I Don Juan To Miss A Thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, cleeeeen...”

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

<seated at desk> “Ah, dog...”

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

“Ah, hour...”

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

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

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

“Ah, you mean teach me?”

“NOW!”

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

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

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

« Marathona est, non est sprintus »

xo

A Blogger for your Valentine's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xo

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!

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

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

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

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

"Fill in zis form and come back"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Segurissimo, tía” nod her friends

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xo

A Christmas Carol

"Now this is a very simple process. You enter your card details, the one click method is a little dangerous, you tend to forget you're spending money and..."

"Don't care! Next!"

"Okay, we go to the Kindle Store and there's a huge collection. The Twelve Days of Kindle sale is on so if you have a look..."

"Don't care! Free books!"

"Ah, alright, now we'll go to the classics section, most of which are free because copyright has ex..."

"Don't care! Next!"

"Well, here we go, which ones would you..."

"ALL THE BOOKS!!"

...

"All of them?"

Such is the scene in a quiet living room in Northern Ireland where a cheery red kettle boils for tea,  plump leather sofas with patchwork cushions recline about the place and a real wood burner chuckles sleepily in the fireplace. Not my house, just thought I'd get you in the mood...

No, it is the abode of a dear friend who is generously loaning the wifi particles I so lack in the back of beyond. The only way we would recieve any decent signal would be to strap the satellite dish to the back of a ewe (lady sheep) and so be able to chase her out of cloud cover every few minutes.

I've been back in God's own country for a week now and my time here is slowly drawing to a close. The sharper readers amoung you will note the date and hypothesise that I cannot by all reasonable standards still be in Norn Iron. You'd be right, but I am using "a juxtaposed allusion as a narrative hook." It's a literary technique, see? According to those serial magazines where you write your own novel in 12 easy-to-assemble parts! Or maybe I'm confusing that with Build your own Spitfire, which would explain why my protagonist was shot down over wartime France and is right now faced with the agonising decision of burning his lover's faithful letters to her brave soldier for heat.

What to tell you about mes vacances de Noel? Well, apart from the family being well; news of births, deaths and marriages (hatches, matches and dispatches) and thon' wee skitter from down the road went and left the boyfriend one night fer he must have been bad to her and so she goes down to our Saoirse's and doesn't he then appear at 3 in the morning off his face and start hammering the windys shouting for her? Have ye ever seen the like? chez Devlin has a brand new 42 inch flat screen TV. I apologise to the Sassenach readers amoung ye (that's you, Englishmen) who may have just experienced the literal equivalent of a screen jump. We Northern Irish are trained from the cradle to never be able to loose the thread of events, even though the teller may ramble, and it is this exact practice which encourages me to wax lyrical. But I must curb my anecdotal urges. The TV.

Our wise and venerable father has saved for two years for this TV and after greeting the apple of his eye (that's me) home from lands unknown stands proudly by his acquisition, smiling the proud smile of an African hunter home from the veldts with a couple of elephant tusks. I make appropriate impressed noises. It is not bloody difficult, the thing is glorious; we watched the fireworks over the Thames on't on New Years Eve before singing Auld Lang Sang with our party hats tilted at a humorous angle. The vibrations set off car alarms in Aberystwyth.

I am at a loss to why he wants a ma-hoo-sive telly anyway, unless, sure, its for the Gaelic football. We can watch Down giftwrap, ribbon and give the entire f**king game to Cork in the last fifteen minutes in stunning HD. Apologias, All Ireland 2010 Final bitterness there.

Apart from the beautiful commentating as only those inspired by that true son of Ireland Mícheál O'Muircheartaigh can achieve (Ah, he's hungry for it, he could have gone for the point and been safe but no, no, no, the captain has gone for a goal, glory and the life everlasting) there's not much for my father on the idiot box.

The most stunning moment it has offered thus far was a David Attenborough documentary which offered us the information; "They move through the water gracefully, for the flamingos must dance to attract a mate." To which my father with impeccable timing offered "Well now thats not so different from the Square Peg!/Cindies!/Fontana de Oro!(delete as appropriate)"

Actually Mr Attenborough, that silver fox, was responsible for the second which my father named March of the Undergraduates as all of us pottering Corpus in groups, unfamiliar robes billowing and cobbles forcing us to totter  to the photo reminded him of that lovely documentary.

Speaking of Cambridge and academics and extrapolating a possible future career from that mess, I've been applying to vac schemes, two weeks of paid work experience in a solicitors office in London. Well I say apply. I mean I went back to remind myself of my grades, started panicking and breathing into a brown paper bag, kicked a kitten, wondered how one would go about hacking into the academic records, curled into a foetal position and wept for about fifteen minutes, watched Richard Pryor to cheer self up then decided to apply to every fucking scheme I could lay my hands on. Five stages of grief in under an hour, any more and I get bored with the stress and go play outside.

So we went on a magical journey. I strolled through Freshfields where I plucked a Norton Rose while listening to Bird and Bird song. It was a lovely Jones Day so I took a Clifford Chance on going to the Beachcroft. I wasn't Allen and Overly in Lovells with the DLA Piper playing there so decided to come back Linklaters and then I realised that sorry Olswang, you have my love babes but there's no way you'll fit into the narrative without an extra -k and PG13 rating at least.

So that's where I've been for the past month, gibbering uselessly at screens and trying to answer questions like "Name your proudest achievement" without typing "Making Hugh Hefner blush." I now know Terry Pratchett is my ideal dinner guest, that cuban Juan Carlos flat hunter extraordinaire is a more seemly funny story than that one with the banana, the nun and the billionaire with the questionable punchline and that I am a dynamic person with the drive to succeed, a great team player with bucketloads of own initiative and I may not know how to excel in a law exam but gosh darnit I write a great cover letter.

So that was the weeks that was and now I find myself back in Spain, busier than a honeybee but not an African killer bee but possessed of a beautifully positive attitude which nontheless begins to crack like a peanut between an elephants molars (I'm sorry for all the safari imagery, it must have been Sir David) under the strain of dealing with the Spanish way of life. More on our bank, the police, the government and damnWehrmacht while we're at it invading our bank account, the rudeness of Spaniards and regression to childhood when A Cautionary Tale returns or when life slowly comes back to my fingertips numb from too many 250 word limits on me as a valuable corporate asset. C'est l'ironie.

xo

Aileen's Adventures in Deutschland Part 2; Cream coloured houses and crisp apple strudel, church bells and sleighbells and schnitzel with noodles

Blearily waking up in a hostel dorm room in Frankfurt, with frost curling on the windows, is neither the best of times nor the worst of times to have Julie Andrews dancing round trilling "My Favourite Things" incessantly in your head, especially not now you want to correct the damn dame and yourself by reminding both that schnitzel is served with fried potatoes and The Sound of Music is set in Austria and has nothing to do with Germany apart from the N-word.

Speaking of schnitzel, that restaurant and its Apfelwei that sneaks up on you like an n-word raid, what a night. Visions of Fritz ringing the last orders bell only to toast the entire patronage with a poem in honour of that appley substance dance like sugar plums (or Julie Andrews) in my head. We understood little enough but by that second jug we were ready to toast an invasion of England and certainly any word that sounded vaguely like "pissed"

There was no time to nurse a hangover however, and less still to wave a cheery "Guten Tag!" to Wolfgang in the morning queue for Rice Crispies. He swayed a little bit more alrmingly which I took as a sign of his deep affection and respect.

Then we wandered into an industrial meat freezer. I'm (partly) joking, we just stepped into the street and the blood froze in our veins. This strange occurence is the only reason I can think of for the sheer proliferation of sex shops, peep shows, Girls! Girls! Girls! and temples of sin and vice that greeted us when we went to look for a hastily remembered birthday card (greeting read "May the new year be a husky aufwind" Go not to Google Translate for council for it will say both yes and no) This street of iniquity 'twas clearly provided to warm the blood and stimulate circulation. How thoughtful of the Germans. Kaiserstrausse, for the more degenerate readers who have been trying to piece together clues on the whereabouts of my location in order to -ah- avoid such a place...Incidentally Occupy Franfurt has its headquarters down that direction, we accidentally occupied for a full 30 seconds. Fight the power and so on.

All aboard the Ebbelwei Express! Yet more apple wine was to be on offer on a tram that looked like it had been coloured in with Crayola by a small child with a big sugar intake. We hopped aboard, had wine, had pretzels, had unparalleled views of Frankfurt but we did not have a seat. We stood at the back, swigged from tall necked bottles and lamented our loss.

But we never lament for very long; because that glorious tram brought us to our first sight of the Christmas Markets! The word magical is actually very rarely used since the Church banned everything from shruken heads to Harry Potter and the new wave atheists went mad about particles but I take the liberty of using it here in its modern form. That Romerburg Square was absolutely fucking magical.

There were stalls everywhere, they were all red and green and gold and filled full of the lovely sort of trinkets very small children want to put in their mouths for some reason, older children want to play with and the ever-children are terrified of knocking over with their handbags. There were gingerbread house lining the plaza and a gold and silver carousel was playing music so sweet and true to life that we were all annoyed the advertised Italian choir had started without us.

We found a specially constructed Honighauschen (Honey House) which had been just finished with freshly sawn pine. There were honey candles we saw being made, honey liquer we tasted and tasted and tasted and honey preserves we fell upon like ravenous Pooh Bears.

Food and drink; mulled wine (Gluhwein) and roasted chestnuts, crepes and schnitzel, bratwursts pork and beef both strung up and prepared over an actual roaring charcoal fire, swung on a huge black iron skillet. Actually the sheer number of sausages had me wondering why the Carry On crew never appeared in Germany. The possibility for innuendo would have made Kenneth Williams weep for joy.

The stars were brillig in the slithy tove as we walked back that evening, past the riverbank, the unwashed occupiers, the dens of sin and escaped Wolfgang and we had Idstein to look forward to.

Idstein. Before we went Idstein was my screensaver. Idstein looked the sort of place you'd set a high budget medieval epic as the small idyllic village the fated hero-to-be wanders out of as a lowly cowherd. At least that's what it looked like on Google images. Like Google translate, same LOTR quote applies. Fecking useless piece of shite. We got off the train in Newry bus depot.

This is a signal for Norn Irish readers to provide a "Yeeeeoooo" which loosely translated means "Ah, a place that I recognise and in the context must mean Idstein wasn't particularly horrific, just grey and depressingly normal and smelled slightly of wet pavement and lonliness." We're economical with language in NI.

Yes, Idstein failed spectacularly to get it up, and while it was a pretty little place with many photo opportunities, we made our excuses and left without leaving a phone number.

But this meant we got to go back to the Christmas markets and the most funnest part of the whole trip! Secret Santa or Wichteln in Germany. This involved a count down and then much hilarity as we dived into the markets and tried simultaneously to see where each of us were going so we didn't go the same way and trying not to be seen ourselves. And so we had fifteen minutes to wander round the lights, the fir trees, the incense smoke curling from small ceramic gnome's pipes and the cut coloured glass and beechwood wind chimes to find our presents.

And there I think I must leave you, with visions of us dressed up warm in coats and wooly scarves, running round the smells of cinnamon and aniseed and in and out of the glow of the bratwurst stall's flames and the twinkling fairy lights. There was more, but it involves ending up in Irish bars yet again, tawdry games of Spin-the-Bottle and dragging ourselves onto a half six Ryanair flight and since I'm now Aileen - more Vacation Scheme applications than sense - Devlin one would hate to think the HR department of a major City law firm was snooping around my tales of debauchery. But more on that, both tales and applications, anon

xo

Aileen's Adventures in Deutschland Part 1; Ich haben die time of my life; und I've never felt this wei befür

"You must not mention the war, never the war, must not not NOT exacerbate tensions between Germany and Britain at this time of fiscal uncertainty in the Eurozone...and while you're at it, leave the Jews out of it too."

Thus is my preparation for mein very first trip to the Fatherland and if you think careless humour at the expense of one of the darkest hours of Europe's troubled history constitutes a dreadful lack of respect for the sensitivity of the subject you can sod right off because there's plenty more non-PC merriment where that Fawlty Towers reference came from.

Yes, no sooner am I back in Madrid than we are off on our grand Abenteuer across the Alps to a land flowing with...well if not milk and honey then plenty of beer and bratwurst! We've been talking to each other in our best German....accents (well, its all about getting into the spirit of the thing) for the last month and the stage is set for our journey to Frankfurt Christmas markets.

And true to form we are no sooner in the queue for Ryanair discussing the cut and thrust political issues of the day i.e Merkel driving the Euro train all guns blazing into the abyss when one of our party becomes an instant heroine when she utters the thoughtful phrase;

"I mean, what ever happened to not letting Germany take over the world?"

And so it begins. Incidentally, I rather believe Cameron had the same thought last week...

Take off, landing and a couple of hours of sprechensing with a German girl called Teresa later we were in Frankfurt Hahn and were in for a surprise.

Let me clarify; we have not a word of German between us. It was all we could do to stutter out Vier to the bus driver in a tragic attempt to communicate that we would like four tickets to Franfurt centre please (diabolical Michael O'Leary rubbing his hands in glee at his cunning use of satellite airports...airsmallnaturalcoves more like) Thus we were unable to understand any of his furious verbage and gesturing which occured when we hopped on the bus, found no seats, people perched on the steps down to the WC and when we turned around to say "My good man, there is no space for us weary travellers!" what came out was "Ahhhhhhhhhhh?"

"Seeet, seeeet!"

He wanted us to sit. He had a fearsome moustache. And so sit we did. In the aisle of the coach, for two hours into Frankfurt itself. It was like a wonderful hallucinogenic dream and definitely not like being transported. Most certainly not. Why, White Christmas was playing softly on the radio and the lights on the Autobahn seemed almost like the twinkling of Christmas trees. The occasional elbow in the back of the head nonwithstanding, its always nice to try new seating arrangements.

Frankfurt am Main (or Main-hattan given the striking cluster of skyscrapers which give a very New York-esque skyline) has definitely gotten into the Yuletide spirit by going mad on wee twinkling lights and an iciness that threatened to crystalise our bone marrow. Even the Christmas trees were freezing their baubels off. But that did not deter us as we tottered up to our hostel to be greeted with the first clue of exactly what sort of trip this would be.

WOS! World Of Sex! Peep shows daily! Unpronounceable German of a dirty nature!

Granted, the fact that we play Spot a Prozzie for teh lolz on any given Madrileno night should have long ago stripped us of any residual squeamishness about a sex shop next door and to be fair we were most appreciative that the mannequinns were themselves in a holiday mood dressed up like Mrs Claus after half a bottle of vodka and and a twinkle in Mr Claus' eye. But still...

The second clue came as we tottered up to our dorm room. Twas my first experience of a dorm room. I had great expectations of making friends from around the world, of like minded eurotripping individuals...of perhaps sleeping with my passport and euros secreted about my person. What I, nay, none of us were prepared for was Crazy Wolfgang.

Picture it if you will; we're all sitting on bunk beds, planning dinner when the door clicks ominously and He enters; giving the phrase two left feet new and terrible meaning. He is cloaked in weirdness and a fog of cigarette smoke and cheap beer. He appears to be as old as time itself. He raises his head, cocks it to one side and sways at us like a snake charmer.

"British?"

We make no reply. The silence that follows this query is loud yet nevertheless you can hear four young female minds panicking at once. It sounds rather like mice screaming.

"You like this?"

He thrusts a CD case at us, waving it like twas the Stone Tablets and he was Moses. We had to say yes, those plastic things have sharp edges. We were all staring at a pink cover emblazoned with a name resembling Chumbawumba wondering if we could get away with replying "British yes, and we got the damn Yanks involved the last time you people tried something like this so piss off!"

The Great and Terrible Wolfgang then decided to stagger off for a while; in which time some of us ran down and had urgent lawyerly chat with reception and the rest of us wondered about using some chalk to draw a sort of Maginot Line or at least learn to sleep with one eye open.

Relocation, relocation later we were ready to hit the town, lack of German regardless and find a recommended restaurant we had high hopes for. Now the normal setbacks occurred; indeciphirable maps, crazy men headbutting tram signs and jabbering away at us and the like but eventually we rocked up at a dark little tavern with the name "Proletariat" proudly displayed ouside.

Inside we were greeted by a man with the most beautifully done make up I've ever seen in my life. I was tempted to ask where he'd got that just-so shade of Cherry Plum. He wore black and held himself in the manner of kings. For the sake of cultural mick-taking lets call him Fritz.

Fritz let forth a stream of German. We hold our own;

"Veir" we counter proudly; indeed there are four of us, now he must lead us to a four seater table. Easy peasey ja!

I say table, I mean bench of scrubbed dark wood with trestle chairs. The tavern is lit by candle bulbs, there are exposed beams of wood, gingham curtains, eartherware jugs and a hum of chatter in German which lets us know we are in for an authentic night. And so we find that Fritz not only speaks English but can recommend us specialities. I opt for the schnitzel; in poetry speak, I'm feeling the food, not German, no good.

Schnitzel turns out to be breaded chicken and not something like jellied goose livers and it is the first time in the history of comedic writing that such a circumstance has produced disappointment. However the green sauce with it is yummy and germanic and complements the chicken so well its almost like it wants to get it into bed.

But the schnitzel is nothing, nothing (yes I Bold and Italiced) compared to the Apfelwei or apple wine. This substance is served in large stoneware jugs painted blue and goes down a treat. We are asked would we like some soda water with it. We wonder why. Fritz informs us it is to dilute the wine. We look at him as though he has sprouted another effeminately painted head. Dilute the wine? Certainly not. It is then that Fritz chuckles and informs us of an old German phrase "The liver grows with practice." It is then I glance around and note that every table has bottles of soda water surrounding one lone jug. I then stare thoughtfully at our now diminished second pitcher of apfelwei and wonder if this is one of those times when we feel sober as judges until the time comes to get up whereupon we feel dizzy, black out and wake up in French Legion uniform on a steamship to Calcutta.

Dinner comsumer, free chocolate pudding from Fritz om-nommed, bill paid we wander back into the frosty German night to make our way back to our hostel on Kaiserstrauss which we will later come to learn is the vice trade, red light, repent ye sinners centre of Frankfurt am Main.

But to get to that later you'll have to tune in next time where you will find debuachery, political protest, culture, Christmas spirit(s) and much more lurking in the city where any citizen would be proud to proclaim "Ich bin ein Frankenfurter!"

xo

Franco my dear, I don't give a damn

"Shake, shake, shake señora; shake ya body line!"

Back in the USSR boy...that is to say in Banco de España Metro station where three lads, possibly from Jamaica, possibly taking the piss, are giving the steel drums the beating usually reserved for Rangers fans who, after stumbling the wrong way out the pub, drunkenly find themselves looking at a sign saying Falls Road. Well, would be if the sign weren't covered by a tricolour. There, Harry Belafonte, the Beatles and Northern Irish political homour all in one. Who says you don't get value for money?

Anyway I wouldn't mention the dynamic trio but relentless Caribbean rhythms coupled with a now rare sunshiney afternoon have induced me to just go for it and shuffle out a one-two step while going past them. They love it and Award for Most Dreadlocks gives an extra special drum roll. Fellow metro passengers suspect I may be higher than a kite.

Of course we're back in Madrid!

But all is not well in the Pridelands, Simba. The term "credit crunch" has been given a new and dreadful meaning as a series of unfortunate events conspire to leave us pondering the ultimate "get 40 credits or its strike, yer out" from Cambridge, there is the curious case of the noises in the nighttime coupled with the magically disappearing electricity bills. Roll up roll up folks, see the mysteries of Spanish banking. Watch as we transfer money to Natural Gas, marvel as you continue to recieve notices of payment due!

There's the Virgin Mary perched atop the fuse box we are afeared to take down least the "electric seetiation" gets any worse (blog soon to be available in Ulster Scots). There's the sensation of sheer defeat as we turn our radiators on and don winter coats in the capital of "sunny Spain." One enterprising chappie has scratched the "S" off the tourism board's disgustingly cheery motto leaving the slogan "Smile, you are in pain." Well done that man; its enough to make you want to take your Erasmus grant and run off to Benidorm; sun loungers, Irish bars, expats, you name it, we've got the stereotype! Ah, maybe in the interests of plausible deniability you should all forget I was drawing up this grand scheme.

But not to worry, as Jane Austen said, "Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery!" Or other keyboards and it is on that note that I must draw your attention to an astounding bit of good news and a bit of an in joke!

It all started when I wandered into that famous Starbucks, the friendliest in the world, last week. I had been overjoyed to see their Holiday menu proudly displayed on a cheery green and red background and had at last, seeing as it was now December, decided I could now treat meself to a Toffee Nut Latté.

I wandered in, shrugged off my coat and, like Houdini sauntering out of the audience after they've seen the chest he was locked in crushed under a ton of steel, the response was instantaneous...

"H'Aileen!! Pero, adonde te has escondido? Pues, no importa mujer, que hay?
Aileen! Where have you been hiding? Ah, sure it doesn't matter, what's new?

At once, I was wracked with a terrible realisation! The dear staff of Starbucks hadn't seen me in a month for when my darling relatives came over in the autumn time they brought me a laptop! A laptop to swap with my own poor excuse for an internet-recieving model! One day I'm a regular caffeine addict tapping out entries from my seat in the corner and ordering "lo normal" my usual, the next I've woken up on my bed, still fully clothed, cradling the laptop, surrounded by Stumbleupon, Facebook, Sporcle, Wiki, Imdb, Watchseries and all sorts of unbelieveable internet garbage. I had abandoned my beloved Starbucks! Of course explaining all this requires an advanced level of Spanish or at least the will to communicate so I summoned my best "sorry to have jilted you" smile and uttered;

"Que hay? Pues, parece que hay Navidad! Teneis el toffe nut latté? No lo hubiera perdido por nada!"
What's new? Christmas is here! Do you have the toffee nut latté? I wouldn't miss it for the world."

And so all was well.

Apart from that there's quite a lot to get caught up on! I realise Paris took over from those heady days of Halloween and internet explorature (because I don't trust them thar new fangled Chromes and Firefoxes) and so you missed carving pumpkins (messy fun) and introducing Cambridge Formal hall to our piso (even messier fun, damn international rules) and the realisation that if I won the Lottery I would invite the Cambridge expats of Madrid and environs to a lunch on a Wednesday, then triumphantly tell them all to get the f**k home quickly, grab a bag, I've got us flights, hotels and formal tickets WE'RE GOING TO CINDIES TONIGHT!

Then of course, miss out on all of Thursday, come up smiling on Friday morning, gather those that Erasmus made us leave behind in Cambridge then tell them to get the f**k to College quickly, grab a bag, I've got us flights, hotels and as much free entries with chupitos as possible WE'RE GOING TO SPAIN!

Of course, granted by Sunday there would be a lot of confused, still hungover people making an involuntary exchange pan-Europe with no idea where they are nor why they've woken up cuddling a policeman's helmet but sure, that'd be half the fun.

Lessee, what else...There was the switch on of Christmas lights in Sol square, presided over by not even one token celebrity but a sterling mariachi band, finally realising that "Tienes fuego" means "Do you have a light" not the literal translation of "Do you have fire?" thus stopping my reply of "M'not Prometheus mate" and the visits (plural) to the great Prado museum where I saw Goya, Picasso, Monet, Matisse, Caravaggio, Rubens and much much more and what has now become my favourite art gallery. Mind you I could count the number of art galleries I've been to on Captain Hook's remaining fingers. Reason for my fervent admiration is that I've never been so sure the best way to experience a place would be to wait til 'twas empty, then slide across the vast echoing halls of marble on stockinged feet to Shaggy's Mr Bombastic (the Mr Bean version of course). Superb stuff...

But there I leave you, for I am now watching snow sweep across the UK with an expression of glazed horror, occasionally shaking my head and muttering "No, no, no, no, no" for, though at any other time the seasonal precipitation would be welcome, I swear by all the gods I will NOT be snowed into Madrid on Christmas Day." If things should deteriorate so by the 23rd December (otherwise known as date I flee the Iberian penninsula) Ryanair cancels its flights I have already designed my hitchhiking route from Madrid to San Sebastian to Orleans to Paris to Callais to Dover to Birmingham to Holyhead to Dublin to home. And I promise, if this should happen, I will make a special live blog and keep you all updated and amused this Yuletide season.

Before all that though, there is time to worry about getting snowed into Frankfurt which is our destination this weekend and, if all goes well, my first time in Germany should make for an interesting blog.

xo