I had briefly considered naming this piece "Aileen in Blunderland" but feel a little Casablanca may in turn lend a little Tinseltown to what has conspired to be a very trying week. If I were Mrs Bennett I would be reclining on a four poster clutching a lace handkerchief to my brow and crying out for someone to fetch the smelling salts to restore my poor nerves. That's how it went down.
What a terribly awkward week. I'm in Starbucks again trying to look artsy and not at all like I had to Google the correct spelling of "hankerchief." Even now as I try to remember what I wanted to write I must shudder in remembered social embarrassment. Here's why;
Primero, my assigned uni sort-of-college-mother figure. A dear sweet girl who I ran into on the way out of the UAM cafeteria; but herein lies the rub Hamlet. You can't just spring Spanish speakers onto me. I need time to mentally prepare. It would be like asking Rocky to take on Apollo Creed when the guy's just stepped out of the shower. The man isn't in the zone! He needs some Eye of the Tiger, he needs protein shakes...he needs to run up the steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art and cry out for joy! And so do I! No, what I need is some time to translate "A pleasure to meet you" without accidentally using the noun "placer" which is more for the Belle du Jour sort of pleasure and would just end up horribly embarrassing everyone.
So I froze, open mouthed like a lazy goldfish, and could not come up with a suitable answer to Que tal? which is GCSE Spanish at its best. And because I took my own ridiculous advice "Say anything, nothing could make you look more of an idiot than you already do" and came out with "No sé que decir" (I don't knwo what to say) I'm afraid my poor Spanish guardian is now under the impression I'm more likely to ask for a lollipop than advice on the up and coming issues in mercantile law.
As if the UAM day wasn't spicy enough I have added the game Hide and Don't Seek to the fun. Now I know that a good 80% of you play this game too. Maybe you've never heard of it, maybe you don't realise you do it but don't lie to yourselves when I describe it. Join me in coming clean, holding one hand up to Heaven and say loud and proud "I too have made a complete tit of myself in front of a perfect stranger on a night out and now cannot look them in the eye least I die of shame..."
That's a bit long; we'll cut it down to something we can put on a T-shirt...
Anyway, the perfect stranger is not important. What is important is that they may have witnessed an angry monologue about Spanish internet providers, accompanied by spirited use of a mojito to punctuate amoung other things and now I have to use a mirror to look around Law Fac corridors.
Thus it was that on exiting a classroom I espied the stanger to the starboard side and kept right on walking...
...right on walking into a caretakers closet.
What could I do? They were waiting for another class. The danger would be over in mere moments. All I had to do was sit tight at base camp and hope no one came to use the mop and bucket. Which of course Juan the Janitor did.
"Usted se encuentra perdida?" He asks. Are you lost? (Polite verb form and everything, what a gentleman)
"No, de todas formas no," I reply.
He looks concerned, And so am I because we have just come to the same conclusion at the same time via mental arithmetic. If I'm not lost I must have a reason to be hanging out in his store room, and I'm not letting this get extremely, horribly "Are you trying to seduce me Miss Devlin-y" out of hand.
"Ah ha, ta luego señor..."
Escape number two and somewhere up there Harry Houdini is wondering whether this could have been incorporated into his performances.
Next there was Philosophy of Law; Jurisprudence to we legal folk and usually I, if not kick ass, then serioudly prod bottom in this arena. First lecture, who comes up but Dworkin. Can´t pronounce that if you try to roll the r my foolhardy Latinos. They all look terrifed. Our teacher smiles
"¿Quereis que lo escribo?" she asks knwoingly.
No I don´t need you to write it. I´m all up in this bitch, as I once heard Samuel L Jackson and rather liked the sound of. I am ON the spelling of Richard Dworkins name.
Except the we had to "colocaros en filas para que no podeis copiar" get into alternating rows so you can't copy
Had she seen through my ingenius scheme of sitting behind a Spaniard with a laptop so narry a word was missed? Nope; we had a test. On an article I had not read for the very legitimate reason of having no fecking clue it existeed. And it was multiple choice. And one of the questions was "Who wrote Critics?" Oh the holy mortifying shame of it all.
The last straw that broke the camels back...or summat like that...was a friendly run in with the neighbours. I'm lying, of course, we may have inadvertently held the lift door open while getting up to speed with gossip. A simple mistake, but one that made our vecino climb four flights of stairs. We didn't realise this. I didn't realise this. Thus it came as a shock which made the San Francisco quake of '06 seem like a child's hiccup when she screamed;
"Que cerrais la jodida peurta!" Close the f**king door and then, on opening her door across the hall proceeded to inform her room mate that;
"Estas putas que viven aqui no saben ni siquiera cerrar una puerta! Coño, putas!"
This translates rather charmingly as "Those whores that live across the way don't even know how to close a door! F**king whores!"
If ever a moment called for my best Kenneth Williams style; "MADAM!" that was it. I believe the Carry On reference may have been wasted though.
Other than that, well I don't think I can top that. Now if you'll excuse me I must once again recline on my four poster surrounded by Cadbury's that I may have purchased purely to cheer self up. Best case scenario, glorious chocolate induced food coma. Worst? Well I could take the putas suggestion seriously and set up a brothel. The classy kind. Maybe set up a contract, none of this pay-as-you-come-and-go nonsense. No chintz nor red velvet. Blonde or dark wood? Some tasteful nude prints? Or famous movie sex scene stills!! Yes, this could wor...
I apologise, must leave to ponder an ...ah... unrelated matter. Opinions/advice on entrepeneurship in the sex industry are, as always, very welcome
xo
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
Sunday, 9 October 2011
Just Penelope Cruising
Somewhere, high in our dark flat tower, dwells a mysterious recorder player. I apologise. I've plagurised that line from either Victor Hugo or Disney without any real reason as the mysterious musician is no hunchback but what sounds like a small child desperately attempting to coax beautiful melodies forth. It ain't working. The pobrecito (poor wee one) is either playing the first two lines of Old MacDonald or the very first of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Apparently we need to wait until he gets those down before the big reveal. The suspense is killing me.
Speaking of miniature humans, in the very near future I may be teaching them to speak English. Given my quest for an artsy bookshop to while away the siesta hours encountered unanswerable questions as varied as "We're not currently looking for part time employees, could you rearrange your class timetable?" to "So what first interested you in gay erotica literature?" the next best thing seems to be to bite the bullet, conform to stereotype and pimp my services as a Cambridge educated native speaker.
There is a huge market for this sort of thing in Spain. English is the language of business and everyone, from the ladies in the salons who insist "No, no mira guapa, para los nails? Nails? Yes, good? Yungle rrrrred dahling, it is jur colour!" to sharply suited lawyers jabbering into their Blackberrys on the metro want to speak English.
Skeptical at first; my mind was quickly changed by a giddy vision. Spanish mamas and papas who wish to privately educate their little Maria's and Pepe's will no doubt have full fridges. That amazingly clever kind that dispenses ice for your drink! A TV so huge you almost feel you can high five Andy Dufresne when he escape from Shawshank. A pool with sun loungers and possibly a liquor cabinet for the Sangria! A chance to tak a little sun! And maybe a little light teaching when wee Pepe runs over with the Pimms pitcher again.
"Pimms Pepe, se llama Pimms! In life, a good Pimms is either being served or being consumed. Much as in life people are either giving or taking. Remember that Pepe, it is a parable of our times!" Because I enjoy dispensing unfathomable social commentary with my lesson plan.
Enough of that nonsense, I of course want to teach to enrich the cultural experience of children during this era of great globalisation. Also I believe I would get more out of reading "Charlotte's Web" with suitable voice acting than any two year old. Set it in Jamaica, dress up, make appropriate animal noises. Happy as a clam.
But until someone trusts me with the apple of their eye life goes on and goes on in the form of hotel hunting for relatives who will come to see I'm still alive and bring me delicious things. I know this because the questions "Do you need an adaptor? Sun cream? Spanish phrasebook?" were answered with "Bring me Cadbury's or bring not at all!" I would ask for Ribena but airport security will surely wrest it from their hand luggage in case it's laced with arsenic or a liquid explosive.
Set off into town humming the theme music of Driving Miss Daisy; armed with my abono and a screen print of a Google map covered in Xs. I had but one objective. If at all possible ensure my family are kept well away from prostitutes, sex shops, drug dealers and Carlos in Sol who keeps telling me the end is nigh. This is trickier than it sounds and so locating a hotel which didn't feature "local colour" took two hours, six metro stops, three prozzies and a strange shop conversation with an old Chinese woman about the curious alignment of lines on my hand and what it meant for my prospects of marriage. She couldn't find the "anillito" on the ring finger. "Nunca se casaras!" She looks devastated for me. "You will never marry!" To think I only went in for a Coke...
Ah wait! A fell melody is on the air...
"E I E I O"
There we are, it's Old Macdonald after all. I must go applaud and/or present this maestro with a bouquet of roses. It's only taken him two hours and thirty six minutes after all.
xo
Speaking of miniature humans, in the very near future I may be teaching them to speak English. Given my quest for an artsy bookshop to while away the siesta hours encountered unanswerable questions as varied as "We're not currently looking for part time employees, could you rearrange your class timetable?" to "So what first interested you in gay erotica literature?" the next best thing seems to be to bite the bullet, conform to stereotype and pimp my services as a Cambridge educated native speaker.
There is a huge market for this sort of thing in Spain. English is the language of business and everyone, from the ladies in the salons who insist "No, no mira guapa, para los nails? Nails? Yes, good? Yungle rrrrred dahling, it is jur colour!" to sharply suited lawyers jabbering into their Blackberrys on the metro want to speak English.
Skeptical at first; my mind was quickly changed by a giddy vision. Spanish mamas and papas who wish to privately educate their little Maria's and Pepe's will no doubt have full fridges. That amazingly clever kind that dispenses ice for your drink! A TV so huge you almost feel you can high five Andy Dufresne when he escape from Shawshank. A pool with sun loungers and possibly a liquor cabinet for the Sangria! A chance to tak a little sun! And maybe a little light teaching when wee Pepe runs over with the Pimms pitcher again.
"Pimms Pepe, se llama Pimms! In life, a good Pimms is either being served or being consumed. Much as in life people are either giving or taking. Remember that Pepe, it is a parable of our times!" Because I enjoy dispensing unfathomable social commentary with my lesson plan.
Enough of that nonsense, I of course want to teach to enrich the cultural experience of children during this era of great globalisation. Also I believe I would get more out of reading "Charlotte's Web" with suitable voice acting than any two year old. Set it in Jamaica, dress up, make appropriate animal noises. Happy as a clam.
But until someone trusts me with the apple of their eye life goes on and goes on in the form of hotel hunting for relatives who will come to see I'm still alive and bring me delicious things. I know this because the questions "Do you need an adaptor? Sun cream? Spanish phrasebook?" were answered with "Bring me Cadbury's or bring not at all!" I would ask for Ribena but airport security will surely wrest it from their hand luggage in case it's laced with arsenic or a liquid explosive.
Set off into town humming the theme music of Driving Miss Daisy; armed with my abono and a screen print of a Google map covered in Xs. I had but one objective. If at all possible ensure my family are kept well away from prostitutes, sex shops, drug dealers and Carlos in Sol who keeps telling me the end is nigh. This is trickier than it sounds and so locating a hotel which didn't feature "local colour" took two hours, six metro stops, three prozzies and a strange shop conversation with an old Chinese woman about the curious alignment of lines on my hand and what it meant for my prospects of marriage. She couldn't find the "anillito" on the ring finger. "Nunca se casaras!" She looks devastated for me. "You will never marry!" To think I only went in for a Coke...
Ah wait! A fell melody is on the air...
"E I E I O"
There we are, it's Old Macdonald after all. I must go applaud and/or present this maestro with a bouquet of roses. It's only taken him two hours and thirty six minutes after all.
xo
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
The Metrocious State of Public Transport in Madrid
In a spirited attempt not to lurk in our hallway like the ghost of Wifi past I am writng this particular missive at the Autonomous University of Madrid, the good old UAM. In the cafeteria to be precise. Someone is yelling at Mercedes that no hay cuchillas. Mercedes don´t care about no cuchillas. No one does until Luis brings them forth from the dishwasher. I would make a joke about the forks being with him but my jokes are incomprehensible enough when everyone speaks English and yet another pair of Hispanic eyebrows knitted in confusion would only depress me. Maybe another time...
Most exciting news I´ve had all week comes in the form of my €30 abono transporte and another joke. This delightful little card allows me to flit in and out of the Metro and Cercanias train stations without feeding €1.50 into the machine every time I wish to educate myself or wander downtown. In the nick of time too, for I had begun to feel distinctly Scrooge McDuck whensoever I was forced to extract my purse from the depths of my bag and feed 5 cent coins one at a time into the slot praying I wouldn´t reach €1.45 before looking down to see nothing but a terrible emptiness; a symptom caused by the malady "Stoney Broke." Attempt to convey my joy to the Señora in the Tabac was to exclaim "Que abono! O mejor decir, que abueno!" This is an insanely clever pun which loses out somewhat in translation, as the best I can come to in English "What an Oytser card. Or better yet, a JOyster card!" The señora was not amused.
Ah, that leads us on to the title of today´s blog which, believe it or believe it not, has some bearing on current affairs. Using the abono for the first time was a thing of great beauty and may have resulted in some Mr Bean-like antics. I say may, I mean I know no other way to express my own bemusement than to chuckle to myself and talk to inanimate objects a la Rowan Atkinson at his finest.
Anyway, Metro times, and I had no sooner embarked on the journey to Nuevos Ministerios than a chuckle to my left caught my ear. A half shuffle brought two muchachos into view who not only had the all the giggling foolishness of two schoolboys craned solicitously over their first Playboy but also were of the false impression I spoke no Spanish. My eavesdropping presented me with this;
" ¡Mira la blancura de ella! " (I pinched that upside down exclamation mark from Wiki. I´ll explain that Spanish chirograhpical weirdness at a later date)
I had heard this before, "Look at how white she is!"
"Quizas se cayo en una tina de blaquera!" (Maybe she fell in a vat of bleach!)
"Quizas a Dios le olvido la tinta!" (Maybe God forgot the ink!)
I had no idea whether to be shocked or somewhat amused and to be honest at first no idea what they were saying but, after arriving at Uni and furiously flicking through a dictionary I have settled on the view that this is an outrage! Even back home in dear old Norn Iron, where we have the cultural diversity of a packet of Fox´s Custard Creams, it would be considered a socially unacceptable disgrace to take a seat on a bus by the Spains answer to the Chuckle Brothers and exclaim;
"A ha ha ha, looks like God forgot to take these two out of the oven. He´s gone and burnt them!"
Actually that´s not bad. Memo to self re blatant disregard for individual dignity, look up oven, to burn and colloquial gone and done smthg so next time will have scathing reply close to hand.
Yet more documentation was to be picked up at Uni and lo and behold I once again met my nemesis in the form of UAM´S Erasmus office.
"¿Ah, necesito coger mi tarjeta estudiante?" (I need to pick up my student car?)
"¿Eres estudiante de Wham?"
Was I a student of Wham? I had no idea what this cryptic question meant. Yes, I have been known to hum the odd verse of "Wake me up before you Go-Go" and "Last Christmas" is certainly worth a listen come Yuletide, but a student of the great musicians? I decided to communicate my confusion with clarity and precision.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh...."
"Wham! WHAM! Ooo, ah, emay! Wham!"
U.A.M. Or if you´re Spanish and the letter U barely exists on its own; Wham. Perfecto.
Let´s see, what else of note happened. There was the discovery that the "Wham" cafeteria boasts a large selection of alcoholic spirits, most of which you need to get through the average day. Finally purchased a mug from the Chino, for tea may be drunk from a cup but verily tay, the drink that was gifted to the Irish by the gods can be drunk from none other than a veritable bucket. There was the moment of sheer panic when singing along cheerfully to a recent hit went something like this, "Somebody call 911, Shady fire burning up the...wait, wait WAIT! We dont know the emergency services number of this accursed country!" and the horrible sinking feeling and progression of facial expressions never to be equaled when the train to campus starts to slide the wrong way out of the station and the destination reads "Buenas Aires"
Oy vay
xo
Most exciting news I´ve had all week comes in the form of my €30 abono transporte and another joke. This delightful little card allows me to flit in and out of the Metro and Cercanias train stations without feeding €1.50 into the machine every time I wish to educate myself or wander downtown. In the nick of time too, for I had begun to feel distinctly Scrooge McDuck whensoever I was forced to extract my purse from the depths of my bag and feed 5 cent coins one at a time into the slot praying I wouldn´t reach €1.45 before looking down to see nothing but a terrible emptiness; a symptom caused by the malady "Stoney Broke." Attempt to convey my joy to the Señora in the Tabac was to exclaim "Que abono! O mejor decir, que abueno!" This is an insanely clever pun which loses out somewhat in translation, as the best I can come to in English "What an Oytser card. Or better yet, a JOyster card!" The señora was not amused.
Ah, that leads us on to the title of today´s blog which, believe it or believe it not, has some bearing on current affairs. Using the abono for the first time was a thing of great beauty and may have resulted in some Mr Bean-like antics. I say may, I mean I know no other way to express my own bemusement than to chuckle to myself and talk to inanimate objects a la Rowan Atkinson at his finest.
Anyway, Metro times, and I had no sooner embarked on the journey to Nuevos Ministerios than a chuckle to my left caught my ear. A half shuffle brought two muchachos into view who not only had the all the giggling foolishness of two schoolboys craned solicitously over their first Playboy but also were of the false impression I spoke no Spanish. My eavesdropping presented me with this;
" ¡Mira la blancura de ella! " (I pinched that upside down exclamation mark from Wiki. I´ll explain that Spanish chirograhpical weirdness at a later date)
I had heard this before, "Look at how white she is!"
"Quizas se cayo en una tina de blaquera!" (Maybe she fell in a vat of bleach!)
"Quizas a Dios le olvido la tinta!" (Maybe God forgot the ink!)
I had no idea whether to be shocked or somewhat amused and to be honest at first no idea what they were saying but, after arriving at Uni and furiously flicking through a dictionary I have settled on the view that this is an outrage! Even back home in dear old Norn Iron, where we have the cultural diversity of a packet of Fox´s Custard Creams, it would be considered a socially unacceptable disgrace to take a seat on a bus by the Spains answer to the Chuckle Brothers and exclaim;
"A ha ha ha, looks like God forgot to take these two out of the oven. He´s gone and burnt them!"
Actually that´s not bad. Memo to self re blatant disregard for individual dignity, look up oven, to burn and colloquial gone and done smthg so next time will have scathing reply close to hand.
Yet more documentation was to be picked up at Uni and lo and behold I once again met my nemesis in the form of UAM´S Erasmus office.
"¿Ah, necesito coger mi tarjeta estudiante?" (I need to pick up my student car?)
"¿Eres estudiante de Wham?"
Was I a student of Wham? I had no idea what this cryptic question meant. Yes, I have been known to hum the odd verse of "Wake me up before you Go-Go" and "Last Christmas" is certainly worth a listen come Yuletide, but a student of the great musicians? I decided to communicate my confusion with clarity and precision.
"Ahhhhhhhhhh...."
"Wham! WHAM! Ooo, ah, emay! Wham!"
U.A.M. Or if you´re Spanish and the letter U barely exists on its own; Wham. Perfecto.
Let´s see, what else of note happened. There was the discovery that the "Wham" cafeteria boasts a large selection of alcoholic spirits, most of which you need to get through the average day. Finally purchased a mug from the Chino, for tea may be drunk from a cup but verily tay, the drink that was gifted to the Irish by the gods can be drunk from none other than a veritable bucket. There was the moment of sheer panic when singing along cheerfully to a recent hit went something like this, "Somebody call 911, Shady fire burning up the...wait, wait WAIT! We dont know the emergency services number of this accursed country!" and the horrible sinking feeling and progression of facial expressions never to be equaled when the train to campus starts to slide the wrong way out of the station and the destination reads "Buenas Aires"
Oy vay
xo
Friday, 30 September 2011
The Spanish Are Mad (Ah)
"Buenas días Hai'leeeen! Que pasa"
"Buenas, buenas todos! Ay, nada de mal hombre."
This is me back in the friendliest Starbucks in the world. I've worked out that the trick to it is sounding like you know everyone's mother, brother, senile maiden aunt and medical history. A lot like Ireland actually where we really do know everyone's mother, brother, maiden aunt and medical history. They can't quite get the name yet. I would try explaining the closest you ever come to the celtic "Ai" at the start is to imitate Joey's "'eeeeeey gorgeous, how you doin'?" but this is a bit forward even for me. All these phonetic problems that plague my existence would have been solved had I gone with the Irish Eibhleann (Evelyn) but I am unusual enough without being Evelyn Devlin, a Dr Suess character.
Enough etymological nonsense; the reason why I am in Starbucks as a pleasant change to our entrance-way is once again the presence of wifi. Because FNAC was as much use as a chocolat teapot.
I wandered down to Micro Clinic in the depths of the superstore. I had everything written down because I didn't trust my Spanish not to betray me. We went to connect to wifi of the passworded sort, as has been the problem for a good month now. I'd tried everything short of sacrificing Steve Jobs to Bill Gates. And lo and behold, there in FNAC, successfully connected to wireless internet.
"Suele pasar" says the technician with a smile. It means "Ah, isn't that always the way?" He is trying to be kind.
"A ha ha ha ha, ah sí, how suele it does pasar." I am trying not to be mortified.
The keys on my laptop curve slightly, whether for aesthetically pleasing reasons or old fashioned comfort, I know not. But at that moment the damn thing seemed to be grinning at me. Back to the drawing board...in our hallway.
Attempt to cheer self up was to compose a welcome message for my €7 spanish mobile. This was hilarious fun and I eventually settled on "Why hello Aileen, You've turned me on." This provided half an hour of uninterrupted smile time and then a good five hours of wondering why God saw fit to grace me with the sense of humour of an adolescent Hugh Hefner.
Another example of this sentido de humor happens on nights out when one of my favourite things to do, apart from bust my sweet moves on the dance flo' (the extra 'or is unnecessary according to Mr Z) is to find the football.
Bear with me. It's not just the football. What you do is wander up to where a bunch of Spanish lads stand around the big screen clutching bottles of Corona and cans of Mahou. You sidle into the middle, clad in a sparkly dress and kitten heels, sipping a cocktail pinker than Barbie's soul. You wait until the ref does something idiotic, which happens about 15 times a minute in a Real Madrid v Barca match. And then, and only then you cry out in the best Spanish accent you can manage "Ay hijo de puta! Que pasa? No me dices que es justo! ie "What are you doing, you bloody idiot? That's not fair ref!" Then you totter off to sing some Cyndi Lauper. And you try not to laugh at the confusion in your wake.
Interesting point, this sort of "But she was a chica!" reaction doesn't happen in the UK and Ireland. You're more likely to get a slap on the back, a beer bought for you and a post match analysis. The Spanish are mucho mas macho.
Other news now and once again Día had been making its vital contribution to our wellbeing foodwise. Or it was until I went in to get a pizza and was faced with a queue longer than Berlusconi's charge sheet. The problem, engineerically speaking were the two aisles that kept one queue from seeing the other. The left hand queue insisted it was in the right, the right hand queue thought the whole thing was up the left. Spaniards were shouting and "Ay Díos-ing" and waving their hands and then one little old duena marshalled her strength and screeched;
"SILENCIO!!"
And by god, silencio there was.
Little old Spanish ladies are terrifying. Their shoes always match their dress, their hair is always coiffed, they wear twin sets of necklaces and earrings. They either smoke profusely or not at all. They are capable of bursting eardrums with exclamations. They choose the same shade of lipstick and nail polish. They express disapproval by pursing their painted lips and if one of them starts to organise a supermarket queue you pay attention or you pay the price.
"Que locura es, eh nena?"
The matriarch is speaking to me. And because what she has said literally translates as "This is madness, isn' it girlie?" there's only one thing I wish to say back to her before I lead the left hand queue to victory. And it's not even in Spanish...
"Madness? No. This...Is...DÍA!"
Maybe some other time...
xo
"Buenas, buenas todos! Ay, nada de mal hombre."
This is me back in the friendliest Starbucks in the world. I've worked out that the trick to it is sounding like you know everyone's mother, brother, senile maiden aunt and medical history. A lot like Ireland actually where we really do know everyone's mother, brother, maiden aunt and medical history. They can't quite get the name yet. I would try explaining the closest you ever come to the celtic "Ai" at the start is to imitate Joey's "'eeeeeey gorgeous, how you doin'?" but this is a bit forward even for me. All these phonetic problems that plague my existence would have been solved had I gone with the Irish Eibhleann (Evelyn) but I am unusual enough without being Evelyn Devlin, a Dr Suess character.
Enough etymological nonsense; the reason why I am in Starbucks as a pleasant change to our entrance-way is once again the presence of wifi. Because FNAC was as much use as a chocolat teapot.
I wandered down to Micro Clinic in the depths of the superstore. I had everything written down because I didn't trust my Spanish not to betray me. We went to connect to wifi of the passworded sort, as has been the problem for a good month now. I'd tried everything short of sacrificing Steve Jobs to Bill Gates. And lo and behold, there in FNAC, successfully connected to wireless internet.
"Suele pasar" says the technician with a smile. It means "Ah, isn't that always the way?" He is trying to be kind.
"A ha ha ha ha, ah sí, how suele it does pasar." I am trying not to be mortified.
The keys on my laptop curve slightly, whether for aesthetically pleasing reasons or old fashioned comfort, I know not. But at that moment the damn thing seemed to be grinning at me. Back to the drawing board...in our hallway.
Attempt to cheer self up was to compose a welcome message for my €7 spanish mobile. This was hilarious fun and I eventually settled on "Why hello Aileen, You've turned me on." This provided half an hour of uninterrupted smile time and then a good five hours of wondering why God saw fit to grace me with the sense of humour of an adolescent Hugh Hefner.
Another example of this sentido de humor happens on nights out when one of my favourite things to do, apart from bust my sweet moves on the dance flo' (the extra 'or is unnecessary according to Mr Z) is to find the football.
Bear with me. It's not just the football. What you do is wander up to where a bunch of Spanish lads stand around the big screen clutching bottles of Corona and cans of Mahou. You sidle into the middle, clad in a sparkly dress and kitten heels, sipping a cocktail pinker than Barbie's soul. You wait until the ref does something idiotic, which happens about 15 times a minute in a Real Madrid v Barca match. And then, and only then you cry out in the best Spanish accent you can manage "Ay hijo de puta! Que pasa? No me dices que es justo! ie "What are you doing, you bloody idiot? That's not fair ref!" Then you totter off to sing some Cyndi Lauper. And you try not to laugh at the confusion in your wake.
Interesting point, this sort of "But she was a chica!" reaction doesn't happen in the UK and Ireland. You're more likely to get a slap on the back, a beer bought for you and a post match analysis. The Spanish are mucho mas macho.
Other news now and once again Día had been making its vital contribution to our wellbeing foodwise. Or it was until I went in to get a pizza and was faced with a queue longer than Berlusconi's charge sheet. The problem, engineerically speaking were the two aisles that kept one queue from seeing the other. The left hand queue insisted it was in the right, the right hand queue thought the whole thing was up the left. Spaniards were shouting and "Ay Díos-ing" and waving their hands and then one little old duena marshalled her strength and screeched;
"SILENCIO!!"
And by god, silencio there was.
Little old Spanish ladies are terrifying. Their shoes always match their dress, their hair is always coiffed, they wear twin sets of necklaces and earrings. They either smoke profusely or not at all. They are capable of bursting eardrums with exclamations. They choose the same shade of lipstick and nail polish. They express disapproval by pursing their painted lips and if one of them starts to organise a supermarket queue you pay attention or you pay the price.
"Que locura es, eh nena?"
The matriarch is speaking to me. And because what she has said literally translates as "This is madness, isn' it girlie?" there's only one thing I wish to say back to her before I lead the left hand queue to victory. And it's not even in Spanish...
"Madness? No. This...Is...DÍA!"
Maybe some other time...
xo
Monday, 26 September 2011
Sweet Home Salamanca
"I did not drag myself up before the flamin' postman for a cuppa so weak you could snap its backbone like a Kitkat."
The gravelly tones that echo round our kitchen at seven am are mine seeing as how I've woken up sounding like DI Gene Hunt. Instead of properly being concerned about a locating paracetamol I'm having tremendous fun imitating the Manc Lion and thus am running though my non-PC repetoire of insults, of which there are a surprising amount. The reason I am up before the flamin postman is the exciting prospect of our first viaje (voyage) trans-Espana to Salamanca, the Cambridge of Spain, which is ironic really because I'm sure something about refugee status from Cambridge went on our Erasmus form.
The sharp realisation that thus far any photos of my YA (pronounced "yah") one cares to look at show rather a lot of clubs has awoken a determination to see some Cul-Cha demmit, architecture and libraries and history and ethnic folkways and what not. And boy did we!
Actually the first thing we saw was our hostel. And the first thing we said was "It were a lot nicer online." But nevertheless we threw our bags into the room and headed out into the sixth oldest University town in the world. (But not before cleverly concealing my passport in the pillowcase. No identity theft for me!)
There was a wedding in the Plaza Mayor, cobbles surrounded by sunlit red brick and delicate black balconies, a multitude of Spaniards in their Sunday best and a pretty bride in white with a rose in her hair. Of course being an all female group the inscrutable laws of gender meant we all had to sigh, admire her reception venue, take surreptious photos of her dress and discreetly position ourselves so if she went to lob the bouquet off the balcony we were in the prime spot to snatch it out of the air.
Next we wandered up to Las Catedrales Vieja y Nueva and spent a few hours with the Good Lord. Actually more than a few given our next cultural fix were to be the Nuns with the Buns and the Musical Monks.
How disrespectful of me; I of course meant to say the Convento de las Duenas where the nuns sell you little almond pastries they bake themselves in cloisters and the choir of Cappuchin monks of the Franciscan order who's hymns would make angels weep. The first was yummy and, ah, deeply spiritual of course. The second was a no go as God tends to monopolise the holy brethern on the weekends.
Strolling around a city playing tourist invariably turns ones mind to food and so dinner was a Spanish tapas spectacular with Manchego cheese, Iberian meat, calamares (squid) And, as all culture and no nightlife is nonsensical to say the least we went to a place called Camelot (which, to plagurise Monty Python, was only a club) where Latin remixes of Aretha's "Respect" and Cyndi's "Girls just want to have fun" went down a storm with the crowd who clapped and Olé-ed like there was no tomorrow.
But tomorrow there was and the task for the day was to locate the Rana de Suerte (Lucky Frog) on the extravagantly carved facade of the University. This exericise went from "Oh, isn't it lovely, let's have a looksee" to "Oh, ho, ho the little fellow is tricky to find, isn't he?" and finally to "WE'RE NOT LEAVING THIS SQUARE UNTIL I FIND THE DAMN THING!"
Rana located, a fact which I can only assume means we are cured of all illnesses and gypsy curses we may have accrued, we wandered to the Roman bridge and the Art Deco museum which was insanely pretty. 1920's perfume bottles with original fragrance still inside, brooches in the likeness of bejewelled dragonflies, statues of dancers who could have entered the Vaganova ballet academy without a reference. Our cameras were taken rather sharply from us at the door but clever old me, I have a camera on my phone and spent a good twenty minutes taking pictures from waist height and humming the theme from Goldfinger. 20 photos so blurry a die-hard UFO "believer" would laugh at later I arrived at the Valley of the Dolls. Porcelain dolls terrify me, especially when the toymaker thought a face like a wallnut and freakishly long arms were desirable features. Lost the exit for a while and Goldfinger changed to the Psycho theme.
Lets see what else, there was the heart-stopping moment the taxi we were exuberantly flagging down at two in the morning resolved itself into a police car, the loud exclamation that is was "Too fucking hot!" said in the certain knowledge no one could speak English resulting in a mild "Yes, that is true," from a middle aged man, the other middle aged man who tut-tut-tutted at the white of my arm (Mira la blancura que tienes!) and the tourist photos so cheesy we could put them on toast.
Viva Salamanca and a fantastic weekend, but in a way the nicest little ratito (bit) of the trip was coming back to the capital of Spain, a busy, loud 24/7 kind of place and knock me down with a feather if it didn't in a strange sort of way feel like coming home to the wee Irish girleen from the sticks. Madrid, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship
xo
The gravelly tones that echo round our kitchen at seven am are mine seeing as how I've woken up sounding like DI Gene Hunt. Instead of properly being concerned about a locating paracetamol I'm having tremendous fun imitating the Manc Lion and thus am running though my non-PC repetoire of insults, of which there are a surprising amount. The reason I am up before the flamin postman is the exciting prospect of our first viaje (voyage) trans-Espana to Salamanca, the Cambridge of Spain, which is ironic really because I'm sure something about refugee status from Cambridge went on our Erasmus form.
The sharp realisation that thus far any photos of my YA (pronounced "yah") one cares to look at show rather a lot of clubs has awoken a determination to see some Cul-Cha demmit, architecture and libraries and history and ethnic folkways and what not. And boy did we!
Actually the first thing we saw was our hostel. And the first thing we said was "It were a lot nicer online." But nevertheless we threw our bags into the room and headed out into the sixth oldest University town in the world. (But not before cleverly concealing my passport in the pillowcase. No identity theft for me!)
There was a wedding in the Plaza Mayor, cobbles surrounded by sunlit red brick and delicate black balconies, a multitude of Spaniards in their Sunday best and a pretty bride in white with a rose in her hair. Of course being an all female group the inscrutable laws of gender meant we all had to sigh, admire her reception venue, take surreptious photos of her dress and discreetly position ourselves so if she went to lob the bouquet off the balcony we were in the prime spot to snatch it out of the air.
Next we wandered up to Las Catedrales Vieja y Nueva and spent a few hours with the Good Lord. Actually more than a few given our next cultural fix were to be the Nuns with the Buns and the Musical Monks.
How disrespectful of me; I of course meant to say the Convento de las Duenas where the nuns sell you little almond pastries they bake themselves in cloisters and the choir of Cappuchin monks of the Franciscan order who's hymns would make angels weep. The first was yummy and, ah, deeply spiritual of course. The second was a no go as God tends to monopolise the holy brethern on the weekends.
Strolling around a city playing tourist invariably turns ones mind to food and so dinner was a Spanish tapas spectacular with Manchego cheese, Iberian meat, calamares (squid) And, as all culture and no nightlife is nonsensical to say the least we went to a place called Camelot (which, to plagurise Monty Python, was only a club) where Latin remixes of Aretha's "Respect" and Cyndi's "Girls just want to have fun" went down a storm with the crowd who clapped and Olé-ed like there was no tomorrow.
But tomorrow there was and the task for the day was to locate the Rana de Suerte (Lucky Frog) on the extravagantly carved facade of the University. This exericise went from "Oh, isn't it lovely, let's have a looksee" to "Oh, ho, ho the little fellow is tricky to find, isn't he?" and finally to "WE'RE NOT LEAVING THIS SQUARE UNTIL I FIND THE DAMN THING!"
Rana located, a fact which I can only assume means we are cured of all illnesses and gypsy curses we may have accrued, we wandered to the Roman bridge and the Art Deco museum which was insanely pretty. 1920's perfume bottles with original fragrance still inside, brooches in the likeness of bejewelled dragonflies, statues of dancers who could have entered the Vaganova ballet academy without a reference. Our cameras were taken rather sharply from us at the door but clever old me, I have a camera on my phone and spent a good twenty minutes taking pictures from waist height and humming the theme from Goldfinger. 20 photos so blurry a die-hard UFO "believer" would laugh at later I arrived at the Valley of the Dolls. Porcelain dolls terrify me, especially when the toymaker thought a face like a wallnut and freakishly long arms were desirable features. Lost the exit for a while and Goldfinger changed to the Psycho theme.
Lets see what else, there was the heart-stopping moment the taxi we were exuberantly flagging down at two in the morning resolved itself into a police car, the loud exclamation that is was "Too fucking hot!" said in the certain knowledge no one could speak English resulting in a mild "Yes, that is true," from a middle aged man, the other middle aged man who tut-tut-tutted at the white of my arm (Mira la blancura que tienes!) and the tourist photos so cheesy we could put them on toast.
Viva Salamanca and a fantastic weekend, but in a way the nicest little ratito (bit) of the trip was coming back to the capital of Spain, a busy, loud 24/7 kind of place and knock me down with a feather if it didn't in a strange sort of way feel like coming home to the wee Irish girleen from the sticks. Madrid, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship
xo
Thursday, 22 September 2011
Quixote Ugly
Speaking a foreign language is a lot like being a bad politican. You never listen to what the other person is saying, you don't really care what they're saying because all the while you're concentrating feverishly on your own reply so you don't inadvertently say something like, oh for instance "Que embarazoso" before realising it doesn't mean how embarrassing, but "How pregnant" and everyone in the room is avoiding you because of this terrible social faux pas.
This was the case when talking to our academic co-ordinator/useless toothless ornament. All was going swimmingly until I came to the terrible realisation all I could think to say was "Un bocadillo, por favor." Which is nonsense, why would I ask for a sandwich in the middle of talking about a criminal law lecture? Unless I was in desperate need of a sandwich... But why? Hmmm, desperate need of food equals desperate need of sugar, Bingo! As long as diabectico is the same sort of Spanglish hybrid I can say "Soy diabetica, un bocadillo por favor." to avert a medical disaster. Perfect, its all about working with what you know.
Unless of course she's finished explaining all about timetables and is ushering you out the door and in that mental 30 seconds you'd been away trying to conjugate the verb "ser" you've missed everything of importance.
Linguistic adventures don't stop there. Today we're bringing my laptop to FNAC to see what we shall see. I'm afraid I may suffer withdrawal symptoms if its away more than a day getting its wifi life sorted out. Withdrawal from online streamed possibly-illegal-its-all-shades-of-grey-enjoying-creativity-v-intellectual-property-rights movies online. The last such of these featured what sounded like Del Boy and Rodney making a cameo appearance in James Cameron's Avatar (in theatres near you or my laptop)
"What's that you got there then?"
" 'S a Cornetto. I ordered a Magnum."
"Why don't you take it back then?"
"Don't like to make a fuss."
This charming interlude made the plight of the Navi and the pillaging of their ancestral home a little harder to watch when you're wondering if Día would still be open and if the Spaniards have Cornettos.
In other news the hunt for a lovely part time job in an artsy Spanish bookshop took a turn for the surreal yesterday when wandering through Cheuca. Saw a pretty bookshop, saw an opportunity and pottered in to have an ask of a job.
Something wasn't right the moment I entered. A certain growing fascinated horror. Call it women's intuition but I had a shufti at the books on the shelves. "Encontrando el espiritu erotico masculino." One does not need to study Spanish to grasp the meaning. This was to my right. To my left there were some posters of firemen. They were not taking seriously their duties as firemen. In fact I don't see how what they were taking seriously could be performed by a building so advanced in burning to cinders without risking at least second degree burns. I was sure firemen wore more protective gear than that. Fire retardant jackets and so forth...
Enough of that, the point was at this stage I was still walking into the den of iniquity and because of my overwhelming need to be polite was forming the sentence "Would you happen to have any policemen?" I decided rather reluctantly against this and in a manouever known as the Reverse Jobseeker made a complete circle, nodding in a hopefully sage, untroubled manner at the proprietor in his leather waistcoat and walked back out. Leaving CV in next week though.
Besides all that let's see. There were the moments of deep conference when the buzzer rang with a man claiming to be the postman. We were up to now unclear as to how postie got into the building without a key. Apparently he rings and hopes to get lucky. Our obliviouness to this fact had us asking "Do you have post for US" in an effort to ascertain whether he was some form of charlatan. He answered rather amusingly "Well, what flat number are you?" It was not till later til we realised how very strange this must have sounded.
Elsewise UAM related stress levels have turning my lipstick shade from Pearl to Hurricane Pick to Diva Red in a sort of chameleon display of deteriorating mental state, found a shop selling all things British which we raided for Robinsons and Cadburys and <shudder> Marmite. I think I may have been a little too exuberant with the poor lady who I'm sure only wished for a quiet Tuesday morning. There was the advert filiming in Madrid Centre which I found out all about by cunning ways of nonchalantly sidling up beside a policeman who I must say are very friendly here.
Now, I'm afraid I must away with me to FNAC, assuming anyones awake because siesta time here is 2pm to 4 pee em sharp. If for some reason they should blow up my laptop and I never get it back I wish everyone to know it was a pleasure blogging from our front hallway and I'm sure movies are just as good without added audience commentary.
xo
This was the case when talking to our academic co-ordinator/useless toothless ornament. All was going swimmingly until I came to the terrible realisation all I could think to say was "Un bocadillo, por favor." Which is nonsense, why would I ask for a sandwich in the middle of talking about a criminal law lecture? Unless I was in desperate need of a sandwich... But why? Hmmm, desperate need of food equals desperate need of sugar, Bingo! As long as diabectico is the same sort of Spanglish hybrid I can say "Soy diabetica, un bocadillo por favor." to avert a medical disaster. Perfect, its all about working with what you know.
Unless of course she's finished explaining all about timetables and is ushering you out the door and in that mental 30 seconds you'd been away trying to conjugate the verb "ser" you've missed everything of importance.
Linguistic adventures don't stop there. Today we're bringing my laptop to FNAC to see what we shall see. I'm afraid I may suffer withdrawal symptoms if its away more than a day getting its wifi life sorted out. Withdrawal from online streamed possibly-illegal-its-all-shades-of-grey-enjoying-creativity-v-intellectual-property-rights movies online. The last such of these featured what sounded like Del Boy and Rodney making a cameo appearance in James Cameron's Avatar (in theatres near you or my laptop)
"What's that you got there then?"
" 'S a Cornetto. I ordered a Magnum."
"Why don't you take it back then?"
"Don't like to make a fuss."
This charming interlude made the plight of the Navi and the pillaging of their ancestral home a little harder to watch when you're wondering if Día would still be open and if the Spaniards have Cornettos.
In other news the hunt for a lovely part time job in an artsy Spanish bookshop took a turn for the surreal yesterday when wandering through Cheuca. Saw a pretty bookshop, saw an opportunity and pottered in to have an ask of a job.
Something wasn't right the moment I entered. A certain growing fascinated horror. Call it women's intuition but I had a shufti at the books on the shelves. "Encontrando el espiritu erotico masculino." One does not need to study Spanish to grasp the meaning. This was to my right. To my left there were some posters of firemen. They were not taking seriously their duties as firemen. In fact I don't see how what they were taking seriously could be performed by a building so advanced in burning to cinders without risking at least second degree burns. I was sure firemen wore more protective gear than that. Fire retardant jackets and so forth...
Enough of that, the point was at this stage I was still walking into the den of iniquity and because of my overwhelming need to be polite was forming the sentence "Would you happen to have any policemen?" I decided rather reluctantly against this and in a manouever known as the Reverse Jobseeker made a complete circle, nodding in a hopefully sage, untroubled manner at the proprietor in his leather waistcoat and walked back out. Leaving CV in next week though.
Besides all that let's see. There were the moments of deep conference when the buzzer rang with a man claiming to be the postman. We were up to now unclear as to how postie got into the building without a key. Apparently he rings and hopes to get lucky. Our obliviouness to this fact had us asking "Do you have post for US" in an effort to ascertain whether he was some form of charlatan. He answered rather amusingly "Well, what flat number are you?" It was not till later til we realised how very strange this must have sounded.
Elsewise UAM related stress levels have turning my lipstick shade from Pearl to Hurricane Pick to Diva Red in a sort of chameleon display of deteriorating mental state, found a shop selling all things British which we raided for Robinsons and Cadburys and <shudder> Marmite. I think I may have been a little too exuberant with the poor lady who I'm sure only wished for a quiet Tuesday morning. There was the advert filiming in Madrid Centre which I found out all about by cunning ways of nonchalantly sidling up beside a policeman who I must say are very friendly here.
Now, I'm afraid I must away with me to FNAC, assuming anyones awake because siesta time here is 2pm to 4 pee em sharp. If for some reason they should blow up my laptop and I never get it back I wish everyone to know it was a pleasure blogging from our front hallway and I'm sure movies are just as good without added audience commentary.
xo
Sunday, 18 September 2011
The Dons and Dont's of living in Spain.
René, I vill say zis only once. Well no, I'll type it once and quickly because I got me a tortilla in the oven. A tortilla con cebolla y huevos y patata y lots of deliciosas cosas (things) and even though its five o'clock the Spaniards consider it lunch. Viva la comida, never mind the vida.
I've established an internet point via ethernet cable in the hallway. Anyone opens the door I'll have to drawl "I've been expecting you Mr Bond" to cover up the awkwardness. I've got my feet up on our chest of drawers, the table we are still waiting to install in the kitchen when the previous tenant finally comes back is in the corner, I can see a little old Spanish lady putting her washing on the line. Just a moment, I must wave now we've made eye contact or she'll take serious Latin offence. Something about bad sex life for seven years or maybe that only works when you're clinking glasses crying "Salud!" Done now...
We've just got back from Los Rastros, the hub of humanity and everything you could wish to buy that'll fit on a stall. It's also the pickpocketing centre of Spain. Now picture the image of outrageously careful, clutching your bag to your bosom and quasi-snarling at anyone who comes within a radius of ten metres. Even a group of well heeled Americanos who in my defence looked like Spanish hobos. Maybe its the new look. Dreadlocks and frayed denim. Anyway even though someone was playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons at the La Latina Metro stop Los Rastros in dodgy with a capital D. And after a while we wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. Hd a peek in to our first police station in Spain, and my first ever to my shame. It was stangely like a doctors office, no drunk and disorderlies nor heavily tattooed dealers just us normal schmeels who'd had a run in with Crime. Byebye musings on career as a hero policewoman. I'd never have passed the fitness test anyway. If you look at my school PE records I have a mysteriously loose shoelace on the same "beep test" day every 15 years. Cunning incarnate, thas me.
In other news I was supposed to be typing this from Starbucks in their glorious air conditioned coffee filled palace. But when I got in yesterday they cried out "Hola!" at my opening of the door. Now this took me aback as at the time I was trying to remember the difference between Tirar/Empujar, Pull or Push? Shocked at this I made a desperate attempt at getting the level of friendly in the reply right and came out with "Muy buenas días a todos!" which is the linguistic equivalent of Uncle Ben booming "Good mornin', good mornin' how y'all doing this fine hot Alabama day?" They then asked would I like my coffee caliente or frio, what my name was, on hearng my name used it after every sentence and ushered me to a table. I was so swept up in this sea of language and desperately concentarting on the next repuesta (reply) that I forgot to ask for wifi. Oy vay. So I took out my wee Madrid notebook, pushed my glasses down my nose and went for arthouse chique and not powerhouse techno. And that was when I heard it...
"Well, whats the craic?"
Opposite me, in the centre of Madrid, in the friendliest Starbucks in the world, was the melifluous roll of a Derry accent. I couldn't not say anything, no way José. And so I met another Norn Irish, and so the Irish takeover of the world through MY-mum-knows-your-cousins-boyfriends-primary-school-teacher-who-knows-your-uncle- who-obviously-knows-YOUR-mum continues. And the Starbucks staff were all grinning, and "Adios-ing" and one step away from a thumbs up "get in there my son" when we wandered out still talking, under the belief they'd facilitated a matchmake that I had neither the heart nor the vocabulary to tell them that A) it was merely excitement to find another person from the Province and B) no marriage was likely unless he split with his boyfriend. And I'm no homewrecker.
Lessee, what else happened. Found Sunny Delight in the chilled aisle of Día and such an forgotten institution of our childhoods it was like finding the Terry Wogan sunning himself as an expat in Benidorm. Mind you I don't think Spain take EU regulations on e-numbers quite seriously enough. Down enough of that "orange" juice and you're seeing pink elephants. Also there was the escalated row over Father Ted's real name, our drill sergeant of an Inernational Law lecturer I MUST NOT call Franco anymore, the constant reappearance of our oven ghost and a certain pondering when my amusement with the Metro will cease as I smiled for a good 5 minutes today on thinking all of us scuttling about underground must surely resemble mole-people.
xo
I've established an internet point via ethernet cable in the hallway. Anyone opens the door I'll have to drawl "I've been expecting you Mr Bond" to cover up the awkwardness. I've got my feet up on our chest of drawers, the table we are still waiting to install in the kitchen when the previous tenant finally comes back is in the corner, I can see a little old Spanish lady putting her washing on the line. Just a moment, I must wave now we've made eye contact or she'll take serious Latin offence. Something about bad sex life for seven years or maybe that only works when you're clinking glasses crying "Salud!" Done now...
We've just got back from Los Rastros, the hub of humanity and everything you could wish to buy that'll fit on a stall. It's also the pickpocketing centre of Spain. Now picture the image of outrageously careful, clutching your bag to your bosom and quasi-snarling at anyone who comes within a radius of ten metres. Even a group of well heeled Americanos who in my defence looked like Spanish hobos. Maybe its the new look. Dreadlocks and frayed denim. Anyway even though someone was playing Vivaldi's Four Seasons at the La Latina Metro stop Los Rastros in dodgy with a capital D. And after a while we wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. Hd a peek in to our first police station in Spain, and my first ever to my shame. It was stangely like a doctors office, no drunk and disorderlies nor heavily tattooed dealers just us normal schmeels who'd had a run in with Crime. Byebye musings on career as a hero policewoman. I'd never have passed the fitness test anyway. If you look at my school PE records I have a mysteriously loose shoelace on the same "beep test" day every 15 years. Cunning incarnate, thas me.
In other news I was supposed to be typing this from Starbucks in their glorious air conditioned coffee filled palace. But when I got in yesterday they cried out "Hola!" at my opening of the door. Now this took me aback as at the time I was trying to remember the difference between Tirar/Empujar, Pull or Push? Shocked at this I made a desperate attempt at getting the level of friendly in the reply right and came out with "Muy buenas días a todos!" which is the linguistic equivalent of Uncle Ben booming "Good mornin', good mornin' how y'all doing this fine hot Alabama day?" They then asked would I like my coffee caliente or frio, what my name was, on hearng my name used it after every sentence and ushered me to a table. I was so swept up in this sea of language and desperately concentarting on the next repuesta (reply) that I forgot to ask for wifi. Oy vay. So I took out my wee Madrid notebook, pushed my glasses down my nose and went for arthouse chique and not powerhouse techno. And that was when I heard it...
"Well, whats the craic?"
Opposite me, in the centre of Madrid, in the friendliest Starbucks in the world, was the melifluous roll of a Derry accent. I couldn't not say anything, no way José. And so I met another Norn Irish, and so the Irish takeover of the world through MY-mum-knows-your-cousins-boyfriends-primary-school-teacher-who-knows-your-uncle- who-obviously-knows-YOUR-mum continues. And the Starbucks staff were all grinning, and "Adios-ing" and one step away from a thumbs up "get in there my son" when we wandered out still talking, under the belief they'd facilitated a matchmake that I had neither the heart nor the vocabulary to tell them that A) it was merely excitement to find another person from the Province and B) no marriage was likely unless he split with his boyfriend. And I'm no homewrecker.
Lessee, what else happened. Found Sunny Delight in the chilled aisle of Día and such an forgotten institution of our childhoods it was like finding the Terry Wogan sunning himself as an expat in Benidorm. Mind you I don't think Spain take EU regulations on e-numbers quite seriously enough. Down enough of that "orange" juice and you're seeing pink elephants. Also there was the escalated row over Father Ted's real name, our drill sergeant of an Inernational Law lecturer I MUST NOT call Franco anymore, the constant reappearance of our oven ghost and a certain pondering when my amusement with the Metro will cease as I smiled for a good 5 minutes today on thinking all of us scuttling about underground must surely resemble mole-people.
xo
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