truth-or-Dare pub crawl. That’s a lie; I’ve gone way past meeting the poor guy and am now giving him a lovable friend to do the sentimental speech at our wedding. You’ve all been invited and in my munificence I have arranged a free bar. Daydreams, y u no reality?

xo

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!

Sometime nearing the last gasps of the 15th century Spain decided that persuant to Jesus' last words of "Break out the thumbscrews Peter" it would be a wonderful idea to round up as many heathens as they could and subject them to boiling oil, the rack,  the pear of anguish and (if my research has once again been flawless) incessant repeats of Iron Maiden. I assume they asked a few pertinent survey questions such as whether Daz really gets your whites whiter than white during this palaver otherwise it doesnt really count as an Inquisition

The memory of society is rich, full and dark and much better than any individual subconcious and thus it comes with little surprise that 500 years later the Spanish psyche has come up with practices far more terrible than mere physical pain dragged out to the point of no return. The Iberian penisula has turned to bureaucracy.

A little background; when on Erasmus in Spain you eat, breathe and make love to credits (or whomsoever could provide the credits) You count credits to fall asleep at night, you convulsively wake up only to comfort yourself with the knowledge exams aren't for another six months and then you fall asleep again and dream of a world without credits. The point of this story is that when Cambridge has made clear should you fail to herd in all of these wild credits, roaming free in the ether, then it shall go very hard with you m'dear...

Thus it should come as no surprise that last week, aware that though class had started and time was passing us by ORI had made no move to open the second term matriculation. Thus myself and mis compañeras went to ask "Please sir, can we have some more classes?"

"Fill in zis form and come back"

Toddles off...toodles back with look of hopefully endearing confusion.

"Ah, there are no places for my subjects oh Exalted One" (well, it pays to keep in with Admin staff)

"Claro que no, but you fill in this form then you return on Lunes to formally ask for your subjects."

"But Wonderous Being, can I not ask today?"

"Oh no no no, this is the form to request a request. Then you will fill in the formal request form next week, then you will wait one week until this has been noted, then you will come back and ask permission to take your class, then you will wait another week, then you will recieve a reply and fill in a form to acknowledge this reply. Then you will recieve an acknowledgement of this form. Then, querida, you will class."

"Oh....but, em, Wise and Powerful Mrs Gomez, could we not just ask and recieve a reply today? You can check availability on the computer and see if there's space for me! Then we won't miss weeks of class!"

The cackles of derisive Latin laughter follows me down the Hall and out into the weak January sunshine which tries to warm me up, but its heart just isn't in it. I won't even go into my attempts to gain 6 easy credits by signing up for a beginners French course. I went in with variations of the Mission Impossible theme playing in my head accompanied by my vocals repeating  "Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky" and was thrown out within 6 minutes for being too good. I have never been so insulted and less sure of a career in MI5.

This is however just how Spanish institutions work. Take now for example; I typed all the above in my friendly neighbourhood Starbucks with chai latte to hand (and God that took a while, “Pero Hai’leeeeen, no quieres la mocha? Always you take the mocha, come we have a nice white chocolate mocha, no te gusta?) However seeing as how I was running late for a class at three I declined,  snaffled the last crumbs of a croissant and ran to UAM (an hour away on metro, train, Shanks pony and more changes than the Lib Dem manifesto) nearly giving myself a heart attack on the way.  But when I got there, the classroom was bare and so it seemed class I had none.

I was, in the words of Tigger, very confuzzled. I am going out on a thin creaking limb swaying above the treetops to make Spanish friends this term, and I have not had to use this phrase since primary school.  At secondary school I met some wonderful people and at Cambridge I met some more and great friendships just sort of coalesced. Maybe it’s the language barrier; maybe they are saving themselves the sorrow at my loss for when I leave in six months never to return; maybe the “Anna Maria is my amiguita, I tell her everything” bestest best friends approach isn’t conducive to my oozing around between classes and Spaniards...sorry, anecdotal sidetrack. Spanish friends...

The confusion is this. Yesterday I wandered nonchalantly up to a group of Spanish chicas who were huge gold hoop earring deep in a discussion about Sol’s boyfriend’s...assets...I had a question.

“Perdona chicas, la clase de derecho EU, empieza mañana o la semana que viene?”  Sorry chicas, but does the  EU law seminar start tomorrow or next week?

“No, no mira tía, empezará mañana, seguro.” No, no girl, it starts tomorrow, positive.

“Segurissimo, tía” nod her friends

I was completely without reason thrilled with this response. I had heard Tía and Tío before in the streets of Madrid and the halls of UAM. Literally they mean Aunt and Uncle but you use it informally between friends. Therein lay my clue of acceptance to this tightly knit group. Or so I thought

Well tía, here I am, typing away with no evidence of class in sight, cursing Latino inefficiency and can only mentally move a little Aileen down the snake of Hispanic disdain back to Square One, and suggest moving to the ladder of Blending In. The fashion of Spanish girls is not hard to grasp. Poker straight hair, high pony tail or loose with middle parting. The BIGGEST hoop earrings you can find. Tight top, naval out, wrists always exposed then hidden under thousands of bracelets. Jeans low on hips with very visible huge belt; then high heels, tote bag on elbow and kohl black eyes to finish. Maybe a coat with faux fur around the hood. And always always look like you have something better to be doing than this temporary annoyance. I wonder, if this vision of myself burst through the door to our next class would the silence be awe and respect or horrified fascination?

In other news unemployment is still on the rise, Romney is counting his chickens before they hatch and I have been jolted out of inappropriate thoughts about BBC Sherlock’s subtext by the Spanish police dipping their government sanctioned fingers into our bank account. Sans warning, sans apology, sans everything.

Another prime example of the left hand not knowing what the right is fucking up in all things Madrileño, the staff of Santander. Our teller/bank lady (we are unsure if there are two of them, one with straight hair and one with fulsome curls, or just one who is very handy with a pair of GHDs)  waves away our concern about this extra €60 each with a “But this is a legal fine for non residents who do not declare, how did you not know you have to pay it? You are foreign!”

We intrepid reply with “Yes, it may well be a fine, B, you’ve sort of answered your own question there with the foreign remark and thirdly we don’t care if it is a legitimate “ooops sorry we’ll know for again” the police can’t just help themselves!! Also why have you charged us another foreign fine thingy without notice.  Also, why in the name of all that is holy do you keep paying our electric the minute it comes in without consultation, direct debit nor care for putting us into overdraft!!!”

It’s enough to make you weep. Or decide two can play at that game, buy a trench coat, order fake ID off the internet and wander into a Caixa Madrid declaring you are the police and will fine every man who has not been practising all military skill from noon until the hour of siesta to please His Majesty King Fernando and make ready for his right royal conscription. Because that shit’s still in force.

And so this first month in Spain has drifted on without anyone really realising it. We have had some enormously fun times. Burns Night supper with haggis, fake neeps and tatties and cranachan after which we pushed all the tables and chairs back and had a ceilidh, which must surely have had our neighbours propping up the ceiling with anything they could lay their hands on. I am not nearly so ashamed as I should be to admit we played tipsy Charades and Guess Who because it was the Craic personified.  There was the wonderful interactive museum where we ran around with children a third of our age finding optical illusions, looking at ourselves through heat vision and poking at newts. It was there we found a strange attraction, what we can only assume is the whole of the world’s Science sitting outside in boxes; probably waiting to be shipped to labs across the world.

I shall admit to you now that the next blog is not far away for the imminence of Valentine’s Day gives the lonely hearts club of Santa Engracia a chance to go eat some chicken, drink some cider and possibly get up to shome shenanigans at another one of Madrid’s hidden gems and a sneaky opportunity for me to muse on the topic of romance in Spain, a topic I have some passionate (if you’ll, heh, pardon the pun) views on. Dearest readers, you have been warned or tantalised depending on your point of view

xo