A Parisian Odyessy Part 3; Notre Damnit it's all so beautiful

Where last I left the constant reader we had just dragged ourselves in at six in the morning, needlessly shushing each other and visions of sugarplums...I mean beds...dancing in our heads. Apologies, that last may have been because the Starbucks at Alonso Martinez has finally brought out its Christmas menu. Yes, I am fully aware we have not yet said goodbye to November. Please. Allow me my simple pleasures in the form of a gingerbread latté in a papercup with all snowflakes on. Anyway, back to Paris.

Alarms were duly set for noon, yet verily was I up and raring to go ten minutes before it sounded. I don't know how, I was operating on six hours sleep in the past fifty-two but perhaps it was my endorphins throwing in the towel and concurring that if we were going to collapse into our club sandwich at lunchtime we may as well enjoy ourselves doing it.

The plan for the day was Montmartre and to meet another dear friend who had found herself living in Paris by various twists of fate. This delightful quartier is found lurking behind the Sacré Coeur and if Galeries Lafayette is Paris in a ballgown, Montmartre and Pigalle is Paris in a negligée. In the former you find the Moulin Rouge, prostitutes a plenty and lots of stange leather things. In the latter you find an abundance of cafés, bookshops and gnarly denizens variously busking or watching life go by. We had a coffee and a tarte au citron of such deliciousness I abandoned all hope of ever finding joy again in Montmarte surrounded by tourists laughing, Parisians smoking and falling autumn leaves. It was all desperate French.

Aprés tout it was time for us to wander back down the white stone steps at the front of the Sacré Coeur to meet my dear hosts in front of yon merry-go-round off of Amelie. This was at first a stroke of romantic genius on my part but failed to take into account the sellers of bracelets

The sellers of bracelets all have terrible grins and stalk around the bottom of the Martyr's Hill (Montmartre) and every so often will lunge at your wrists in an attempt to affix to them a frayed bracelet woven of thread. They will then charge you an exorbitantly high price for this piece of tat which you are unable to get off your wrist given the nature of the knot they have tied. Mainly its best to avoid them at all costs but I am half minded to advise the readership the best course of action is to run screaming at them as one would a flock of belligerent one-eyed Parisian pidgeons. This would be purely for my own amusement and thus very wrong of me. But funny, terribly funny to imagine...

Of course after having made our way down the steps, on my part imaginging if I would roll or bounce witha misplaced foot, we gave the aul gluteals a bit more of a stretch walking up and into the basilica itself. It was (well, presumably still is, though I haven't checked BBC news in a while) beautiful, there was a choir of blessed sisters (collective noun, a superfluity; well I suppose too much is better than nun at all!) and the songs they sang reverberated around so that you could feel them in the soles of your feet. Much nicer than Notre Dame, no hunchbacks though, juts some very nice holy brethren.

Next on our magical mystery tour as the Champs Elysees. Actually it wasn't so mysterious as 'twas my dearest wish to see it and so I dragged everyone to Paris' high street where all shops and things is. But there was Cartier and Swarovski just where a cool young man was bodypopping like there was no tomorrow; Vuitton and Guerlain where we witnessed a Michael Jackson lookalike busting a move in sparkly gloves; at one end you have the Place de la Concorde where despite its name, the guillotine gave Antoinette and Robespierre a short back and sides; and at the other the looms the colossal Arc de Triomph, commissioned by Napoleon who had a lot to compensate for. He was very underwhelming, a disappointment really. Never had any confidence with the ladies. Marie-Louise must a been a patient woman.....to think only five foot six...

Night was once again falling as we made for that glorious staple of student life; pasta in any sort of sauce available and made our plans to head to the cinema. A film all in French! I was astounded to be able to understand any of it, but even more astounded at the prices those damn Frogs will charge for a wee bag of Pick n Mix. Not amused. Even moreso when I compared it to Woolworths, remembered that great emporium had shut up shop as it were and became very melancholy over the recession. But not for long; oh never for long.

Because at last bed beckoned and eight hours sleep were paid to the sleep debt, which never seemed to matter before university, and in the morning it was sunny and clear and I was for a-wandering.

Goodbyes said, it was time to wander round the city on my own. Or at least, within a few streets of Notre Dame. Postcards purchased I was able to find a terribly nice café which outdid itself in coffee and strawberry tarts and I sat next to the window alternately scribbling missives and writing the Parisian Odyessy. I was worried they'd throw me out after an hour, but surely not. A budding Baudelaire staring thoughtfully at a little notebook is excellent for business, I'm amazed they don't hire people to give this exact effect; I'd do it in a minute, it felt like a bohemian rhapsody. And all this was topped by a cherry when a group from Ohio wandered in, guffawing loudly, sat just  next to me taking off their coats, knocking my little table in the process and sending my postcards tumbling to the floor which in turn caused the serveur to rush over, not to take their order but to pick up my correspondence and say;

"Les américains, huh? Ne t'en fais pas, petite."   (Americans, eh? Pay them no mind darlin.)

Granted it would have been complete idiocy to say this aloud in English. Sarkozy would probably have recieved a sharp note from Obama. But he didn't have to say it at all and after months of "I speek eeenglish, don worry" as an answer to your query said in a foreign language, it was nice to be trusted as a francophone, not a franco-phony.

So I toddled off out of Paris touristland, muttering bye-byes under my breath, and caught the Metro to Porte Maillot where my bus would leave for Beauvais. All was well, followed the signs for Sortie, climbed up the steps, glimpsed the station in the near distance and made my jolly way towards it...until I was stopped by six lanes of inner-city traffic.

Okay, thats all right, I say to myself, I shall walk down to a crossing or some such. Except there is no pavement and the grassland is punctuated by hidden hollows making walking in kitten heels a tightrope act. But verily I see someone mere yards away and assure myself there is indeed an escape.

That is until I've walked for another five minutes and come to the realisation I am in the middle of a massive fecking six lane roundabout with no way out. I've passed the fella with the backpack three times now. We have begun exchanging the flash of smile when two human beings realise that each is in the same awful situation of not knowing what the hell's going on. On the fouth sortie, we stop and shake hands.

"Er, parlez-vous francias? O espanol? Or English even?"

"My English is better than my French, Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

"Oh, not a word of German I'm afraid. Are you, ah, lost too? I'm Aileen by the way" (well, he was an attractive German)

"Hans Gruber, yeah that about sums it up. Been on this damn roundabout for 35 goddamn minutes. No way out, you see"

"Yes, yes, I know! It's all traffic, not a pedestrian crossing in sight. Shouldn't be allowed. What do we do? What do we do?! Make a break for it? Its our only chance. Let's go!"

"No, no! Calm down mein Freund, already lost an Italian backpacker to a minute sixteen rush of madness. No...we're going to have to play this smart."

Hang on, that may have got a bit out of hand there but it would take a genius who hadn't noticed the Die Hard reference to realise it was not an impeccable narrative of true events. In the end me and a German toruist (called Michael disappointingly enough) decided to boot it across six lanes of traffic in a barely sufficient lull.

The journey home from these places is never really interesting, which is odd because you find thousands of petites moments on the way There, but Back Again was never the thrilling bit of the Bilbo's story. It was all very quiet until I got into 39 Santa Engracia, dropped my bag, wondered if I could be arsed to go make some scrambled eggs, went to switch on my bedroom light which promptly exploded and plunged the whole flat into darkness and ended any chance of hot food. And so the credits roll and the screen fades on a Parisian trilogy, until all that is left is a cinematic

Fin

A Parisian Odyessy Part 2; Sightseeing; just an Eiffel of everything really

About halfway through the 19th century, Napoléon III got out of bed one morning and decided he wanted a wee bit of modernisation. Now, being an Emperor this involved less hunting out the Dulux colour charts for the kitchen and more summoning Baron Haussmann to discuss restructuring his capital city. This is the reason for the wonderful boulevards which lounge spectacularly through Paris and open the City of Lights to the sky. There, eddication by the powers!

160 years later, an Irish tourist is making full use of the wide open spaces to gawp out the windows of the airport shuttle and resist the urge to take snapshots or nudge the snoozing Spaniard beside me to tell him "I'm on my holidays" and if he's just going to loll against the glass, can I have the window seat?

My stay in Paris was made possible by wonderfully accomodating friends, because at my time of life you are wary of booking a hostel least you not be kidnapped and sold to a Bedouin cheiftain. It would happen to the blonde Scandinavians just out of high school and that would just upset me. Besides, hostel owners don't provide you with the most delicious baguette (freshly baked) and cheese (possibly Camembert) you've ever tasted. Really the only eloquent way to sufficiently describe the succulence of the combination is om nom nom nom nom nom nom nom.....

Autumn in Paris is by far the best way to experience the season. The trees laugh at the universe's suggestion "Now, we were thinking brown for lack of chorophyll" and get their bling on, with gold and red and maroon and chestnut and well they just go all out really. It was very cold and clear and there were contrails making a tic-tac-toe game out of the blue sky. The Christmas decorations were up, the streets were thronged and we were at The Galeries Lafayette because I was in Paris and feeling expensive.

Well I felt expensive right up until we walked in and luxury took one look at us and asked if we would be paying by card or cash and more cash?

It was exquisite; All the attendees were dressed in black , hands clasped behind them, and they ever so bemusedly arched their eyebrows every ten seconds. There was Chanel and Dior and Hermés and Bvlgari and Gaultier and yes I am fully aware that on beholding I would not appear to be able to pronounce much less know these names but one of my shameful secrets I can now exclusively reveal is that I have yet to miss an episode of Sex and the City and know my Yves Saint Laurent from my Ralph Lauren. There's an extra "t" in the former there yousee...

So, assuming my best "Mah faaaaather owns Bah-clays" expression (as though everything amuses you but if it bothers you a large man will appear and snap its fingers like a Kitkat; others have informed me I look like a stunned goldfish) and we went to see Paris from atop the Galeries. And is was exquisite. I felt like I was cheating on Madrid who was at home washing the dishes.

And so we drank in the beauty of our surroundings until twas nearly lunchtime. Then there was a beautiful moment. It comes when two or more human beings are thinking the same thing at the same time and is so magical we often call it love. Unless of course it's that horrible moment when both are thinking "I'll give it five more minutes and then if he/she doesn't Facebook chat me I'm burning all my things and moving to a nunnery/monastery." It began with "Ah, there's a MacDonalds just down here..." and the smiles on the faces of your kinsmen let you know we are one in purpose. The purpose being a MacFlurry and desperately wanting to order a Happy Meal because its got all you want to eat and it has a toy!

Feeling disgustingly americanised yet not because sweet lord ah-mighty what do they put in that special French fries sauce? we saunter to Notre Dame past a town hall that could play a Disney castle convincingly. The Catherdral was beautiful but one still cannot work out where the flying f**k the famous Rose Window was.

We gazed upwards at a stained glass window, afternoon sun streaming in, the predominant colour a soft rose. It was built in a perfect circle and the faces of the saints were picked out in loving detail. We "Ahhhh'ed" in appreciation. And turned to walk on...

...and came face to face with a window which looked exactly the same. This caused raised eyebrows, squinting round to see if anyone had noticed and once again settling into a suitable expression of wonder...

...until we set up off a flight of stair and found another window, exactly the £$%&ing same as the two before. So I attempted my most respectful "here lads, sod this for a game of soldiers" and snuck on earphones to accompany the sighseeing with the soundtrack to The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Who needs a guidebook?

Ah, the light had faded and my feet were very nearly walked off me but it was time to head out on the razzle! Which involved of course bringing the fine Spanish cultural pillar of botellon to France. I dot E, buying du vin and drinking it in front of the Eiffel Tower which was lit up like a bride on her wedding day/night, delete as appropriate to your sensibilities.

This was magical, but more so was our daddle to le Marais, where one can find art galleries, museums, gay bars and a lot of Chinese people. If all that together is your thing. We got kicked out of the line for a hip happening gay bar daddy-o, as a matter of fact. Despite my protestations of "You like men, we like men!! Can't we work upon this mutual interest?" and "Well how do you know we're not lesbians?" Granted if I'd reversed the order this approach may have worked better.

Nevertheless we ended up in a lovely bar called Enchantuer a wee way down the road. And this is where, in al the bars in all the Marais, I met a homesick Spaniard.

We had been talking in French to a group of party goers and switched to English for some reason or other when this boyo (rather attractive boyo, mind you) made a sound like a punctured porcupine and said "Non, non, pas en anglais. C'est trop d'un effort en francais quand meme, s'il vous plait." No, no not in French, it's too much of an effort as it is, please."

This arouses my, ah, curiousity and I ask "Quelle langue préférez-vous?" What language would you prefer?

"L'espagnole." He quasi(modo)-sighs. As to the effect of my next words, I never ever seen a man smile so genuinely, in such a dark bar, without any mention of say, whipped cream or handcuffs. Made me frankly ashamed of my mind.

"Pues, hombre, sí quieres hablar en espanol no te falta más que pedir."
Well son, if you want to speak in Spanish all you have to do is ask."

So we talked about Madrid, what was happening in Spain, if I liked it, if I preferred French or Spanish, I began to wonder if we would get around to whether I'd met his granny and if she was alive and well. And at the end of all this he gave me a rose.

While this was heartachingly romantic; everyone gave me a rose... Spaniard, dear new friend who wished not to accept his from a creepy Frenchman and the bartender who gave me a rose and two cheek pecks after we sang Over the Rainbow together, the Israel UnpronounceableSurname version. Had we had another hour I could have had a bouquet.

And so Part 2 draws to a close, as we wander home over the Seine, through the Ile Saint Louis and in the predawn glow I chuck a rose into the Seine and wonder where it will wash up, perhaps far away, once it has been swept out into the English Channel on the shore at Dover. This is far too flipping romantic, the damn flower will get ground to pieces in the locks at the Oise, but hey, I'm feeling romantic.

And so my friends, don't forget to miss the thrilling conclusion to this triumvirate spectaulaire! Witness the Sacré Couer, Montmartre, the Champs Elysees possibly as you've never seen them before or wish to again! And last but by no means least, me, trusted on my own to roam around Paris and find my way back to not-so-sunny Spain! It promises to have you on the edge of your seat, on the arm of the sofa, clutching the screen in amazement then getting bored and wandering off for a snack...

Á toute a l'heure xo

A Parisian Odyessy Part 1; Getting there by hook or by crook

"Oh, we're all going on a...reasonably priced city break...with no more worries for a...day or two!"

I am taking dreadful liberties with Cliff Richard as I run round our flat preparing to leave for gay Paris (note to self; check if this description is still allowable under SOS Homophobie guidelines. Author would not wish to cause unintentional offence...not when intentional offence is so much more fun.)

The flat is empty, as the others have wandered off to Marrakech. That's the way it goes on a year abroad, we go where the wind takes us, and if we happen to leave one of our number alone so she feels it acceptable, nay, necessary to re-enact Tom Cruise's dance scene from Risky Business then so be it.

Pizza consumed, dance scene complete, it was now time to catch the Metro at one in the morning. No sleep was on the cards for the weekend. This is a sentiment that would come to be regretted/regretten but that mattered not because, like so many things, that was a problem for tomorrow's Aileen. And I am not that unhappy wretch yet.

I arrived at Alonso Martinez and toddled down the stairs nodding amicably at the little old cleaner who looks like Manuel from Faulty Towers. I generally nod or speak to everyone, which makes me very unsuited for village life back home especially during those times when civil blood makes civil hands unclean over "what her Karen said about our John that time at your Bernadette's wedding, so don't give them the satisfaction of speaking to them."

This is where gentle musing descends into "ohshitohshitohshit" as I realise my plan of catching a train at quarter past to catch a train at twentyfive past to tie in neatly with when the Metro stops at half one works in world built around my plans and forgets about the fifteen minute gap between arrivals. I panic and make a snap decision...nothing for it but shelling out for a taxi to Plaza de Cibeles and the bus.

"Oye, oye mi hija! Que vas a otro sitio? Que pasa?"

This is Manuel; and he has asked "My daughter, are you going somewhere else? What's wrong?"

I do not wish to be rude and explain the predicament with "Tren...retraso...aeropuerto...no puedo"

He replies; "Sí, si nena! No te preocupas, que vas a llegar  Que corres como el diablo, no esperas, corre!"
"Yes, yes pet. Don't worry, you'll make it. Just run like f**k, don't wait, run!"

And so with his cries echoing behind me I do exactly this...run like blazes and arrive at the metro to the airport just as the buzzer signalling the Closing Of The Doors sounds. It was rather Disney. I genuinely believed this was impossible, but continued anyway on the advice of an old man and so the day was saved and I got my ass to the plane on time. A short Disney film to be sure but Morgan Freeman if you're tuning in there's a casting opening for Manuel in the movie adaptation of A Cautionary Tale...call me...

The Crook in the title can be no other than Michael O'Leary who abuses me dreadfully on occasion but yet I always go back to dear Ryanair sooner or later. On this particular occasion it was his cheery insistence that Beavais is a hop, skip and a jump away from Par-eeee. No, no, no, dearest Michael, that was a description of your landing.

It was because the pilot was from Dublin and was possessed a a beautiful lazy southern lilt that these next words washed over us almost unnoticed;

"Ah, right now ladies and gentlemen, we're going to be attempting to land in Beauvais in the next five minutes or so. If we are, for any reason, unsuccessful in this attempt we'll...ah..get back to you shortly with more information."

None of the Spaniards caught the mere suggestion in the remark, that getting back to us might just mean buying us a drink in the Afterlife bar and discussing how big those flames were back there. Nasty suspicions rose in my mind and caused me to look out the window...

...whereupon I saw nothing. This was not necessarily comforting as seeing nothing meant that two feet from the window a dense, clinging fog obscured everything from view. I instantly reassured myself that flying these days is all done by lasers and infra-red and such and the pilot is only really there for the look of the thing.

This opinion was quickly revised as the tarmac suddenly loomed out of the mist and the pilot took evasive action which was to swoop back up into the sky. Good plan that man. When in doubt, retain altitude. No one has ever successfully collided with the sky.

Eventually land we had to and I can only presume that Ryanair will now be refitting chair covers and tutting over nail marks. I enjoy a bit of life or death action as much as the next lady but I would prefer next time for wings not to graze the runway, if Michael doesn't mind.

La France, la belle France. Nous sommes arrivés. The extra ninety minutes in a bus would mean nothing...for, as we shall see in the next thrilling installment, it pales in comparison to baguettes, Hermés, Chanel, Haussman's doing with Paisian architecture what Colonel Sanders does to chicken, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower and much much more debauchery...

Apologies for a blogging trilogy, the first of which dealt with planes, trains and automobiles. I love travelling in ways that begin to seem slightly deviant if you squint.

Á toute a l'heure xo

Portrait of the Artist as a Drunk Woman

Now I understand many of you won't have asked for this; indeed many won't have had any idea this was a distinct possibilty given the impeccable narrative thus far but the "artist" has thought it is high time the readership comes to terms with the inevitable coupling of free mojitos and reasonably priced pina coladas...a Victor Mildrew-esque rant against prices in Madrid's cocktail bars and the inaugral drunken blog. Hang on I've read over that sentence and it lacks oodle foodle tapas whay-hey!!!!! There, that should set the tone... Anywho...

Last week, Madrid woke up one morning and decided it was autumn. Tuesday you're prancing around in Tshirts laughing at Spaniards in their winter coats; Wednesday you've woken up to grey skies and golden leaves skittering around everywhere on a gale that just blew into town (ahaha, weather related humour.)

The problem with this dashed weather is that it leaves one unable to walk out the door without serious thought to the consequences...that is mere days ago I could wander down to Dia to purchase several bottles of wine and brandy for a fiesta, in my flip flops...a feat that lead to Que tienes fiesta este noche, no? (Are you having a party tonight?) Since my Spanish wasn't equipped to deal with my normal response of "Yes, Hercule Poirot, we are having a bit of a shingdig as it happens, how did you ever work it out?" I come out with "No, no, its all for me!" in a joke that not so much flops as leaps suicidally off the Empire State building...apparently I now AM capable of downing two rosés, two bottles of brandy and some decorative cinnamon sticks on my own thank you so very much Día's checkout finest...don't tell my mother, I probably could if dared...

Despire the perpetual drizzle the artist did manage to make it out this very night it the spirit of science and enthusiastic research (I can now freely find free mojitos, shots and sangria anywhere in the city at any hour of day...I believe that ability alone should be enough to earn me a place in Heaven...) The bars were lively, the restaurants packed, the tapas flowing and the fine tradition amoung Spanish men of verging on sexual harrassment alive and well...thus it may be time to indulge in a little renditon of Madrileno nightlife...

It begins with Día, that holy place where a carton of wine costs 55c and a bottle €1. This is to be drunk at leisure..savoured as it were, with a little music in the background. I have a penchant for Sinatra followed by Jay Z; some find this a little like tuna and chocolate, I leave it up to your gentle judgement.

Now I say the next is heading out...this is a Northern Irishism which means killing the sound, groping for coats and jackets and striding purposefully into the night hellbent on causing some mayhem... or finding the nearest MacDonalds...all previous intention seems to fade away on Gran Vía when you see the Golden Arches and remember you can play the "Spot a Prozzie!" game. Record stands at 25 in one night.

After that you can take it two ways...you can wander in and out of bars, freebies in each, until you inexplicably end up at the Fontana de Oro, the "Golden Fountain" Irish pub which seems to attract aimless party-goers like a black hole attracts matter and in which you should never EVER dance with Columbian men. I'm only telling you for your own good, they're no Fred Astaire...

Or you may gravitate towards one of Madrids many clubs; open til six thirty, guaranteed to offer music to make you move til  the wee small hours of the morning. Also damn fine measures in the mixers...

I apologise for the concentration on the tipsy wonders of Spains capital...hey, it's what you do to keep the punters amused...but also of greater merit is the food in the tucked away eateries dotting the fine city. Three courses, wine and complementary bread for €10 and everything tastes like a stereotypical Goodfellas mob boss cooking for his nephew. You know, like;

"Tony, whassamatta you? You look thin! Here, sit down, I get you something to eat...what you mean you don't want nothing? You tastes this. I swear is like the angel Gabriel hisself, he make the pasta. You crazy, you know that...you eatta this sauce, you go to your maker happy..."

And so forth...I can't promise they'll say exactly that but I'll surely have a go at Marlon Brando's Sicilian accent.

Now, first blogging under the influence complete I have to admit its not that shabby...mainly because I have been tracing every sentence with one wobbling finger and conducting my disjointed train of thought with a cup of Tetley's, occasionally the tea will make a spirited leap for the freedom but I have thus far managed to contain the bugger; which has made me absurdly pleased with myself.

Toodle pip chappies and as I promised you a "One Foot in the Grave" type rant you should now imagine me and you; linked arm in arm as we wander home through the leaf strewn, breezy Madrilenan night; wending our way past treelined streets and late night tabernas, waving a "No, gracias" to promoters handing out club flyers. And as we stroll under delicate balconies and sculpted stone a Norn Irish voice echoes into the night;

"€10 for a pina colada? €10!! I don't believe it! I could have flown to Cuba for a rum based cocktail and felt better about the damn waste of money...unbelieveable, next they'll be telling me a ham sandwich costs enoughto bail out the Greek banks..."

xo

Of all the gin joints in all the Iberian penisula...

I had briefly considered naming this piece "Aileen in Blunderland" but feel a little Casablanca may in turn lend a little Tinseltown to what has conspired to be a very trying week. If I were Mrs Bennett I would be reclining on a four poster clutching a lace handkerchief to my brow and crying out for someone to fetch the smelling salts to restore my poor nerves. That's how it went down.

What a terribly awkward week. I'm in Starbucks again trying to look artsy and not at all like I had to Google the correct spelling of "hankerchief." Even now as I try to remember what I wanted to write I must shudder in remembered social embarrassment. Here's why;

Primero, my assigned uni sort-of-college-mother figure. A dear sweet girl who I ran into on the way out of the UAM cafeteria; but herein lies the rub Hamlet. You can't just spring Spanish speakers onto me. I need time to mentally prepare. It would be like asking Rocky to take on Apollo Creed when the guy's just stepped out of the shower. The man isn't in the zone! He needs some Eye of the Tiger, he needs protein shakes...he needs to run up the steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art and cry out for joy! And so do I! No, what I need is some time to translate "A pleasure to meet you" without accidentally using the noun "placer" which is more for the Belle du Jour sort of pleasure and would just end up horribly embarrassing everyone.

So I froze, open mouthed like a lazy goldfish, and could not come up with a suitable answer to Que tal? which is GCSE Spanish at its best. And because I took my own ridiculous advice "Say anything, nothing could make you look more of an idiot than you already do" and came out with "No sé que decir" (I don't knwo what to say) I'm afraid my poor Spanish guardian is now under the impression I'm more likely to ask for a lollipop than advice on the up and coming issues in mercantile law.

As if the UAM day wasn't spicy enough I have added the game Hide and Don't Seek to the fun. Now I know that a good 80% of you play this game too. Maybe you've never heard of it, maybe you don't realise you do it but don't lie to yourselves when I describe it. Join me in coming clean, holding one hand up to Heaven and say loud and proud "I too have made a complete tit of myself in front of a perfect stranger on a night out and now cannot look them in the eye least I die of shame..."

That's a bit long; we'll cut it down to something we can put on a T-shirt...

Anyway, the perfect stranger is not important. What is important is that they may have witnessed an angry monologue about Spanish internet providers, accompanied by spirited use of a mojito to punctuate amoung other things and now I have to use a mirror to look around Law Fac corridors.

Thus it was that on exiting a classroom I espied the stanger to the starboard side and kept right on walking...

...right on walking into a caretakers closet.

What could I do? They were waiting for another class. The danger would be over in mere moments. All I had to do was sit tight at base camp and hope no one came to use the mop and bucket. Which of course Juan the Janitor did.

"Usted se encuentra perdida?" He asks. Are you lost? (Polite verb form and everything, what a gentleman)

"No, de todas formas no," I reply.

He looks concerned, And so am I because we have just come to the same conclusion at the same time via mental arithmetic. If I'm not lost I must have a reason to be hanging out in his store room, and I'm not letting this get extremely, horribly "Are you trying to seduce me Miss Devlin-y" out of hand.

"Ah ha, ta luego señor..."

Escape number two and somewhere up there Harry Houdini is wondering whether this could have been incorporated into his performances.

Next there was Philosophy of Law; Jurisprudence to we legal folk and usually I, if not kick ass, then serioudly prod bottom in this arena. First lecture, who comes up but Dworkin. Can´t pronounce that if you try to roll the r my foolhardy Latinos. They all look terrifed. Our teacher smiles

"¿Quereis que lo escribo?" she asks knwoingly.

No I don´t need you to write it. I´m all up in this bitch, as I once heard Samuel L Jackson and rather liked the sound of. I am ON the spelling of Richard Dworkins name.

Except the we had to "colocaros en filas para que no podeis copiar" get into alternating rows so you can't copy

Had she seen through my ingenius scheme of sitting behind a Spaniard with a laptop so narry a word was missed? Nope; we had a test. On an article I had not read for the very legitimate reason of having no fecking clue it existeed. And it was multiple choice. And one of the questions was "Who wrote Critics?" Oh the holy mortifying shame of it all.

The last straw that broke the camels back...or summat like that...was a friendly run in with the neighbours. I'm lying, of course, we may have inadvertently held the lift door open while getting up to speed with gossip. A simple mistake, but one that made our vecino climb four flights of stairs. We didn't realise this. I didn't realise this. Thus it came as a shock which made the San Francisco quake of '06 seem like a child's hiccup when she screamed;

"Que cerrais la jodida peurta!" Close the f**king door and then, on opening her door across the hall proceeded to inform her room mate that;

"Estas putas que viven aqui no saben ni siquiera cerrar una puerta! Coño, putas!"

This translates rather charmingly as "Those whores that live across the way don't even know how to close a door! F**king whores!"

If ever a moment called for my best Kenneth Williams style;  "MADAM!" that was it. I believe the Carry On reference may have been wasted though.

Other than that, well I don't think I can top that. Now if you'll excuse me I must once again recline on my four poster surrounded by Cadbury's that I may have purchased purely to cheer self up. Best case scenario, glorious chocolate induced food coma. Worst?  Well I could take the putas suggestion seriously and set up a brothel. The classy kind. Maybe set up a contract, none of this pay-as-you-come-and-go nonsense. No chintz nor red velvet. Blonde or dark wood? Some tasteful nude prints? Or famous movie sex scene stills!! Yes, this could wor...

I apologise, must leave to ponder an ...ah... unrelated matter. Opinions/advice on entrepeneurship in the sex industry are, as always, very welcome

xo

Just Penelope Cruising

Somewhere, high in our dark flat tower, dwells a mysterious recorder player. I apologise. I've plagurised that line from either Victor Hugo or Disney without any real reason as the mysterious musician is no hunchback but what sounds like a small child desperately attempting to coax beautiful melodies forth. It ain't working. The pobrecito (poor wee one) is either playing the first two lines of Old MacDonald or the very first of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Apparently we need to wait until he gets those down before the big reveal. The suspense is killing me. 

Speaking of miniature humans, in the very near future I may be teaching them to speak English. Given my quest for an artsy bookshop to while away the siesta hours encountered unanswerable questions as varied as "We're not currently looking for part time employees, could you rearrange your class timetable?" to "So what first interested you in gay erotica literature?" the next best thing seems to be to bite the bullet, conform to stereotype and pimp my services as a Cambridge educated native speaker.

There is a huge market for this sort of thing in Spain. English is the language of business and everyone, from the ladies in the salons who insist "No, no mira guapa, para los nails? Nails? Yes, good? Yungle rrrrred dahling, it is jur colour!" to sharply suited lawyers jabbering into their Blackberrys on the metro want to speak English.

Skeptical at first; my mind was quickly changed by a giddy vision. Spanish mamas and papas who wish to privately educate their little Maria's and Pepe's will no doubt have full fridges. That amazingly clever kind that dispenses ice for your drink! A TV so huge you almost feel you can high five Andy Dufresne when he escape from Shawshank. A pool with sun loungers and possibly a liquor cabinet for the Sangria! A chance to tak a little sun! And maybe a little light teaching when wee Pepe runs over with the Pimms pitcher again.

"Pimms Pepe, se llama Pimms! In life, a good Pimms is either being served or being consumed. Much as in life people are either giving or taking. Remember that Pepe, it is a parable of our times!" Because I enjoy dispensing unfathomable social commentary with my lesson plan.

Enough of that nonsense, I of course want to teach to enrich the cultural experience of children during this era of great globalisation. Also I believe I would get more out of reading "Charlotte's Web" with suitable voice acting than any two year old. Set it in Jamaica, dress up, make appropriate animal noises. Happy as a clam.

But until someone trusts me with the apple of their eye life goes on and goes on in the form of hotel hunting for relatives who will come to see I'm still alive and bring me delicious things. I know this because the questions "Do you need an adaptor? Sun cream?  Spanish phrasebook?" were answered with "Bring me Cadbury's or bring not at all!" I would ask for Ribena but airport security will surely wrest it from their hand luggage in case it's laced with arsenic or a liquid explosive.

Set off into town humming the theme music of Driving Miss Daisy; armed with my abono and a screen print of a Google map covered in Xs. I had but one objective. If at all possible ensure my family are kept well away from prostitutes, sex shops, drug dealers and Carlos in Sol who keeps telling me the end is nigh. This is trickier than it sounds and so locating a hotel which didn't feature "local colour" took two hours, six metro stops, three prozzies and a strange shop conversation with an old Chinese woman about the curious alignment of lines on my hand and what it meant for my prospects of marriage. She couldn't find the "anillito" on the ring finger. "Nunca se casaras!" She looks devastated for me. "You will never marry!" To think I only went in for a Coke...

Ah wait! A fell melody is on the air...

"E  I  E  I  O"

There we are, it's Old Macdonald after all. I must go applaud and/or present this maestro with a bouquet of roses. It's only taken him two hours and thirty six minutes after all.

xo

The Metrocious State of Public Transport in Madrid

In a spirited attempt not to lurk in our hallway like the ghost of Wifi past I am writng this particular missive at the Autonomous University of Madrid, the good old UAM.  In the cafeteria to be precise. Someone is yelling at Mercedes that no hay cuchillas. Mercedes don´t care about no cuchillas. No one does until Luis brings them forth from the dishwasher. I would make a joke about the forks being with him but my jokes are incomprehensible enough when everyone speaks English and yet another pair of Hispanic eyebrows knitted in confusion would only depress me. Maybe another time...

Most exciting news I´ve had all week comes in the form of my €30 abono transporte and another joke. This delightful little card allows me to flit in and out of the Metro and Cercanias train stations without feeding €1.50 into the machine every time I wish to educate myself or wander downtown. In the nick of time too, for I had begun to feel distinctly Scrooge McDuck whensoever I was forced to extract my purse from the depths of my bag and feed 5 cent coins one at a time into the slot praying I wouldn´t reach €1.45 before looking down to see nothing but a terrible emptiness; a symptom caused by the malady "Stoney Broke." Attempt to convey my joy to the Señora in the Tabac was to exclaim "Que abono! O mejor decir, que abueno!" This is an insanely clever pun which loses out somewhat in translation, as the best I can come to in English "What an Oytser card. Or better yet, a JOyster card!" The señora was not amused.

Ah, that leads us on to the title of today´s blog which, believe it or believe it not, has some bearing on current affairs. Using the abono for the first time was a thing of great beauty and may have resulted in some Mr Bean-like antics. I say may, I mean I know no other way to express my own bemusement than to chuckle to myself and talk to inanimate objects a la Rowan Atkinson at his finest.

Anyway, Metro times, and I had no sooner embarked on the journey to Nuevos Ministerios than a chuckle to my left caught my ear. A half shuffle brought two muchachos into view who not only had the all the giggling foolishness of two schoolboys craned solicitously over their first Playboy but also were of the false impression I spoke no Spanish. My eavesdropping presented me with this;

" ¡Mira la blancura de ella! " (I pinched that upside down exclamation mark from Wiki. I´ll explain that Spanish chirograhpical weirdness at a later date)

I had heard this before, "Look at how white she is!"

"Quizas se cayo en una tina de blaquera!" (Maybe she fell in a vat of bleach!)

"Quizas a Dios le olvido la tinta!" (Maybe God forgot the ink!)

I had no idea whether to be shocked or somewhat amused and to be honest at first no idea what they were saying but, after arriving at Uni and furiously flicking through a dictionary I have settled on the view that this is an outrage! Even back home in dear old Norn Iron, where we have the cultural diversity of a packet of Fox´s Custard Creams, it would be considered a socially unacceptable disgrace to take a seat on a bus by the Spains answer to the Chuckle Brothers and exclaim;

"A ha ha ha, looks like God forgot to take these two out of the oven. He´s gone and burnt them!"

Actually that´s not bad. Memo to self re blatant disregard for individual dignity, look up oven, to burn and colloquial gone and done smthg so next time will have scathing reply close to hand.

Yet more documentation was to be picked up at Uni and lo and behold I once again met my nemesis in the form of UAM´S Erasmus office.

"¿Ah, necesito coger mi tarjeta estudiante?" (I need to pick up my student car?)

"¿Eres estudiante de Wham?"

Was I a student of Wham? I had no idea what this cryptic question meant. Yes, I have been known to hum the odd verse of "Wake me up before you Go-Go" and "Last Christmas" is certainly worth a listen come Yuletide, but a student of the great musicians? I decided to communicate my confusion with clarity and precision.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh...."

"Wham! WHAM! Ooo, ah, emay! Wham!"

U.A.M.  Or if you´re Spanish and the letter U barely exists on its own; Wham. Perfecto.

Let´s see, what else of note happened. There was the discovery that the "Wham" cafeteria boasts a large selection of alcoholic spirits, most of which you need to get through the average day. Finally purchased a mug from the Chino, for tea may be drunk from a cup but verily tay, the drink that was gifted to the Irish by the gods can be drunk from none other than a veritable bucket. There was the moment of sheer panic when singing along cheerfully to a recent hit went something like this, "Somebody call 911, Shady fire burning up the...wait, wait WAIT! We dont know the emergency services number of this accursed country!" and the horrible sinking feeling and progression of facial expressions never to be equaled  when the train to campus starts to slide the wrong way out of the station and the destination reads "Buenas Aires"

Oy vay

xo