It got to 6.30pm and I decided to go and sit at the cafe in the Cathedral Square (10 steps from my front door) and catch the evening sunlight over a Trina de Limon (still lemonade). I was getting upset about leaving Spain so I pulled myself together and swept out of my front door. And walked straight into a chicken.
A tall chicken, who said 'Pase Guapa' (after you, gorgeous). There is an election going on with various infuriating cars with loud speakers driving around. However, I have the good fortune to live next door to Los Verdes - the Green Party. They don't drive around obnoxiously with ugly, patronising, fake politicians trying to smile. They have a chicken and a leaflet. They SO have my vote. If I could vote.
I had a brief exchange with the chicken, which is a sentence I never thought I'd write, and continued onto the square.
I am currently re-reading Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince to have it fresh in my mind in time for the sequel in July. I hadn't read any HP books until Christmas 2005. I loved the films (take me away from reality please!) and had been meaning to read the books. I asked for them for Christmas. And I got them. And I read them all, from what appeared to be a playful child's story to dark tragedy. What wonderful stories and characterisation. Such powerful emotion and metaphor. This is what I love about Science Fiction and Fantasy. It highlights the human condition by removing familiar settings. Star Trek was less about exploring Space and more about exploring humanity. It was character driven, as is Harry Potter, and I love that. It is appealing to explore emotions you wouldn't necessarily reach on a day to day basis. To experience an emotional journey with a character in a book or on screen when the scenarios are 'out of this world' feeds the imagination and stimulates a wealth of feelings. It is emotional metaphor - therefore easier to identify with a state of being rather than a situation. It is pure catharsis - as it is with fairy tales. For more on the subject I recommend "The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales". The book examins how fairy tales liberate emotions through metaphor. This was a subject I'd intended to research further academically, but then decided to explore the world first and write about it afterwards, if there's time!
The same with Buffy the Vampire Slayer - one of the best written TV shows I've ever seen (if not the best) with (quite surprisingly) great acting and wonderful character development. The title and idea puts people off I think - it is actually meant to be self-parody and it does it very well, whilst also maintaining enough sincerity to care deeply about the characters. The script moves so fast with pop-culture references and puns that actually, you need to see it more than once to get it (especially if you have trouble hearing the Californian accent and the words which are all too often swallowed). It also includes the single best hour of television I've ever seen. Joss Whedon (the creator who is an exceptionally talented man, also affiliated with 'Equality Now' - a feminist movement) wrote the episode called The Body. I've never been so affected by a piece of TV.
After watching Buffy for such a long time, I find it very difficult to tolerate poor television (which is why I don't have one) but also to watch female characters always and forever being 'in-relation-to a man'. The girlfriend, the mother, the daughter, the witch, the virgin, blah blah blah. Or there's the career woman who's dying inside because she's single. I'm none of those things yet I still exist. I work, I survive, I struggle, I have my adventures, I have my relationships. But I'm not second fiddle to anyone. i come from a family of strong independent women. I once said to a colleague at work that since my Mum's death I've felt like I'm the King of my world - no-one above me anymore, or even by my side. I'm responsible for everything. He said, 'don't you mean Queen?'. Clearly he failed to see the metaphor. A King out-ranks a Queen. Am I so alone in seeing through gender? My Sister recently said to me that there are more differences within the sexes than between them. I think she's right. I for one do not intend to be restricted by mine, as far as nature will allow. I think the media and its representations needs serious scruntiny.
Anyway. Buffy. Started out rather 2 dimensionally and then became something fresh and invigorating and I think it was partially before its time. A female hero. A long way away from perfection of course - she was blonde and thin and saved the world wearing high-heels, but it's the first time you see a leading female character who is surviving almost entirely independently. It is also the first time you see a female character standing up for herself without being smacked down for being out of line. It is also the first time that the men are cast in-relation-to the female and the male characters fall by the way side. Interesting.
If someone asked me what my ideal part would be, I would answer, James T Kirk. A greek hero with every kind of adventure and experience! Or Buffy if I knew Tai Kwon Do. Someone who fights alone. Like I do and so many others do too. There are plenty of Shakespearean roles I would also love. Most of them are the male roles because they're more interesting. I have better things to do than flap across in stage in a pretty dress going 'He loves me! Oh no he doesn't. Oh in that case I think I'll go mad and kill myself.' Fiona Shaw (as it would happen, currently playing Aunt Petunia in the HP films) has played a Shakespearean King. I can but hope that I could play a person rather than a romantic element. The feminist in me is crawling up the walls at this point. But acting as a profession can never be fair or have equal rights. It could do a lot more for women, but I fear it is a way off from becoming a fair play ground. For instance - Boston Legal. Cleverly written, acted very well by the two male leads, who are not pin-ups. But all the women look as though they've spent 100 years in make-up and all but disappear when they turn sideways. The last time I saw it, it actually jarred me completely and destroyed the realism. I'm so sick of it. America is appalling for such things (Hollywood I mean), whereas the UK is more relaxed about how thin/beautiful an actress has to be. For me, I fear my hips will dictate a career restricted to theatre. I wouldn't have a problem with that because I love theatre, but I resent being limited because I am not thin. Anyone who says that this discrimination doesn't exist is unrealistic or lying. I have in front of me an application for drama school. On the front page, it asks for height and weight and a full length photo, to be assessed before you even get an audition. Nice.
Anyway, that's my rant. Let's go back to the cafe where I was pleasantly reading my book in the sunshine whilst the chicken talked to pedestrians.
I was sipping my drink when a clearly not Spanish girl asked me a question in Spanish. She ended up joining me at my table and we spoke for two hours in a mixture of Spanish, French and English. (She was French). It's so lovely to meet people - she too has come here alone to try something new. She has a work placement and she's securing accommodation. I'm going to help her before I leave. If it's one thing I absolutely adore about speaking languages, it's the motive. I haven't heard bad language (well, except from my English friend Steve when he's driving and trying to avoid insane Spanish drivers...they drive how they like - there are no rules!) for months. Every attempt at communication has a beautiful motive - to communicate! A primal human thing to do. You end up being a lot more physical as you gesture your way through a conversation. You end up showing off your sense of humour when you fail to get the right word or mis-pronounce something and say something embarrassing, but the over-all nature is to get to know each other. To get alone. To connect. You make more of an effort.
She was delightful and it was so nice just to sit there at a cafe in the sun chatting to a complete stranger. If only the world could be like this everywhere. Strangers reaching out instead of shutting themselves away.
I read today about events in the Lebanon. 'The bloodiest internal conflict since the civil war ended 17 years ago'. I cannot understand this at all. I don't understand why people kill each other, though if I'd lived there and had everything torn away from me I may well be doing the same thing. I don't know. I'm too ignorant and niave to comprehend. But this is another reason I love to hide in the Scifi genre. It speaks of hope - for the world, for humanity. I have to have hope and I'm glad I'm somewhere where I can have it - where I'm not surrounded by despair. Of course, I hope it soon ends with minimal loss of life (although there's already been a great deal) so that the civilians can live in peace, but selfishly I also hope that my army ex-students who are posted in Lebanon (from the United Nations peace core of the Spanish army who I taught here in Madrid until March this year) are somewhere safe. They're probably no-where near the trouble, but it's the first thing you think of.
Quite a contrast to sitting at a cafe in the sun, reading a story.
Monday, 21 May 2007
Saturday, 19 May 2007
Riverside walk
I'm currently trying to build up my strength for El Camino, which I begin in two week's time. I'm well out of shape, or at least my legs are, after such a long winter. It was one of the warmest they've ever had, but that's not saying much. It's usually utterly freezing, what with being in the middle of a land mass. So it wasn't as bad as usual. But for me to go for a good long walk it needs to be warm and dry. We didn't really get 'warm'. I was warned. It just suddenly got very hot, though they tell me this is a heat wave. It's glorious. It is around 35 degrees in the afternoon. Perfect. But it's only been perfect very recently so my muscles are rubbish.
Anyway, I walked for 2-3 hours yesterday (and this is all in crappy footwear) to get going and ached a bit last night, which is unusual for me. Then today I set off and was walking for around 4.5 hours in the sun. I wore my trainers this time to support my feet better, though they did rub a hole in my toe. I've been stretching and I don't feel it at all. The only pain I feel is from using an elipitator which I thought would be the perfect solution to having relatively smooth legs on the 5 week trek without carrying anything with me (e.g. shaving foam). All I can say is, OW, and screw having smooth legs. I'd rather be a yeti than go through that again. Why do women have to have smooth legs anyway? I can't believe I'm facing a 5-6 week trek and spiritual pilgimage across Spain and the only thing that's really perplexing me is hair removal. I want to say I just won't worry - but I will. Men can just grow a beard for the duration and they'd be all hippy-like. Women with hairy legs (well I must make a distinction, who are SEEN with hairy legs) are far less acceptable. Or did I imagine that? I mean, I don't bother that much unless I've got them out. I will be wearing shorts, you see. I shouldn't care. I know I shouldn't care. But it's like wearing a top with food down the front. You know you're not going to elicit respect. Well, apart from feminists I suppose.
I find this most frustrating. On all other counts, I can manage this walk. I may strain a few muscles or cripple myself for life, but as far as taking very little and being 'lost' for 5-6 weeks is concerned, it's all going to plan. I just can't carry something as heavy as a can of shaving foam, and my skin will not cooperate with anything less. Oh well. To Hell with it. No make up, no pretty clothes (I just bought a pair of men's shorts because they have practical pockets as opposed to the women's which are cut to show everything off and have no practicality, plus a men's sleeveless T-shirt to keep the sun off my front and back. Women's T-shirts are made to assentuate the bust so my front would be exposed to the sun whereas the men's keeps me covered to my neck line. I do not wish to have boot-leather skin) and yeti legs. As nature intended. Bring it on. On other issues of feminine 'care-taking', I feel it necessary to celebrate the sheer excellence of the Moon Cup. It's good to know there are some practical advances happening for women. You can learn more here, though most of you probably won't want to. If you're male, just don't go there, unless you're interested in advances in saving the environment.
Well anyway. The pain from having individual legs hairs torn out one by one over around 20 minutes is slowly beginning to subside. My knee hurts a bit, but from experience, the more I walk, the more the muscles around it will strengthen, provided I stretch. I was run over nearly 10 years ago now. I walked around the back of an ambulance and into the path of a van. Can't do anything without irony. I was thrown several metres but my head was saved by a fluffy rucksac I was wearing (a present for my 18th birthday from the siblings - they may have saved my life). However, my left knee has never recovered. I couldn't walk properly for months. But walking really helps, as does swimming. If I have to bail out of El Camino, it will be because of the knee (or being carried off by a crazed donkey, you never know). But I suspect it will be OK.
Today was just magical. I walked down to the river and followed the path that follows it around the city. Which is next to a couple of nice big mountains. There is some strange flower (or tree I suppose!), I'm not sure what it's called, but in Spring it scatters white fluffy bits everywhere. For some time now, walking by the river in the hot sun has been accompanied by the appearance of heavy snow. It is utterly beautiful. It even settles on the ground. If anyone knows what this stuff is, I'd like to know. The whole town has been subjected to it for weeks.
There are many colourful flowers on that path. I hadn't realised, but I'd never seen a poppy before. Not a real one. I'd followed the English tradition of pinning a fake poppy to my top on November 11th (11.11) to mark Armistice Day, but I'd simply never seen a real one. I've never seen something natural so red. Due to the masses of rain we'd had until recently, lots of the usually brown landscape is still a lushious green. I love that walk so much - it's peaceful, hardly any people, and combines mountains, a river and flowers. It's like how I'd imagine Eden to be. But in my mind Eden has less dust.
But the best thing is the sound. Silence. With so many different kinds of bird song. I feel guilty for not being able to appreciate it more. I know nothing about birds or what kinds they are. There was some information but all in Spanish and being an obscure subject, translating was beyond me! I wish I knew something more about them so I could have identified a species - to have understood just a bit more about the singing. It was enchanting.
My friend's blog has had more than a few mentions about me lately - about the conflicts I've been facing - getting 'real' over following my dreams. A friends of her's wrote in to her blog with the following insight, and I was reminded of it today as I meandered by the riverside.
Bobbie Bobstein writes:
Loved yesterday's blog message (We are the only people we will spend our entire lives with. Who would we rather disappoint at their end of our lives, people who are out living their lives the way they see fit, or ourselves?)
Also, Tuesday's part about what others think of creative people "Because artists love what they do, the rest of the public considers it frivolous AND people thinking actors, writers and musicians are taking up valuable space and ought to get real jobs." I DO believe, as you do, that we need creatives to TEACH us, encourage our own imaginations and bring art and beauty into our lives. They are as necessary as the air we breathe.
But when you said "When we do take jobs as a necessity to stay afloat financially, we need to put a deadline on them and we need to spend a few hours every day (before or after work hours) working on our REAL goal: taking steps to segue from the "necessary" service to the "sublime service."
THAT is what reminded me of Robert Frost's poem "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening"... you sure do have a great memory for so much of it!!! Where it speaks to me in relation to what you said is this:
The big-shot who owns the woods, lives in town and does NOT know of the beauty he possesses ... he's only doing the business, paying the bills.
The trespasser on his property, though, has seen the beauty of G-d's creation and has been mesmerized by watching Nature work its magic.
The pony, like the owner in town, also does not SEE - he impatiently shakes his bells, wanting to move on and do the business at hand. Practicality and the call of the Present keep him blind to the treasure all around him.
Ultimately, the trespasser succumbs to the needs of the day and trades his awe for the necessities he must cover in the miles before day's end. BUT, unlike the other 2, the LAST LINE REPEATED shows that the trespasser is also aware that the constant battle to balance the "necessary service with the sublime service" will follow him all the miles in his life to come, until his FINAL SLEEP.
And one more thing - perhaps in imitation of life, the apparently lyrical content and easy flow of Frost's poem is actually governed by a rigid rhyme-scheme. In each quad,(except the last) the 3rd line's last word does not rhyme with the rest in its group ... but DOES form the sound of the next quad's rhyme pattern:
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Such a lovely, simple poem. And I think I know how he feels.
"The danger of an adventure is worth a thousand days of ease and comfort" - Paulo Coelho
I could spend the rest of my life appreciating such riversides and snowy woods, and I hope to. I've seen life come and go, and I know with perfect clarity how brief, how delicate and how amazing it is. I have enough sense to know when it is time for the necessary and time for the sublime. But I would rather die poor, or prematurely, having taken risks, having allowed myself to pursue my creativity than live a long life with wealth, predictability and security. My philosophy for a long time has been, if were to die tomorrow, what would my regrets be? What would my wishes be? There are many things I want to do and see, and people I want to share things with, but I am every day living my life in a manner which allows these things to happen, that facilitates my dreams and is an open path rather than a diary which tells that on 7th November I have a meeting with such and such for so and so. I cannot live like that (not at the moment at least). If I die tomorrow I will die happy, because I know I'm on the right path for me. The destination is not important. I live my life in a manner which leaves me open to intuition and spontaneity - that follows what the Chinese call the Tao, and what some may call God, so that I might become everything I want to be, do all that I want to do and meet people through the law of attraction that I might feel at home with. After I saw a life taken away in the smallest of moments, who am I to gamble with weeks or months or years? I cannot live like that. I need to be alive and in the moment, and I suspect I always will. To follow each and every second of the day in everything I do. Even in necessary work. I must find something that I don't end up wishing the time away for.
I've never seen such bright colours, nor felt so free. I'm beginning to believe that what I think and feel is right for me, is allowed, is inspired. And that I shouldn't work against it to please others. I knew this before, but I must have forgotten. I keep forgetting. I don't want to travel forever, but I need to at the moment. And 'at the moment' is all that counts. Don't ask me about the future because God only knows what's in store and unless we concentrate on the present, our future will be pretty dull anyway.
Well that's my thought for the day. The pain in my legs has gone, though they are covered in small red spots. As a woman, I'm glad I wasn't born any earlier. I'm so pleased I have the freedom I do. But will someone please give me an answer about hair removal? Why do we do it??? It's illogical, Captain! But I know I'm too conditioned not to. And why are all the products on the market so much more expensive than those for men?
Oh well. I cannot complain. I do not have to get married to survive. I can work in several kinds of job. I can travel alone. I am dependent on no-one. I am committed to no-one. And nothing, except for the flat. Lonely, but for now, quite satisfactory.
Here are some of the pictures I took today:
And the curious white fluff..
Anyway, I walked for 2-3 hours yesterday (and this is all in crappy footwear) to get going and ached a bit last night, which is unusual for me. Then today I set off and was walking for around 4.5 hours in the sun. I wore my trainers this time to support my feet better, though they did rub a hole in my toe. I've been stretching and I don't feel it at all. The only pain I feel is from using an elipitator which I thought would be the perfect solution to having relatively smooth legs on the 5 week trek without carrying anything with me (e.g. shaving foam). All I can say is, OW, and screw having smooth legs. I'd rather be a yeti than go through that again. Why do women have to have smooth legs anyway? I can't believe I'm facing a 5-6 week trek and spiritual pilgimage across Spain and the only thing that's really perplexing me is hair removal. I want to say I just won't worry - but I will. Men can just grow a beard for the duration and they'd be all hippy-like. Women with hairy legs (well I must make a distinction, who are SEEN with hairy legs) are far less acceptable. Or did I imagine that? I mean, I don't bother that much unless I've got them out. I will be wearing shorts, you see. I shouldn't care. I know I shouldn't care. But it's like wearing a top with food down the front. You know you're not going to elicit respect. Well, apart from feminists I suppose.
I find this most frustrating. On all other counts, I can manage this walk. I may strain a few muscles or cripple myself for life, but as far as taking very little and being 'lost' for 5-6 weeks is concerned, it's all going to plan. I just can't carry something as heavy as a can of shaving foam, and my skin will not cooperate with anything less. Oh well. To Hell with it. No make up, no pretty clothes (I just bought a pair of men's shorts because they have practical pockets as opposed to the women's which are cut to show everything off and have no practicality, plus a men's sleeveless T-shirt to keep the sun off my front and back. Women's T-shirts are made to assentuate the bust so my front would be exposed to the sun whereas the men's keeps me covered to my neck line. I do not wish to have boot-leather skin) and yeti legs. As nature intended. Bring it on. On other issues of feminine 'care-taking', I feel it necessary to celebrate the sheer excellence of the Moon Cup. It's good to know there are some practical advances happening for women. You can learn more here, though most of you probably won't want to. If you're male, just don't go there, unless you're interested in advances in saving the environment.
Well anyway. The pain from having individual legs hairs torn out one by one over around 20 minutes is slowly beginning to subside. My knee hurts a bit, but from experience, the more I walk, the more the muscles around it will strengthen, provided I stretch. I was run over nearly 10 years ago now. I walked around the back of an ambulance and into the path of a van. Can't do anything without irony. I was thrown several metres but my head was saved by a fluffy rucksac I was wearing (a present for my 18th birthday from the siblings - they may have saved my life). However, my left knee has never recovered. I couldn't walk properly for months. But walking really helps, as does swimming. If I have to bail out of El Camino, it will be because of the knee (or being carried off by a crazed donkey, you never know). But I suspect it will be OK.
Today was just magical. I walked down to the river and followed the path that follows it around the city. Which is next to a couple of nice big mountains. There is some strange flower (or tree I suppose!), I'm not sure what it's called, but in Spring it scatters white fluffy bits everywhere. For some time now, walking by the river in the hot sun has been accompanied by the appearance of heavy snow. It is utterly beautiful. It even settles on the ground. If anyone knows what this stuff is, I'd like to know. The whole town has been subjected to it for weeks.
There are many colourful flowers on that path. I hadn't realised, but I'd never seen a poppy before. Not a real one. I'd followed the English tradition of pinning a fake poppy to my top on November 11th (11.11) to mark Armistice Day, but I'd simply never seen a real one. I've never seen something natural so red. Due to the masses of rain we'd had until recently, lots of the usually brown landscape is still a lushious green. I love that walk so much - it's peaceful, hardly any people, and combines mountains, a river and flowers. It's like how I'd imagine Eden to be. But in my mind Eden has less dust.
But the best thing is the sound. Silence. With so many different kinds of bird song. I feel guilty for not being able to appreciate it more. I know nothing about birds or what kinds they are. There was some information but all in Spanish and being an obscure subject, translating was beyond me! I wish I knew something more about them so I could have identified a species - to have understood just a bit more about the singing. It was enchanting.
My friend's blog has had more than a few mentions about me lately - about the conflicts I've been facing - getting 'real' over following my dreams. A friends of her's wrote in to her blog with the following insight, and I was reminded of it today as I meandered by the riverside.
Bobbie Bobstein writes:
Loved yesterday's blog message (We are the only people we will spend our entire lives with. Who would we rather disappoint at their end of our lives, people who are out living their lives the way they see fit, or ourselves?)
Also, Tuesday's part about what others think of creative people "Because artists love what they do, the rest of the public considers it frivolous AND people thinking actors, writers and musicians are taking up valuable space and ought to get real jobs." I DO believe, as you do, that we need creatives to TEACH us, encourage our own imaginations and bring art and beauty into our lives. They are as necessary as the air we breathe.
But when you said "When we do take jobs as a necessity to stay afloat financially, we need to put a deadline on them and we need to spend a few hours every day (before or after work hours) working on our REAL goal: taking steps to segue from the "necessary" service to the "sublime service."
THAT is what reminded me of Robert Frost's poem "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening"... you sure do have a great memory for so much of it!!! Where it speaks to me in relation to what you said is this:
The big-shot who owns the woods, lives in town and does NOT know of the beauty he possesses ... he's only doing the business, paying the bills.
The trespasser on his property, though, has seen the beauty of G-d's creation and has been mesmerized by watching Nature work its magic.
The pony, like the owner in town, also does not SEE - he impatiently shakes his bells, wanting to move on and do the business at hand. Practicality and the call of the Present keep him blind to the treasure all around him.
Ultimately, the trespasser succumbs to the needs of the day and trades his awe for the necessities he must cover in the miles before day's end. BUT, unlike the other 2, the LAST LINE REPEATED shows that the trespasser is also aware that the constant battle to balance the "necessary service with the sublime service" will follow him all the miles in his life to come, until his FINAL SLEEP.
And one more thing - perhaps in imitation of life, the apparently lyrical content and easy flow of Frost's poem is actually governed by a rigid rhyme-scheme. In each quad,(except the last) the 3rd line's last word does not rhyme with the rest in its group ... but DOES form the sound of the next quad's rhyme pattern:
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Such a lovely, simple poem. And I think I know how he feels.
"The danger of an adventure is worth a thousand days of ease and comfort" - Paulo Coelho
I could spend the rest of my life appreciating such riversides and snowy woods, and I hope to. I've seen life come and go, and I know with perfect clarity how brief, how delicate and how amazing it is. I have enough sense to know when it is time for the necessary and time for the sublime. But I would rather die poor, or prematurely, having taken risks, having allowed myself to pursue my creativity than live a long life with wealth, predictability and security. My philosophy for a long time has been, if were to die tomorrow, what would my regrets be? What would my wishes be? There are many things I want to do and see, and people I want to share things with, but I am every day living my life in a manner which allows these things to happen, that facilitates my dreams and is an open path rather than a diary which tells that on 7th November I have a meeting with such and such for so and so. I cannot live like that (not at the moment at least). If I die tomorrow I will die happy, because I know I'm on the right path for me. The destination is not important. I live my life in a manner which leaves me open to intuition and spontaneity - that follows what the Chinese call the Tao, and what some may call God, so that I might become everything I want to be, do all that I want to do and meet people through the law of attraction that I might feel at home with. After I saw a life taken away in the smallest of moments, who am I to gamble with weeks or months or years? I cannot live like that. I need to be alive and in the moment, and I suspect I always will. To follow each and every second of the day in everything I do. Even in necessary work. I must find something that I don't end up wishing the time away for.
I've never seen such bright colours, nor felt so free. I'm beginning to believe that what I think and feel is right for me, is allowed, is inspired. And that I shouldn't work against it to please others. I knew this before, but I must have forgotten. I keep forgetting. I don't want to travel forever, but I need to at the moment. And 'at the moment' is all that counts. Don't ask me about the future because God only knows what's in store and unless we concentrate on the present, our future will be pretty dull anyway.
Well that's my thought for the day. The pain in my legs has gone, though they are covered in small red spots. As a woman, I'm glad I wasn't born any earlier. I'm so pleased I have the freedom I do. But will someone please give me an answer about hair removal? Why do we do it??? It's illogical, Captain! But I know I'm too conditioned not to. And why are all the products on the market so much more expensive than those for men?
Oh well. I cannot complain. I do not have to get married to survive. I can work in several kinds of job. I can travel alone. I am dependent on no-one. I am committed to no-one. And nothing, except for the flat. Lonely, but for now, quite satisfactory.
Here are some of the pictures I took today:
And the curious white fluff..
Friday, 18 May 2007
As predicted...
There is no backlash with the total lack of communication regarding the exam I wasn't told I was supposed to give. Because it is Spain.
My boss phoned me (at 8.50pm on a Friday evening) to give me some more crucial information and when I asked her about the exam, she said, "Oh yes, I did reply with some instructions but the email's broken so I expect you'll get it at some point."
"Oh right" I said, thinking about the time I'd wasted actually worrying about the situation, something the Spanish don't appear to do. I was also growing anxious as I'd placed the contents of a bottle of hair dye on my head 20 minutes before hand and had 10 minutes before I had to rinse it off. (I had tried to 'go lighter' earlier in the Spring by placing some highlights in my hair. The result was rather coppery and patchy. I've been waiting to cover up the accident with some good straight forward brown hair dye for a few weeks.)
"But perhaps I'd better explain over the phone to be on the safe side" She said cheerily. I didn't respond but glared at the clock and considered invoicing her for my time. It's Friday night!!
"OK," she continued, "They can do the written exam next week it doesn't matter (told you) but for the speaking exam you just need to...."
And she went on to describe what I was supposed to do, which rather irritatingly was exactly what I did do for last class. The whole thing is very relaxed. But she went on for some time and my hair was 'developing'.
She finally got off the phone at 9.05pm, I leapt into the shower and rinsed like there was no tomorrow. While I was in there, I heard the phone ringing again. Since when was I that popular? Upon emerging from the steamy bathroom, I listened to my voicemail, on which she'd left a completely pointless message that didn't concern me in the least. She is such a lovely woman. Just batty as a fruitcake.
So then there was the moment of truth. The hair.
Ladies and Gentlemen. I give you, Mortitia Adams.
Bugger!
Well, with that and the tan, maybe the locals will stop taking one look at me and speaking to me in English. I hate that!
Well, we may complain that Spain goes slowly and has strange quirks where bus drivers go the wrong way, postmen destroy letters because they can't be bothered to deliver them, English teachers get sacked for speaking English, people are killed/mamed in industrial accidents that could have been prevented so easily, companies drill holes in the street and don't cover them up, middle aged women die in their flats and are not reported missing for years, only to be found mummified by the sea air, and Universities test the students when it suits them without informing the students or the teachers. But the thing is, NO-ONE CARES.
So why should I?
As my good friend Steve said, as a teacher you end up losing all your principles as far as education is concerned. You can read his blog here www.madridteacher.blogspot.com. He grumbles more than me but not without good cause.
You just have to take Spain as it comes. I really had no comprehension of how different it would be to England, having visited several times even. But living here, you really get to see it is a completely different Universe. So many things are just the opposite of England. I'm very fond of the place and will return here regularly in my future, I expect.
However, my time here as a resident is drawing to a close. Indeed, my blogs will become less regular for I am about to take to the road again and can't be sure when I'll have internet access. However, with the journey I'm about to take I'll most definitely make up for the lack of quantity with quality.
I hope!
My boss phoned me (at 8.50pm on a Friday evening) to give me some more crucial information and when I asked her about the exam, she said, "Oh yes, I did reply with some instructions but the email's broken so I expect you'll get it at some point."
"Oh right" I said, thinking about the time I'd wasted actually worrying about the situation, something the Spanish don't appear to do. I was also growing anxious as I'd placed the contents of a bottle of hair dye on my head 20 minutes before hand and had 10 minutes before I had to rinse it off. (I had tried to 'go lighter' earlier in the Spring by placing some highlights in my hair. The result was rather coppery and patchy. I've been waiting to cover up the accident with some good straight forward brown hair dye for a few weeks.)
"But perhaps I'd better explain over the phone to be on the safe side" She said cheerily. I didn't respond but glared at the clock and considered invoicing her for my time. It's Friday night!!
"OK," she continued, "They can do the written exam next week it doesn't matter (told you) but for the speaking exam you just need to...."
And she went on to describe what I was supposed to do, which rather irritatingly was exactly what I did do for last class. The whole thing is very relaxed. But she went on for some time and my hair was 'developing'.
She finally got off the phone at 9.05pm, I leapt into the shower and rinsed like there was no tomorrow. While I was in there, I heard the phone ringing again. Since when was I that popular? Upon emerging from the steamy bathroom, I listened to my voicemail, on which she'd left a completely pointless message that didn't concern me in the least. She is such a lovely woman. Just batty as a fruitcake.
So then there was the moment of truth. The hair.
Ladies and Gentlemen. I give you, Mortitia Adams.
Bugger!
Well, with that and the tan, maybe the locals will stop taking one look at me and speaking to me in English. I hate that!
Well, we may complain that Spain goes slowly and has strange quirks where bus drivers go the wrong way, postmen destroy letters because they can't be bothered to deliver them, English teachers get sacked for speaking English, people are killed/mamed in industrial accidents that could have been prevented so easily, companies drill holes in the street and don't cover them up, middle aged women die in their flats and are not reported missing for years, only to be found mummified by the sea air, and Universities test the students when it suits them without informing the students or the teachers. But the thing is, NO-ONE CARES.
So why should I?
As my good friend Steve said, as a teacher you end up losing all your principles as far as education is concerned. You can read his blog here www.madridteacher.blogspot.com. He grumbles more than me but not without good cause.
You just have to take Spain as it comes. I really had no comprehension of how different it would be to England, having visited several times even. But living here, you really get to see it is a completely different Universe. So many things are just the opposite of England. I'm very fond of the place and will return here regularly in my future, I expect.
However, my time here as a resident is drawing to a close. Indeed, my blogs will become less regular for I am about to take to the road again and can't be sure when I'll have internet access. However, with the journey I'm about to take I'll most definitely make up for the lack of quantity with quality.
I hope!
Thursday, 17 May 2007
"She's Gone Native"
This is in reference to my boss. She's English, but she's been working in Spain for something like 20 years.
In Spain, as far as work deadlines, important information and formalities go, there is ever-so-slightly less of an urgency.
My boss, who I saw on Tuesday (for maybe the 5th time since I've been working here) and is a lovely women, neglected to tell me that this morning would have been a speaking exam for my students. Which I would have given. She also neglected to tell me that my students have their main exam on Tuesday 22nd. My students still do not know this, I have no way of warning them. I have also not prepared them fully, because I was told their exam was next Thursday. I was also not told, that the speaking exam was separate to the main exam.
I have never given an exam in this line of work and have no idea how it is done. I asked my boss for this information about a month ago. She never replied, but later said that someone else would come in and do the exams after my contract ends on Wednesday 23rd May.
I just checked my email (my yahoo email which I check far more regularly than usual, and there's an email from her which says it was sent yesterday. But it was not there last night when I went to bed, and it wasn't there at 1pm this afternoon). The email says (which even if it had arrived on time was not sent until 6pm last night) 'You will to give group ___ their speaking test tomorrow and they have their written test on Tuesday'.
You'd think she'd ring. You'd think she'd give me a call. This is a yahoo email account. I'm obsessive and check several times a day, but most people with a yahoo email don't check it more than once a day at the most! You'd think she might doubt that sending me an instruction the night before she expected me to carry it out, that I would in fact receive that instruction.
Curious. Has she perhaps fiddled with the email to make it look like it was sent the day before? Well - actually I don't think so because it's still absurd to tell me I'm running an exam 15 hours before I have to (with sleeping in between) so she looks a bit daft anyway.
Well. We'll no doubt find a solution. The thing is, if this happened in England, it would be so serious and angsty and horrific that there would be a chain of consequences and disciplinary proceedures no doubt. But it's Spain. They'll probably just say, "Oh, we'll do it next week then."
Good job too.
In Spain, as far as work deadlines, important information and formalities go, there is ever-so-slightly less of an urgency.
My boss, who I saw on Tuesday (for maybe the 5th time since I've been working here) and is a lovely women, neglected to tell me that this morning would have been a speaking exam for my students. Which I would have given. She also neglected to tell me that my students have their main exam on Tuesday 22nd. My students still do not know this, I have no way of warning them. I have also not prepared them fully, because I was told their exam was next Thursday. I was also not told, that the speaking exam was separate to the main exam.
I have never given an exam in this line of work and have no idea how it is done. I asked my boss for this information about a month ago. She never replied, but later said that someone else would come in and do the exams after my contract ends on Wednesday 23rd May.
I just checked my email (my yahoo email which I check far more regularly than usual, and there's an email from her which says it was sent yesterday. But it was not there last night when I went to bed, and it wasn't there at 1pm this afternoon). The email says (which even if it had arrived on time was not sent until 6pm last night) 'You will to give group ___ their speaking test tomorrow and they have their written test on Tuesday'.
You'd think she'd ring. You'd think she'd give me a call. This is a yahoo email account. I'm obsessive and check several times a day, but most people with a yahoo email don't check it more than once a day at the most! You'd think she might doubt that sending me an instruction the night before she expected me to carry it out, that I would in fact receive that instruction.
Curious. Has she perhaps fiddled with the email to make it look like it was sent the day before? Well - actually I don't think so because it's still absurd to tell me I'm running an exam 15 hours before I have to (with sleeping in between) so she looks a bit daft anyway.
Well. We'll no doubt find a solution. The thing is, if this happened in England, it would be so serious and angsty and horrific that there would be a chain of consequences and disciplinary proceedures no doubt. But it's Spain. They'll probably just say, "Oh, we'll do it next week then."
Good job too.
Tuesday, 15 May 2007
ALRIGHTY THEN
"If I had a flat in Ealing, I would never sell it"
- Stupid British woman, tonight, work 'drinks' gathering
That's exactly what I'm talking about. You'd just work for it, pay for it, feel secure, be trapped by it and die in it and leave the money behind. Well done! Bloody baby boomers mindset!
"Make sure you don't fritter it away."
- same stupid British woman, tonight, work 'drinks' gathering
I hadn't thought of this. But that's the key. That's why everyone's worried. They think I'm going to 'fritter it away'. Of course! That's the way they think! MONEY MONEY MONEY.
All I want is the freedom to go where I choose. I have sacrificed all of my previous comforts. I have 3 changes of clothes (at a push) and I live out of a suitcase. I eat very little. I don't have a TV. I don't want possessions. I want experiences and I am prepared to work for them and to continue to sacrifice comforts for them.
But I was being so dense. Some people still think that having money makes you happy and solves all your problems. Of course money can make you happy (as can an ice-cream, temporarily) and solves several problems. There are many serious problems in the world that can be at least alleviated by money (but screw that, let's make Spiderman 4 - Can He Get Any Stupider?) and I'm not belittling the significance of it.
Disposable income buys you things to distract yourself with. But I don't want to be distracted. I want to be awake and alive. They think I want to spend the money. It hadn't occured to me before. Because I don't want to spend the money. This isn't about money. If I really wanted money then of course I wouldn't sell my flat. It is a gold mine. It is my pension. In a beautiful place. I love it. I poured my heart and soul into that flat. My eyes would be lit up with greed as the agents came every year to value my property and tell me how much I'm worth. I could get fatter and fatter, telling myself I'd earned it. Always thinking about selling it one day and going around the world. It's like stocks and shares and 'Who Wants To Be A Millionnaire?'. Do you take the money, or try to get some more? If you're motivated by money, that is what you do. You accrue it, greedily. But you then become trapped by it. Addicted to it.
I want and need my liberty, and above all, TIME. There's so little time. I'm not prepared to do the kind of job that I would need to do to pay for my flat. It tires me out and drains my soul! Therefore I cannot have the flat and it has to go. The way I live my life is more important to me than where I live my life, and the kind of sofa or a big TV. The money from it will stay safe, and I will live my modest life (maybe just for a few months, maybe forever), searching for a job (a way of spending my days) that brings fulfilment, joy and peace. I don't want the money. I want the freedom and the time. I want to be comfortable, of course, and it's a case of finding a balance, but give me time over money any day. I'd go without a meal. I'd walk for days instead of getting transport. I've already given up vanity, though I indulge every so often and try to look nice. I have a pair of black jeans and a pair of black trousers. Sometimes, I get so fed up with the black jeans. But sometimes, I cannot wear the black trousers (certain times of month, etc), so I have to get into the black jeans (which are falling off my hips!) and look pretty damn homeless. That's how extravagant I can be!
But these people who still live in a world of materialism, fashion and all the other things in life I find so false and meaningless (though fun - I'm not a saint!) simply do not believe me.
That's the problem! They're assuming I'm motivated by money.
It is such a lonely feeling, when people misunderstand you so dramatically. And it's disappointing that they would assume I would be so superficial, so frivolous and so 'instant gratification' orientated. That's just the state of being I'm rejecting!
As I say, I'm not saint, I can be extravagant - but I choose to save it for special occasions and live a modest life in between. That's my choice. And my way. And I earn it. And as you can probably tell, I'm beginning to be proud of it. Hurrah!
If one more person tells me not to 'fritter it away', I'm gonna sock 'em in the mouth. Even if it's my Grandmother. If I didn't want to keep the money safe to respect my Mother's wishes and possibly to have a comfy home in the future, I'd be inclined to 'fritter it away' just to piss 'em all off. Perhaps on a Nigerian Space-Balloons project (no such thing - but there really should be just for comedic value and to annoy my sceptics).
- Stupid British woman, tonight, work 'drinks' gathering
That's exactly what I'm talking about. You'd just work for it, pay for it, feel secure, be trapped by it and die in it and leave the money behind. Well done! Bloody baby boomers mindset!
"Make sure you don't fritter it away."
- same stupid British woman, tonight, work 'drinks' gathering
I hadn't thought of this. But that's the key. That's why everyone's worried. They think I'm going to 'fritter it away'. Of course! That's the way they think! MONEY MONEY MONEY.
All I want is the freedom to go where I choose. I have sacrificed all of my previous comforts. I have 3 changes of clothes (at a push) and I live out of a suitcase. I eat very little. I don't have a TV. I don't want possessions. I want experiences and I am prepared to work for them and to continue to sacrifice comforts for them.
But I was being so dense. Some people still think that having money makes you happy and solves all your problems. Of course money can make you happy (as can an ice-cream, temporarily) and solves several problems. There are many serious problems in the world that can be at least alleviated by money (but screw that, let's make Spiderman 4 - Can He Get Any Stupider?) and I'm not belittling the significance of it.
Disposable income buys you things to distract yourself with. But I don't want to be distracted. I want to be awake and alive. They think I want to spend the money. It hadn't occured to me before. Because I don't want to spend the money. This isn't about money. If I really wanted money then of course I wouldn't sell my flat. It is a gold mine. It is my pension. In a beautiful place. I love it. I poured my heart and soul into that flat. My eyes would be lit up with greed as the agents came every year to value my property and tell me how much I'm worth. I could get fatter and fatter, telling myself I'd earned it. Always thinking about selling it one day and going around the world. It's like stocks and shares and 'Who Wants To Be A Millionnaire?'. Do you take the money, or try to get some more? If you're motivated by money, that is what you do. You accrue it, greedily. But you then become trapped by it. Addicted to it.
I want and need my liberty, and above all, TIME. There's so little time. I'm not prepared to do the kind of job that I would need to do to pay for my flat. It tires me out and drains my soul! Therefore I cannot have the flat and it has to go. The way I live my life is more important to me than where I live my life, and the kind of sofa or a big TV. The money from it will stay safe, and I will live my modest life (maybe just for a few months, maybe forever), searching for a job (a way of spending my days) that brings fulfilment, joy and peace. I don't want the money. I want the freedom and the time. I want to be comfortable, of course, and it's a case of finding a balance, but give me time over money any day. I'd go without a meal. I'd walk for days instead of getting transport. I've already given up vanity, though I indulge every so often and try to look nice. I have a pair of black jeans and a pair of black trousers. Sometimes, I get so fed up with the black jeans. But sometimes, I cannot wear the black trousers (certain times of month, etc), so I have to get into the black jeans (which are falling off my hips!) and look pretty damn homeless. That's how extravagant I can be!
But these people who still live in a world of materialism, fashion and all the other things in life I find so false and meaningless (though fun - I'm not a saint!) simply do not believe me.
That's the problem! They're assuming I'm motivated by money.
It is such a lonely feeling, when people misunderstand you so dramatically. And it's disappointing that they would assume I would be so superficial, so frivolous and so 'instant gratification' orientated. That's just the state of being I'm rejecting!
As I say, I'm not saint, I can be extravagant - but I choose to save it for special occasions and live a modest life in between. That's my choice. And my way. And I earn it. And as you can probably tell, I'm beginning to be proud of it. Hurrah!
If one more person tells me not to 'fritter it away', I'm gonna sock 'em in the mouth. Even if it's my Grandmother. If I didn't want to keep the money safe to respect my Mother's wishes and possibly to have a comfy home in the future, I'd be inclined to 'fritter it away' just to piss 'em all off. Perhaps on a Nigerian Space-Balloons project (no such thing - but there really should be just for comedic value and to annoy my sceptics).
Monday, 14 May 2007
Pretty Pictures
I've been uploading a lot of photos tonight but it takes forever to re-size them and get them sorted out and saved, so I'll leave you with this image from my trip to Toledo on Saturday. I have several more coming.
Some days you're the photographer, and some days you're the bull.
I'd never seen a real bull before. He looked sooooo pissed off.
Some days you're the photographer, and some days you're the bull.
I'd never seen a real bull before. He looked sooooo pissed off.
Sunday, 13 May 2007
Property
The Germans live in Germany,
The Romans live in Rome,
The Turkeys live in Turkey,
But the English live at home.
I have been given a responsibility - that of placing my inheritance into property. I did so 3 years ago at great cost to my lifestyle. At the time, I was living in a room in a big house in one of the prettiest and most expensive towns in the world. It was my first place of my own - where I lived alone. (I call it my own, though I was renting it. To me, I don't see a difference - unless you can buy a place outright you're still paying someone and it's never 'your own'.There is an obsession in England with owning property that I cannot understand.)
I loved that room and my time in it. Not perfect - the window looked out onto a brick wall! But it also had two attic windows which gave it plenty of light. And as I say, I was in what I consider to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. The best thing was, living so modestly, I didn't have to spend each day doing a high pressure job. I was temping at the local University and I was a Personal Assistant to one of the loveliest people I've ever worked with. In fact, this happened twice. It was only when I had to get a permanent job that life became less fun. I was enjoying working for this woman - we had a great working relationship and she really made me laugh. I had minimal responsibility. Not very much money, but enough. However, I knew that I would have to get a permanent job in order to qualify for a mortgage, and invest the inheritance as I had been instructed. So I did.
I left my little room and bought a small flat locally, at a considerable financial stretch, at the end of July. After all, that is where my life was. Within 6 months I did possibly the top 3 most stressful things you can do. I lost my Mum, started a new, important job and bought a property. It was bloody awful. Within weeks it was clear that the job was not going to work out.
The job was utterly doomed. No matter what I did. And I really tried to stick it out. I knew 2 years before I left I was in the wrong job, but the consequences for the property didn't bear thinking about. Without commuting into London (which is, I'm convinced, is some kind of purgatory) I could not afford to live in the flat. I moved into a different position for 6 months or so just to pay the bills and get by until I moved on for good.
I had done two years of working out plumbing, putting shelves up, worrying about damp, bricks, curtains, friends thinking it's really cool to have your own place but not prepared to help, carrying everything because I didn't have a car (most people would have a car before a property I think, and living in London it would be criminal to own one, in my opinion), and basically being left to manage a property, of which I had no experience, and get used to life without my Mother, entirely on my own. I was stressed out and felt completely isolated. I had responsibilities some of friends couldn't, and still can't conceive of, and it separated me from them. They were able to continue being students, or living with parents or just meeting friends instead of buying bathroom sealant and feeling like your life's been escalated forward by 20 years. I would sit on my lovely sofa and stare at the wall. So much comfort. Yet it all meant nothing to me. Last April, after the doctor prescribed anti-depressants, I threw them out without taking a single one and started planning a new life. I took voluntary redundancy at work and put some savings towards re-training as a TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) teacher. But first I had to rent the flat out to cover the mortgage from Hell.
I arranged this. I paid out several thousand pounds on certificates, various maintainance work, re-servicing the boiler, installing a new shower and even got a new roof for the extension (flat roofs, bad bad bad). I thought I was leaving the flat in a secure and fully operational situation. I moved everything I owned into a family attic, where it remains, and let the flat fully furnished.
I was making no profit, I simply wanted the property to pay for itself so I could live my life the way I wanted to. I wanted my freedom.
Having had my whole world, or my understanding of it, turned upside-down, I decided to go to Spain and teach English with nothing more than a large suitcase and my laptop. No longer interested in the right hand bag, a big television, an all singing all dancing mobile phone, having nice clothes, I decided I wanted the freedom to move around, and work for a modest income - the reward being a better climate, meeting new people and taking a chance on life, which if nothing else is what my Mother's death taught me. I could have spent the rest of my life in that flat, in that beautiful town, eating comfort food, walking around the parks and hoping with all my heart that one day I'd eventually meet someone who brought meaning to my life. Because no material thing could anymore, and all of my friends and family had someone more important to them (a spouse or a child or family, etc) and I was simply not needed. I decided to make the most of my lack of commitments and my lack of being needed. I decided to have an adventure.
I got away from it for only a few months before the flat suffered a range of difficulties that I couldn't have forseen and I had to return to sort it out. Disaster. I had money set aside just in case. But not this much.
I am therefore selling the flat. Because I cannot go back to that kind of job.
I had one before. I worked in a high building. And I remember looking out of the window and thinking, I could jump. But I wouldn't because I want to live. But not the way people expect or want me to. I remember looking out of that window and thinking, knowing my luck, I'd probably just break everything and still be alive. I got back down (off the table near the window) and looked at the pile of photocopying. I got back on the table and looked out the window. The sun was setting. I thought how nice it was to have choice about something, even if it was taking my own life. I looked back at the photocopying. For about 5 minutes, I remained trapped between the choice of photocoping 150 student files and throwing myself to my death. In the end I just got back off the table, left the photocopying room and went and bought a chocolate doughnut. I DO NOT wish to go back to that situation. I need to find another way of existing. I did offices full and part time from 1997 until 1996. 9 years. I think I've done offices, considering it is rather clear that it isn't the best environment for me. I will do it if necessary, if the means justifies the ends, and if the job has just a little bit of meaning or purpose rather than endless bureaucratic nothingness. I just want to make the most of every moment. I left a life of comfort behind in order to do that.
So. I'm selling. And I'm not re-buying.
Not yet. One day, I hope I will have a career, perhaps even the one I've always wanted (or just a job which I can enjoy), and a reason to be in a particular place. Surely if life is to have a pattern, it is to go out, find your calling, maybe find a mate, settle down, re-populate the Earth (or just a bit of it) and die. It's in that order for a reason. To settle down first and have my life taken up with trivia and financial burden, all for the sake of having the status of property owner and earning a profit is ludicrous. It's the wrong way around. The thing that really gets me is I watched my Mother struggle year after year to pay for her mortgage. The mortgage she never paid off. Because she died young. Of stress. Because she worked herself into an early grave. To pay for a mortage. For a house. Which she never owned. Because she died at 59. Because she worked too hard. So that's great. Am I to have the same fate? In 27 years time I would have paid off my mortage. I would be 55. If I live as long as her (and really, the amount of cancer in my family, and on my Dad's side too, is absurd. We're like walking tumours) I will have 3 years to enjoy the property that I OWN. Oh goody. Then I'll die. There are no cheque books in Heaven so I'll leave it behind for my kids. Except I won't have kids, because instead of finding my own family I'll have been too busy trying to unblock the sink and re-build the wall and get over-time at work to pay for a new tap.
All I have is me and my hopes for a creative career. And yet, that is what I'm being to asked to sacrifice. For the sake of 'owning' a property. It has its place, but not for 27 year old single actress who's raison d'etre dictates a life of insecurity.
"The British try to create certainty in an uncertain world by staking out their own territory. There are huge pressures to buy in the UK. If you are in your 30s and renting people wonder what's wrong with you. Renting is a stigma like being unemployed. You are perceived widely as not having a stake in society."
- Dorothy Rowe, Clinical Psychologist, author of The Real Meaning of Money.
I know that my family and friends love me and want the best for me. They want me to be safe and secure. What they fail to understand is that just over 3 years ago, the most significant person in my life died and I will never, ever feel secure again as long as I live. She died in front of me. That's one Hell of a lesson in mortality. Security is an illusion. You can pretend with houses and cars and insurance policies, but at the end of the day the most important things in life get snatched away from you at the drop of a hat and there's nothing you can do about it. The only way I can reconcile this is to live my life in a fashion which celebrates every moment, every gift and every loved one. I don't want to be bogged down by materialism and the rat-race when I can have my freedom and be myself. I hope that one day I can find work in my field of vocation (I'm holding out for some auditions in England but I have to wait until next year) and maybe then I'd have a reason to go to a certain place and settle independently. Once I have a place or a person, or God willing even both, perhaps then I can look at buying a property. But I will not find those things by submitting to a safe job and home. Buying for the sake of greed - for an investment I may not even live to see, seems utterly ludicrous. I am therefore following a dream as far as I can, to pursue writing, acting and my heart. I will go where I believe I am being lead, be it by God or by madness. It's what's in my heart and I trust it. After all, if I end up in a mental instutition I still won't have to worry about the guttering or British bloody Gas.
I'm told so often that by renting I'm throwing money down the drain. Really? I have my freedom to change my job, my country, and my home at a month's notice. And I don't have to pay out if the toilet explodes. In fact, I can claim money back off my landlady. I expect will buy a place one day if only to respect my Mother's wishes, but all this philosophy of buying doesn't mean anything to me. All I hear is that I will be rich one day. Is that the same 'one day' my Mother used to speak of before she died prematurely, I wonder?
But you know, I'll make money my own way, through writing or acting, and I'll be free and I'll be comfortable, with or without my Mother's gift, and with or without understanding.
*And now, to add a note in October 2008 amidst what appears to be a global recession, I can celebrate my choice having sold at the right time (Feb this year!). I can now go anywhere I want, and I'm not losing equity in my property. Ha.*
I'm leaving you with this article.
"The crash predicted for 2005 never happened, but interest rates are rising, troubling homeowners already paying as much as they can afford each month, and predictions are filling the newspapers that the Bank of England will raise its base rate again next week, to at least 5.5%. In America there are warnings that defaults on $300bn of mortgage debt may tip the country into recession. In Britain, house-price inflation dipped below 10% in March, and home ownership dropped for the first time in 50 years; late April brought back predictions of a coming crash - and a crash would, of course, please those who can't buy, those for whom the boom simply means an ever-more-unattainable goal.
But home repossessions and wiped-out pensions are a bleak and extreme answer to a problem that must be addressed with subtlety - and with urgency. The British relationship with bricks and mortar is like an increasingly dysfunctional marriage, in which every day that passes makes the country more ruinously dependent on a partner it cannot, or won't, control. Some tough questions, about everything from snobbery to social exclusion, political failure to plain greed, need to be answered bravely and fast if its children are to emerge relatively unscarred." - Aida Edmariam, The Guardian, May 4th 2007
For the full article click here:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/g2/story/0,,2072197,00.html
The Romans live in Rome,
The Turkeys live in Turkey,
But the English live at home.
- JH Goring, The Ballad of Lake Laloo and other Rhymes, 1909
I have been given a responsibility - that of placing my inheritance into property. I did so 3 years ago at great cost to my lifestyle. At the time, I was living in a room in a big house in one of the prettiest and most expensive towns in the world. It was my first place of my own - where I lived alone. (I call it my own, though I was renting it. To me, I don't see a difference - unless you can buy a place outright you're still paying someone and it's never 'your own'.There is an obsession in England with owning property that I cannot understand.)
I loved that room and my time in it. Not perfect - the window looked out onto a brick wall! But it also had two attic windows which gave it plenty of light. And as I say, I was in what I consider to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. The best thing was, living so modestly, I didn't have to spend each day doing a high pressure job. I was temping at the local University and I was a Personal Assistant to one of the loveliest people I've ever worked with. In fact, this happened twice. It was only when I had to get a permanent job that life became less fun. I was enjoying working for this woman - we had a great working relationship and she really made me laugh. I had minimal responsibility. Not very much money, but enough. However, I knew that I would have to get a permanent job in order to qualify for a mortgage, and invest the inheritance as I had been instructed. So I did.
I left my little room and bought a small flat locally, at a considerable financial stretch, at the end of July. After all, that is where my life was. Within 6 months I did possibly the top 3 most stressful things you can do. I lost my Mum, started a new, important job and bought a property. It was bloody awful. Within weeks it was clear that the job was not going to work out.
The job was utterly doomed. No matter what I did. And I really tried to stick it out. I knew 2 years before I left I was in the wrong job, but the consequences for the property didn't bear thinking about. Without commuting into London (which is, I'm convinced, is some kind of purgatory) I could not afford to live in the flat. I moved into a different position for 6 months or so just to pay the bills and get by until I moved on for good.
I had done two years of working out plumbing, putting shelves up, worrying about damp, bricks, curtains, friends thinking it's really cool to have your own place but not prepared to help, carrying everything because I didn't have a car (most people would have a car before a property I think, and living in London it would be criminal to own one, in my opinion), and basically being left to manage a property, of which I had no experience, and get used to life without my Mother, entirely on my own. I was stressed out and felt completely isolated. I had responsibilities some of friends couldn't, and still can't conceive of, and it separated me from them. They were able to continue being students, or living with parents or just meeting friends instead of buying bathroom sealant and feeling like your life's been escalated forward by 20 years. I would sit on my lovely sofa and stare at the wall. So much comfort. Yet it all meant nothing to me. Last April, after the doctor prescribed anti-depressants, I threw them out without taking a single one and started planning a new life. I took voluntary redundancy at work and put some savings towards re-training as a TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) teacher. But first I had to rent the flat out to cover the mortgage from Hell.
I arranged this. I paid out several thousand pounds on certificates, various maintainance work, re-servicing the boiler, installing a new shower and even got a new roof for the extension (flat roofs, bad bad bad). I thought I was leaving the flat in a secure and fully operational situation. I moved everything I owned into a family attic, where it remains, and let the flat fully furnished.
I was making no profit, I simply wanted the property to pay for itself so I could live my life the way I wanted to. I wanted my freedom.
Having had my whole world, or my understanding of it, turned upside-down, I decided to go to Spain and teach English with nothing more than a large suitcase and my laptop. No longer interested in the right hand bag, a big television, an all singing all dancing mobile phone, having nice clothes, I decided I wanted the freedom to move around, and work for a modest income - the reward being a better climate, meeting new people and taking a chance on life, which if nothing else is what my Mother's death taught me. I could have spent the rest of my life in that flat, in that beautiful town, eating comfort food, walking around the parks and hoping with all my heart that one day I'd eventually meet someone who brought meaning to my life. Because no material thing could anymore, and all of my friends and family had someone more important to them (a spouse or a child or family, etc) and I was simply not needed. I decided to make the most of my lack of commitments and my lack of being needed. I decided to have an adventure.
I got away from it for only a few months before the flat suffered a range of difficulties that I couldn't have forseen and I had to return to sort it out. Disaster. I had money set aside just in case. But not this much.
I am therefore selling the flat. Because I cannot go back to that kind of job.
I had one before. I worked in a high building. And I remember looking out of the window and thinking, I could jump. But I wouldn't because I want to live. But not the way people expect or want me to. I remember looking out of that window and thinking, knowing my luck, I'd probably just break everything and still be alive. I got back down (off the table near the window) and looked at the pile of photocopying. I got back on the table and looked out the window. The sun was setting. I thought how nice it was to have choice about something, even if it was taking my own life. I looked back at the photocopying. For about 5 minutes, I remained trapped between the choice of photocoping 150 student files and throwing myself to my death. In the end I just got back off the table, left the photocopying room and went and bought a chocolate doughnut. I DO NOT wish to go back to that situation. I need to find another way of existing. I did offices full and part time from 1997 until 1996. 9 years. I think I've done offices, considering it is rather clear that it isn't the best environment for me. I will do it if necessary, if the means justifies the ends, and if the job has just a little bit of meaning or purpose rather than endless bureaucratic nothingness. I just want to make the most of every moment. I left a life of comfort behind in order to do that.
So. I'm selling. And I'm not re-buying.
Not yet. One day, I hope I will have a career, perhaps even the one I've always wanted (or just a job which I can enjoy), and a reason to be in a particular place. Surely if life is to have a pattern, it is to go out, find your calling, maybe find a mate, settle down, re-populate the Earth (or just a bit of it) and die. It's in that order for a reason. To settle down first and have my life taken up with trivia and financial burden, all for the sake of having the status of property owner and earning a profit is ludicrous. It's the wrong way around. The thing that really gets me is I watched my Mother struggle year after year to pay for her mortgage. The mortgage she never paid off. Because she died young. Of stress. Because she worked herself into an early grave. To pay for a mortage. For a house. Which she never owned. Because she died at 59. Because she worked too hard. So that's great. Am I to have the same fate? In 27 years time I would have paid off my mortage. I would be 55. If I live as long as her (and really, the amount of cancer in my family, and on my Dad's side too, is absurd. We're like walking tumours) I will have 3 years to enjoy the property that I OWN. Oh goody. Then I'll die. There are no cheque books in Heaven so I'll leave it behind for my kids. Except I won't have kids, because instead of finding my own family I'll have been too busy trying to unblock the sink and re-build the wall and get over-time at work to pay for a new tap.
All I have is me and my hopes for a creative career. And yet, that is what I'm being to asked to sacrifice. For the sake of 'owning' a property. It has its place, but not for 27 year old single actress who's raison d'etre dictates a life of insecurity.
"The British try to create certainty in an uncertain world by staking out their own territory. There are huge pressures to buy in the UK. If you are in your 30s and renting people wonder what's wrong with you. Renting is a stigma like being unemployed. You are perceived widely as not having a stake in society."
- Dorothy Rowe, Clinical Psychologist, author of The Real Meaning of Money.
I know that my family and friends love me and want the best for me. They want me to be safe and secure. What they fail to understand is that just over 3 years ago, the most significant person in my life died and I will never, ever feel secure again as long as I live. She died in front of me. That's one Hell of a lesson in mortality. Security is an illusion. You can pretend with houses and cars and insurance policies, but at the end of the day the most important things in life get snatched away from you at the drop of a hat and there's nothing you can do about it. The only way I can reconcile this is to live my life in a fashion which celebrates every moment, every gift and every loved one. I don't want to be bogged down by materialism and the rat-race when I can have my freedom and be myself. I hope that one day I can find work in my field of vocation (I'm holding out for some auditions in England but I have to wait until next year) and maybe then I'd have a reason to go to a certain place and settle independently. Once I have a place or a person, or God willing even both, perhaps then I can look at buying a property. But I will not find those things by submitting to a safe job and home. Buying for the sake of greed - for an investment I may not even live to see, seems utterly ludicrous. I am therefore following a dream as far as I can, to pursue writing, acting and my heart. I will go where I believe I am being lead, be it by God or by madness. It's what's in my heart and I trust it. After all, if I end up in a mental instutition I still won't have to worry about the guttering or British bloody Gas.
I'm told so often that by renting I'm throwing money down the drain. Really? I have my freedom to change my job, my country, and my home at a month's notice. And I don't have to pay out if the toilet explodes. In fact, I can claim money back off my landlady. I expect will buy a place one day if only to respect my Mother's wishes, but all this philosophy of buying doesn't mean anything to me. All I hear is that I will be rich one day. Is that the same 'one day' my Mother used to speak of before she died prematurely, I wonder?
But you know, I'll make money my own way, through writing or acting, and I'll be free and I'll be comfortable, with or without my Mother's gift, and with or without understanding.
*And now, to add a note in October 2008 amidst what appears to be a global recession, I can celebrate my choice having sold at the right time (Feb this year!). I can now go anywhere I want, and I'm not losing equity in my property. Ha.*
I'm leaving you with this article.
"The crash predicted for 2005 never happened, but interest rates are rising, troubling homeowners already paying as much as they can afford each month, and predictions are filling the newspapers that the Bank of England will raise its base rate again next week, to at least 5.5%. In America there are warnings that defaults on $300bn of mortgage debt may tip the country into recession. In Britain, house-price inflation dipped below 10% in March, and home ownership dropped for the first time in 50 years; late April brought back predictions of a coming crash - and a crash would, of course, please those who can't buy, those for whom the boom simply means an ever-more-unattainable goal.
But home repossessions and wiped-out pensions are a bleak and extreme answer to a problem that must be addressed with subtlety - and with urgency. The British relationship with bricks and mortar is like an increasingly dysfunctional marriage, in which every day that passes makes the country more ruinously dependent on a partner it cannot, or won't, control. Some tough questions, about everything from snobbery to social exclusion, political failure to plain greed, need to be answered bravely and fast if its children are to emerge relatively unscarred." - Aida Edmariam, The Guardian, May 4th 2007
For the full article click here:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/g2/story/0,,2072197,00.html
Wednesday, 9 May 2007
Spiderman 3
Is the most retarded thing I've ever seen.
If you want to see 'turning to the dark side through emotional pain' actually done well (with brilliant acting and an excellent script), I refer you to Buffy T.V.S. and the character of Willow, played expertly by Alyson Hannigan.
Is the guy who turns into Spiderman (I've forgotten his name, oddly enough) supposed to be really stupid? Is this film supposed to have a main character that a 2yr old can identify with? E.G. Someone hurt me and now I'm angry. I'm going to hurt them back. Oops. Shouldn't have done that. I made it worse. OK, now I'm going to be nice. This is an adult male!!!! HELLO!! He's supposed to be a hero and he behaves like a troubled teenager and we're supposed to care. And you can tell when he's being bad - his slicks his hair down and wears eyeliner.
It marries the intellectual message of The Care Bears (be nice to each other) with scene after scene of random violence. As a piece of animation it's very good. As a story it's very weak. As a film it's just a massive waste of money that glorifies the ego - selfishness, vanity, revenge done really, really badly. I didn't care about any of the characters at any point - except for the girl occasionally who gave quite a lovely performance. Until they stuck her in a web in a car and had her scream pathetically and wait to be rescued.
40 years ago we were making television which attempted to re-evaluate how certain people are viewed in society. Now, women are still screaming because they're in peril, or looking like super models (or both) and everyone is cock-asian. I know this is comic book stuff but either make it suitably stylised (performances included) or make it naturalistic. Dick Tracy is a good example of a comic book movie that has been stylised.
What a load of old shit.
Mind you, don't know what I expected! Just thought it would be fun. I enjoyed X-Men because I love the story of the mutants (again, sci fi metaphors for racism and intolerance - great stuff) and just thought this would be as good. Mind you, X-Men 3 was also really bad. Just effects and violence.
Effects and violence. The story can be utter crap but it is all about the effects and the macho violence.
I'm going to go and listen to the radio for a bit and see if I can restore some brain cells.
Oh, the guy in the film said, "it's our choices who makes us who we are." That's such an un-original line. How did the writer get away with that?
Bring on Harry Potter and OOTP - at least we know it is better written and time billion times more complex.
If you want to see 'turning to the dark side through emotional pain' actually done well (with brilliant acting and an excellent script), I refer you to Buffy T.V.S. and the character of Willow, played expertly by Alyson Hannigan.
Is the guy who turns into Spiderman (I've forgotten his name, oddly enough) supposed to be really stupid? Is this film supposed to have a main character that a 2yr old can identify with? E.G. Someone hurt me and now I'm angry. I'm going to hurt them back. Oops. Shouldn't have done that. I made it worse. OK, now I'm going to be nice. This is an adult male!!!! HELLO!! He's supposed to be a hero and he behaves like a troubled teenager and we're supposed to care. And you can tell when he's being bad - his slicks his hair down and wears eyeliner.
It marries the intellectual message of The Care Bears (be nice to each other) with scene after scene of random violence. As a piece of animation it's very good. As a story it's very weak. As a film it's just a massive waste of money that glorifies the ego - selfishness, vanity, revenge done really, really badly. I didn't care about any of the characters at any point - except for the girl occasionally who gave quite a lovely performance. Until they stuck her in a web in a car and had her scream pathetically and wait to be rescued.
40 years ago we were making television which attempted to re-evaluate how certain people are viewed in society. Now, women are still screaming because they're in peril, or looking like super models (or both) and everyone is cock-asian. I know this is comic book stuff but either make it suitably stylised (performances included) or make it naturalistic. Dick Tracy is a good example of a comic book movie that has been stylised.
What a load of old shit.
Mind you, don't know what I expected! Just thought it would be fun. I enjoyed X-Men because I love the story of the mutants (again, sci fi metaphors for racism and intolerance - great stuff) and just thought this would be as good. Mind you, X-Men 3 was also really bad. Just effects and violence.
Effects and violence. The story can be utter crap but it is all about the effects and the macho violence.
I'm going to go and listen to the radio for a bit and see if I can restore some brain cells.
Oh, the guy in the film said, "it's our choices who makes us who we are." That's such an un-original line. How did the writer get away with that?
Bring on Harry Potter and OOTP - at least we know it is better written and time billion times more complex.
Monday, 7 May 2007
Dirty, rotten scoundrels
I had a feeling of trepidation all day. And rightly so.
I have not been paid. I get one job paid in cash and the other direct into my account and then I pay my rent in cash because it's too much to ask to create a direct debit. But the 'cash' job couldn't pay me today due to a technical problem, so I had to depend on the other job having paid me as expected. But Spain does not have a specific pay day - you have to expect it anytime between 1st-10th of the month. Plus, the pay slips would be helpful but of course the postman doesn't bother delivering them. The landlady does not understand these problems, so I keep having to withdraw money at high commission from my UK account to appease her irrational need to have the rent on the 1st of the month, even though I moved in on the 12th.
I have tried to avoid using my English account, and this month I actually said I couldn't pay until today. So I went to my local cash point (I considered going to the farther away one because it dispenses with no trouble, whereas the nearest one just sometimes won't dispense money, because Juan forgot to fill it up). Should have known - it said it could not dispense the money. I don't know if that's because I still haven't been paid or it's just not working.
Anyway, resigned to the fact that I would have to go to another Spanish bank and pay commission (7 euros) I walked a couple of metres along the street to another cashpoint. Two lads were standing there, turned around and starting saying something to me but I couldn't quite understand. I apologised and smiled and then they started shouting in my face. At which point I turned to leave and a random person bumped into me as I hurried off to yet another cashpoint. When I got there I realised I no longer had my card. I checked everything - every pocket, my entire bag, re-traced my steps but it became obvious that at some point someone had just grabbed my card when I was distracted.
So, I had to again use my English card to withdraw money to pay my rent. Then I waited in for the landlady who'd said she'd come at 9pm, which we confirmed in both Spanish and English. My friend Steve at this point turned up for support and helped me cancel the card. Landlady didn't show (and we were waiting so we could go to the Police) so we rang her after waiting for half an hour, and she said she was coming at 10pm. We told her what happened and said we needed to go to the Police, so she's coming tomorrow (oh great another evening waiting in just because a direct debit is too much to ask for) and then we went to the Police Station.
Waiting in the Police Station was worse than being robbed. I sat there getting steadily more and more hysterical (inside). So we left. I'll report it on the phone tomorrow. There were about 9 people waiting and no-one seeing them. No information. Just institutional yellowy-green walls with black damp spreading up them and a man who kept playing with his phlegm.
So that's my day. All because Spain cannot arrange to pay people on the same day of every month.
I cannot wait to go to a country that functions.
I'm going to bed to dream of owning a rocket launcher, and spending the day firing it at cars and people who annoy me. Michael Douglas. Falling Down. Great film.
There's a chance I also have PMS, which isn't helping.
This is how I feel. And it's pretty much how I look right now if I'm honest.
I have not been paid. I get one job paid in cash and the other direct into my account and then I pay my rent in cash because it's too much to ask to create a direct debit. But the 'cash' job couldn't pay me today due to a technical problem, so I had to depend on the other job having paid me as expected. But Spain does not have a specific pay day - you have to expect it anytime between 1st-10th of the month. Plus, the pay slips would be helpful but of course the postman doesn't bother delivering them. The landlady does not understand these problems, so I keep having to withdraw money at high commission from my UK account to appease her irrational need to have the rent on the 1st of the month, even though I moved in on the 12th.
I have tried to avoid using my English account, and this month I actually said I couldn't pay until today. So I went to my local cash point (I considered going to the farther away one because it dispenses with no trouble, whereas the nearest one just sometimes won't dispense money, because Juan forgot to fill it up). Should have known - it said it could not dispense the money. I don't know if that's because I still haven't been paid or it's just not working.
Anyway, resigned to the fact that I would have to go to another Spanish bank and pay commission (7 euros) I walked a couple of metres along the street to another cashpoint. Two lads were standing there, turned around and starting saying something to me but I couldn't quite understand. I apologised and smiled and then they started shouting in my face. At which point I turned to leave and a random person bumped into me as I hurried off to yet another cashpoint. When I got there I realised I no longer had my card. I checked everything - every pocket, my entire bag, re-traced my steps but it became obvious that at some point someone had just grabbed my card when I was distracted.
So, I had to again use my English card to withdraw money to pay my rent. Then I waited in for the landlady who'd said she'd come at 9pm, which we confirmed in both Spanish and English. My friend Steve at this point turned up for support and helped me cancel the card. Landlady didn't show (and we were waiting so we could go to the Police) so we rang her after waiting for half an hour, and she said she was coming at 10pm. We told her what happened and said we needed to go to the Police, so she's coming tomorrow (oh great another evening waiting in just because a direct debit is too much to ask for) and then we went to the Police Station.
Waiting in the Police Station was worse than being robbed. I sat there getting steadily more and more hysterical (inside). So we left. I'll report it on the phone tomorrow. There were about 9 people waiting and no-one seeing them. No information. Just institutional yellowy-green walls with black damp spreading up them and a man who kept playing with his phlegm.
So that's my day. All because Spain cannot arrange to pay people on the same day of every month.
I cannot wait to go to a country that functions.
I'm going to bed to dream of owning a rocket launcher, and spending the day firing it at cars and people who annoy me. Michael Douglas. Falling Down. Great film.
There's a chance I also have PMS, which isn't helping.
This is how I feel. And it's pretty much how I look right now if I'm honest.
Sunday, 6 May 2007
Spain: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly
After several months of this country I now feel qualified to give my verdict on what I consider to be the best points and the worst points of Spain. I speak with a combination of authority, awe, bitterness and total desperation - the only way to reflect on a year abroad.
GOOD
People
This is a nation of children. Liberal (to the point of absurdity, mind), and a lust for life which I'm told is possibly rivalled in some parts of Latin America, but otherwise just not. They live for today. They live. They party. They do not worry about tomorrow. They are the most human human beings I have encountered. They are also the most self-centred people I have ever encountered. And the happiest. They get on with their lives and expect others to do the same. I am frequently horrified by the way everyone knocks into each other, everyone shouts, the children run and yelling and playing, and yet no-one is concerned by this (apart from me! Ha!). It is accepted. Life is a party and there will be noise and a ridiculous amount of people all around you all the time. People will knock into you constantly but that's ok because that's what happens. They have no spacial awareness whatsoever. They are in their own world. However, they will stop and talk to you and be very friendly and helpful. To a British standard, many things can be considered rude, but that etiquette doesn't exist here. They do not consider that the woman reading her book may get frustrated by the 10 yr olds shouting and playing at the tops of their voices and running around her table. Because if the woman reading her book was Spanish (and not me) she wouldn't notice. The same way that fish do not see the water they're in, the Spanish do not see people around them. The reason this is in the good category, is because unless you're foreign, it doesn't bother you. And they are so very happy.
History
Read all about it. It's rich and fascinating. The town I live in is called a Patrimony of Humanity. Many years ago, Jews, Christians and Muslims lived here in total peace and co-operation, as with many parts of Spain. It happened once. It can happen again. Inshallah. The variance of influences makes this country rich with style and soul. Its religious history is mesmorizing. Ancient Roman towns lie about the place. Toledo (the ancient Capital of Spain) is reminiscent of Jerusalem. It is possible to go back in time in this country.
The weather
It depends on where, when and if you're unluckily enough to be hit by freak hail storms, but generally the weather is beautiful. Mostly, there's more light (I speak from an English perspective). In January daylight can begin to fade at 2pm in England. Here, it's around 6.30pm at the earliest (more or less, I remember my shock at going out at 6.30pm expecting pitch black and nearly blinding myself. I stood on the step in awe for a couple of minutes). The sunlight and the climate do a great deal to encourage the love of life in Spain. Just don't come to Madrid. I have never been so cold in my life. It is STILL warmer in England and I am still wearing a winter coat. Should have gone to Sevilla.
Food
This is matter of personal taste. The most important thing to note is that eating is a social thing in Spain. If you're a sad, single cow like me, you won't get much out of it. However, the fruit and vegetables are beautiful (to buy) and if you go to a good place, they cook meat perfectly. They do go overboard on oil, salt and sugar. A lot of the food can be quite tasteless because you get overwhelmed by a certain spice, too much salt or just too much oil. They don't do curry here. It is impossible to find a healthy breakfast anywhere but in your own home. Everything with sugar. The best possible thing to do is to befriend some guy who will invite you to his home (he will obviously still be living with the parents because any normal person under the age of 35 can't afford to move out due to an extremely messed up property/renting system which is worthy of an essay) where a 'Spanish Momma' will cook for you. I'm still waiting for this to happen, but my only hope disappeared on a peace mission to the Lebanon. Bastard.
BAD
Loud Latino Sex
This occurs at all hours, not necessarily expected hours, and can be most embarrassing when conducting a private English class at 4pm. I only heard 'frantic shagging' once in England, and they were from Israel so it doesn't count. I heard it regularly in Barcelona. When getting used to my little flat here, I once I thought I heard an animal that was in considerable distress in the street. On opening my window to investigate I realised the 'sounds' were coming from above, and that it wasn't a run-over dog, just my blonde neighbour. I have dealt with this by investing in an excellent pair of studio headphones, but the situation is doing nothing for my frown lines. I am currently drowning out extremely objectional sex sounds from the usual suspects and drunken singing from a flat two floors above (they are all singing in chorus to 'Message in a Bottle' by Police and I'm tempted to march upstairs and tell them all how to pronounce it properly, and then throw gone-off food at them. It is 2am, after all! But then I shouldn't be surprised in Spain.)
Traffic
Spain is notorious for it. But really, it's appalling. If cars disappeared tomorrow the entire nation would just die of combined shock and imposed exercise and the economy would collapse (it probably would anywhere, but it would be worse here - a car is like a mobile phone to these people). When I was working in the centre of Madrid, I was once in a bit of a hurry to get to work and therefore walking at a pace (inadvisable in Spain because they simply cannot walk fast and you just bump into them) and as I approached a small escalator at the metro, I saw about 60 people queueing to get on it (and it was about 10 steps) and NO-ONE on the stone steps next to it. They would rather stand around to get on a mechanical elevating device than walk up the stairs. I gave them all a disapproving look and leapt gazelle-like up the small flight of stairs (possible in about 3 strides, possibly 5 if you're elderly). The other day, when looking for a place to park in Salamanca, my friend Steve commented that the good thing about Spain is you know that if you go down to the 3rd floor of an underground carpark you'll instantly get a space because the Spanish aren't prepared to walk up the stairs so they only park in the first two levels. Sounds a bit harsh, but it's actually true. They'd die in London when you can only stand on one side of the escalator. As for the classic 'Latino' figure which has always mystified me for being so slender, I can safely report it is a thing of the past. Spain is catching up with England and the US rather swiftly. And this I'm sure, is due to the fact they'd die rather than walk up the stairs. That and the sugary diet. France is still thin, though.
So that's the reliance on cars and an apparent pathological laziness. The other side of the traffic scenario is the noise. I made the mistake of returning to England for 4 days over Easter. Everything there was so serene and peaceful, complete with pleasant duck ponds and general tranquility (and yet my friend was concerned she'd put me in the room next to the road, which was like a library compared to where I am in Spain) that since returning to Spain I just can't believe how loud it is. I had grown immune. Now I've wound back to zero.
There is no curfew here, unless they just break it, which wouldn't surprise me. In England, most by-laws state that any 'unreasonable' noise emmanating from a household or car between 11pm-7am is a breach of the peace. It is not permitted to sound your horn between those hours. I live on the ground floor on a busy road. I didn't think it would be a busy road because you can only get one car down it because it's a very old road and it leads on to the Cathedral Square, and not much else. However, if it's one thing I've learnt it Spain, it's that the Spanish will drive, very fast, anywhere. Because they can. So they do. The music blaring out of their cars (and I mean 80% of all cars, no exaggeration) is so loud that my entire flat rattles and I cannot hear my music. This is with the windows and shutters closed. This goes on all night at weekends. If they are kept waiting for more than 10 seconds, by someone trying to park for example, they will hit the horn several times to express annoyance. At 2am. At 4am. At 5am. And don't even get me started on the motorbikes. It sounds like the world's ending when one of them comes tearing down the street. But the worst and most of obnoxious of all of these, (and all the time petrol fumes are accumulating so much that my room smells of exhaust fumes at times, again with the windows and shutters closed!) is a car with speakers on its roof. The kind they use for elections. Four giant white speakers. It isn't enough that someone has a job driving around destroying the planet's atmosphere with fumes just to sell something, but they also have whatever radio station or political speech they want you to hear on so loudly it actually hurts. Maybe it's worse because it's in Spanish, but I just object so much to my 'space' being invaded by fumes and noise! The thing I just can't get my head around, is this is a little historical Spanish town. They're quite clearly in a big rush to corrode it. Everyone has to drive and everyone has to have a car. People will drive their cars for what would be a 2 minute walk and as a whole the country does not understand the concept of pedestrianization. (They do have pedestrian zones, but relinquish them when they feel like it, and you'll be sitting at a cafe in the sun on a cobbled street, and a truck will go past you at 20 miles per hour spraying dust into your drink).
Spitting and other vulgar excretions/explosions.
Spitting is violent, extreme and indiscriminate here, and usually aimed at the path where you are about to step. I have had to leave cafes before because old men just sit there and hock stuff up. Once on the train I was almost ill after having to listen to a businessman sniff (chestily - I could feel it resonating in me, let alone him) every 20 seconds for half an hour. I wish I knew the Spanish for 'blow your nose you horrid creature!'. Perhaps the idea of holding a hand over your mouth when sneezing or coughing never reached Spain. Doesn't seem like it.
The Bureaucracy.
There's not a lot of point in going into this. I have detailed a few stories in earlier blogs and there are no doubt many, many more from others on the internet. As far as logic, reason and order are concerned, Spain in the absolute antithesis of the planet Vulcan. I maintain, it is an unmanned classroom. The bureaucracy is a joke. A really bad one.
Industrial Accidents/Health and Safety
My friend's brother-in-law was recently killed at work by falling from a building. No harness. He's left a wife and two kids. It doesn't bear thinking about. This is however, rather common. Spain has the highest number of industrial accidents in Europe (source, 'eiro online'). From what I've seen this doesn't surprise me in the least. I don't want to say much more because the subject really upsets me. But basically, there is no such thing as health and safety in this country. Be careful. (That hole is still uncovered and outside my front door.)
Crazy Hours
This isn't really a bad thing. It's just incredible. Tonight for instance, myself and two friends went to the cinema for an early showing (10pm) of Spiderman 3. Two of us ended up not going because the internet lied and told us we'd get English headphones and watching an English filmed dubbed into Spanish is not funny. It's horrific. So one went in and myself and me pal went off for some food at a restaurant. A proper meal! Couldn't eat all of it due to eating little and often for such a long time but it was lovely. Nevertheless, the film ended at 12.25pm so we returned to the cinema to pick up number 3. As we waited outside, people were queueing for another screening. At midnight. I just don't understand!!!!!! We stood waiting and eventually people filed out. My friend said, "No-one looks completely knackered. Where do they get their energy from? I'm completely @&£%$&ed". I just shook my head and visualised my blanket. A spanish friend once explained to me that the way to do it is to get home from work at about 8pm, start cooking, eat around 9pm or 10pm, then go to sleep. Then at 1am, get up, have a shower and go out for the night. I laughed and laughed. Then I realised he was serious. And then I just laughed again.
As I say, not a bad thing, just incompatible with anyone used to sleeping at night time.
THE UGLY
Buildings
Spain can be characterised by structures of unspeakable, breathtaking beauty. Temples, cathedrals, town halls, universities, all of which can be said to boast some of the most beautiful architecture in the world with influences from the Romans and the Moors. However, for some inexplicable reason, they will be next to the biggest pile of dilapidated, shacky shit. You can visit the most beautiful cathedral of your life (as I did, and I nearly cried) but try to get a long shot view of the city and it looks like a bomb's hit it. I have seen several places in Spain, and I can say this with absolute authority. It's a country of stark contrast and unforgivable neglect.
Fashion
For some reason, women in Spain under the age of 50 appear to be under the impression that in order to look attractive you have to dress like a transvestite, and in very little. I never seen so much orange bushy hair in my life. The shoes look like a medieval torture device. Leopard print leggins are all the rage. Fortunately I'm no longer in Catalunya because the mullet situation was getting out of hand. Here, mostly it's just the men who have mullets. It is quite offensive.
I think back to England. We have the Chav. They don't have Chavs here because they are so completely clueless about what to wear (and this isn't an attack - it's endearing and refreshing) that there are no social divides or connotations when wearing a tracksuit. You wear a tracksuit because you're involved in sports. Not because you're a complete dickhead, as in the UK.
As far as young girls going out for the night are concerned, although they look a bit like Bananarama here, I believe I prefer that to a night out in Newcastle, where 15 yr olds totter about the town in mini skirts and vest tops in December (sub-zero temperatures). And often without underwear, as I was most unfortunately informed due to someone bending over with a severe lack of grace.
Spain has more innocence with these things. Still hard on the eye though. Mullets should be banned. It is the 70s here. *Shudder* Once was enough!
So that's my opinion. I have a love - hate relationship with this place. But the best has yet to come. Soon, my teaching contract ends, and I can relax and travel for a month, without the stupid daily annoyances of having to live somewhere. I need to cancel my telephone contract. I'm terrified this may involve several days in a social security office or 3 days in prison or something.
I recommend Spain as an excellent place to see, but living here can be extremely hard work. At first. Of course, once you've got most of the technicalities sorted (it takes a few months, especially if you get robbed by a gypsie), it's up to you to make of it what you will.
That is NOT me! (The donkey or the chica)
GOOD
People
This is a nation of children. Liberal (to the point of absurdity, mind), and a lust for life which I'm told is possibly rivalled in some parts of Latin America, but otherwise just not. They live for today. They live. They party. They do not worry about tomorrow. They are the most human human beings I have encountered. They are also the most self-centred people I have ever encountered. And the happiest. They get on with their lives and expect others to do the same. I am frequently horrified by the way everyone knocks into each other, everyone shouts, the children run and yelling and playing, and yet no-one is concerned by this (apart from me! Ha!). It is accepted. Life is a party and there will be noise and a ridiculous amount of people all around you all the time. People will knock into you constantly but that's ok because that's what happens. They have no spacial awareness whatsoever. They are in their own world. However, they will stop and talk to you and be very friendly and helpful. To a British standard, many things can be considered rude, but that etiquette doesn't exist here. They do not consider that the woman reading her book may get frustrated by the 10 yr olds shouting and playing at the tops of their voices and running around her table. Because if the woman reading her book was Spanish (and not me) she wouldn't notice. The same way that fish do not see the water they're in, the Spanish do not see people around them. The reason this is in the good category, is because unless you're foreign, it doesn't bother you. And they are so very happy.
History
Read all about it. It's rich and fascinating. The town I live in is called a Patrimony of Humanity. Many years ago, Jews, Christians and Muslims lived here in total peace and co-operation, as with many parts of Spain. It happened once. It can happen again. Inshallah. The variance of influences makes this country rich with style and soul. Its religious history is mesmorizing. Ancient Roman towns lie about the place. Toledo (the ancient Capital of Spain) is reminiscent of Jerusalem. It is possible to go back in time in this country.
The weather
It depends on where, when and if you're unluckily enough to be hit by freak hail storms, but generally the weather is beautiful. Mostly, there's more light (I speak from an English perspective). In January daylight can begin to fade at 2pm in England. Here, it's around 6.30pm at the earliest (more or less, I remember my shock at going out at 6.30pm expecting pitch black and nearly blinding myself. I stood on the step in awe for a couple of minutes). The sunlight and the climate do a great deal to encourage the love of life in Spain. Just don't come to Madrid. I have never been so cold in my life. It is STILL warmer in England and I am still wearing a winter coat. Should have gone to Sevilla.
Food
This is matter of personal taste. The most important thing to note is that eating is a social thing in Spain. If you're a sad, single cow like me, you won't get much out of it. However, the fruit and vegetables are beautiful (to buy) and if you go to a good place, they cook meat perfectly. They do go overboard on oil, salt and sugar. A lot of the food can be quite tasteless because you get overwhelmed by a certain spice, too much salt or just too much oil. They don't do curry here. It is impossible to find a healthy breakfast anywhere but in your own home. Everything with sugar. The best possible thing to do is to befriend some guy who will invite you to his home (he will obviously still be living with the parents because any normal person under the age of 35 can't afford to move out due to an extremely messed up property/renting system which is worthy of an essay) where a 'Spanish Momma' will cook for you. I'm still waiting for this to happen, but my only hope disappeared on a peace mission to the Lebanon. Bastard.
BAD
Loud Latino Sex
This occurs at all hours, not necessarily expected hours, and can be most embarrassing when conducting a private English class at 4pm. I only heard 'frantic shagging' once in England, and they were from Israel so it doesn't count. I heard it regularly in Barcelona. When getting used to my little flat here, I once I thought I heard an animal that was in considerable distress in the street. On opening my window to investigate I realised the 'sounds' were coming from above, and that it wasn't a run-over dog, just my blonde neighbour. I have dealt with this by investing in an excellent pair of studio headphones, but the situation is doing nothing for my frown lines. I am currently drowning out extremely objectional sex sounds from the usual suspects and drunken singing from a flat two floors above (they are all singing in chorus to 'Message in a Bottle' by Police and I'm tempted to march upstairs and tell them all how to pronounce it properly, and then throw gone-off food at them. It is 2am, after all! But then I shouldn't be surprised in Spain.)
Traffic
Spain is notorious for it. But really, it's appalling. If cars disappeared tomorrow the entire nation would just die of combined shock and imposed exercise and the economy would collapse (it probably would anywhere, but it would be worse here - a car is like a mobile phone to these people). When I was working in the centre of Madrid, I was once in a bit of a hurry to get to work and therefore walking at a pace (inadvisable in Spain because they simply cannot walk fast and you just bump into them) and as I approached a small escalator at the metro, I saw about 60 people queueing to get on it (and it was about 10 steps) and NO-ONE on the stone steps next to it. They would rather stand around to get on a mechanical elevating device than walk up the stairs. I gave them all a disapproving look and leapt gazelle-like up the small flight of stairs (possible in about 3 strides, possibly 5 if you're elderly). The other day, when looking for a place to park in Salamanca, my friend Steve commented that the good thing about Spain is you know that if you go down to the 3rd floor of an underground carpark you'll instantly get a space because the Spanish aren't prepared to walk up the stairs so they only park in the first two levels. Sounds a bit harsh, but it's actually true. They'd die in London when you can only stand on one side of the escalator. As for the classic 'Latino' figure which has always mystified me for being so slender, I can safely report it is a thing of the past. Spain is catching up with England and the US rather swiftly. And this I'm sure, is due to the fact they'd die rather than walk up the stairs. That and the sugary diet. France is still thin, though.
So that's the reliance on cars and an apparent pathological laziness. The other side of the traffic scenario is the noise. I made the mistake of returning to England for 4 days over Easter. Everything there was so serene and peaceful, complete with pleasant duck ponds and general tranquility (and yet my friend was concerned she'd put me in the room next to the road, which was like a library compared to where I am in Spain) that since returning to Spain I just can't believe how loud it is. I had grown immune. Now I've wound back to zero.
There is no curfew here, unless they just break it, which wouldn't surprise me. In England, most by-laws state that any 'unreasonable' noise emmanating from a household or car between 11pm-7am is a breach of the peace. It is not permitted to sound your horn between those hours. I live on the ground floor on a busy road. I didn't think it would be a busy road because you can only get one car down it because it's a very old road and it leads on to the Cathedral Square, and not much else. However, if it's one thing I've learnt it Spain, it's that the Spanish will drive, very fast, anywhere. Because they can. So they do. The music blaring out of their cars (and I mean 80% of all cars, no exaggeration) is so loud that my entire flat rattles and I cannot hear my music. This is with the windows and shutters closed. This goes on all night at weekends. If they are kept waiting for more than 10 seconds, by someone trying to park for example, they will hit the horn several times to express annoyance. At 2am. At 4am. At 5am. And don't even get me started on the motorbikes. It sounds like the world's ending when one of them comes tearing down the street. But the worst and most of obnoxious of all of these, (and all the time petrol fumes are accumulating so much that my room smells of exhaust fumes at times, again with the windows and shutters closed!) is a car with speakers on its roof. The kind they use for elections. Four giant white speakers. It isn't enough that someone has a job driving around destroying the planet's atmosphere with fumes just to sell something, but they also have whatever radio station or political speech they want you to hear on so loudly it actually hurts. Maybe it's worse because it's in Spanish, but I just object so much to my 'space' being invaded by fumes and noise! The thing I just can't get my head around, is this is a little historical Spanish town. They're quite clearly in a big rush to corrode it. Everyone has to drive and everyone has to have a car. People will drive their cars for what would be a 2 minute walk and as a whole the country does not understand the concept of pedestrianization. (They do have pedestrian zones, but relinquish them when they feel like it, and you'll be sitting at a cafe in the sun on a cobbled street, and a truck will go past you at 20 miles per hour spraying dust into your drink).
Spitting and other vulgar excretions/explosions.
Spitting is violent, extreme and indiscriminate here, and usually aimed at the path where you are about to step. I have had to leave cafes before because old men just sit there and hock stuff up. Once on the train I was almost ill after having to listen to a businessman sniff (chestily - I could feel it resonating in me, let alone him) every 20 seconds for half an hour. I wish I knew the Spanish for 'blow your nose you horrid creature!'. Perhaps the idea of holding a hand over your mouth when sneezing or coughing never reached Spain. Doesn't seem like it.
The Bureaucracy.
There's not a lot of point in going into this. I have detailed a few stories in earlier blogs and there are no doubt many, many more from others on the internet. As far as logic, reason and order are concerned, Spain in the absolute antithesis of the planet Vulcan. I maintain, it is an unmanned classroom. The bureaucracy is a joke. A really bad one.
Industrial Accidents/Health and Safety
My friend's brother-in-law was recently killed at work by falling from a building. No harness. He's left a wife and two kids. It doesn't bear thinking about. This is however, rather common. Spain has the highest number of industrial accidents in Europe (source, 'eiro online'). From what I've seen this doesn't surprise me in the least. I don't want to say much more because the subject really upsets me. But basically, there is no such thing as health and safety in this country. Be careful. (That hole is still uncovered and outside my front door.)
Crazy Hours
This isn't really a bad thing. It's just incredible. Tonight for instance, myself and two friends went to the cinema for an early showing (10pm) of Spiderman 3. Two of us ended up not going because the internet lied and told us we'd get English headphones and watching an English filmed dubbed into Spanish is not funny. It's horrific. So one went in and myself and me pal went off for some food at a restaurant. A proper meal! Couldn't eat all of it due to eating little and often for such a long time but it was lovely. Nevertheless, the film ended at 12.25pm so we returned to the cinema to pick up number 3. As we waited outside, people were queueing for another screening. At midnight. I just don't understand!!!!!! We stood waiting and eventually people filed out. My friend said, "No-one looks completely knackered. Where do they get their energy from? I'm completely @&£%$&ed". I just shook my head and visualised my blanket. A spanish friend once explained to me that the way to do it is to get home from work at about 8pm, start cooking, eat around 9pm or 10pm, then go to sleep. Then at 1am, get up, have a shower and go out for the night. I laughed and laughed. Then I realised he was serious. And then I just laughed again.
As I say, not a bad thing, just incompatible with anyone used to sleeping at night time.
THE UGLY
Buildings
Spain can be characterised by structures of unspeakable, breathtaking beauty. Temples, cathedrals, town halls, universities, all of which can be said to boast some of the most beautiful architecture in the world with influences from the Romans and the Moors. However, for some inexplicable reason, they will be next to the biggest pile of dilapidated, shacky shit. You can visit the most beautiful cathedral of your life (as I did, and I nearly cried) but try to get a long shot view of the city and it looks like a bomb's hit it. I have seen several places in Spain, and I can say this with absolute authority. It's a country of stark contrast and unforgivable neglect.
Fashion
For some reason, women in Spain under the age of 50 appear to be under the impression that in order to look attractive you have to dress like a transvestite, and in very little. I never seen so much orange bushy hair in my life. The shoes look like a medieval torture device. Leopard print leggins are all the rage. Fortunately I'm no longer in Catalunya because the mullet situation was getting out of hand. Here, mostly it's just the men who have mullets. It is quite offensive.
I think back to England. We have the Chav. They don't have Chavs here because they are so completely clueless about what to wear (and this isn't an attack - it's endearing and refreshing) that there are no social divides or connotations when wearing a tracksuit. You wear a tracksuit because you're involved in sports. Not because you're a complete dickhead, as in the UK.
As far as young girls going out for the night are concerned, although they look a bit like Bananarama here, I believe I prefer that to a night out in Newcastle, where 15 yr olds totter about the town in mini skirts and vest tops in December (sub-zero temperatures). And often without underwear, as I was most unfortunately informed due to someone bending over with a severe lack of grace.
Spain has more innocence with these things. Still hard on the eye though. Mullets should be banned. It is the 70s here. *Shudder* Once was enough!
So that's my opinion. I have a love - hate relationship with this place. But the best has yet to come. Soon, my teaching contract ends, and I can relax and travel for a month, without the stupid daily annoyances of having to live somewhere. I need to cancel my telephone contract. I'm terrified this may involve several days in a social security office or 3 days in prison or something.
I recommend Spain as an excellent place to see, but living here can be extremely hard work. At first. Of course, once you've got most of the technicalities sorted (it takes a few months, especially if you get robbed by a gypsie), it's up to you to make of it what you will.
That is NOT me! (The donkey or the chica)
Thursday, 3 May 2007
Salamanca
I visited Salamanca today and discovered the most beautiful work of art/architecture I have ever seen in my life. The cathedral was absolutely breathtaking. And I've seen a few.
The weather here has been so bad ("You're possessed by the weather devil, sort it out!" said my friend, Steve) that we expected rain for most of the day (it was certainly like that for most of the journey) but thankfully we were able to walk about the place without incident.
Until we sat down at an outdoor cafe, and the FOURTH thunder, lightning and hail storm I have experienced in the last 2 months hit us right between the eyes. We just moved under a porch for the duration.
It was whilst enjoying a chocolate milkshake (and the dramatic torrential downpour with ice balls the size of marbles) that I remarked to Steve that I thought the waiters were very attractive (they were dressed smartly in black and white). He pulled a face of disgust because they were both old. I said that the uniforms were rather attractive, and then suggested that I could be imagining things because I've been single for 5 and a half years. At which point he said,
"Well, smile and stop being f*cking weird."
What are friends for? Great advice to all those single people out there. He was of course joking, and I was giggling for some time. He knows I like Star Trek, you see, so he promptly recorded some Star Trek 'music' for me. I got a CD full of red alerts, scanner bleeps and doors swishing. Really embodies Gene Roddenbury's hope for the future of humanity. As does the Klingon Imperial War theme, which he played in the car for me. Coz I'm weird.
Go and see Salamanca. It's stunning. I made a friend (he shuffled up to me and was rather hard to get away from) called Alfonzo Perez who happily told me he'd lived there for 75 years and was a poet. He seems to like hanging around the Plaza Mayor, so watch out for the old guy with the berret. Lovely, but if you're trying to read, he will NOT allow it and will give you his life story. In thick Spanish. Which gave me a headache. I told him Salamanca was nicer than Oxford and that pacified him for some time.
It's 4am. I had too many sweets in the car and cannot sleep, plus I have backache from the car and cannot lie down, which is possibly also why I cannot sleep. Excellent. Teaching in 4 hours.
Argh.
The weather here has been so bad ("You're possessed by the weather devil, sort it out!" said my friend, Steve) that we expected rain for most of the day (it was certainly like that for most of the journey) but thankfully we were able to walk about the place without incident.
Until we sat down at an outdoor cafe, and the FOURTH thunder, lightning and hail storm I have experienced in the last 2 months hit us right between the eyes. We just moved under a porch for the duration.
It was whilst enjoying a chocolate milkshake (and the dramatic torrential downpour with ice balls the size of marbles) that I remarked to Steve that I thought the waiters were very attractive (they were dressed smartly in black and white). He pulled a face of disgust because they were both old. I said that the uniforms were rather attractive, and then suggested that I could be imagining things because I've been single for 5 and a half years. At which point he said,
"Well, smile and stop being f*cking weird."
What are friends for? Great advice to all those single people out there. He was of course joking, and I was giggling for some time. He knows I like Star Trek, you see, so he promptly recorded some Star Trek 'music' for me. I got a CD full of red alerts, scanner bleeps and doors swishing. Really embodies Gene Roddenbury's hope for the future of humanity. As does the Klingon Imperial War theme, which he played in the car for me. Coz I'm weird.
Go and see Salamanca. It's stunning. I made a friend (he shuffled up to me and was rather hard to get away from) called Alfonzo Perez who happily told me he'd lived there for 75 years and was a poet. He seems to like hanging around the Plaza Mayor, so watch out for the old guy with the berret. Lovely, but if you're trying to read, he will NOT allow it and will give you his life story. In thick Spanish. Which gave me a headache. I told him Salamanca was nicer than Oxford and that pacified him for some time.
It's 4am. I had too many sweets in the car and cannot sleep, plus I have backache from the car and cannot lie down, which is possibly also why I cannot sleep. Excellent. Teaching in 4 hours.
Argh.
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