I know this to be true. I have done my research.
So. You're standing at the bus stop and in your head you're going over that one small little word - the destination. "Fiat". I work at the car company Fiat in the afternoons giving English classes. I would walk but Spain doesn't understand the concept of pedestrians so there's actually no path, only motorway, so I have to get the bus.
It went fine. "Ochenta-cinco" says the driver (85 cents). That's my fare. I hand it over. Continues without incident in this way for a couple of days.
THEN.
I'm standing at the bus stop. The bus arrives. I get on. "Fiat - ochenta-cinco", I say trying my hardest to produce an accent which doesn't sound English or American (you just feel so crass at times).
"No".
"Porque?"
And then in Spanish he continues to explain that I need to go to the ticket booth and buy a ticket before I can get on the bus. I look confused having not needed to do this the previous 3 days and 6 journeys. I get off and buy a ticket. I'm approaching the door to the bus. He takes one look at me, swings out into the road and closes the doors. I stand there fuming, wishing I knew the Spanish for.... well maybe I won't print it here. That's happened twice, what with the inconsistency and never knowing if they'll just randomly insist on having a pre-bought ticket when 9 times out of 10 you don't need one.
My other English friend has experienced similar difficulties. She also fell into a comfortable routine of taking the bus to work until one random day...."no". She was also directed to the ticket machine. But more frustrating for her was the day she decided to go on a day trip to a local town. With her bike. She waited for the bus. It arrived. She asked the bus driver (her Spanish is better than mine) if it was OK to take the bike on. "Absolutely!" he merrily replied, and got out of his seat and put it in the luggage area under the bus (in England we call these things coaches rather than buses). She happily arrives in her town of choice and enjoys a lovely day out. The night falls and she waits for the bus home. Can you guess the ending?
"NO. No bikes".
It was pitch black. The roads have no lights. She didn't know the way. Etc.
My friend assures me that you have to press these situations at least 3 times and then they budge. She explained to him, therefore, 3 times, that she'd been allowed to take her bike here, and therefore needed to return with the bike. It was late at night and there weren't many people around, so eventually she persuaded him to put the bike in the 'pram' area on the bus. "3 times and they give in", she explained, sounding nevertheless a little bitter. She also told me that according to her statistics it is every 1 in 4 who will just make your life difficult. I have to say, this tallies with my experiences.
Now. Bikes and ticket offices aside, there are many gradients of unaccommodating bus driver.
1) Rude. Refuses to understand your accent and is sarcastic about it. How many ways to say "Fiat" are there?
Ali: Fiat
Driver: (with bored voice) Que?
Ali: Fiat - la compania
Driver: (sarcastic expression) Que?
Ali: Fiat - la rotunda de Fiat. Necessito la parada cerca de Fiat.
Driver: (Superior expression and not looking at me) No entiendo.
Ali: FIAT.
Driver: (gives in) 85.
2) Overly informative. The stop I need is a 15 minute walk beyond the Fiat company. There's no choice in that. The company is on a motorway. However, again, saying Fiat, La rotunda de Fiat (roundabout), or la parada cerca de Fiat (the stop close to Fiat) 8 times out of 10 is understood because it's not rocket science and my accent is not bad. However, recently, bus drivers have felt obliged to tell me I can't get on the bus because it doesn't stop at Fiat. I quickly learnt the Spanish for, "I know it's the stop afterwards because I do this every day". Then then sigh and let me on, clearly frustrated that I actually know what I'm doing.
3) Mad. The driver is new to the job and arrives at the wrong stop so we all have to run over some flower beds to get there. He then begins to pull out and swing around a roundabout while 2 or 3 of us are standing and trying to pay for our fare. I try to pronounce the destination correctly whilst handing over my fare, whilst trying not to fly through the windscreen or fall on top of a little old lady. I have the "que" conversation once more for a while before he eventually gives in with a frustrated shrug and takes my money. I make a mental note to the learn the Spanish for, "You incompetent, dangerous fool!"
4) Mean. Twice this has happened. I get on the bus, declare my destination and listen patiently while the bus driver explains that there is no stop for Fiat, but one some way down the road. "Si," I say, again with admirable patience - after all he's trying to help "Yo se. Voy todo los dias" (I know. I go every day.) I assume what with having an accent that I am eternally thought lost. HOWEVER, the stop comes.......and goes. The last stop for 20 minutes as we hurtle towards Madrid. You have to request the stop - which I do, again every day, but he didn't stop, even after the conversation we had. I end up getting off at the next available town (which was a motorway and a business park) and gave him the nastiest curse of a look I could muster which I sincerely hope he takes with him to the grave. Again, I make a mental note to learn the Spanish for an astute telling off. Next time, matey, next time....make my day!!!
Maybe it's the teacher growing inside of me or just confidence with age, but I feel a great need to point out when people are at fault. We all have faults and I for one live in quite a glassy house so I'm careful with stones, but sometimes people are just so thoughtless or inconsiderate. Not nasty or unkind, just thoughtless. Plus, here, cars can drive over pedestrian crossings if they like. In the UK cars stop for you and it's illegal to be on the crossing when there's a green man. Here, I have nearly been run over more than a few times. Again, I quickly learnt the Spanish to yell 'corrective information' at the driver. I'm not that foul mouthed really (only to inanimate objects) but "you naughty boy" doesn't quite work. Mind you, I don't know the Spanish for that either, which considering the amount of cute guys around here is something of a mystery (he he he).
But hey, let's look at the statistics once more. It's only 1 in 4. The other 3 are lovely and friendly. As are most of the people here. Two people went out of their way to help me get back to where I needed to be this afternoon. Stephen Fry once said, if you threw a brick out of a window, 9 out of 10 times it would hit a decent person. Ergo, don't through a brick. Just say "You're a naughty boy" and shake your fist, go inside and swear mindlessly at the computer for taking ages to load something.
Monday 26 March 2007
Sunday 25 March 2007
The Day Trip and The Meaning Of Life
My day trip.
Well, it got off to a dodgy start what with my snoozing away in ignorant bliss until my phone rang and my friend said, "I trust you didn't know the clocks went forward?". That's the trouble with being reclusive. You miss these things. It's my punishment for studying phonetics on a Saturday night instead of being sociable and thereby being exposed to important information, such as Spring happening and clocks changing and stuff. "Oh" I said. "Never mind" she said, which I thought was awfully generous. However, I got up and looked out of the window, and the brick wall opposite said "GO OUT AND DON'T STAY INSIDE" so I ran around, appeased the growing caffeine addiction (note to self, caffeine is really bad, change job to evening shift when you are awake naturally instead of having to take drugs in order to teach people at 8am which is painful for all concerned), packed a bag full of water, notebooks and phonetic symbols, inserted ear phones in my ears (good call) switched the mp3 player on and swung merrily out of the flat towards the train station which is a healthy 20 minute walk. The destination for today was Avila (pronounced Abila) and is one of the top places to visit in the Madrid region. However, it's an hour into Madrid and then another 90 minutes on another train so I wasn't about to waste any more time.
And that's when the comedy routine REALLY got into full swing. Mp3 player on random, changes tracks just as I sprint out of the front door and Vangelis' Chariots of Fire theme tune is heard loud and clear. I almost fell over laughing but didn't have time so I had to continue running like a mad woman to the world's most famous running theme tune (Or maybe Britain's, not sure) but as it was fairly early this morning my legs were utterly useless and it was like that nightmare where you just can't make your legs work.
Well, anyway, I caught the train, then the other train, and was exposed to exceptionally beautiful countryside complete with random white crosses looming in valleys and orange cows standing on cliff tops.
Avila is most famous for it's old town. And I mean OLD. There's a city wall and Cathedral that were built in the 11th century. And it's beautiful. In England we have York and its city wall and it's stunning. You can walk around that also. But this is just so OLD. The Cathedral was breathtaking - the attention to detail in the architecture is just incredible. The main square, Plaza de Santa Teresa (Square of Saint Teresa) is also beautiful and has a statue of St. Teresa. She lived in the 16th century, one of 10 chilidren and was raised by nuns after her mother's death. Her religious career began at the Carmelite convent where she was a nun for 27 years. She had a rare illness that rendered her paralysed for 3 years during which time she began to write. She went on to reform the Carmelite movement and found convents throughout Spain. She was an ascetic, but her appeal and her importance to the Counter-Reformation lay in the mystic sensuality of her experience of Christ. (As revealed in her autobiography, for years a best seller in Spain). As joint patron saint of Spain (together with Santiago, St James), she remains a central pilar in Spanish Catholicism, and school girls are brought into Avila by the bus load to experience first hand the life of the woman they are supposed to emulate. Hard roe to sow, methinks.
She's a major focus of religious pilgrimage, as is of course, Santiago, St James. It is El Camino de Santiago de Compostela (The way of St James of Compostela, field of stars) that I wish to follow as soon as time and money remotely allows. For more information on that, there are many websites, but for a first hand story, Paula Coelho's The Pilgrimage will give you lots of facts, amidst his incredible story.
Spanish Catholicism is a curious thing. Spain is still reacting very much to Franco. It's only 32 years since he died. The liberalism here is quite extreme and the political situation is that most of Spain is eager to have just a little more conversativism! From extreme to extreme - perhaps time for a little balance. But within all of this extremnity, religion is not forced upon you nor avoided. It is life, pure and simple, and the people seem quite joyful about it. The teenagers I teach are so joyful and happily explain how they feel about their faith (and in English as well as Spanish!!) and don't seem to feel under pressure to believe a certain thing. It comes from them. I read somewhere that real freedom can be born out of real discipline. Perhaps with the presence of the Catholic Church and Catholicism so very intrinsic in their lives, the Spanish then feel quite happy to be themselves and celebrate everything. And my oh my do they celebrate everything. Good for them, I say.
It's certainly not English Catholicism, that's for sure! But hey, what's in a name. I have an expance of religious aunties ranging from Christian to Catholic to something I can't remember the name of but she went in a pond (full baptism thing). It is always and forever the person and their faith - their approach. The Catholic one is the more open minded which is a-typical in my experience! I was brought up completely irreligiously and I'm always dipping in and out of theories and opinions and interpretations. It fascinates me. I studied the Philosophy of Religion (Western philosophy followed by Islam, which was quite a thing) at college and later delved into Eastern philosophy. I prefer the latter because it encourages a personal relationship with everyone and everything, whereas Western philosophy is so intellectual/academic it can be very exclusive. Do you therefore need to be intellectual to understand life? Quite the opposite in my experience!!
I have my own way of arriving at things. I feel like I've found the right path and I'm about to start the walk. I'm just doing up my shoe laces and hoping I brought enough water. But even if I haven't, I know it'll be alright. Buddha would say, "Roads are for journeys, not destinations". Takes the pressure off! Having stagnated for such a long time, playing it safe, I no longer care if it kills me. I'm supposed to live. And then I'm supposed to die. All the stuff in between will ultimately become stories, if anyone cares to tell them. So I'm going to make them good stories, with joy and woe, and perhaps for my grandchildren should such magic occur. If not, I have one hope - that just before I die, I can look back and chuckle. And as Jesus would have me believe, perhaps even afterwards.
Well, it got off to a dodgy start what with my snoozing away in ignorant bliss until my phone rang and my friend said, "I trust you didn't know the clocks went forward?". That's the trouble with being reclusive. You miss these things. It's my punishment for studying phonetics on a Saturday night instead of being sociable and thereby being exposed to important information, such as Spring happening and clocks changing and stuff. "Oh" I said. "Never mind" she said, which I thought was awfully generous. However, I got up and looked out of the window, and the brick wall opposite said "GO OUT AND DON'T STAY INSIDE" so I ran around, appeased the growing caffeine addiction (note to self, caffeine is really bad, change job to evening shift when you are awake naturally instead of having to take drugs in order to teach people at 8am which is painful for all concerned), packed a bag full of water, notebooks and phonetic symbols, inserted ear phones in my ears (good call) switched the mp3 player on and swung merrily out of the flat towards the train station which is a healthy 20 minute walk. The destination for today was Avila (pronounced Abila) and is one of the top places to visit in the Madrid region. However, it's an hour into Madrid and then another 90 minutes on another train so I wasn't about to waste any more time.
And that's when the comedy routine REALLY got into full swing. Mp3 player on random, changes tracks just as I sprint out of the front door and Vangelis' Chariots of Fire theme tune is heard loud and clear. I almost fell over laughing but didn't have time so I had to continue running like a mad woman to the world's most famous running theme tune (Or maybe Britain's, not sure) but as it was fairly early this morning my legs were utterly useless and it was like that nightmare where you just can't make your legs work.
Well, anyway, I caught the train, then the other train, and was exposed to exceptionally beautiful countryside complete with random white crosses looming in valleys and orange cows standing on cliff tops.
Avila is most famous for it's old town. And I mean OLD. There's a city wall and Cathedral that were built in the 11th century. And it's beautiful. In England we have York and its city wall and it's stunning. You can walk around that also. But this is just so OLD. The Cathedral was breathtaking - the attention to detail in the architecture is just incredible. The main square, Plaza de Santa Teresa (Square of Saint Teresa) is also beautiful and has a statue of St. Teresa. She lived in the 16th century, one of 10 chilidren and was raised by nuns after her mother's death. Her religious career began at the Carmelite convent where she was a nun for 27 years. She had a rare illness that rendered her paralysed for 3 years during which time she began to write. She went on to reform the Carmelite movement and found convents throughout Spain. She was an ascetic, but her appeal and her importance to the Counter-Reformation lay in the mystic sensuality of her experience of Christ. (As revealed in her autobiography, for years a best seller in Spain). As joint patron saint of Spain (together with Santiago, St James), she remains a central pilar in Spanish Catholicism, and school girls are brought into Avila by the bus load to experience first hand the life of the woman they are supposed to emulate. Hard roe to sow, methinks.
She's a major focus of religious pilgrimage, as is of course, Santiago, St James. It is El Camino de Santiago de Compostela (The way of St James of Compostela, field of stars) that I wish to follow as soon as time and money remotely allows. For more information on that, there are many websites, but for a first hand story, Paula Coelho's The Pilgrimage will give you lots of facts, amidst his incredible story.
Spanish Catholicism is a curious thing. Spain is still reacting very much to Franco. It's only 32 years since he died. The liberalism here is quite extreme and the political situation is that most of Spain is eager to have just a little more conversativism! From extreme to extreme - perhaps time for a little balance. But within all of this extremnity, religion is not forced upon you nor avoided. It is life, pure and simple, and the people seem quite joyful about it. The teenagers I teach are so joyful and happily explain how they feel about their faith (and in English as well as Spanish!!) and don't seem to feel under pressure to believe a certain thing. It comes from them. I read somewhere that real freedom can be born out of real discipline. Perhaps with the presence of the Catholic Church and Catholicism so very intrinsic in their lives, the Spanish then feel quite happy to be themselves and celebrate everything. And my oh my do they celebrate everything. Good for them, I say.
It's certainly not English Catholicism, that's for sure! But hey, what's in a name. I have an expance of religious aunties ranging from Christian to Catholic to something I can't remember the name of but she went in a pond (full baptism thing). It is always and forever the person and their faith - their approach. The Catholic one is the more open minded which is a-typical in my experience! I was brought up completely irreligiously and I'm always dipping in and out of theories and opinions and interpretations. It fascinates me. I studied the Philosophy of Religion (Western philosophy followed by Islam, which was quite a thing) at college and later delved into Eastern philosophy. I prefer the latter because it encourages a personal relationship with everyone and everything, whereas Western philosophy is so intellectual/academic it can be very exclusive. Do you therefore need to be intellectual to understand life? Quite the opposite in my experience!!
I have my own way of arriving at things. I feel like I've found the right path and I'm about to start the walk. I'm just doing up my shoe laces and hoping I brought enough water. But even if I haven't, I know it'll be alright. Buddha would say, "Roads are for journeys, not destinations". Takes the pressure off! Having stagnated for such a long time, playing it safe, I no longer care if it kills me. I'm supposed to live. And then I'm supposed to die. All the stuff in between will ultimately become stories, if anyone cares to tell them. So I'm going to make them good stories, with joy and woe, and perhaps for my grandchildren should such magic occur. If not, I have one hope - that just before I die, I can look back and chuckle. And as Jesus would have me believe, perhaps even afterwards.
Friday 9 March 2007
A Happy Day (last Sunday March 4th)
Today is the first day since I've been in Madrid that the weather has been lovely. I mean, - sitting outdoors in a cafe eating tapas and not worrying about anything - lovely. Almost makes 2 months of settling in, losing electricity, losing door keys, having my purse stolen, having my post lost (and expensive and rather important post at that), frantically learning the lingo and regularly suffering misunderstandings varying in significance (2 sandwiches rather than 1 to getting on a bus going to a town in Spain that had nothing to do with me or where I was going) worth the while. Almost. Well, another couple of days like this and all will be forgiven. Living abroad has its pros and cons. Mostly, this is a great experience.I came to Spain to escape an English January/February, getting set up in Barcelona and moving to the Capital in January. But to be honest, Madrid is just as rubbish during winter (though there's less rain and more light which I can't grumble about) so I will re-think the strategy for next year (Australia sounds good). For me, getting through February is rather like Magellan and his straights. I brace myself and expect bruising if not minor injury at best, whilst always facing the prospect that this could be the end. Nevertheless, there is now the Panama Canal. I need to find my Panama Canal through winter. I could happily devote the rest of my life to finding somewhere untouched by the gloom, the damp, the dark, the cold, the pain of anniversaries and the salt in the wound that is Valentine's Day (won't SOMEONE, just for once, humour me and buy me a cuddly bear or a red rose??? Just for once!!) The Canary Islands have the perfect climate, but not the creative distraction. Madrid is like London but far sillier and extreme. So as I move through this apparently unending process of elimination, am I forgetting to actually live? No. Not forgetting. I just haven't worked out what it means yet. Going out. What does that mean? Loud music, smoky bars, obnoxious music... no thanks. Am I allowed to like opera when I'm under 30? Expectations....I generally go around the side of them when no-one's looking. So now I'm faced with a problem in England - my flat has 'gone wrong'. The electric's bust, there's damp, there's hysteria from tenants. But I'm over here (and by the way why do these things always happen at weekends when you cannot efficiently contact the necessary people?) and I've done as much as I can. That feeling of helplessness I hate so much is becoming an art form. So OK, I admit, my chest felt tight, I cried a little (after 3 Martini's though, the drink pushed me over the edge into being a girl for a bit) but now, I've learnt how to 'compartmentalise the shit'. Spain is good for that. There's no urgency. You learn the art of patience. Everything has its time. There must be a balance though - I don't want to become completely immune to anxiety as sometimes it is necessary! So you go to a cafe, head held high amidst the crisis, order something you can't understand, hope it won't be an animal carcass, and put your faith in God, the Tao, or the waiter at least. Relinquishing control. For there is none to be had. Not here anyway! But the weather is good. It makes everything ok. Because there will always be something, so perhaps it's important to celebrate despite the disasters. Maybe I'll go to a smoky bar and listen to some obnoxious music. Or, allow myself to read a book (I don't think that qualifies as living but it's tough, I like to read) and have an early night. What a funky monkey! My god I'm looking forward to retirement when I'm allowed to be like this, and I can write and read and shuffle about in my own way to my heart's content.
The Lingua-Whore
So I´ve moved from London to Spain to avoid the English weather coz it´s shit. Well mission accomplished. They have storms. I have daylight and outdoor cafes, and though it ain´t exactly bikini weather yet folks, it ain´t half bad.
My honest income consists of businessmen and Spanish soldiers (peace missions only, I do have a conscience...it´s in my handbag somewhere) paying me to chat with them in English to improve their fluency. Fabulous. So that´s what I do. Private lessons with attractive, well paid men who talk with me. I feel a little bit 'rented out' at times, hence the lingua-whore thing. But the conversations are always respectable! (Mostly).
Last month, "Alberto", a beginner, was explaining what is in his house. I was following the text book, but alas, the text book said please explain what is in your bedroom. So there he was, telling me what was in his bedroom. Bless him, he's moving to Ireland in a month or two on a 2-5 year contract to build a motorway. He's looking forward to living in a cottage in a field with no people around (a reaction to Madrid which is full of loud cars and loud people and loud everything). I helped as much as I could, but didn't have the heart to tell him that a) The Irish accent is over so slightly different to mine (tally-ho!), and b) Once the locals find out he's responsible for driving a motorway through their emerald land they'll come after him with pitchforks and drown him in a vat of Guiness. Or maybe I'm being racist.... Well. He seemed excited about the whole thing and will have an interpreter. But to be stuck in an Irish field with no-one around when you don't even speak the lingo......I'm getting Jack Nicholson, an axe and a heap of snow.
Since then I have met a lot of Spanish soldiers who are all rather impressive and not the mindless, bald-headed killing machines that we often picture when thinking of army guys in England. These ones are intelligent officers trying to do good. How lovely. One in particular was a private student, a Sergeant in his late 20s who I talked with every morning for 3 weeks for 90 minutes. We tried to talk about general stuff but we always got onto really deep subjects. We even covered Taoism at one point. (His English was rather good!!) Anyone who knows me understands I like a good conversation over just about anything else. (One person's conversation is another person's lap dance). He was a total gentleman, and to me, something of a hero. I have never met such a kind, open-minded and intelligent man. He left last night for Lebanon - a 5 month peace mission. We met up a couple of times before he went but he was incredibly busy. He did however call me last night to say goodbye. Speaking on the phone in a foreign language is a nightmare. He did it however, just a few hours before catching his plane, and I was so touched I cried. Quite a lot. Like a toddler actually. May have even fallen on the floor. He's promised to send an email with some pictures when he can but said it would be a couple of months before he was settled. I said I thought he had enough to do what with trying to save the world (imagines Captain Kirk) and I quite understood. I also told him to 'stay in' and avoid people with bulky coats. For a guy who loves theatre and salsa dancing I really worry about how he'll survive.
How romantic (she says caustically whilst crushing something in her right hand).
So onwards and upwards (with a bit of a lurch and a stumble). So the conversations continue, and with the Spring weather, some visits to old towns, and later today a visit from a dear friend who's staying for the weekend. Definitely better than working in an office stamping application forms.
Lingua-Whore out.
My honest income consists of businessmen and Spanish soldiers (peace missions only, I do have a conscience...it´s in my handbag somewhere) paying me to chat with them in English to improve their fluency. Fabulous. So that´s what I do. Private lessons with attractive, well paid men who talk with me. I feel a little bit 'rented out' at times, hence the lingua-whore thing. But the conversations are always respectable! (Mostly).
Last month, "Alberto", a beginner, was explaining what is in his house. I was following the text book, but alas, the text book said please explain what is in your bedroom. So there he was, telling me what was in his bedroom. Bless him, he's moving to Ireland in a month or two on a 2-5 year contract to build a motorway. He's looking forward to living in a cottage in a field with no people around (a reaction to Madrid which is full of loud cars and loud people and loud everything). I helped as much as I could, but didn't have the heart to tell him that a) The Irish accent is over so slightly different to mine (tally-ho!), and b) Once the locals find out he's responsible for driving a motorway through their emerald land they'll come after him with pitchforks and drown him in a vat of Guiness. Or maybe I'm being racist.... Well. He seemed excited about the whole thing and will have an interpreter. But to be stuck in an Irish field with no-one around when you don't even speak the lingo......I'm getting Jack Nicholson, an axe and a heap of snow.
Since then I have met a lot of Spanish soldiers who are all rather impressive and not the mindless, bald-headed killing machines that we often picture when thinking of army guys in England. These ones are intelligent officers trying to do good. How lovely. One in particular was a private student, a Sergeant in his late 20s who I talked with every morning for 3 weeks for 90 minutes. We tried to talk about general stuff but we always got onto really deep subjects. We even covered Taoism at one point. (His English was rather good!!) Anyone who knows me understands I like a good conversation over just about anything else. (One person's conversation is another person's lap dance). He was a total gentleman, and to me, something of a hero. I have never met such a kind, open-minded and intelligent man. He left last night for Lebanon - a 5 month peace mission. We met up a couple of times before he went but he was incredibly busy. He did however call me last night to say goodbye. Speaking on the phone in a foreign language is a nightmare. He did it however, just a few hours before catching his plane, and I was so touched I cried. Quite a lot. Like a toddler actually. May have even fallen on the floor. He's promised to send an email with some pictures when he can but said it would be a couple of months before he was settled. I said I thought he had enough to do what with trying to save the world (imagines Captain Kirk) and I quite understood. I also told him to 'stay in' and avoid people with bulky coats. For a guy who loves theatre and salsa dancing I really worry about how he'll survive.
How romantic (she says caustically whilst crushing something in her right hand).
So onwards and upwards (with a bit of a lurch and a stumble). So the conversations continue, and with the Spring weather, some visits to old towns, and later today a visit from a dear friend who's staying for the weekend. Definitely better than working in an office stamping application forms.
Lingua-Whore out.
My letter home
A month ago I finally got a landline installed following a few weeks of settling in, at which point I sent this email to family and friends:
Hello people,
After some extremely interesting times with no phone, no electricity and a delightful re-occuring mutating flu-like virus which has left me a stone lighter and scarred by hallucinations, I finally have a telephone number.
It is: **************. Para me casa!
I also have the internet at home which makes life infinitely easier.
You can contact me therefore, from 7pm (GMT) tonight (I have to go and buy a telephone now!) should you be so inclined.
All good here. I'm teaching the Spanish military advanced English conversation so they can help maintain peace in the Lebanon. They're going in March to make sure Lebanon is fulfilling its obligations to the UN and to help generally, with the peace organisation ONU. I suggested taking fairy cakes. The Major suggested taking Jesus. And then he suggested that I also realise that Jesus is the only truth, as is Catholicism. We then spent some time on theology and ethics and US foreign policy before I got bored and asked them to tell me where I should take Jo (my sister) when she visits. I have the names of some very good veggie restaurants and salsa bars! Maybe Jesus can join us.
It's cold and wet so I'm glad I packed my swimming costume. I'm learning a great deal of Spanish through utter necessity. I can now say, "When is the electricity cable being replaced and why is it hanging off the wall?", "my clothes are stuck in the washing machine", "I missed the bus", "I didn't get off the bus", "This is a police station. Why the &%^^%$ don't you have a photocopier?", "Will you please tell me when to get off the bus," "That Romanian ran off with it", and best of all, "If this is a vegetarian dish, why is there a pig on my plate?". Oh and then there's the health side of things, "I can't sleep or eat, I'm freezing and boiling and I keep having conversations with my dead mother". The reply? "Have you tried hot lemon?" Honestly!
But it's great out here. Having a good time. Job is fascinating. Hours are fabulous. My little flat is nice (when the heating and lights work) and I start a job with the British Council in 2 weeks that's attached to the historical University here. When the weather picks up things should be super.
Hope you are all keeping well. I look forward to hearing voices (preferably not in a delusional fever this time).
Ciao! xxxxx
I've since received a grand total of 4 phone calls (2 that night) in a month after I was practically bullied into getting a landline by people who wanted to call me. *Scowls at the phone*. Oh well!
Hello people,
After some extremely interesting times with no phone, no electricity and a delightful re-occuring mutating flu-like virus which has left me a stone lighter and scarred by hallucinations, I finally have a telephone number.
It is: **************. Para me casa!
I also have the internet at home which makes life infinitely easier.
You can contact me therefore, from 7pm (GMT) tonight (I have to go and buy a telephone now!) should you be so inclined.
All good here. I'm teaching the Spanish military advanced English conversation so they can help maintain peace in the Lebanon. They're going in March to make sure Lebanon is fulfilling its obligations to the UN and to help generally, with the peace organisation ONU. I suggested taking fairy cakes. The Major suggested taking Jesus. And then he suggested that I also realise that Jesus is the only truth, as is Catholicism. We then spent some time on theology and ethics and US foreign policy before I got bored and asked them to tell me where I should take Jo (my sister) when she visits. I have the names of some very good veggie restaurants and salsa bars! Maybe Jesus can join us.
It's cold and wet so I'm glad I packed my swimming costume. I'm learning a great deal of Spanish through utter necessity. I can now say, "When is the electricity cable being replaced and why is it hanging off the wall?", "my clothes are stuck in the washing machine", "I missed the bus", "I didn't get off the bus", "This is a police station. Why the &%^^%$ don't you have a photocopier?", "Will you please tell me when to get off the bus," "That Romanian ran off with it", and best of all, "If this is a vegetarian dish, why is there a pig on my plate?". Oh and then there's the health side of things, "I can't sleep or eat, I'm freezing and boiling and I keep having conversations with my dead mother". The reply? "Have you tried hot lemon?" Honestly!
But it's great out here. Having a good time. Job is fascinating. Hours are fabulous. My little flat is nice (when the heating and lights work) and I start a job with the British Council in 2 weeks that's attached to the historical University here. When the weather picks up things should be super.
Hope you are all keeping well. I look forward to hearing voices (preferably not in a delusional fever this time).
Ciao! xxxxx
I've since received a grand total of 4 phone calls (2 that night) in a month after I was practically bullied into getting a landline by people who wanted to call me. *Scowls at the phone*. Oh well!
Wednesday 7 March 2007
Senorita Invierno
The story of Miss Winter.
It is September 2002. I am 23. I haven't been abroad for over 8 years and I've never flown alone. On the plane, I decide to disguard the red wine due to its stark similarity to vinegar, and observe the lightening flashes in the clouds as we fly through a French storm.
I arrive in Spain at Valencia airport. Everything goes smoothly and I walk out of the arrivals gate to see my mother. Or, at least, a very drunk version of my mother who is swaying slightly. I would later learn that she'd rather over done the sampling of some "Agua de Valencia". She had moved to Valencia 6 weeks before hand to enter the last third of her life in a culture that suited her far better than England. The sunshine, the way of life, generally being nocturnal. My brother began plans to buy a flat in Valencia for her to live in.
I had never been to Spain before. I was half expecting a hot desert, flamenco and perhaps a donkey, but was surprised to see they had cars, roads, and general civilization. I stayed with my mother (and we continued to sample the various cocktails and potions of the region) for a week. I almost died from over-consumption of homemade Sangria. On the Tuesday, I ventured (with about two words of Spanish) up to Barcelona (not realising that it was in a region called Catalunya and that Spanish was in fact the second language) and spent a day in the hot sunshine, stunned by the beauty of the city and the glorious September weather. Whilst sitting on a tour bus, my nose turning red and being effortlessly and tragically English, I made the decision to move to Spain one day.
I returned to London and continued to be a rather carefree young thing, now unable to drink anything remotely resembling red wine (due to the Sangria) and settling for Bucks Fizz, seeing my friends and attending rehearsals for the musical of the season (Sweeney Todd).
My mother came home for Christmas. She was about 2 stone thinner and looked terribly ill. We knew something was very wrong. Nevertheless my brother proceeded to buy the flat in Valencia, and she returned shortly after the new year. However, within a month we were told she had terminal lung cancer and a 5% chance of living beyond a year. The doctors gave her 6 months. As a family we spent the first weekend in February enjoying Valencia together, something she wouldn't be able to do once the chemotherapy began. She went twice more when there were breaks in her treatment, in June and September, but the 4 of us were never there together again. However, my family's link with Valencia was set, and is set, in stone.
My mother died on 9th February 2004. Six weeks later, on Mother's Day, we scattered her ashes in the Mediterranean Sea at Malvarrosa beach, Valencia, and looked to the future. Amidst everything there was to do, and feel, and survive, I never lost site of my decision to move to Spain.
It is October 10th 2006. The taxi has dropped me at the rather dodgy looking hostel near Las Ramblas in Barcelona. I have dumped my case in my room, and I am walking towards Port Vell. The sun is shining. My TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) course begins in 6 days in a Catalan town nearby. Once I qualify, I can teach English anywhere in the world (well, except war zones and countries that don't like women). Later that night, I lie in my bunk, eyes wide open, listening to the objectionable snoring of an old Argentinian woman who had been singing me folk songs all evening. The sheets are like cardboard. I think about my comfortable flat in London - the big bed, the cuddly duvet, my sofa, my privacy. And I smile. Because I'm free. And this is an adventure. The cuddly duvet can wait. "The danger of an adventure is worth a thousand days of ease and comfort" - Paulo Coelho
I qualified in late November and moved to Madrid on 3rd January 2007. I wanted to have this year or two years abroad, learning Spanish and seeing new things and having my freedom (with two pairs of trousers and a handful of tops) before launching into a career that requires all or nothing. I cannot act here. That will have to wait. But I can write. So I am. Two months later I can understand what people are saying. I have made several friends and my work continues to fascinate me. I'm planning to move to the south of Spain for the next academic year in an attempt to keep warm! Madrid is freezing. In 10 days time, I will be with my brother and sister in Valencia again, for the festival of "Las Fallas de San Jose" (19th March) and to remember my mother on Mother's Day.
My first student, Alberto. I tell him my name. Alison Winter. He says to me, "I call you Senorita Invierno".
I am Senorita Invierno.
For someone continually trying to escape winter, it seems ironic. No?
Malvarrosa, Valencia
It is September 2002. I am 23. I haven't been abroad for over 8 years and I've never flown alone. On the plane, I decide to disguard the red wine due to its stark similarity to vinegar, and observe the lightening flashes in the clouds as we fly through a French storm.
I arrive in Spain at Valencia airport. Everything goes smoothly and I walk out of the arrivals gate to see my mother. Or, at least, a very drunk version of my mother who is swaying slightly. I would later learn that she'd rather over done the sampling of some "Agua de Valencia". She had moved to Valencia 6 weeks before hand to enter the last third of her life in a culture that suited her far better than England. The sunshine, the way of life, generally being nocturnal. My brother began plans to buy a flat in Valencia for her to live in.
I had never been to Spain before. I was half expecting a hot desert, flamenco and perhaps a donkey, but was surprised to see they had cars, roads, and general civilization. I stayed with my mother (and we continued to sample the various cocktails and potions of the region) for a week. I almost died from over-consumption of homemade Sangria. On the Tuesday, I ventured (with about two words of Spanish) up to Barcelona (not realising that it was in a region called Catalunya and that Spanish was in fact the second language) and spent a day in the hot sunshine, stunned by the beauty of the city and the glorious September weather. Whilst sitting on a tour bus, my nose turning red and being effortlessly and tragically English, I made the decision to move to Spain one day.
I returned to London and continued to be a rather carefree young thing, now unable to drink anything remotely resembling red wine (due to the Sangria) and settling for Bucks Fizz, seeing my friends and attending rehearsals for the musical of the season (Sweeney Todd).
My mother came home for Christmas. She was about 2 stone thinner and looked terribly ill. We knew something was very wrong. Nevertheless my brother proceeded to buy the flat in Valencia, and she returned shortly after the new year. However, within a month we were told she had terminal lung cancer and a 5% chance of living beyond a year. The doctors gave her 6 months. As a family we spent the first weekend in February enjoying Valencia together, something she wouldn't be able to do once the chemotherapy began. She went twice more when there were breaks in her treatment, in June and September, but the 4 of us were never there together again. However, my family's link with Valencia was set, and is set, in stone.
My mother died on 9th February 2004. Six weeks later, on Mother's Day, we scattered her ashes in the Mediterranean Sea at Malvarrosa beach, Valencia, and looked to the future. Amidst everything there was to do, and feel, and survive, I never lost site of my decision to move to Spain.
It is October 10th 2006. The taxi has dropped me at the rather dodgy looking hostel near Las Ramblas in Barcelona. I have dumped my case in my room, and I am walking towards Port Vell. The sun is shining. My TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) course begins in 6 days in a Catalan town nearby. Once I qualify, I can teach English anywhere in the world (well, except war zones and countries that don't like women). Later that night, I lie in my bunk, eyes wide open, listening to the objectionable snoring of an old Argentinian woman who had been singing me folk songs all evening. The sheets are like cardboard. I think about my comfortable flat in London - the big bed, the cuddly duvet, my sofa, my privacy. And I smile. Because I'm free. And this is an adventure. The cuddly duvet can wait. "The danger of an adventure is worth a thousand days of ease and comfort" - Paulo Coelho
I qualified in late November and moved to Madrid on 3rd January 2007. I wanted to have this year or two years abroad, learning Spanish and seeing new things and having my freedom (with two pairs of trousers and a handful of tops) before launching into a career that requires all or nothing. I cannot act here. That will have to wait. But I can write. So I am. Two months later I can understand what people are saying. I have made several friends and my work continues to fascinate me. I'm planning to move to the south of Spain for the next academic year in an attempt to keep warm! Madrid is freezing. In 10 days time, I will be with my brother and sister in Valencia again, for the festival of "Las Fallas de San Jose" (19th March) and to remember my mother on Mother's Day.
My first student, Alberto. I tell him my name. Alison Winter. He says to me, "I call you Senorita Invierno".
I am Senorita Invierno.
For someone continually trying to escape winter, it seems ironic. No?
Malvarrosa, Valencia
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