Were I more technologically minded I would be able to use the wonders of the Internet with a capital I to sufficiently set the mood. I would take a picture of myself with them there eye-pads and upload it and you would see me enscounced in a beautiful café which does the best café con leche y pasterlerías this side of Calle Hortaleza. You would see wicker and white painted chairs and the duenas with their painted nails and lips. You would see the window behind me lit up with sun. You would hear some schmeel on the street catch a glimpse of my still deathly pale skin and catcall "Oye, Oye, Blancanieves!" You would then realise I had forgotten what I was meant to be doing and was in fact taking a video instead of capturing the moment. It would cut of just as I made a rude gesture towards said chico and insulted his mother...
Anyway we'll have to make do with the power of words and a bit of gratuitous Youtube-ing if you really want to get in the moment. It begins with the soft, jazzy piano prelude to "New York State of Mind" which tinkles it's way through the café as we travel shot to my location in the corner, passing Spanish businessmen and ladies of leisure. I am contemplatively sipping my café, gazing out of the window andyou, my friends, are priviledged to hear my inner monologue...
Ah Madrid, ciudad de maravillas. I'm making that up, you don't have an amusing pseudonym. You aren't ancient, not venerable, not huge. You don't have the high history of Rome, you don't have the vibrant mix of London. You lack the grace of Paris and the gravity of Berlin. You are missing the landscape of Bern and Lisbon and the mystique of Athens and Moscow.
But I'll tell you what you do have kid, you got moxie...
You've got the cleanest prettiest streets I've ever seen in an inner city. You got a Metro that makes whoever's responsible for the Tube look like an illiterate child scrawling with crayons. You got clubs and pubs that open so late we get upset when we and a bunch of St Louisians get chucked out of an Irish bar at 4.30am. But then you got the churros shops and the pizza a €1 a slice open to assauge our drunken minds with food.
You've got a chaotic attitude to life that may well yet screw me over uni-wise given the academic year I've had, but I can't help but love you anyway. You got the Gallic shrug down better than the French. You know the customer ain't always right. But when you want to help you fellow man you do it better than any country I know.
Most importantly dearest Madrid, you got me for a year. You got my memories wrapped up in that bar on Chueca, that Sanabresa in the dodgy area but which turns out to be the best restaurant ever, in the Irish bars and the Retiro park and the sunlit plazas. You now have a little bit of my heart tucked away in your calles and avenidas and you may need to take care of it for me, because I might be back one day, when college/the job market/life in general has been crueller than usual and I need to find the little bit of me I left in tip-top condition. You know, marinated in sol and Sangria.
I'll miss drinking tinto de verano. I'll miss "Ay, mujer, por dios!!" which you use to show your attention instead of "A-ha, I see." I'll miss our flat. Our chipped red tiles, our dodgy showers, our windowless cueva, the Virgin Mary above our fusebox. I'll miss the teller at Santander who I thought were two people before I realised she just straightened her hair some days.
I'll miss the little things and the big things. Everything I wrote and everything that for some reason or other never made it into the blog. Like being flashed on the Metro that one time and being torn between pointing and laughing or giving him a smack on the rear in front of all the other passengers .Like always talking to the little Chilean lady who sells lighters on Calle Santa Engracia who said adíos to me yesterday and crossed her fingers and wished me luck I'll get married. Good to know someone's rooting for my Cinderella story. Like being on the wrong street corner at the wrong time in the midst of a fight and ending up in A&E at 5am because of a fall against something sharp. I'm grand least you start weeping and sending Ferrero Rocher (which I wouldn't pass up you know) but I may well bring home a three inch scar at the back of my head. And regular readers will not be too surprised to know that in my own curious world this was exciting and unprecedented and as long as it wasn't too serious gave me a bloody thrilling a story to tell. And I'm nothing without my anecdotal urges...
I'll miss being called guapa, and hermosa and blanquita and even oye, bebé. I'll miss the sunlight and the euro and the freedom that I never fully appreciated comes from living in the city. I'll miss living my own life, I'll miss being far from home and always out of my depth but somehow things always turning out alright in the end. I'll miss my flatties, for as they'll tell you yerself, it was a hell of a year together but at the end of the day we shared our lives for a year and it'll take us all a while to get used to not being able to shout across the hall to one another and mentioning injokes to groups of friends who don't know the context. "Bins not out? Well, it's shit flattie of the week award for me!" Doesn't work in halls...
So now I'm afraid you may have to do some lightening fast Youtube-ing for the piano interlude to "New York State of Mind" picks up tempo, more chords join as it morphs seamlessly into the cinematic piano opening of Kanye West's "Homecoming" to which I smile at this last entry, shake head slightly wistfully, close my laptop and head up to my flat for the last time. And now let's end this thing how we started...
There is a purple suitcase in the hallway that weighs 17kg. I know this and know this well because today I leave the Iberian Peninsula, bound for Dublin, then home and an uncertain future. I've been spoiled for adventure and, wouldn't you know, living abroad has only worsened my bad case of itchy feet. So it's goodbye from me, it's adios from Madrid and it's the end of an era. Faithful readers, I know you're out there. It has been a pleasure and an honour to blog for you from afar and can only hope you have had as much pleasure in the reading as I've had in the writing.
This has been Madrid: A Cautionary Tale.
Goodnight.
And goodbye.
xo
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
There...
"Things fall apart, the centre cannot hold." Someone should be chanting this day and nightly into the ears of our fearless leaders as today in Spain Rajoy seems to have confused the word's "massive EU bailout complete with interest and questionable repayment capability" with the words "I am the EMF money fairy and with a wave of my taxpayers wand <POOF> All's well that ends well!"
Anywho, I am not long for this peninsula and have already had to assure the panicking staff at Santander that I was not running away with fistfuls of money to hide under my mattress because of their dire financial outlook, that closing the account was an inevitability and that I only had €3.45 in there and it was hardly going to be the straw that broke the camel's back. This was, of course, only after the manager had pleaded any other way but leaving the bank and I, gazing at him thoughtfully, considered that if he had a room with a dozen bottles of Cristal, a pole and a jacuzzi in the back then I wouldn't withdraw thousands from their bank. Kept my word, sort of...How was he to know I didn't have thousands in there? Sterling service, in the most sincere sense of the word...
The last week demanded many things of poor Erasmus students, but what we demanded from it was no less than the best Madrid had to offer! The sounds, the sights, the tastes, the smells! Maybe not so much the touch for if you give Spaniards an inch they take a mile!
But yes; the full Spanish experience. Which started oddly enough with the celebration of Her Royal Majesty's Jubilee at the flat of a very dear friend. Complete with Pimms, red/white/blue balloons and dress code and a thousand boats floating past on the Thames brought to us by BBC World News. The afternoony tea was a wonderful success; the scones and cream and egg and cress sandwiches were a delight and I found myself saying words like "tremendously" instead of very and "fiddlesticks" instead of "fu...you get the picture."
Naturally my Irish passport was weeping gently in the corner at this appalling display. Where was my sense of decorum; what of the atrocities perpetrated by the Sassenach upon my people? What did the hunger strikers die for? Did Eamonn de Valera fight tooth and nail for? Did Gerry Adams...make a load of speeches for? Fortunately that night Michael Collinns himself came to me in a dream...
"Who's lookin' strong in the All Ireland this year then?"
"Mr Collinns! Thank goodness you're here; I am beset by doubts! Will I be soiling the honour of my native land if I go celebrate the reign of an English monarch tomorrow"
"Will there be sandwiches?"
"I...ah, Yes. Yes there will but what does that have to do with anything?"
"We'll put it this way; sometimes you're gathering to declare the supremacy of a foreign despotic monarch, rattling sabres and frothing at the mouth. Sometimes you pop round to a friend's to have a gander at the TV. The difference is usually sandwiches."
"Oh."
So that was that and Saturday teatime we were all in front of the TV listening to BBC English, demanding more shots of the Duchess of Cambridge, consoling ourselves that she was far too skinny and having more jam and cream on her behalf and generally falling over laughing at the attempts of artists on the bridge to portray the flotilla. Good banter.
The next mission was to get out into the scorching sun as much as we possibly could, with the aim of topping up a Yah Abroad tan, ignoring the 40 degrees celsius. Ah, but it'a dry heat, as many are fond of asserting. So we decided to go to the park. The Parks plural. And have what was basically a triathlon. You heard that correctly. Or read...comme si comme ca.
Anyway what I's trying to say is that Saturday we ended up in Retiro, as Ratty in Wind in the Willows puts it, "Simply mucking about in boats." We took a little four seater row boat out onto the little lake, the Estanque, being Cambridge students got a little too into it and at one stage were attempting to race a rowboat full of pensioners with two of us acting as a cox (oooh errr Matron) screaming "Stroke, Stroke! More from Aileen! Get it turned!"
The water was a very murky green and when we finally settled down into a more suitable pace we were able to glide past the magnificent and fairly huge monument to King Alfonso XII which features granite pillars and himself rearing up on horseback. Little golden fish swept away from beneath our oars and the sunlight shimmering up from the white of the inside of our boat made every photo a glorious hipster's dream, forget Instagram.
But was this lark enough for us? What never? No never? Hardly ever! Sorry, HMS Pinafore crept in there. We were most assuredly not tired of park related transport (did you see what I did there? Genius) and so Sunday found us treking out to Parque Juan Carlos I where, as citizens of Madrid we were able to rent out bicycles fo' free. FREE! We paid nada to be able to zip around an almost empty park, which had been made for cyclists. The slopes were long and gradual and the uphill steep but over in a moment. There may have been a few Saving Private Ryan moments where I begged to be left behind, but our collective will is strong!
We brought a lovely picnic to have and enjoy; and spent a good hour taking cheesy pictures and being fascinated by the wee baby turtles in the lakes and fountains. The sky was clear and we were lookin' a tan to take back to home along with our measly baggage allowance. As I type our life is packed up in the hallway, waiting for us to lug it down the road to the charity shop manana and I'm struggling to remember how I got all this shit here in the first place. But cease and desist!
After the parks and picnics yours truly was in the mood for something more adrenalin fuelled. Something that allowed you to forsake the illusion of safety and be terrified out of your wits. Something like...rollercoaster. Madrid's Parque de Atracciones" to be exact. And thankfully I was not alone in the wish for the endeavour!
So two intrepid explorers stood in front of the Park's entrance, sun beating down, on a Thursday morning and thought "Sod this for a game of soldiers." The list of rides "baja revision" was upsetting. All we could see was a little caterpillar train stuffed with howling Spanish infants and a few swing sets. But the Erasmus spirit (summed up by the motto "Fuck it! Let's just see what happens!!!") came to the fore and we happily spent our €24 to go in and if we had to take sixty rides on La Orugita Feliz" to get our money's worth, then by thunder So. Be. It...
Happily for us once we had successfully navigated away from the kiddies end of the pool we were faced with the thrilling prospect of as much high adrenaline, high octane, high rise rollercoasters as we could wish for. We decided that easing ourselves in, realising that neither of us had so much as seen a rollercoaster for some years, keeping things in perspective and so forth was a goddamn waste of time so we lauched ourselves at The Tarantula and a queue time of ten minutes tops. We were strapped in, we were given a desultory safety test and then the jerk of the chain starting brought us back to reality...
There are few times when some seconds of movie footage are enough to sum up a day of human experience but I want you to search your not-too-distant past and find your memories of Finding Nemo. I want you to find Crush the turtle surfing the East Australian current. And now I want you to fix that in your mind as the whole of our day at the theme park can be summed up by myself and co screaming "RIGHTEOUS, RIGHTEOUS!" as we were chucked around upside down, inside out, shoeless at points, barely secured at others and always queueing up for more. As we were fond of observing, "This shit ain't natural!"
But wonderful as these last few days have been I did promise some Spanishness for we all know that Alton Towers, Cambridge and, shucks, any town in the UK and Ireland could provide us with those activities if not the wall-to-wall sunshine. So I decided on a whim yesterday to go and see my first bullfight.
Las Ventas is the ring in the centre of Madrid where the bullfights are held and seeing as I couldnt find anybody to go last minute I headed off by myself. Word to the wise people, should you ever be tempted. Do not buy tickets from scalpers outside the taquillas. They are rarely sold out and a ticket at €4.90 gets you in the nosebleed seats in the shade, but believe me, you get the best views from there...
I wondered about what I might see. Any readers of a sensitive disposition may want to skim down a few paragraphs. I'll let you know when it's stopped but I pride myself in giving you a birds eye view of whatever I happen to be doing (within reason like) and don't wish to cause unintentional offence (my best offence is always intentional) with unforewarned graphic descriptions of a bloodsport. Any of you still with me? Of course you are, you handsome devils, let's get down to business...
The first thing I must note is that despite myself and my knowledge of importance of animal rights and a vague wish to ban the thing, I enjoyed the whole spectacle. Whereas a few friends I know have left, have refused to stay, have found it distasteful and a few refuse to go entirely I must say that from my position among copius aficionados I found myself getting into the thrill of the whole thing and stayed to the end, cheering and watching with an avid eye.
The matadores it should be noted first are three colourful chaps who's job it is to get the bull in the right position and entertain the crowd while the picadores are the main attraction. They are beautifully dressed men on horses who's job it is to spear the bull and finally kill it to claps and whistles from the crowd.
The matadores pop out from behind screens and taunt the bull with a gold and pink cape. The picador rides into the centre. He is not dressed in those silly pink knee highs, that odd cap, those elaborate shoulder pads. Ladies; he is dressed in black boots, he has a calf length emboidered coat - maybe blue and silver or black and gold. He wears a white ruffled shirt and grey breeches. His hair is immaculate and he is fit as. He appears in the celebrity pages of Hola which all of you recognise as Hello magazine. Men; he can wield a sword, he can ride like a demon, he throws a spear like a pro within inches of sheer animal fury and he jumps off the stallion at the end and faces a raging, dying bull head on. The women throw their scarves into the ring at the end as he runs round victorious and he kisses them and throws them back to his screaming fans. Anyway, you get the idea. You either want to be him or shag him...
As unaware of the celebrity status of the picadores so was I unaware of the formula of the fight itself. Each of the three separate stages is denoted with a loud fanfare, very Spanisha and full of machismo. The first are the long spears...
The picador is on his horse, I witnessed Rui Fernandes who made it look like an art form. The horse always puts on a show. It pauses, it shakes a leg at the bull. It jumps back and forth, some feat on four legs, and generally prances around with great dexterity, spinning and stamping his feat and just keeping out of range of the bull. Meanwhile the picador is aiming a feathered spear just above the bunch of muscle at the bull's shoulder. This is the tercio de varas, the first stage. He holds the spear at the top in his fist and when he strikes the bottom sinks into the animal with a shrriikkkk sound and lodges. This allows the body of the spear to be pulled away revealing a flag with which the picador taunts the bull. He leans over the horse, catching the horns, pulling both animals round and round.
These charges carry on, the second stage, the tercio de banderillas is two rosettes which need plunged in at close range. By this stage the flank of the bull is covered in bright red arterial blood. I never knew you could see it. The bulls are black as night and fine specimens and one assumes the blood will be inconspicuous, blending in with the animal's own colour. But you can see the stain progress as more and more spears enter.
The crowd are not silent during this spectacle. As the picador lines up to charge with the spears a rhythmic clapping starts up. The arena is flooded with the shak-shak-shak of thousands of people spurring the charge. And when Fernandes steered his steed with his knees, holding two spears one in each hand, reared up and plunged them into the bull's flank with one thrust the crowd went wild. The non-existent roof nearly came off the place.
The third and last stage, the tercio de muerte involves the picador leaping from his horse and getting up close and personal. He is handed a small red cape, the muleta and the sword, his estoque. Rui Fernandes, the best we saw, leapt from his horse and run to the bull, arms ourspread, feinting with his shoulders, crying "Venga, Venga!" the internationally recognised stature for what we Northern Irish call, "Come on then, big lad!!"
He spread his arms high, he slapped the bulls horns. By this stage the creature was swaying and thrashing it's horns more from desperation than intent. Still incredibly dangerous. But Rui feinted once, twice and in one smooth movement drew his sword from the depths of his cloak, struck the estocada right into the shoulder and with a jerk the toro hit the floor dead as a doornail.
It was so fast the crowd had to take a moment to process. But once they did the noise would have risen the stadium from its foundations. He ran around the ring, he retrieved his horse and victory-lapped. He threw his arms above his head, he extended his arm to each segment of the arena in turn and we all cheered in turn, each more loudly than the last.
And then suddenly every Spaniard around me had taken out a panuelo; a white handkerchief and were waving it like the French surrendering. Gazing around the stands was magnificent; white cloth flashed, people cried out, they chanted "Fernandes, Fernandes" and I later found out that when a bullfighter has done exceptionally well the crowd will wave white to signal they wish for him to be awarded the oreja; the ear of the bull he has slain to prove his prowess.
And then the body of the bull is dragged across the arena and out by a team of jingling ponies. And they say the fight is a match between equals but of six bulls that day all left a drag mark behind to be trampled over by their unwitting successors. And it is cruel, and who can call it a fair fight, but that day I admit there were points where I cheered and clapped with everyone else for Rui Fernandes resplendant in his blue and silver on his black stallion...
But there we have it; a bird's eye bullfight, now you know and PEOPLE OF SENSITIVITY, IT'S OVER!! What is also over is this penultimate blog and I must away with me. but not before I admit that at one stage I left the writing to go have a picnic at Templo de Debod ,an honest-to-Ra Egyptian temple gifted to Spain to perserve it from destruction during the building of the Aswan Dam. There I sat and watched the sunset over the city and we had crisps, and cake and cava and Sangria and Tinto de Verano and said goodbyes to some lovely people and of course got a wee, wee, wee bit pissed...Prizes to anyone who can point out which bit of the blog I wrote sober!
Not long to wait now, for the last ever Madrid; A Cautionary Tale is a-published this 12th of June, tomozza! Or today in fact, seeing as how tis twenty to twelve GMT! Come one, come all. Bring your friends, family and significant others! And we'll end this Yah Abroad with a bang!
xo
Anywho, I am not long for this peninsula and have already had to assure the panicking staff at Santander that I was not running away with fistfuls of money to hide under my mattress because of their dire financial outlook, that closing the account was an inevitability and that I only had €3.45 in there and it was hardly going to be the straw that broke the camel's back. This was, of course, only after the manager had pleaded any other way but leaving the bank and I, gazing at him thoughtfully, considered that if he had a room with a dozen bottles of Cristal, a pole and a jacuzzi in the back then I wouldn't withdraw thousands from their bank. Kept my word, sort of...How was he to know I didn't have thousands in there? Sterling service, in the most sincere sense of the word...
The last week demanded many things of poor Erasmus students, but what we demanded from it was no less than the best Madrid had to offer! The sounds, the sights, the tastes, the smells! Maybe not so much the touch for if you give Spaniards an inch they take a mile!
But yes; the full Spanish experience. Which started oddly enough with the celebration of Her Royal Majesty's Jubilee at the flat of a very dear friend. Complete with Pimms, red/white/blue balloons and dress code and a thousand boats floating past on the Thames brought to us by BBC World News. The afternoony tea was a wonderful success; the scones and cream and egg and cress sandwiches were a delight and I found myself saying words like "tremendously" instead of very and "fiddlesticks" instead of "fu...you get the picture."
Naturally my Irish passport was weeping gently in the corner at this appalling display. Where was my sense of decorum; what of the atrocities perpetrated by the Sassenach upon my people? What did the hunger strikers die for? Did Eamonn de Valera fight tooth and nail for? Did Gerry Adams...make a load of speeches for? Fortunately that night Michael Collinns himself came to me in a dream...
"Who's lookin' strong in the All Ireland this year then?"
"Mr Collinns! Thank goodness you're here; I am beset by doubts! Will I be soiling the honour of my native land if I go celebrate the reign of an English monarch tomorrow"
"Will there be sandwiches?"
"I...ah, Yes. Yes there will but what does that have to do with anything?"
"We'll put it this way; sometimes you're gathering to declare the supremacy of a foreign despotic monarch, rattling sabres and frothing at the mouth. Sometimes you pop round to a friend's to have a gander at the TV. The difference is usually sandwiches."
"Oh."
So that was that and Saturday teatime we were all in front of the TV listening to BBC English, demanding more shots of the Duchess of Cambridge, consoling ourselves that she was far too skinny and having more jam and cream on her behalf and generally falling over laughing at the attempts of artists on the bridge to portray the flotilla. Good banter.
The next mission was to get out into the scorching sun as much as we possibly could, with the aim of topping up a Yah Abroad tan, ignoring the 40 degrees celsius. Ah, but it'a dry heat, as many are fond of asserting. So we decided to go to the park. The Parks plural. And have what was basically a triathlon. You heard that correctly. Or read...comme si comme ca.
Anyway what I's trying to say is that Saturday we ended up in Retiro, as Ratty in Wind in the Willows puts it, "Simply mucking about in boats." We took a little four seater row boat out onto the little lake, the Estanque, being Cambridge students got a little too into it and at one stage were attempting to race a rowboat full of pensioners with two of us acting as a cox (oooh errr Matron) screaming "Stroke, Stroke! More from Aileen! Get it turned!"
The water was a very murky green and when we finally settled down into a more suitable pace we were able to glide past the magnificent and fairly huge monument to King Alfonso XII which features granite pillars and himself rearing up on horseback. Little golden fish swept away from beneath our oars and the sunlight shimmering up from the white of the inside of our boat made every photo a glorious hipster's dream, forget Instagram.
But was this lark enough for us? What never? No never? Hardly ever! Sorry, HMS Pinafore crept in there. We were most assuredly not tired of park related transport (did you see what I did there? Genius) and so Sunday found us treking out to Parque Juan Carlos I where, as citizens of Madrid we were able to rent out bicycles fo' free. FREE! We paid nada to be able to zip around an almost empty park, which had been made for cyclists. The slopes were long and gradual and the uphill steep but over in a moment. There may have been a few Saving Private Ryan moments where I begged to be left behind, but our collective will is strong!
We brought a lovely picnic to have and enjoy; and spent a good hour taking cheesy pictures and being fascinated by the wee baby turtles in the lakes and fountains. The sky was clear and we were lookin' a tan to take back to home along with our measly baggage allowance. As I type our life is packed up in the hallway, waiting for us to lug it down the road to the charity shop manana and I'm struggling to remember how I got all this shit here in the first place. But cease and desist!
After the parks and picnics yours truly was in the mood for something more adrenalin fuelled. Something that allowed you to forsake the illusion of safety and be terrified out of your wits. Something like...rollercoaster. Madrid's Parque de Atracciones" to be exact. And thankfully I was not alone in the wish for the endeavour!
So two intrepid explorers stood in front of the Park's entrance, sun beating down, on a Thursday morning and thought "Sod this for a game of soldiers." The list of rides "baja revision" was upsetting. All we could see was a little caterpillar train stuffed with howling Spanish infants and a few swing sets. But the Erasmus spirit (summed up by the motto "Fuck it! Let's just see what happens!!!") came to the fore and we happily spent our €24 to go in and if we had to take sixty rides on La Orugita Feliz" to get our money's worth, then by thunder So. Be. It...
Happily for us once we had successfully navigated away from the kiddies end of the pool we were faced with the thrilling prospect of as much high adrenaline, high octane, high rise rollercoasters as we could wish for. We decided that easing ourselves in, realising that neither of us had so much as seen a rollercoaster for some years, keeping things in perspective and so forth was a goddamn waste of time so we lauched ourselves at The Tarantula and a queue time of ten minutes tops. We were strapped in, we were given a desultory safety test and then the jerk of the chain starting brought us back to reality...
There are few times when some seconds of movie footage are enough to sum up a day of human experience but I want you to search your not-too-distant past and find your memories of Finding Nemo. I want you to find Crush the turtle surfing the East Australian current. And now I want you to fix that in your mind as the whole of our day at the theme park can be summed up by myself and co screaming "RIGHTEOUS, RIGHTEOUS!" as we were chucked around upside down, inside out, shoeless at points, barely secured at others and always queueing up for more. As we were fond of observing, "This shit ain't natural!"
But wonderful as these last few days have been I did promise some Spanishness for we all know that Alton Towers, Cambridge and, shucks, any town in the UK and Ireland could provide us with those activities if not the wall-to-wall sunshine. So I decided on a whim yesterday to go and see my first bullfight.
Las Ventas is the ring in the centre of Madrid where the bullfights are held and seeing as I couldnt find anybody to go last minute I headed off by myself. Word to the wise people, should you ever be tempted. Do not buy tickets from scalpers outside the taquillas. They are rarely sold out and a ticket at €4.90 gets you in the nosebleed seats in the shade, but believe me, you get the best views from there...
I wondered about what I might see. Any readers of a sensitive disposition may want to skim down a few paragraphs. I'll let you know when it's stopped but I pride myself in giving you a birds eye view of whatever I happen to be doing (within reason like) and don't wish to cause unintentional offence (my best offence is always intentional) with unforewarned graphic descriptions of a bloodsport. Any of you still with me? Of course you are, you handsome devils, let's get down to business...
The first thing I must note is that despite myself and my knowledge of importance of animal rights and a vague wish to ban the thing, I enjoyed the whole spectacle. Whereas a few friends I know have left, have refused to stay, have found it distasteful and a few refuse to go entirely I must say that from my position among copius aficionados I found myself getting into the thrill of the whole thing and stayed to the end, cheering and watching with an avid eye.
The matadores it should be noted first are three colourful chaps who's job it is to get the bull in the right position and entertain the crowd while the picadores are the main attraction. They are beautifully dressed men on horses who's job it is to spear the bull and finally kill it to claps and whistles from the crowd.
The matadores pop out from behind screens and taunt the bull with a gold and pink cape. The picador rides into the centre. He is not dressed in those silly pink knee highs, that odd cap, those elaborate shoulder pads. Ladies; he is dressed in black boots, he has a calf length emboidered coat - maybe blue and silver or black and gold. He wears a white ruffled shirt and grey breeches. His hair is immaculate and he is fit as. He appears in the celebrity pages of Hola which all of you recognise as Hello magazine. Men; he can wield a sword, he can ride like a demon, he throws a spear like a pro within inches of sheer animal fury and he jumps off the stallion at the end and faces a raging, dying bull head on. The women throw their scarves into the ring at the end as he runs round victorious and he kisses them and throws them back to his screaming fans. Anyway, you get the idea. You either want to be him or shag him...
As unaware of the celebrity status of the picadores so was I unaware of the formula of the fight itself. Each of the three separate stages is denoted with a loud fanfare, very Spanisha and full of machismo. The first are the long spears...
The picador is on his horse, I witnessed Rui Fernandes who made it look like an art form. The horse always puts on a show. It pauses, it shakes a leg at the bull. It jumps back and forth, some feat on four legs, and generally prances around with great dexterity, spinning and stamping his feat and just keeping out of range of the bull. Meanwhile the picador is aiming a feathered spear just above the bunch of muscle at the bull's shoulder. This is the tercio de varas, the first stage. He holds the spear at the top in his fist and when he strikes the bottom sinks into the animal with a shrriikkkk sound and lodges. This allows the body of the spear to be pulled away revealing a flag with which the picador taunts the bull. He leans over the horse, catching the horns, pulling both animals round and round.
These charges carry on, the second stage, the tercio de banderillas is two rosettes which need plunged in at close range. By this stage the flank of the bull is covered in bright red arterial blood. I never knew you could see it. The bulls are black as night and fine specimens and one assumes the blood will be inconspicuous, blending in with the animal's own colour. But you can see the stain progress as more and more spears enter.
The crowd are not silent during this spectacle. As the picador lines up to charge with the spears a rhythmic clapping starts up. The arena is flooded with the shak-shak-shak of thousands of people spurring the charge. And when Fernandes steered his steed with his knees, holding two spears one in each hand, reared up and plunged them into the bull's flank with one thrust the crowd went wild. The non-existent roof nearly came off the place.
The third and last stage, the tercio de muerte involves the picador leaping from his horse and getting up close and personal. He is handed a small red cape, the muleta and the sword, his estoque. Rui Fernandes, the best we saw, leapt from his horse and run to the bull, arms ourspread, feinting with his shoulders, crying "Venga, Venga!" the internationally recognised stature for what we Northern Irish call, "Come on then, big lad!!"
He spread his arms high, he slapped the bulls horns. By this stage the creature was swaying and thrashing it's horns more from desperation than intent. Still incredibly dangerous. But Rui feinted once, twice and in one smooth movement drew his sword from the depths of his cloak, struck the estocada right into the shoulder and with a jerk the toro hit the floor dead as a doornail.
It was so fast the crowd had to take a moment to process. But once they did the noise would have risen the stadium from its foundations. He ran around the ring, he retrieved his horse and victory-lapped. He threw his arms above his head, he extended his arm to each segment of the arena in turn and we all cheered in turn, each more loudly than the last.
And then suddenly every Spaniard around me had taken out a panuelo; a white handkerchief and were waving it like the French surrendering. Gazing around the stands was magnificent; white cloth flashed, people cried out, they chanted "Fernandes, Fernandes" and I later found out that when a bullfighter has done exceptionally well the crowd will wave white to signal they wish for him to be awarded the oreja; the ear of the bull he has slain to prove his prowess.
And then the body of the bull is dragged across the arena and out by a team of jingling ponies. And they say the fight is a match between equals but of six bulls that day all left a drag mark behind to be trampled over by their unwitting successors. And it is cruel, and who can call it a fair fight, but that day I admit there were points where I cheered and clapped with everyone else for Rui Fernandes resplendant in his blue and silver on his black stallion...
But there we have it; a bird's eye bullfight, now you know and PEOPLE OF SENSITIVITY, IT'S OVER!! What is also over is this penultimate blog and I must away with me. but not before I admit that at one stage I left the writing to go have a picnic at Templo de Debod ,an honest-to-Ra Egyptian temple gifted to Spain to perserve it from destruction during the building of the Aswan Dam. There I sat and watched the sunset over the city and we had crisps, and cake and cava and Sangria and Tinto de Verano and said goodbyes to some lovely people and of course got a wee, wee, wee bit pissed...Prizes to anyone who can point out which bit of the blog I wrote sober!
Not long to wait now, for the last ever Madrid; A Cautionary Tale is a-published this 12th of June, tomozza! Or today in fact, seeing as how tis twenty to twelve GMT! Come one, come all. Bring your friends, family and significant others! And we'll end this Yah Abroad with a bang!
xo
Saturday, 26 May 2012
Just getting Almodovar it
"Miss Devlin, I really have to put down the phone now, I have other applicants to inform..."
"Yu...yu..you! Of course you do. Listen I don't blame you. It's not your fault, into each life a little rain must fall and you; you sir are a mere messenger in these matters. What was it? Was it lack of financial awareness? Because I can get all Warren Buffett up in this bitch!"
"I'm not really sure I can be of any assistance feedback-wise..."
"Was it the "Who would you most like to interview" question? Because I swear the seance with Gadaffi was a joke! A JOKE! You hear me?"
"Goodbye Miss Devlin"
"No wait! I'll change! I can change godsdamnit! I have no scruples! Ask Putin!!"
".............."
"Oh, titties..."
The above conversation will be heart-achingly familiar to those of us who have read variations of the words "We regret to inform you" and possibly "Each year we recieve a huge number of very able candidates" and the ever ambiguous "We appreciate your interest in our firm." Job/Placement hunting's a painful process and my thoughts are with everyone who is nodding along, raising a glass and crying "Amen to that, honey. Tell it like it is woman!" Because in my mind you all come from the Deep South and permanently nurse iced bourbons on a white painted porch...
I can do nothing to assauge your woes but take you into my confidence and let you know my coping mechanism involves Nutella, a spoon and Barry White. I believe in miracles too Mr White...Actually it also involves getting lost in my interview with Michael Parkinson in which my sparkling wit wins many a TV viewer over. Now purists might point out that The Parkinson Show has been off the air for three years but they can sod off, it's my imagination. Sir Michael'll do the macarena in a sombrero and fake moustache if I want him to!
This time however the flatties have come to the rescue in a most spectacular fashion. The best ideas often spring from nights out on the town...and some of the worst because as Giovanni de Simone will attest trying to sketch an outline of a belltower after a few Amarettos led to generations of tourists taking kitsch photos propping up Pisa's blunder of the world....and it was with getting out of Madrid and taking in some sights and sun we decided to head off down the A12 to the little known Pantano de la Presa.
I say little known and we all know I mean what I say, for we hopped off the autobús in the middle of nowhere. The word of a little old man who tapped his nose conspiratorially and pointed into the distance was our only clue we weren't about to end up in some sort of "Deliverance" scenario. When the bus left the silence came washing back, the sun was scorching down and we set off past a field of sheep wearing honest-to-goodness bells.
The little dirt track let us up and up into the hills and it was on the crest of a peak (poorly used geographical terminology there) that we suddenly looked up and beheld the promised land...well, the promised water.
It was a lake nestled in among rugged hills dotted with those small trees I always see from the window of a Ryanair jet on descent and which I have no idea what they are. There were boats hanging out in a marina on one end, the sparkling water swept away into the distance on the other. You could see miles of blue sky and there was a rainbow corona around the sun, cause by I know not what. What I did know was that we were lucky sumbitches that day because we shared the little beach shaded by trees at the water's edge with a sum total of nine other people.
There was a lull there; a quiet broken only by the buzz of those wee airplanes floating out over the landscape. It was beautiful and had me despair of how to paint you a picture of it with such clumsy things as the words water, trees and green. So I'll stop trying and let my past self know just to relax, kick back and for Chrissakes put some suncream on or you'll have Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer sung at you by the wee terrors you teach! You're welcome...
Of course there's only so much reading and lolling one can do and we were for the lake like moths to a flame. Well, I took a bit more convincing, a bit more coaxing and a lot more towel right at the water's edge before I wandered into the water. But once I did...
....it was pure magic, lads. I've never swam around in a lake before. The bottom was sandy but littered with sticks and stones that made you jump when your foot landed on them. The water was green and clear as a bell. It got deep, quick as the sand shelved away from under you at two foot from the shore. You could swim around like a mad eejit and when I looked into the water it let the sun shine so far down I could see my painted toes waving at me. The splashing about kicked up silt from the bottom, but the predominant stone in the region were granite, see? That meant that suddenly the water was filled with teeny flashing grains of granite and it looked like the glitter of fools gold. That and the green hue meant I suddenly had the feeling I was splashing about in a Paddy's Day cocktail.
The view from the water would have done your heart good. You could see across the gleaming ripples to the hills on the opposite shore. You could also see the other Erasmo lads and lasses that had found the beach larking around and surreptiously 'aving a glance at the talent. The bikini clad beauties sunbathed, the lads threw rocks in the water to try and get at the wee fish I later made friends with but mainly to see if the ladies were a-looking. And the damn flirting were like cheesy lines out of a terrible sit-com. "Be careful or I might throw you too!" "I'd like to see you try" "You need me to do your back for you?" I made scorecards and held 'em up every so often. One poor San Franciscogian got null points every time. Come on lad, you dont suggest a lady'll get a better tan if she takes off the bikini top! You make her think it was her idea. I should run a course...
Anywho, speaking of null points I'm off to a Eurovision party! At the flat of a good friend celebrating the day of birth of another very dear friend! And I got me money riding on Engelbert Humperdinck to knock the socks off every act there tonight. Even Jedward, God help my lack of patriotism. But enough! I must go think of drinking games, use all my useless trivia and generally have a ball. But stay fast everyone. Next week we find the penultimate blog and a last hurrah for Spanishness entire!
xo
"Yu...yu..you! Of course you do. Listen I don't blame you. It's not your fault, into each life a little rain must fall and you; you sir are a mere messenger in these matters. What was it? Was it lack of financial awareness? Because I can get all Warren Buffett up in this bitch!"
"I'm not really sure I can be of any assistance feedback-wise..."
"Was it the "Who would you most like to interview" question? Because I swear the seance with Gadaffi was a joke! A JOKE! You hear me?"
"Goodbye Miss Devlin"
"No wait! I'll change! I can change godsdamnit! I have no scruples! Ask Putin!!"
".............."
"Oh, titties..."
The above conversation will be heart-achingly familiar to those of us who have read variations of the words "We regret to inform you" and possibly "Each year we recieve a huge number of very able candidates" and the ever ambiguous "We appreciate your interest in our firm." Job/Placement hunting's a painful process and my thoughts are with everyone who is nodding along, raising a glass and crying "Amen to that, honey. Tell it like it is woman!" Because in my mind you all come from the Deep South and permanently nurse iced bourbons on a white painted porch...
I can do nothing to assauge your woes but take you into my confidence and let you know my coping mechanism involves Nutella, a spoon and Barry White. I believe in miracles too Mr White...Actually it also involves getting lost in my interview with Michael Parkinson in which my sparkling wit wins many a TV viewer over. Now purists might point out that The Parkinson Show has been off the air for three years but they can sod off, it's my imagination. Sir Michael'll do the macarena in a sombrero and fake moustache if I want him to!
This time however the flatties have come to the rescue in a most spectacular fashion. The best ideas often spring from nights out on the town...and some of the worst because as Giovanni de Simone will attest trying to sketch an outline of a belltower after a few Amarettos led to generations of tourists taking kitsch photos propping up Pisa's blunder of the world....and it was with getting out of Madrid and taking in some sights and sun we decided to head off down the A12 to the little known Pantano de la Presa.
I say little known and we all know I mean what I say, for we hopped off the autobús in the middle of nowhere. The word of a little old man who tapped his nose conspiratorially and pointed into the distance was our only clue we weren't about to end up in some sort of "Deliverance" scenario. When the bus left the silence came washing back, the sun was scorching down and we set off past a field of sheep wearing honest-to-goodness bells.
The little dirt track let us up and up into the hills and it was on the crest of a peak (poorly used geographical terminology there) that we suddenly looked up and beheld the promised land...well, the promised water.
It was a lake nestled in among rugged hills dotted with those small trees I always see from the window of a Ryanair jet on descent and which I have no idea what they are. There were boats hanging out in a marina on one end, the sparkling water swept away into the distance on the other. You could see miles of blue sky and there was a rainbow corona around the sun, cause by I know not what. What I did know was that we were lucky sumbitches that day because we shared the little beach shaded by trees at the water's edge with a sum total of nine other people.
There was a lull there; a quiet broken only by the buzz of those wee airplanes floating out over the landscape. It was beautiful and had me despair of how to paint you a picture of it with such clumsy things as the words water, trees and green. So I'll stop trying and let my past self know just to relax, kick back and for Chrissakes put some suncream on or you'll have Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer sung at you by the wee terrors you teach! You're welcome...
Of course there's only so much reading and lolling one can do and we were for the lake like moths to a flame. Well, I took a bit more convincing, a bit more coaxing and a lot more towel right at the water's edge before I wandered into the water. But once I did...
....it was pure magic, lads. I've never swam around in a lake before. The bottom was sandy but littered with sticks and stones that made you jump when your foot landed on them. The water was green and clear as a bell. It got deep, quick as the sand shelved away from under you at two foot from the shore. You could swim around like a mad eejit and when I looked into the water it let the sun shine so far down I could see my painted toes waving at me. The splashing about kicked up silt from the bottom, but the predominant stone in the region were granite, see? That meant that suddenly the water was filled with teeny flashing grains of granite and it looked like the glitter of fools gold. That and the green hue meant I suddenly had the feeling I was splashing about in a Paddy's Day cocktail.
The view from the water would have done your heart good. You could see across the gleaming ripples to the hills on the opposite shore. You could also see the other Erasmo lads and lasses that had found the beach larking around and surreptiously 'aving a glance at the talent. The bikini clad beauties sunbathed, the lads threw rocks in the water to try and get at the wee fish I later made friends with but mainly to see if the ladies were a-looking. And the damn flirting were like cheesy lines out of a terrible sit-com. "Be careful or I might throw you too!" "I'd like to see you try" "You need me to do your back for you?" I made scorecards and held 'em up every so often. One poor San Franciscogian got null points every time. Come on lad, you dont suggest a lady'll get a better tan if she takes off the bikini top! You make her think it was her idea. I should run a course...
Anywho, speaking of null points I'm off to a Eurovision party! At the flat of a good friend celebrating the day of birth of another very dear friend! And I got me money riding on Engelbert Humperdinck to knock the socks off every act there tonight. Even Jedward, God help my lack of patriotism. But enough! I must go think of drinking games, use all my useless trivia and generally have a ball. But stay fast everyone. Next week we find the penultimate blog and a last hurrah for Spanishness entire!
xo
Sunday, 13 May 2012
Keeping it Real Madrid
"Oh merciful Jesus, ah'll never drink again ah swear; oh the anguish! Sweet Lord ah'm dyin' now...help me now God! Take me now!"
Admittedly flopping around on my bed, throwing arms wide dramatically and turning up the volume on the "Mah great-granpappy didn't lay down his life for the South sir, so we could be a-colonised by dens of iniquity where high-tone liberals sip their mocha ventis (Hi Starbucks!) and plan to sacrifice the Ah-merica I love on the altar of socialism" voice isn't helping this thrice damned hangover. We went Lebanese and had cous-cous and hummus and shisha with vodka in last night to celebrate the halfway exam mark. I regret nothing.
We're back to life in Madrid which this week has seen some beautiful developments; mainly weatherwise when walking into the open air is cause for gasps and cries of "Heat! Heat!" and a retreat to short sleeves. First sunburn of the summer. Oh yeah...
In fact it is because of this heat that my tutoring job now consists in picking the child up from school and taking him swimming, an activity that both he and I have agreed is mutually beneficial. He gets to splash around with his wee classmates and I get paid to kickback and sip a Coke for an hour. Adding spice to those Wednesday afternoons is the fact that the glassed-off terrace where the parents sit above the pool is directly opposite the glassed-off gym and gentlemen, it's Speedo season. Hello laddies...
But I digress. It's not all fun and games and I eventually have to wean the boy away from distractions and actually get hime to do his homework. This was made all the harder last week by a birthday present from what is now presumably his best friend. A very powerful little bow and arrow set. We had been playing for a while, the flat was like an oven and not knowing how to work the air-con I cracked open a window. Remember this fact.
"Aiiiiii-leeeen, you will be Little John, jes? And I will be Robin Hood!"
"Do I look like a Little John to you? Give me a go..."
"NO! It ees mine! You can be Marry-on"
"Who the hell is that?"
"Marry-on! Marry-on! She ees the lady!"
"Oh, Maid Marion! And no! Sod your Spanish macho gender stereotypes, I want to shoot the arrow!"
(I actually do speak to the child in these exact tones with a little more fiddlesticks than fecks. Other than the swearing it does em good not to be mollycoddled. He loves me for it)
"NO!"
"Ay por dios; fine, verb and noun test, right now or vas a suspender todo and don't even think about coming crying to me!"
"Can I go to the bathroom first?"
"Go."
Now that the outer child is gone the inner child, my inner child surfaces and we reach for the bow and arrow in tandem. We nock the foam missile to the string. We feint a couple of times, whistling the theme of Prince of Thieves, then take aim, pull back the string, let go...
...and shoot the fucking arrow right out the damn window I'd forgotten I'd opened.
Time freezes, it's the window out into the inner well of the flat building. I run to it. I glance down in horror. The window of the kitchen on the floor below is open and I can see just inside, lying innocuously on the black and white tiles, the red and yellow foam arrow. Behind me I can see a ghostly Peter Kay clap his hands to his mouth and cry Mancunian-ally "Ho my God! What you gone and done that for?!"
I don't know Mr Kay. I don't know. I can hear the water running as the child washes his hands. Seconds remain to me. I panic...
"Okay Aiiii-leeeeen, I am here"
<looks up nonchalantly from her position on the sofa with Kindle open at current book> "Oh, right then, ready to get started?"
"Ah-where is my bow?"
"Well, I've just hidden it until we get the work done so you don't get distracted. I'll get it for you when I leave"
And so I do, and so I locate the bow and arrows and bang on time Dad gets home so I put them on his bed, bid them both farewell and run out of that building. The story is that I hid 'em to make the boy concentrate and can't remember where I stashed the fourth. As long as the neighbour doesnt rat me out I'm fine. Guilty, but I was raised Catholic and I can handle a little guilt...
A very good friend came to stay the weekend and we are a divil of a bad influence on each other. The Erasmus curse was in a fine mood so that as opposed to now, where even the cobbles are boiling, it wouldnt stop pissing down the whole time. Still, it meant that we were able to enjoy many a cafe con leche, in particular in a beautiful stained glass Art Deco café on treelined Recoletos. The rain drummed on the roof and I had wrapped my hands around the coffee. Eventually came the realisation that we could put off the wandering for no longer. I unclasped my hands, but the middle finger I had wound round the handle refused to budge...
A ha ha ha, funny loljokes, my hand is stuck, a moment please...
Well, <ow!> this is just a wee bit <bloody hell> embarrassing...
Enough joking, I can't actually get this damn thing off my finger...
And because a friend will worry with you, but a best friend will piss themselves laughing at your increasingly desperate attempts to prise the coffee cup off your damn hand we spent the next fifteen minutes in peals of laughter until I was free with one last violent tug. Oh Aileen, you so crazy...
So a week of not very much happening really. Well, we partied hard last night and the weather has allowed for some more appreciation of Madrid's beauty, but I want to get some authentic Spanishness in gear. I have wonderful plans involving flamenco and the ever controversial bull fight seeing as the season is upon us.
Until then exams are occurring, halls full of Spaniards scribbling, me laughing at the ridiculousness of my inadequacy. No, actually laughing; I had a giggling fit in the middle of Derecho Procesal because I began commentating on the exam in the style of Peter Kay in my own head;
"Vías concur-sah-les? What the 'ells that? I'm sorr-eh, I ain't got a flipping clue, there's no use looking at me like that Don Silencio of the exam hall. Get this done, get home, 'ave a brew. That's the plan. Let's see now, E-R-A-S-M-U-S, massive capital letters. That'll do. Maybe they'll go easy on meh."
Or then again maybe they won't, I've given up trying to devine the mind of the average Spaniard. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. The AA has a cheery little acrostic for "fear". Face Everything And Remain. Unfortunately it could also be Fuck Everything And Run. Let us let time tell...
Now I'm off to get a smoothie. No coffees today, for the sun is shining, there are beautiful people nearly naked in the heat, there is a cool little breeze trilling around cheering all the poor overwarm people up. And Madrid is looking ravishing. I might go put my new sundress on and go out and be seduced by her shapely bouelvards and her charming fountains, her dapper terraces and winsome green spaces. Good idea, that woman. And while I'm at it I'll look for some Madrilena wonders not yet explored and so blog research can be my cunning excuse for trailing round licking a Cornetto and humming Mungo Jerry's "In the Summertime."
La vida es bella.
xo
Admittedly flopping around on my bed, throwing arms wide dramatically and turning up the volume on the "Mah great-granpappy didn't lay down his life for the South sir, so we could be a-colonised by dens of iniquity where high-tone liberals sip their mocha ventis (Hi Starbucks!) and plan to sacrifice the Ah-merica I love on the altar of socialism" voice isn't helping this thrice damned hangover. We went Lebanese and had cous-cous and hummus and shisha with vodka in last night to celebrate the halfway exam mark. I regret nothing.
We're back to life in Madrid which this week has seen some beautiful developments; mainly weatherwise when walking into the open air is cause for gasps and cries of "Heat! Heat!" and a retreat to short sleeves. First sunburn of the summer. Oh yeah...
In fact it is because of this heat that my tutoring job now consists in picking the child up from school and taking him swimming, an activity that both he and I have agreed is mutually beneficial. He gets to splash around with his wee classmates and I get paid to kickback and sip a Coke for an hour. Adding spice to those Wednesday afternoons is the fact that the glassed-off terrace where the parents sit above the pool is directly opposite the glassed-off gym and gentlemen, it's Speedo season. Hello laddies...
But I digress. It's not all fun and games and I eventually have to wean the boy away from distractions and actually get hime to do his homework. This was made all the harder last week by a birthday present from what is now presumably his best friend. A very powerful little bow and arrow set. We had been playing for a while, the flat was like an oven and not knowing how to work the air-con I cracked open a window. Remember this fact.
"Aiiiiii-leeeen, you will be Little John, jes? And I will be Robin Hood!"
"Do I look like a Little John to you? Give me a go..."
"NO! It ees mine! You can be Marry-on"
"Who the hell is that?"
"Marry-on! Marry-on! She ees the lady!"
"Oh, Maid Marion! And no! Sod your Spanish macho gender stereotypes, I want to shoot the arrow!"
(I actually do speak to the child in these exact tones with a little more fiddlesticks than fecks. Other than the swearing it does em good not to be mollycoddled. He loves me for it)
"NO!"
"Ay por dios; fine, verb and noun test, right now or vas a suspender todo and don't even think about coming crying to me!"
"Can I go to the bathroom first?"
"Go."
Now that the outer child is gone the inner child, my inner child surfaces and we reach for the bow and arrow in tandem. We nock the foam missile to the string. We feint a couple of times, whistling the theme of Prince of Thieves, then take aim, pull back the string, let go...
...and shoot the fucking arrow right out the damn window I'd forgotten I'd opened.
Time freezes, it's the window out into the inner well of the flat building. I run to it. I glance down in horror. The window of the kitchen on the floor below is open and I can see just inside, lying innocuously on the black and white tiles, the red and yellow foam arrow. Behind me I can see a ghostly Peter Kay clap his hands to his mouth and cry Mancunian-ally "Ho my God! What you gone and done that for?!"
I don't know Mr Kay. I don't know. I can hear the water running as the child washes his hands. Seconds remain to me. I panic...
"Okay Aiiii-leeeeen, I am here"
<looks up nonchalantly from her position on the sofa with Kindle open at current book> "Oh, right then, ready to get started?"
"Ah-where is my bow?"
"Well, I've just hidden it until we get the work done so you don't get distracted. I'll get it for you when I leave"
And so I do, and so I locate the bow and arrows and bang on time Dad gets home so I put them on his bed, bid them both farewell and run out of that building. The story is that I hid 'em to make the boy concentrate and can't remember where I stashed the fourth. As long as the neighbour doesnt rat me out I'm fine. Guilty, but I was raised Catholic and I can handle a little guilt...
A very good friend came to stay the weekend and we are a divil of a bad influence on each other. The Erasmus curse was in a fine mood so that as opposed to now, where even the cobbles are boiling, it wouldnt stop pissing down the whole time. Still, it meant that we were able to enjoy many a cafe con leche, in particular in a beautiful stained glass Art Deco café on treelined Recoletos. The rain drummed on the roof and I had wrapped my hands around the coffee. Eventually came the realisation that we could put off the wandering for no longer. I unclasped my hands, but the middle finger I had wound round the handle refused to budge...
A ha ha ha, funny loljokes, my hand is stuck, a moment please...
Well, <ow!> this is just a wee bit <bloody hell> embarrassing...
Enough joking, I can't actually get this damn thing off my finger...
And because a friend will worry with you, but a best friend will piss themselves laughing at your increasingly desperate attempts to prise the coffee cup off your damn hand we spent the next fifteen minutes in peals of laughter until I was free with one last violent tug. Oh Aileen, you so crazy...
So a week of not very much happening really. Well, we partied hard last night and the weather has allowed for some more appreciation of Madrid's beauty, but I want to get some authentic Spanishness in gear. I have wonderful plans involving flamenco and the ever controversial bull fight seeing as the season is upon us.
Until then exams are occurring, halls full of Spaniards scribbling, me laughing at the ridiculousness of my inadequacy. No, actually laughing; I had a giggling fit in the middle of Derecho Procesal because I began commentating on the exam in the style of Peter Kay in my own head;
"Vías concur-sah-les? What the 'ells that? I'm sorr-eh, I ain't got a flipping clue, there's no use looking at me like that Don Silencio of the exam hall. Get this done, get home, 'ave a brew. That's the plan. Let's see now, E-R-A-S-M-U-S, massive capital letters. That'll do. Maybe they'll go easy on meh."
Or then again maybe they won't, I've given up trying to devine the mind of the average Spaniard. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. The AA has a cheery little acrostic for "fear". Face Everything And Remain. Unfortunately it could also be Fuck Everything And Run. Let us let time tell...
Now I'm off to get a smoothie. No coffees today, for the sun is shining, there are beautiful people nearly naked in the heat, there is a cool little breeze trilling around cheering all the poor overwarm people up. And Madrid is looking ravishing. I might go put my new sundress on and go out and be seduced by her shapely bouelvards and her charming fountains, her dapper terraces and winsome green spaces. Good idea, that woman. And while I'm at it I'll look for some Madrilena wonders not yet explored and so blog research can be my cunning excuse for trailing round licking a Cornetto and humming Mungo Jerry's "In the Summertime."
La vida es bella.
xo
Saturday, 5 May 2012
Lisbon Voyage
There are worse ways to pass the time waiting for a delayed flight than playing a friendly game of Twenty Questions but when the game is played between three Cambridge students you would be hard pushed to think of them. Coca Cola is a mineral, Norn Irish readers you shall appreciate this witty joke. Everyone else, you will do what my companions felt like doing and mentally slap me upside my head.
We were headed to Lisbon, we don't know why, we don't know how but we were flying cheap and easy. Easyjet. I had my collar turned up and a fedora pulled down low should Michael O'Leary walk by. All that orange wasn't natural and that's not just because I kick with the other foot. Norn Irish readers, we're off again...
Portugal is sometimes largely forgotten by many but Lisbon is one of the oldest cities in the world thriving as a fishing port and trading centre before Rome was a twinkle in Romulus' eye. Granted we had one eye on the beach should the weather decide to turn unseasonably warm but what we were really there for was the culture, the sights and the food. Tourism's holy triumverate.
Our first experience of the left hand side of the Iberian peninsula was the language. We have long ago gotten over the fear of not knowing a language. After all, if language was cold hard cash we came out to Madrid with the equivalent of the change in our back pockets and have survived thus far. But the damn taxi driver assumed this complacency came from understanding every word of Portuguese he spoke. Which was a fallacy we left well enough alone. There is nothing more amusing than your means of transport from airport to hostel coming fully equipped with a rundown of countries that speak Portuguese and and a disheveled old driver lifting his arms from the steering wheel when cruising at a cool 80mph and declaring; "AL CENTRO!!"
Our hostel was the subliminal psychologically named YES hostel where we met an Estonian pro tennis official who had been to Mexico and loved their tacos. She was due to stay in Portugal for another three weeks. She had played tennis since she was a girl back in ze old country but the dream of playing professionally had been halted in its tracks and she now flitted from tournament to tournament acting as a trained umpire. I know you are wondering why and how I know all this but it's impossible not to listen to an Eastern European with a thick accent who's name you can't quite remember and who scares you senseless, even if she wasn't built like Leon Spinks...
We arrived in Lisbon late that Friday night and the next day we were up, filled full of hostel breakfast mainly consisting of carbohydrate, and ready to do some sightseeing. And to do that we had to get up close and personal with Lisbon's hills which were scaled by windy, cobbledy streets with ramshackle houses perched on top of each other higgledy-piggledy. We (read my more organised companions) had done our research. Tram 28 beckoned...
Tram 28, a €5 day ticket ride purchased, took us to the sights. It was cheerfully painted and chugged up those tiny, steep like a determined tank engine straight offa the island of Sodor. We got so close to the windows of the good citizens of the Alfama I could have shared a cup of strong coffee with the wee old women in headshawls enscounced inside.
That day we saw Lisbon from more angles than it's gynecologist. We clambered up to the top of a Moorish castle and looked at Lisbon from that. There was a little plaque that read "The Crusaders made their mark on Lisbon in 1096AD" Only 1096? Can only assume the lads were on an Erasmus year and looking to get as stocious and with as many local ladies as possible...
We wandered up to countless churches and looked at Lisbon some more. We viewed the Christ the King statue, identical to that in Rio, from the Iglesia do Graca. We viewed the huge suspension bridge over the harbour, identical to the Golden Gate, from the Sao Vicente monastery. We watched Lisbon like Clinton watched Monica Lewinsky walk away from him and like Clinton we like what we saw. It was ancient and lively and the sea air gave everything a freshness you don't find inland. Bougainvillea crept up the wooden posts which encircled white stone balconies that gave you a wonderful view of the harbour. And Fado music, which is sad and soft but sung by size 18 songstresses with the depth of Aretha and played by moustachioed guitarists. We know this must be a serious part of Portuguese culture because after having begrudgingly paid €3 each into the Fado Museum our merriment was hushed angrily by a guide who stated "Quiet, pleesh! I am tryink to make a tour!" Make all you want sister, Miguel Capucho's no Sinatra...
But the place that really stole our heart (apart from Portugal's version of a Chino which is an Indiano and where, on hearing I wasn't buying any sweeties unlike my companeras, the dueno gave me, then us all, some free bubblegum. I treasure that man in my heart of hearts...) was Sintra.
Sintra. Sintra was about 40mins outside Lisbon and was very dear to Lord Byron in his heydays. The place was full of palaces that were straight out of a Disney "happily ever after."
But ut was the main Pena palace that was a confection, filled with spires and turrets and painted pink, lemon yellow and soft green, commissioned by lovestruck Portuguese prince Ferdinand II for his schweetheart Maria of Braganza. It's enough to make you weep, I 've never even been gifted someone's last Rolo...
I can only hope poor old Ferdinand had less trouble getting his Maria all the way up to Pena. Even in our petrol fuelled days we wound our way round narrow roads where our driver thought an acceptable substitute for slowing down was to blare his horn before taking every corner like the Roadrunner. My whole life flashed before my eyes...it had less meaningful content than a rom com starring Jennifer Aniston...
When we eventually got there we were faced with the queue to end all queues. One booth tried to cope with a disgruntled busload. Until, that is, Borat came running into our midst, scooped us three out of the multitudes and professed "Cam with meeee, I weel help..." and ushered us in the gates.
This wasn't immediately encouraging. He turned out to be the keeper of Ye Olde Gift Shope and no one, not us, not the ticket office, not the security guard with his bewildered expression, not even Borat himself possibly, knew what he was doing.
"Do you llll-eeee-yke nay-choor?"
Do we like nature...should we answer?
"Eef you lll-eee-yke nay-choor eet is good to take the gardens."
Excellent advice Borat, well done. We shall take those gardens by storm. We will take them down to Chinatown. We will take 'em out to dinner and a show. We will take their vir...
Anywho, what I meant was that thanks to Borat we were able to get in ahead of all those chumps who queued in the light drizzle for as much as another hour. And we were rewarded with plenty of nature. More nature than you could shake a stick at. More sticks than you could shake a stick at for that matter... And a beautiful palace that surely couldn't have left Maria cold. Let's give a whey-hey and hope Ferdinand got to appreciate a bit of nature...
The beauty of Sintra didn't stop there. We came across some well nice gardens on our journey to fully appreciate nature. The type you could run round like hooligans; climbing mini towers, crossing rivers on stepping stones and wandering into caves so dark they testified to the lack of health and safety puritanical meddling. We were like children, loved every second, even the ones we screamed like actresses in a cheap B movie horror because we met some unsuspecting Spaniard coming the other way down one of those poorly lit subways. All in tremendous fun.
Back in Lisbon on that third day we fulfilled every tourists fantasy, that of seeing all there is to see and more. Of wandering round the Plaza Mayor, of making porcos of ourselves on the little egg custard pasteis pastries that were Lisbon's speciality and so would have been rude not to try. Once. Twice. Thrice. Several times. We went out to the historical part Belém with some lovely guys we happened to meet in le hostel. We immersed ourselves in religious imagery, homages to Portugal's seafaring past and tiny side street and cafés. We visited Eiffel's elevator, of lesser fame than his tower and we walked until out feet were mere stubs. But worth it? Oh yes...even if the taxi driver did rip us off shamelessly on the way back to the airport...
But to each his shady own! Back in Madrid once more the mind turns simultaneously to making the most of every instant until Cambridge calls us back/working like the divil himself so Cambridge actually does call us back... And more of how this paradox works to turn self into Bridget Jones anon, as the scene is set (whoops, slip of fingertips almost had me typing sexy and slippy mind almost had me leaving the typo) for my last few blogs in Madrid. And so help me Dios, they will be scorchers...
xo
We were headed to Lisbon, we don't know why, we don't know how but we were flying cheap and easy. Easyjet. I had my collar turned up and a fedora pulled down low should Michael O'Leary walk by. All that orange wasn't natural and that's not just because I kick with the other foot. Norn Irish readers, we're off again...
Portugal is sometimes largely forgotten by many but Lisbon is one of the oldest cities in the world thriving as a fishing port and trading centre before Rome was a twinkle in Romulus' eye. Granted we had one eye on the beach should the weather decide to turn unseasonably warm but what we were really there for was the culture, the sights and the food. Tourism's holy triumverate.
Our first experience of the left hand side of the Iberian peninsula was the language. We have long ago gotten over the fear of not knowing a language. After all, if language was cold hard cash we came out to Madrid with the equivalent of the change in our back pockets and have survived thus far. But the damn taxi driver assumed this complacency came from understanding every word of Portuguese he spoke. Which was a fallacy we left well enough alone. There is nothing more amusing than your means of transport from airport to hostel coming fully equipped with a rundown of countries that speak Portuguese and and a disheveled old driver lifting his arms from the steering wheel when cruising at a cool 80mph and declaring; "AL CENTRO!!"
Our hostel was the subliminal psychologically named YES hostel where we met an Estonian pro tennis official who had been to Mexico and loved their tacos. She was due to stay in Portugal for another three weeks. She had played tennis since she was a girl back in ze old country but the dream of playing professionally had been halted in its tracks and she now flitted from tournament to tournament acting as a trained umpire. I know you are wondering why and how I know all this but it's impossible not to listen to an Eastern European with a thick accent who's name you can't quite remember and who scares you senseless, even if she wasn't built like Leon Spinks...
We arrived in Lisbon late that Friday night and the next day we were up, filled full of hostel breakfast mainly consisting of carbohydrate, and ready to do some sightseeing. And to do that we had to get up close and personal with Lisbon's hills which were scaled by windy, cobbledy streets with ramshackle houses perched on top of each other higgledy-piggledy. We (read my more organised companions) had done our research. Tram 28 beckoned...
Tram 28, a €5 day ticket ride purchased, took us to the sights. It was cheerfully painted and chugged up those tiny, steep like a determined tank engine straight offa the island of Sodor. We got so close to the windows of the good citizens of the Alfama I could have shared a cup of strong coffee with the wee old women in headshawls enscounced inside.
That day we saw Lisbon from more angles than it's gynecologist. We clambered up to the top of a Moorish castle and looked at Lisbon from that. There was a little plaque that read "The Crusaders made their mark on Lisbon in 1096AD" Only 1096? Can only assume the lads were on an Erasmus year and looking to get as stocious and with as many local ladies as possible...
We wandered up to countless churches and looked at Lisbon some more. We viewed the Christ the King statue, identical to that in Rio, from the Iglesia do Graca. We viewed the huge suspension bridge over the harbour, identical to the Golden Gate, from the Sao Vicente monastery. We watched Lisbon like Clinton watched Monica Lewinsky walk away from him and like Clinton we like what we saw. It was ancient and lively and the sea air gave everything a freshness you don't find inland. Bougainvillea crept up the wooden posts which encircled white stone balconies that gave you a wonderful view of the harbour. And Fado music, which is sad and soft but sung by size 18 songstresses with the depth of Aretha and played by moustachioed guitarists. We know this must be a serious part of Portuguese culture because after having begrudgingly paid €3 each into the Fado Museum our merriment was hushed angrily by a guide who stated "Quiet, pleesh! I am tryink to make a tour!" Make all you want sister, Miguel Capucho's no Sinatra...
But the place that really stole our heart (apart from Portugal's version of a Chino which is an Indiano and where, on hearing I wasn't buying any sweeties unlike my companeras, the dueno gave me, then us all, some free bubblegum. I treasure that man in my heart of hearts...) was Sintra.
Sintra. Sintra was about 40mins outside Lisbon and was very dear to Lord Byron in his heydays. The place was full of palaces that were straight out of a Disney "happily ever after."
But ut was the main Pena palace that was a confection, filled with spires and turrets and painted pink, lemon yellow and soft green, commissioned by lovestruck Portuguese prince Ferdinand II for his schweetheart Maria of Braganza. It's enough to make you weep, I 've never even been gifted someone's last Rolo...
I can only hope poor old Ferdinand had less trouble getting his Maria all the way up to Pena. Even in our petrol fuelled days we wound our way round narrow roads where our driver thought an acceptable substitute for slowing down was to blare his horn before taking every corner like the Roadrunner. My whole life flashed before my eyes...it had less meaningful content than a rom com starring Jennifer Aniston...
When we eventually got there we were faced with the queue to end all queues. One booth tried to cope with a disgruntled busload. Until, that is, Borat came running into our midst, scooped us three out of the multitudes and professed "Cam with meeee, I weel help..." and ushered us in the gates.
This wasn't immediately encouraging. He turned out to be the keeper of Ye Olde Gift Shope and no one, not us, not the ticket office, not the security guard with his bewildered expression, not even Borat himself possibly, knew what he was doing.
"Do you llll-eeee-yke nay-choor?"
Do we like nature...should we answer?
"Eef you lll-eee-yke nay-choor eet is good to take the gardens."
Excellent advice Borat, well done. We shall take those gardens by storm. We will take them down to Chinatown. We will take 'em out to dinner and a show. We will take their vir...
Anywho, what I meant was that thanks to Borat we were able to get in ahead of all those chumps who queued in the light drizzle for as much as another hour. And we were rewarded with plenty of nature. More nature than you could shake a stick at. More sticks than you could shake a stick at for that matter... And a beautiful palace that surely couldn't have left Maria cold. Let's give a whey-hey and hope Ferdinand got to appreciate a bit of nature...
The beauty of Sintra didn't stop there. We came across some well nice gardens on our journey to fully appreciate nature. The type you could run round like hooligans; climbing mini towers, crossing rivers on stepping stones and wandering into caves so dark they testified to the lack of health and safety puritanical meddling. We were like children, loved every second, even the ones we screamed like actresses in a cheap B movie horror because we met some unsuspecting Spaniard coming the other way down one of those poorly lit subways. All in tremendous fun.
Back in Lisbon on that third day we fulfilled every tourists fantasy, that of seeing all there is to see and more. Of wandering round the Plaza Mayor, of making porcos of ourselves on the little egg custard pasteis pastries that were Lisbon's speciality and so would have been rude not to try. Once. Twice. Thrice. Several times. We went out to the historical part Belém with some lovely guys we happened to meet in le hostel. We immersed ourselves in religious imagery, homages to Portugal's seafaring past and tiny side street and cafés. We visited Eiffel's elevator, of lesser fame than his tower and we walked until out feet were mere stubs. But worth it? Oh yes...even if the taxi driver did rip us off shamelessly on the way back to the airport...
But to each his shady own! Back in Madrid once more the mind turns simultaneously to making the most of every instant until Cambridge calls us back/working like the divil himself so Cambridge actually does call us back... And more of how this paradox works to turn self into Bridget Jones anon, as the scene is set (whoops, slip of fingertips almost had me typing sexy and slippy mind almost had me leaving the typo) for my last few blogs in Madrid. And so help me Dios, they will be scorchers...
xo
Monday, 16 April 2012
Un Café Olé!
There are some, admitedly very rare, days when you wish your life had contained more Bear Grylls survival documentaries and less constant repeats of Life on Mars when you ponder if it is a betrayal to all feminist principles entrusted to us by our brassiere burning forbears to find Gene Hunt strangely alluringly attractive...
Anway the point is if I'd spent more time listening to Nature's fanboy and less wondering where I could get a red Ford Quattro and fingerless leather driving gloves I might have known what to do when the great outdoors throws horrible and inexplicable things at you.
Lunchtime at UAM is often pleasantly solitudious which is my way of saying I don't know a damn person in the place so I take my apple, my tinfoil-wrapped cheese sandwiches and my carton of chocolate milkshake with wee red and white stripped straw and sit outside in the sun with a book and try not to look like a four year old. Not enough to actually substitute the milk for something more mainstream though. There's a little bench set back into the shrubbery and I sit and read there while I thank God for my Kindle because I am sure reading a paperback Matilda by Roald Dahl may just compound the preschool image.
The scene is set, I am content and just about to reach down and nab my KitKat when I feel a tickle and when I idly go to brush away the annoying little fly who has seen fit to waltz along my forearm I freeze because that's no insect. That's four spindly feet, a flickering tail and a little tongue that oscillates in and out with a pip-pip-pip. There is a damn lizard parading up and down my extremities...
My first instinct; "SNAKE!!!" coupled with jumping up and shaking the living daylights out of the poor little bugger would be, I think, a wee bit over the top. Don't they have those little sucker things on the pads of their feet? Or if not what if he digs his wee claws in and I contract some horrible affliction like pentastomid worms (yes I have been symptom checking and Wikipedia-ing) and DIE!
This anecdote has no particular purpose but to provide you with some amusement when you contrast what you may have been doing at half ten on a Monday morning with me standing, arm extended over an oleander bush trying to scrape the thing off me arm with the cover of the Kindle muttering "There's a good boy, let go, let go, let go, you hideous thing, OFF!" while he flails about, one leg hooked about my elbow region, holding on for dear life."
Traumatising lizard incident out of the way (and less traumatising but still fairly horrific classes finished) I decided the weekend should be filled with fun and frolics. So I went to get my first manicure.
Spain has not heated up yet; the middle of April still finds the shade cool but the sun is always out and the city is ridiculously photogenic. It was Sunday (fun and frolics on Saturday consisted of a Dominos and that deep and probing philosophical question "If I was an ice cream flavour, what flavour would I be?") and thus I was worried about the fact that the entire Spanish population spends Sunday reclining in a hammock sipping sangria and fanning themselves with sombreros. Not everyone in the same hammock, mind. That would be a step too far.
But fortunately I know a secret and know where to find a nail parlour hidden away in the back alleys where a mysterious Chinese woman answers my hesitant request for a manicura with "Of course" and then throws me well off track by asking me what colour I desire. The only colours I can remember are azul, verde, naranja y amarillo but I don't particularly want blue, green, orange or yellow nails and I lack the refinement of language which would let me request "A turquoise colour, with maybe a high gloss finish? No matte please." Also call me crazy but I can't rock Adultery Red in my smart/casual. I need to be in a certain mood that's either tassels on lampshades or overpriced sunglasses.
So she fetches me the colour chart and in the face of so much choice I panicked. I pointed. I picked. Veni, Vidi, rather nice shade of Vermilion. And so commenced half an hour of fascination where I stared with wide eyes an every stage of the process, nodded sagely when the regenerative prowess of various oils were explained to me and generally made a curious fool of myself, especially when she suddenly gave each hand three loud smacks and extolled "Now this, nena, is to increase blood flow and open capillaries." I wasn't going to argue.
Finally, with nails gleaming like the candy shells of M&Ms, I tottered off because we were bound for the English Version cinema again to treat ourselves to Titanic in 3D and glorious surround sound. And crisps and Coke and more popcorn than was necessary. I always wondered in a vague sort of way what I'd be doing on the centenary of the sinking. I always loved Titanic (history, etymology, controversy, legacy and other things ending in -y NOT Jack and Rose cavorting in the 1912 equivalent of the back seat of a Toyota Corolla) and I think celebrations in Belfast, touching though they are, important as they should be and manically hopeful of increased tourism as they may be would always have a hint of "Guys, our Norn Iron-built massively impressive feat of engineering and human endurance? Well <shuffles feet> she did sink like a stone..."
Enough of that, Cameron's masterpiece has lost none of its verve for you could have heard a pin drop in that theatre and I was painfully aware of that fact because I spent the "Taken turns on the fuck-off-huge-flotation-device?" scene trying to get at the last Pringle. Also knowing the end of the story makes for some dreadfully inappropriate lols. Fabrizio "can see-a the Statue of Leeeberty already!" Awkward silence...
That's about all for now folks and if you condense all that there reading material you'll see I've described a lunchtime, a trip to a nail bar and a film all of which comes to hmmmm around an afternoon in realtime. Thankfully next week sees what could well be my last trip abroad for a long while (given the reel of life unfolding in the form of finals, graduation and Begorrah Saints preserve us! jobhunting) as the flatties of Santa Engracia set off to Lisbon this weekend. And if I can't give you some embarrassment, amusement and downright enjoyment with that blog then I'll have failed as a writer. But not to worry. Knowing our luck it will be an adventure and a half. Got a snazzy title prepared and all...
xo
Anway the point is if I'd spent more time listening to Nature's fanboy and less wondering where I could get a red Ford Quattro and fingerless leather driving gloves I might have known what to do when the great outdoors throws horrible and inexplicable things at you.
Lunchtime at UAM is often pleasantly solitudious which is my way of saying I don't know a damn person in the place so I take my apple, my tinfoil-wrapped cheese sandwiches and my carton of chocolate milkshake with wee red and white stripped straw and sit outside in the sun with a book and try not to look like a four year old. Not enough to actually substitute the milk for something more mainstream though. There's a little bench set back into the shrubbery and I sit and read there while I thank God for my Kindle because I am sure reading a paperback Matilda by Roald Dahl may just compound the preschool image.
The scene is set, I am content and just about to reach down and nab my KitKat when I feel a tickle and when I idly go to brush away the annoying little fly who has seen fit to waltz along my forearm I freeze because that's no insect. That's four spindly feet, a flickering tail and a little tongue that oscillates in and out with a pip-pip-pip. There is a damn lizard parading up and down my extremities...
My first instinct; "SNAKE!!!" coupled with jumping up and shaking the living daylights out of the poor little bugger would be, I think, a wee bit over the top. Don't they have those little sucker things on the pads of their feet? Or if not what if he digs his wee claws in and I contract some horrible affliction like pentastomid worms (yes I have been symptom checking and Wikipedia-ing) and DIE!
This anecdote has no particular purpose but to provide you with some amusement when you contrast what you may have been doing at half ten on a Monday morning with me standing, arm extended over an oleander bush trying to scrape the thing off me arm with the cover of the Kindle muttering "There's a good boy, let go, let go, let go, you hideous thing, OFF!" while he flails about, one leg hooked about my elbow region, holding on for dear life."
Traumatising lizard incident out of the way (and less traumatising but still fairly horrific classes finished) I decided the weekend should be filled with fun and frolics. So I went to get my first manicure.
Spain has not heated up yet; the middle of April still finds the shade cool but the sun is always out and the city is ridiculously photogenic. It was Sunday (fun and frolics on Saturday consisted of a Dominos and that deep and probing philosophical question "If I was an ice cream flavour, what flavour would I be?") and thus I was worried about the fact that the entire Spanish population spends Sunday reclining in a hammock sipping sangria and fanning themselves with sombreros. Not everyone in the same hammock, mind. That would be a step too far.
But fortunately I know a secret and know where to find a nail parlour hidden away in the back alleys where a mysterious Chinese woman answers my hesitant request for a manicura with "Of course" and then throws me well off track by asking me what colour I desire. The only colours I can remember are azul, verde, naranja y amarillo but I don't particularly want blue, green, orange or yellow nails and I lack the refinement of language which would let me request "A turquoise colour, with maybe a high gloss finish? No matte please." Also call me crazy but I can't rock Adultery Red in my smart/casual. I need to be in a certain mood that's either tassels on lampshades or overpriced sunglasses.
So she fetches me the colour chart and in the face of so much choice I panicked. I pointed. I picked. Veni, Vidi, rather nice shade of Vermilion. And so commenced half an hour of fascination where I stared with wide eyes an every stage of the process, nodded sagely when the regenerative prowess of various oils were explained to me and generally made a curious fool of myself, especially when she suddenly gave each hand three loud smacks and extolled "Now this, nena, is to increase blood flow and open capillaries." I wasn't going to argue.
Finally, with nails gleaming like the candy shells of M&Ms, I tottered off because we were bound for the English Version cinema again to treat ourselves to Titanic in 3D and glorious surround sound. And crisps and Coke and more popcorn than was necessary. I always wondered in a vague sort of way what I'd be doing on the centenary of the sinking. I always loved Titanic (history, etymology, controversy, legacy and other things ending in -y NOT Jack and Rose cavorting in the 1912 equivalent of the back seat of a Toyota Corolla) and I think celebrations in Belfast, touching though they are, important as they should be and manically hopeful of increased tourism as they may be would always have a hint of "Guys, our Norn Iron-built massively impressive feat of engineering and human endurance? Well <shuffles feet> she did sink like a stone..."
Enough of that, Cameron's masterpiece has lost none of its verve for you could have heard a pin drop in that theatre and I was painfully aware of that fact because I spent the "Taken turns on the fuck-off-huge-flotation-device?" scene trying to get at the last Pringle. Also knowing the end of the story makes for some dreadfully inappropriate lols. Fabrizio "can see-a the Statue of Leeeberty already!" Awkward silence...
That's about all for now folks and if you condense all that there reading material you'll see I've described a lunchtime, a trip to a nail bar and a film all of which comes to hmmmm around an afternoon in realtime. Thankfully next week sees what could well be my last trip abroad for a long while (given the reel of life unfolding in the form of finals, graduation and Begorrah Saints preserve us! jobhunting) as the flatties of Santa Engracia set off to Lisbon this weekend. And if I can't give you some embarrassment, amusement and downright enjoyment with that blog then I'll have failed as a writer. But not to worry. Knowing our luck it will be an adventure and a half. Got a snazzy title prepared and all...
xo
Thursday, 29 March 2012
Semana Santa Baby
Due to my feeling title creative and generous today, everyone who is now humming the sweet, sweet soul of Eartha Kitt gets a prize! Mind you, I have to be careful what I promise ever since those unfortunate Twitter court cases. You play with fire, you get burnt they said. Funny, there was me thinking you play with Ryan Giggs, you get a crick in your neck trying to gauge his facial expression.
As you may be able to tell I've taken an interest in current affairs, even moreso than usual and usual is the BBC and Guardian as permanent tabs on my Internet Explorer. Yes, I'm still flying the flag for IE; I tried Chrome but it's just not natural, letting Google get that serious. Next thing you know it wants you to cut your hair, quit smoking and wear a suit and tie and its mother is coming round for dinner on Friday so could I please be nice!! Anway, the point is I don't like it...
No! The really salient point is I'm beginning to get ever so slightly worried about my future. The title refers to the upcoming Holy Week and our mid term break. But also rather cleverly to the last wee while I had at home at Christmas and we all know what's happened in between. Well, you know bits and pieces, I leave out the really terrible things like the UAM workload and disorganisation and the mala suerte and the OH GOD! memory repression commencing...
Picture a Hawaiin themed bar in the heart of Huertas where all the best free mojitos and sangria be on a Friday night. This is not a Friday night. This is midweek and at first you think the stylised bamboo doors are locked, but not so! They're just closed agin the ruffians in the hot Madrid night and if you open them you are greeting with a long bar by one wall and an array of parrots and wee baby turtles. You know? Hawaii...
The Escape Song is playing in the background, and if the damn EU hadn't put its Health and Safety laws where they don't belong there would be a beautifully dramatic smoky atmosphere. For those of you who think you aren't familiar with The Escape Song, don't worry. The vision perched at the end of a bar on a high stool, lei round neck, brightly coloured paper umbrella in ear, sipping from a faux coconut is hiccuping and singing it melancholy...ily;
"If you like Pina Coladas...and getting caught in the rain<hic> If you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain<hichic>lalalala"
Joaquin is wearing an explosion of Crayola as an excuse for a shirt and is wiping down glasses. He is desperately trying to make a request.
"Ca'mon Miss Devlin; I like the other wan. You Put the Lime in the Coconut? Eet is always so cheerful, the Rey Juan Carlos, he laved it when he was here, why you no sing eet? You will feel better..."
"NO!" <slams down faux coconut only to create a tsunami of rum, pineapple juice and mystery mixers which she looks at in horror> "Joaquin, you know when I'm in the depths of depression you never bring up the Lime in the Coconut incident...besides, I don't feel like being cheerful. I feel like slipping laxitive into some sod's Mojito."
Joaquin decides to compromise and stick on some hula music which at least I can't warble along to and I decide its time to head home. The reason for this impromptu (and sort of made up, but there was a Hawaiian bar, and wee turtles and parrots and leis and novelty paper umbrellas...that's why I came to Spain incidentally...to drink fun coloured drinks with all novelty paper unbrellas in and we had a well good time) visit to Mauna Loa is the sultry presence of summer on the horizon and the dawning realisation I shall soon begin my final year at the University of Cambridge. And then I shall soon begin gainful employment. I say that as a certainity, it's like Nick Clegg talking about the next time the Lib Dems are in power with his fingers crossed behind his back out the way of the cameras. Have you had a look around, my son? Until Wilbur migrates south for the winter it ain't gonna happen.
It is for this reason that I have started to muse on possibilities. Because for a long, long while the entirety of the rest of our lives was a massive sheet of blank paper and now its covered in scribbles. Well, mine is, I suppose those of you who wanted to earn as much money as humanly poss...sorry, I mean contribute meaningfully to the economic wellbeing of the nation as an investment banker have a sheet that is as neat as Al Capone's tax return. You know, suspiciously so...
More specifically I am musing on the notion that it's not too late to do whatever you want. I will never be an astronaut, but a very nice idea is that I'd know exactly how to go about doing it. I'd have to go get my A-Level Biology and Chemistry, degree in engineering, doctorate in polymer science and engineering, all education part time funded by whatever job I could get, get some gym training and SCUBA scertificate (you need one), use FlyFighterJet to pick up some jet flying experience, arrange fake green card wedding, become US citizen, apply for NASA, succeed, become astronaut.
You see? It might take thirty years but I could be an astronaut, even now. This is a very silly little thought that manages to comfort me greatly. Of course there are holes in the theory, but that's what last minute half-assed plans are for! And those are my forte...
This line of thought may be precipitated by the knowledge that this will be my last blog before exam term, that after I come back to piso from a week happy amid the gentle rolling pastures of my homeland, running wild amoung my people I must face very important exams in Spanish. And my last attempt at Spanish, about three hours ago on the Metro was ask a genteel looking Spaniard "Los trenes, no corren?" Are the trains running? And his response was to grin like a bad comedian coming up to a dire punchline and proclaim "Si, they're training for the marathon."
Oy vay (this Yiddish exclamation is funnier if you were to look inside my mind and know that I almost wrote "gentile" instead of genteel") Anywho, I'm off. The whole of Spain is on strike today (read lazing in the sunshine) and that's mucked up my schedule like nobody's business. Have only just calmed down from a wrath as vengeful as the God of the Israelites when, on asking if the next train would be here soon because I have an important exam, was told to;
"Nena, por favor, las cosas así, que valen poco. Tranquilate!"
"Wee child, please, things like that aren't worth the fuss. Reeeelax!"
Fine Senor I-have-a-badge-supporting-labourers-thus-I-must-dispense-dimestore-socialism-philosophy; that's fine. No pasa nada. But if I fail this class because the Iberian Peninsula decided it wanted a day off so help me I'll personally devalue the Euro by flooding everywhere from Donegal to Cyprus with fakes notes. Don't ask me how, it involves the Lime in the Coconut incident.
Then again, maybe I'll just have a siesta.
xo
As you may be able to tell I've taken an interest in current affairs, even moreso than usual and usual is the BBC and Guardian as permanent tabs on my Internet Explorer. Yes, I'm still flying the flag for IE; I tried Chrome but it's just not natural, letting Google get that serious. Next thing you know it wants you to cut your hair, quit smoking and wear a suit and tie and its mother is coming round for dinner on Friday so could I please be nice!! Anway, the point is I don't like it...
No! The really salient point is I'm beginning to get ever so slightly worried about my future. The title refers to the upcoming Holy Week and our mid term break. But also rather cleverly to the last wee while I had at home at Christmas and we all know what's happened in between. Well, you know bits and pieces, I leave out the really terrible things like the UAM workload and disorganisation and the mala suerte and the OH GOD! memory repression commencing...
Picture a Hawaiin themed bar in the heart of Huertas where all the best free mojitos and sangria be on a Friday night. This is not a Friday night. This is midweek and at first you think the stylised bamboo doors are locked, but not so! They're just closed agin the ruffians in the hot Madrid night and if you open them you are greeting with a long bar by one wall and an array of parrots and wee baby turtles. You know? Hawaii...
The Escape Song is playing in the background, and if the damn EU hadn't put its Health and Safety laws where they don't belong there would be a beautifully dramatic smoky atmosphere. For those of you who think you aren't familiar with The Escape Song, don't worry. The vision perched at the end of a bar on a high stool, lei round neck, brightly coloured paper umbrella in ear, sipping from a faux coconut is hiccuping and singing it melancholy...ily;
"If you like Pina Coladas...and getting caught in the rain<hic> If you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain<hichic>lalalala"
Joaquin is wearing an explosion of Crayola as an excuse for a shirt and is wiping down glasses. He is desperately trying to make a request.
"Ca'mon Miss Devlin; I like the other wan. You Put the Lime in the Coconut? Eet is always so cheerful, the Rey Juan Carlos, he laved it when he was here, why you no sing eet? You will feel better..."
"NO!" <slams down faux coconut only to create a tsunami of rum, pineapple juice and mystery mixers which she looks at in horror> "Joaquin, you know when I'm in the depths of depression you never bring up the Lime in the Coconut incident...besides, I don't feel like being cheerful. I feel like slipping laxitive into some sod's Mojito."
Joaquin decides to compromise and stick on some hula music which at least I can't warble along to and I decide its time to head home. The reason for this impromptu (and sort of made up, but there was a Hawaiian bar, and wee turtles and parrots and leis and novelty paper umbrellas...that's why I came to Spain incidentally...to drink fun coloured drinks with all novelty paper unbrellas in and we had a well good time) visit to Mauna Loa is the sultry presence of summer on the horizon and the dawning realisation I shall soon begin my final year at the University of Cambridge. And then I shall soon begin gainful employment. I say that as a certainity, it's like Nick Clegg talking about the next time the Lib Dems are in power with his fingers crossed behind his back out the way of the cameras. Have you had a look around, my son? Until Wilbur migrates south for the winter it ain't gonna happen.
It is for this reason that I have started to muse on possibilities. Because for a long, long while the entirety of the rest of our lives was a massive sheet of blank paper and now its covered in scribbles. Well, mine is, I suppose those of you who wanted to earn as much money as humanly poss...sorry, I mean contribute meaningfully to the economic wellbeing of the nation as an investment banker have a sheet that is as neat as Al Capone's tax return. You know, suspiciously so...
More specifically I am musing on the notion that it's not too late to do whatever you want. I will never be an astronaut, but a very nice idea is that I'd know exactly how to go about doing it. I'd have to go get my A-Level Biology and Chemistry, degree in engineering, doctorate in polymer science and engineering, all education part time funded by whatever job I could get, get some gym training and SCUBA scertificate (you need one), use FlyFighterJet to pick up some jet flying experience, arrange fake green card wedding, become US citizen, apply for NASA, succeed, become astronaut.
You see? It might take thirty years but I could be an astronaut, even now. This is a very silly little thought that manages to comfort me greatly. Of course there are holes in the theory, but that's what last minute half-assed plans are for! And those are my forte...
This line of thought may be precipitated by the knowledge that this will be my last blog before exam term, that after I come back to piso from a week happy amid the gentle rolling pastures of my homeland, running wild amoung my people I must face very important exams in Spanish. And my last attempt at Spanish, about three hours ago on the Metro was ask a genteel looking Spaniard "Los trenes, no corren?" Are the trains running? And his response was to grin like a bad comedian coming up to a dire punchline and proclaim "Si, they're training for the marathon."
Oy vay (this Yiddish exclamation is funnier if you were to look inside my mind and know that I almost wrote "gentile" instead of genteel") Anywho, I'm off. The whole of Spain is on strike today (read lazing in the sunshine) and that's mucked up my schedule like nobody's business. Have only just calmed down from a wrath as vengeful as the God of the Israelites when, on asking if the next train would be here soon because I have an important exam, was told to;
"Nena, por favor, las cosas así, que valen poco. Tranquilate!"
"Wee child, please, things like that aren't worth the fuss. Reeeelax!"
Fine Senor I-have-a-badge-supporting-labourers-thus-I-must-dispense-dimestore-socialism-philosophy; that's fine. No pasa nada. But if I fail this class because the Iberian Peninsula decided it wanted a day off so help me I'll personally devalue the Euro by flooding everywhere from Donegal to Cyprus with fakes notes. Don't ask me how, it involves the Lime in the Coconut incident.
Then again, maybe I'll just have a siesta.
xo
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