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
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