Think of Spain and what images come to your mind? A beautiful white beach? Ice-cold jugs of sangria? Handsome young men in shades? Okay, that last one might just be me, but the others will be there, along with, of course, a bright, shining, full-of-heat sun.
At the risk of annoying the Spanish Tourist Board, I have some bad news - in winter, there is no sun. Well yes, it’s there and occasionally teases you with giving off a small blast of warmth, but from November until March you can forget the usual images – at least in Madrid.
After freezing like a very dumb guiri for the last few winters, this year I decided to take action and got my mum to make me a nice, wooly scarf with matching gloves and hat (yes, I have stepped into that age bracket that puts functionality above fashion. But that’s the great thing about living in a foreign land - you can get away with wearing things you would never wear in your homeland. Honest, no matter what you don, you are always going to be strange and exotic. With perhaps a little more emphasis on the strange. There is a woman who lives next to us who always remarks how you can tell a guiri because their high heels “tic-tac” along the street in the way Spanish shoes don’t. It doesn’t matter to her that all my clothing is now from Zara and Mango and Sfera and so on!).
Armed with my protection against the cold - God bless you, mum - I suggested to Ged that perhaps the time was right to embrace Spanish football. Back when we first arrived, we’d tried to find a new team, eventually plumping for Atlético Madrid. But there was never that spark so vital in supporting a team. We watched them on TV, but going to the Calderón stadium never happened and my heart was never in my mouth the way it was with our beloved Hibernian back in Edinburgh.
But over three-and-a-half years, Ged had got to grips with all the intricacies of the Spanish leagues and come up with a possible choice - Rayo de Vallecano, a team in many ways like the Hibees: small, community-based and with a chequered past. Even better, their strip had once featured a giant bumble bee on the front of it. I mean, you’ve got to love that, haven’t you?
Remembering those chilly days in Edinburgh’s Easter Road, I got fully prepared for the visit to the Teresa Rivero stadium: thermals head-to-toe, check; jumper and jeans, check; thick socks and boots, check; and finally, hat, gloves and scarf - all checked and put on at jaunty angles.
It was on the metro that I first noticed a few looks at my clothes. I paid them no heed - as I said, foreigners are always noticed and I now wear my guiri-ism with pride. The excitement grew as we bought our tickets and headed to the stadium bar for an “aperitif” before the game (one of my favourite ways to describe having a drink in Spain! Sounds so much better, don’t you think?). It was busy, but hey, I’m a Geordie lass more than used to pushing her way through far busier pubs in the Bigg Market, so I squeezed an elbow onto a small patch of space on the bar and then manoeuvred my body in. Works every time.
Well, not this time. Every time I tried to order two cañas, a voice louder than mine wiped me out and I stood there like a goldfish. Eventually, a man wearing a bumble bee shouted my order across for me. I gave him “un mil gracias”.
“You’re welcome. Good luck for the game - although we are going to win.”
“Sorry?” I replied, but he wandered off to his fellow Bumblers.
I pondered on this as I made my way back to Ged, who was standing under a poster advertising the match and pointing at the opposition’s team strip - which was exactly the same colour as my lovely hat, scarf and gloves. My mum had turned me into the opposition.
Despite Ged’s protests that both sides in Spain mixed in the seats, I whipped everything off and hid them down the front of my jacket. I appeared six months pregnant, but at least I didn’t feel like such an outsider.
And so I still froze through the game. But it was great fun and we can’t wait for our next outing. Although I might ask my mum to get her knitting needles out before then…
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta madrid. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta madrid. Mostrar todas las entradas
jueves, 5 de febrero de 2009
miércoles, 7 de enero de 2009
Seasons greetings
I’ve never found Christmas the easiest of times. Somehow, no matter how organised I’ve been, somehow I’ve always ended up dashing to Woolies at 4.55pm on Christmas Eve for emergency cards, stocking fillers or pick ‘n’ mix (because Christmas just wouldn’t be Christmas without enough chocolates to keep the dental service in practice for the next twelve months).
However, being in a new country spurred me into super-organisation. When I discovered Spain doesn’t do Christmas cards (I know!), I made my own (only to discover that Spain doesn’t really do receiving Christmas cards either. My cotton-wool snowmen and glittery greetings were met with stunned silence and then questions about how much Rioja I was drinking). Presents were wrapped ready for all three days. Yup, three. We have friends from Eastern Europe who celebrate on Christmas Eve, our expat pals on the proper day, and then the Spanish on Three Kings’ Day (twelve days after Christmas - trust the Spanish to be late). I even travelled one hour on the train to the only English-brand shop I could find which stocked sage and onion stuffing and Christmas pudding. It was going to be perfect. I went to bed early on Christmas Eve, eagerly anticipating Christmas in Madrid and feeling as excited as when I was a little girl.
And just like when I was a little girl, I found I couldn’t sleep. Bang on the stroke of midnight, the convent opposite opened its doors - and its bells. For ten minutes, the sky was filled with ding-dang-dong - with the occasional bong thrown in for good measure - to celebrate the nativity. Then, when the clangs died down, we heard the chatter and laughter of everyone going to Mass. “Merry Christmas,” said Ged. “Shut up,” I answered, snuggling into my pillow. One hour later I was awake again - by the chatter and laughter of everyone leaving Mass, with car horns taking the place of the bells. This had never happened in the UK.
By the morning my spirit of goodwill and joy to all men and Midnight Mass-goers had returned - probably helped by the glass of cold cava and smoked salmon blinis we had prepared. We opened presents, tucked into chocolate far too early in the morning, phoned family, played games . . . everything we had done in the UK, although it was frankly weird to turn on the TV and not see Dorothy and Toto leaving Kansas and we were at a loss for what to do at 3pm instead of hiding from the Queen’s speech.
Continuing to sip the cava, we began preparing lunch, peeling and chopping a mountain of vegetables (minus sprouts. There are some traditions that simply have to be avoided at the first chance possible) while listening to Shakin’ Stevens, Band Aid, Slade, and all the old favourites that we had - mercifully - been spared for the previous two months. In the distance we could see the sun glinting off the snow-topped mountains. It was all perfect.
Too perfect. Thirty minutes after I’d been transported to a Christmas worthy of The Waltons, I heard a horrendous crash followed by a string of expletives. Rushing into the kitchen I saw Ged, holding the turkey, staring at a black hole where the oven door had once been. The door was on the floor. Or rather, all the pieces that had once made the door were on the floor. The safety glass, which had looked loose for a little while, had finally given up all efforts to hold on and fallen and shattered - just like our dreams for a traditional Christmas lunch.
After sweeping up the glass and throwing accusations at each other (“you were supposed to get it fixed” “you had more time than me” “I have to do everything”, you get the picture), our Christmas had descended into chaos again. Only this time without a trusty Woolies to help out.
In situations like this there’s not much you can do, except open another bottle of cava and search through the cupboards for anything not remotely oven-based to eat. “Aaah,” said Ged, finally. “I know what to do.”
So, while all our loved ones settled down to turkey, stuffing and sprouts, we had . . . paella, or rather Christmas Surprise Paella (the surprise being a distinct lack of prawns, rabbit and chicken and in their place rather a lot of turkey along with a side dish of sage ‘n’ onion stuffing at my insistence) followed by Christmas pudding generously doused with Spanish brandy.
“It’s a metaphor for our lives,” I announced. “Spain meets Britain. It could be a new tradition.”
“Or we could get the oven fixed for next year,” answered Ged.
Reluctantly I agreed. Which is why this year, we’ll be celebrating like everyone else - with our new oven door and earplugs to block out the bells. But we’ve got a packet of rice in, just in case.
However, being in a new country spurred me into super-organisation. When I discovered Spain doesn’t do Christmas cards (I know!), I made my own (only to discover that Spain doesn’t really do receiving Christmas cards either. My cotton-wool snowmen and glittery greetings were met with stunned silence and then questions about how much Rioja I was drinking). Presents were wrapped ready for all three days. Yup, three. We have friends from Eastern Europe who celebrate on Christmas Eve, our expat pals on the proper day, and then the Spanish on Three Kings’ Day (twelve days after Christmas - trust the Spanish to be late). I even travelled one hour on the train to the only English-brand shop I could find which stocked sage and onion stuffing and Christmas pudding. It was going to be perfect. I went to bed early on Christmas Eve, eagerly anticipating Christmas in Madrid and feeling as excited as when I was a little girl.
And just like when I was a little girl, I found I couldn’t sleep. Bang on the stroke of midnight, the convent opposite opened its doors - and its bells. For ten minutes, the sky was filled with ding-dang-dong - with the occasional bong thrown in for good measure - to celebrate the nativity. Then, when the clangs died down, we heard the chatter and laughter of everyone going to Mass. “Merry Christmas,” said Ged. “Shut up,” I answered, snuggling into my pillow. One hour later I was awake again - by the chatter and laughter of everyone leaving Mass, with car horns taking the place of the bells. This had never happened in the UK.
By the morning my spirit of goodwill and joy to all men and Midnight Mass-goers had returned - probably helped by the glass of cold cava and smoked salmon blinis we had prepared. We opened presents, tucked into chocolate far too early in the morning, phoned family, played games . . . everything we had done in the UK, although it was frankly weird to turn on the TV and not see Dorothy and Toto leaving Kansas and we were at a loss for what to do at 3pm instead of hiding from the Queen’s speech.
Continuing to sip the cava, we began preparing lunch, peeling and chopping a mountain of vegetables (minus sprouts. There are some traditions that simply have to be avoided at the first chance possible) while listening to Shakin’ Stevens, Band Aid, Slade, and all the old favourites that we had - mercifully - been spared for the previous two months. In the distance we could see the sun glinting off the snow-topped mountains. It was all perfect.
Too perfect. Thirty minutes after I’d been transported to a Christmas worthy of The Waltons, I heard a horrendous crash followed by a string of expletives. Rushing into the kitchen I saw Ged, holding the turkey, staring at a black hole where the oven door had once been. The door was on the floor. Or rather, all the pieces that had once made the door were on the floor. The safety glass, which had looked loose for a little while, had finally given up all efforts to hold on and fallen and shattered - just like our dreams for a traditional Christmas lunch.
After sweeping up the glass and throwing accusations at each other (“you were supposed to get it fixed” “you had more time than me” “I have to do everything”, you get the picture), our Christmas had descended into chaos again. Only this time without a trusty Woolies to help out.
In situations like this there’s not much you can do, except open another bottle of cava and search through the cupboards for anything not remotely oven-based to eat. “Aaah,” said Ged, finally. “I know what to do.”
So, while all our loved ones settled down to turkey, stuffing and sprouts, we had . . . paella, or rather Christmas Surprise Paella (the surprise being a distinct lack of prawns, rabbit and chicken and in their place rather a lot of turkey along with a side dish of sage ‘n’ onion stuffing at my insistence) followed by Christmas pudding generously doused with Spanish brandy.
“It’s a metaphor for our lives,” I announced. “Spain meets Britain. It could be a new tradition.”
“Or we could get the oven fixed for next year,” answered Ged.
Reluctantly I agreed. Which is why this year, we’ll be celebrating like everyone else - with our new oven door and earplugs to block out the bells. But we’ve got a packet of rice in, just in case.
sábado, 2 de agosto de 2008
Handbags and glad rags
What - you expected something over July, when temperatures hit so hot it was all I could do to sit by the pool with a cocktail . . . ?
The heat in Madrid over summer is unbelievable, and I’ve had to relegate my dark clothes to my winter pile and buy new, light-coloured ones, like the Spanish. Not that it helps me to blend in. We are instantly recognised as the new “guiris” (foreigners) in the neighbourhood and our progress around the barrio is keenly watched to see what these “mad Brits” will get up to. While I’m all for individuality, it can get a bit tiring at times so I was determined to follow Spanish fashion and fit in - checking out the other women in our local bar and taking their lead. They have long hair, so do I - now (well, it’s slightly longer than it was in the UK, a major achievement for this urchin-cut girl); they like little handbags, so do I; they like red trousers . . . ok, some things are beyond the pale. But I can cope with wandering around in cute vest tops with drawstring straps and gypsy skirts.
That was how I was dressed the other morning when I popped into my bakers for our daily bread (a task containing both pleasure and pain - pleasure in that the bread is fantastic, pain in the look on the baker’s face when I try to speak Spanish). Despite it being 25C at only 9am, the baker’s wife looked at me curiously. “Don’t you feel a bit chilly, just wearing that at this time in the morning?” she asked. The Spanish like discussing the weather almost as much as the British. I tried to make a joke about it feeling like a baker’s oven outside, but the perplexed look on their faces as I stammered my words made me turn my sentence into a simple “Not really”, and I headed back to the flat, bread in one hand, little handbag in the other.
Waiting at the traffic lights to cross (and feeling chuffed that I’d finally remembered to look the right way - as in the wrong way), I noticed a man wind peering at me from out of his window. “Señora,” he shouted, “It’s very hot. Do you have far to walk?” I shook my head and said I was nearly home. He asked if I was sure I wouldn’t like a lift, then drove off as I walked on, amazed at the kindness I constantly encountered in Madrid and smiling happily to myself as I happily swung my little handbag.
A few days later we visited La Terraza. Finding somewhere close-by to have a coffee or a cana had been important to us, but we’d had trouble locating one. In we would go, perch ourselves at the bar, only to get a look of disdain and a feeling that we were something the dog had dragged in. It took a little time to be welcomed at La Terraza, but finally Ged has been given a free lighter and I can go in by myself to work, read or just people-watch. Santi, the owner, grumpily teases us about having to turn his bar into a Spanglish-speaking one - winking as he says it - and the staff greet us when we bump into them in the street.
It was through Santi that I learned about Paul, a fellow Geordie, who lives in the next calle to us - we can even see his flat from our garden. We had chosen to live in Ciudad Lineal, a nice, well-to-do, very Spanish area, and at first didn’t want to mix with ex-pats as we wanted the “Spanish” experience. But after a while you feel the need to talk to someone with whom you share a common culture and language, and Paul quickly turned out to be a good guy.
He was in La Terraza when we popped in, laughing with Santi, and invited us to join him. Intrigued by the giggling, I asked what the joke was.
“Oh, Santi just had one of the girls in asking for a discount on their meals as they eat here so much,” said Paul. “He told them he would give them a discount if they gave him a discount. She wasn’t very happy.” We looked perplexed, and he explained: “You know - the ‘ladies of the night’ who live around the corner. It’s all legal here in Spain. Look, there’s a couple over there - with the small handbags. That’s how you can tell who they are.”
I looked at my tiny bag with horror, while Ged almost fell off his bar stool laughing. It’s since been relegated to the recycling bin and I’ve decided I’m happy being known as the guiri of the neighbourhood. There’s a lot to be said about individuality, after all.
The heat in Madrid over summer is unbelievable, and I’ve had to relegate my dark clothes to my winter pile and buy new, light-coloured ones, like the Spanish. Not that it helps me to blend in. We are instantly recognised as the new “guiris” (foreigners) in the neighbourhood and our progress around the barrio is keenly watched to see what these “mad Brits” will get up to. While I’m all for individuality, it can get a bit tiring at times so I was determined to follow Spanish fashion and fit in - checking out the other women in our local bar and taking their lead. They have long hair, so do I - now (well, it’s slightly longer than it was in the UK, a major achievement for this urchin-cut girl); they like little handbags, so do I; they like red trousers . . . ok, some things are beyond the pale. But I can cope with wandering around in cute vest tops with drawstring straps and gypsy skirts.
That was how I was dressed the other morning when I popped into my bakers for our daily bread (a task containing both pleasure and pain - pleasure in that the bread is fantastic, pain in the look on the baker’s face when I try to speak Spanish). Despite it being 25C at only 9am, the baker’s wife looked at me curiously. “Don’t you feel a bit chilly, just wearing that at this time in the morning?” she asked. The Spanish like discussing the weather almost as much as the British. I tried to make a joke about it feeling like a baker’s oven outside, but the perplexed look on their faces as I stammered my words made me turn my sentence into a simple “Not really”, and I headed back to the flat, bread in one hand, little handbag in the other.
Waiting at the traffic lights to cross (and feeling chuffed that I’d finally remembered to look the right way - as in the wrong way), I noticed a man wind peering at me from out of his window. “Señora,” he shouted, “It’s very hot. Do you have far to walk?” I shook my head and said I was nearly home. He asked if I was sure I wouldn’t like a lift, then drove off as I walked on, amazed at the kindness I constantly encountered in Madrid and smiling happily to myself as I happily swung my little handbag.
A few days later we visited La Terraza. Finding somewhere close-by to have a coffee or a cana had been important to us, but we’d had trouble locating one. In we would go, perch ourselves at the bar, only to get a look of disdain and a feeling that we were something the dog had dragged in. It took a little time to be welcomed at La Terraza, but finally Ged has been given a free lighter and I can go in by myself to work, read or just people-watch. Santi, the owner, grumpily teases us about having to turn his bar into a Spanglish-speaking one - winking as he says it - and the staff greet us when we bump into them in the street.
It was through Santi that I learned about Paul, a fellow Geordie, who lives in the next calle to us - we can even see his flat from our garden. We had chosen to live in Ciudad Lineal, a nice, well-to-do, very Spanish area, and at first didn’t want to mix with ex-pats as we wanted the “Spanish” experience. But after a while you feel the need to talk to someone with whom you share a common culture and language, and Paul quickly turned out to be a good guy.
He was in La Terraza when we popped in, laughing with Santi, and invited us to join him. Intrigued by the giggling, I asked what the joke was.
“Oh, Santi just had one of the girls in asking for a discount on their meals as they eat here so much,” said Paul. “He told them he would give them a discount if they gave him a discount. She wasn’t very happy.” We looked perplexed, and he explained: “You know - the ‘ladies of the night’ who live around the corner. It’s all legal here in Spain. Look, there’s a couple over there - with the small handbags. That’s how you can tell who they are.”
I looked at my tiny bag with horror, while Ged almost fell off his bar stool laughing. It’s since been relegated to the recycling bin and I’ve decided I’m happy being known as the guiri of the neighbourhood. There’s a lot to be said about individuality, after all.
miércoles, 18 de junio de 2008
Next stop, the Priory
Hello, my name is Elizabeth and I’m an alcoholic.
Well I’m not really, but as everybody here seems to think us ex-pats have multiple drink problems, I’m just waiting for someone to hand me the address of the nearest Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and thought I should get some practice in.
I first had the inkling that we didn’t share the same ideas on drink several months ago, on a night out with Laura, Marie-Jose and their friends. We started off fine, with tapas and a cerveza, but then moved on to the fashionable area of Huertas, where the streets are paved with discos all thumping to the same Latin beat.
Latin music moves me to tears . . . of absolute boredom, so I headed to the bar to drown my ears, noting that the order consisted of coke, claras (shandies) and one beer. No prizes for guessing who that was for. In the next bar, the girls all headed straight for the dancefloor to boogie down to David Bisbal or one of the many other Operación Triunfo TV stars and then, with the grand number of no drinks consumed, moved on to the next bar, and then the next, and then the next. We hit five discos without buying one drink. They even turned their noses up at the free shots the touts were offering. Now come on, if I have to suffer Shakira five times in a row I think some form of liquid medication is called for.
So I asked if anyone wanted a drink. They all agreed they were thirsty. And asked for: “Agua, por favor”.
I explained to Marie-Jose how strange this behaviour was compared to the UK and told her about nights out with my girlfriends, trying to imitate Carrie and Co by ordering cocktails and giggling home on our stilletoes. “I know,” she replied. “When my mother and I visited Edinburgh we saw two girls in the bar and you know what? They drank a whole bottle of wine.”
After a few seconds silence, I realised Marie-Jose expected an answer to this less-than-shattering news - and that she expected that answer to be negative. I struggled for a reply and ended up with: “And . . . ?”
“A whole bottle. Just the two of them.” She shook her head in disbelief.
“But,” I began, trying to think of a time me and my best friend had ever been so restrained on a night out, “I often see businessmen drinking a whole bottle of wine at lunchtime.”
“Well of course - at lunchtime,” and she gave me that special Spanish look that says more than words ever could about how stupid us guiris are. “They are having lunch,” she added, slowly, as if talking to a child.
Doh! Of course, it’s perfectly acceptable to have a whole bottle of wine - even by yourself - at lunchtime because then it’s not alcohol. Have a three-course meal and you’re a connoisseur; have a bag of salt-and-vinegar and you’re a drunk. (Sadly, this attitude is reflected in the fact that many of these connoisseurs still think nothing of climbing into their cars after their wine-laden lunch.)
I tried to answer, but it’s a bit hard not to appear an alcoholic when you’re arguing the merits of spending tiddly-time with your best friend to a girl who’s serenely sipping a glass of water at three in the morning. So I just nodded - and I swear I heard a cock crow.
It gets worse. Laura began talking about the amount Ged and I had drank once on a night out. The grand total of four cañas each For the record, a caña is a glass of lager so small that it doesn’t even fill a half-pint glass. “You drink so much,” she chastised. See what I mean about the AA meetings?
But then, back in the UK on a visit, I realised I’d been brainwashed. Sitting in a friend’s house, I looked up from my take-away to see them all staring at me - as I added lemonade to my red wine and asked for a glass of water.
Later, I picked up a can of lager and poured some into a small glass - about cana-sized - before wandering off, leaving the half-filled can standing and my friends shaking their heads while I looked through the CDs.
And there she was - Shakira, gazing up at me from the cover of her latest record. I looked at my glass of beer and then back at the CD. The two things seemed to go so well together. Should I? Could I?
No way! I mean, they can change my drinking habits but somethings are untouchable. Shakira was pushed to the back of the collection and soon the sounds of the Arctic Monkeys came blaring out.
And that was worth raising a glass to - no matter how small it was.
Well I’m not really, but as everybody here seems to think us ex-pats have multiple drink problems, I’m just waiting for someone to hand me the address of the nearest Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and thought I should get some practice in.
I first had the inkling that we didn’t share the same ideas on drink several months ago, on a night out with Laura, Marie-Jose and their friends. We started off fine, with tapas and a cerveza, but then moved on to the fashionable area of Huertas, where the streets are paved with discos all thumping to the same Latin beat.
Latin music moves me to tears . . . of absolute boredom, so I headed to the bar to drown my ears, noting that the order consisted of coke, claras (shandies) and one beer. No prizes for guessing who that was for. In the next bar, the girls all headed straight for the dancefloor to boogie down to David Bisbal or one of the many other Operación Triunfo TV stars and then, with the grand number of no drinks consumed, moved on to the next bar, and then the next, and then the next. We hit five discos without buying one drink. They even turned their noses up at the free shots the touts were offering. Now come on, if I have to suffer Shakira five times in a row I think some form of liquid medication is called for.
So I asked if anyone wanted a drink. They all agreed they were thirsty. And asked for: “Agua, por favor”.
I explained to Marie-Jose how strange this behaviour was compared to the UK and told her about nights out with my girlfriends, trying to imitate Carrie and Co by ordering cocktails and giggling home on our stilletoes. “I know,” she replied. “When my mother and I visited Edinburgh we saw two girls in the bar and you know what? They drank a whole bottle of wine.”
After a few seconds silence, I realised Marie-Jose expected an answer to this less-than-shattering news - and that she expected that answer to be negative. I struggled for a reply and ended up with: “And . . . ?”
“A whole bottle. Just the two of them.” She shook her head in disbelief.
“But,” I began, trying to think of a time me and my best friend had ever been so restrained on a night out, “I often see businessmen drinking a whole bottle of wine at lunchtime.”
“Well of course - at lunchtime,” and she gave me that special Spanish look that says more than words ever could about how stupid us guiris are. “They are having lunch,” she added, slowly, as if talking to a child.
Doh! Of course, it’s perfectly acceptable to have a whole bottle of wine - even by yourself - at lunchtime because then it’s not alcohol. Have a three-course meal and you’re a connoisseur; have a bag of salt-and-vinegar and you’re a drunk. (Sadly, this attitude is reflected in the fact that many of these connoisseurs still think nothing of climbing into their cars after their wine-laden lunch.)
I tried to answer, but it’s a bit hard not to appear an alcoholic when you’re arguing the merits of spending tiddly-time with your best friend to a girl who’s serenely sipping a glass of water at three in the morning. So I just nodded - and I swear I heard a cock crow.
It gets worse. Laura began talking about the amount Ged and I had drank once on a night out. The grand total of four cañas each For the record, a caña is a glass of lager so small that it doesn’t even fill a half-pint glass. “You drink so much,” she chastised. See what I mean about the AA meetings?
But then, back in the UK on a visit, I realised I’d been brainwashed. Sitting in a friend’s house, I looked up from my take-away to see them all staring at me - as I added lemonade to my red wine and asked for a glass of water.
Later, I picked up a can of lager and poured some into a small glass - about cana-sized - before wandering off, leaving the half-filled can standing and my friends shaking their heads while I looked through the CDs.
And there she was - Shakira, gazing up at me from the cover of her latest record. I looked at my glass of beer and then back at the CD. The two things seemed to go so well together. Should I? Could I?
No way! I mean, they can change my drinking habits but somethings are untouchable. Shakira was pushed to the back of the collection and soon the sounds of the Arctic Monkeys came blaring out.
And that was worth raising a glass to - no matter how small it was.
sábado, 26 de abril de 2008
My new city
Someone asked me recently what Madrid was like (settings have never been one of my strong points in writing!).
Well, take the beauty of Barcelona - and instantly forget about it. I'm not even going to pretend that my new home city is as stunning as the Catalan capital. We have no Sagrada Familia, no Parc Guell (just adorable), no sea . . . In fact, Madrid doesn't have a lot going for it. There's a trickle of water that they call a river (trust me, I've seen bigger "rivers" flowing down the Bigg Market on a Saturday night), it's roasting in summer, freezing in winter and surrounded by nothing. And not even green nothing either; the land is a pale sand colour that burns your eyes in summer.
BUT . . .
For a city of almost five million, Madrid is surprisingly compact, meaning you can wander around to your heart's content - and I defy
you not to find something of interest on every street corner. Wander through La Latina and you're in the oldest part of the capital, with leaning towers of flats (well, a couple of storeys at least) and atmosphere galore. The streets here are narrow and dark, just the place for Alatriste or Britain's own Flashman to find adventures, and still contain traditional features, such as public water fountains. La Latina eminates from the beautiful Plaza Mayor (Pictured left. Just don't ever eat here. You'll need a credit card that could pay off the national debt of several African countries to do so). The plaza is a wonderful columned square where people still live and very much socialise. On one corner is Moore's Irish bar, in whose basement the Inquisition once tortured non-believers (I hate Irish bars so the torture continues to this day). My favourite place is the cape shop, where you can buy traditional Madrileño cloaks and pretend you're Dick Turpin (hmm, mebbes revealed a bit too much there).
Away from the Hapsburg part of town and you're met by wide, open boulevards and lots of light. And what light. Madrid is the highest capital in Europe and it shows. When the sun shines, the air becomes translucent. It has a quality that the only way I can describe it is to say my skin doesn't have it but I bet Gwyneth Paltrow's or Agyness Deyn's skin does. The light glimmers and shines and makes everything look different. It makes me understand why people climb mountains for the view (although understanding is the nearest I'll ever get to climbing a mountain. I mean, hey, I have the light here - why exercise?)
Statues, gargoyles, columns . . . at times, every building seems to have so
mething to see. But the best things to see are the people. Brightly dressed to match the sun and full of life. Constantly chatting, whether to friends, to strangers, on their mobiles or even to themselves (!), the bubble of talk fills the air as much as the mopeds and car horns. You cannot come to Madrid and not get caught up in the atmosphere.
From where I'm sitting now, I can just see a plane in the distance taking off from Barajas. I always wonder where they're going. The convent sits opposite, quiet until the bells at mid-day or just before mass. Nuns and priests are a common sight in Madrid. A Spanish flag is valiantly trying to show itself in full glory but there's very little breeze now that Spring has arrived so it moves slightly and then the effort is too much and it relaxes. It's going to be a hot day, so I know how it feels. Far, far away I can just see the tops of the still snow-covered mountains, so small that I know they must be gigantic close up. And then, in between them and us, lies a range of greens, a montage of mosses and sages and olives, jades and kellys and limes from the many trees and parks and gardens that fill the north-east of the city. The sky is a pale-blue softly flecked with high cloud and the birds appear as silhouettes as they start their day. It's still and peaceful, but I know that in an hour my barrio will be buzzing with activity, people going to buy their bread and newspapers, calling into La Terraza for coffee, enjoying a lovely Spring day.
No, my city doesn't have the beauty of Barcelona. It has more.
Photographs @ www.turismomadrid.es (some great images here!)
Well, take the beauty of Barcelona - and instantly forget about it. I'm not even going to pretend that my new home city is as stunning as the Catalan capital. We have no Sagrada Familia, no Parc Guell (just adorable), no sea . . . In fact, Madrid doesn't have a lot going for it. There's a trickle of water that they call a river (trust me, I've seen bigger "rivers" flowing down the Bigg Market on a Saturday night), it's roasting in summer, freezing in winter and surrounded by nothing. And not even green nothing either; the land is a pale sand colour that burns your eyes in summer.
BUT . . .
For a city of almost five million, Madrid is surprisingly compact, meaning you can wander around to your heart's content - and I defy
you not to find something of interest on every street corner. Wander through La Latina and you're in the oldest part of the capital, with leaning towers of flats (well, a couple of storeys at least) and atmosphere galore. The streets here are narrow and dark, just the place for Alatriste or Britain's own Flashman to find adventures, and still contain traditional features, such as public water fountains. La Latina eminates from the beautiful Plaza Mayor (Pictured left. Just don't ever eat here. You'll need a credit card that could pay off the national debt of several African countries to do so). The plaza is a wonderful columned square where people still live and very much socialise. On one corner is Moore's Irish bar, in whose basement the Inquisition once tortured non-believers (I hate Irish bars so the torture continues to this day). My favourite place is the cape shop, where you can buy traditional Madrileño cloaks and pretend you're Dick Turpin (hmm, mebbes revealed a bit too much there).Away from the Hapsburg part of town and you're met by wide, open boulevards and lots of light. And what light. Madrid is the highest capital in Europe and it shows. When the sun shines, the air becomes translucent. It has a quality that the only way I can describe it is to say my skin doesn't have it but I bet Gwyneth Paltrow's or Agyness Deyn's skin does. The light glimmers and shines and makes everything look different. It makes me understand why people climb mountains for the view (although understanding is the nearest I'll ever get to climbing a mountain. I mean, hey, I have the light here - why exercise?)
Statues, gargoyles, columns . . . at times, every building seems to have so
mething to see. But the best things to see are the people. Brightly dressed to match the sun and full of life. Constantly chatting, whether to friends, to strangers, on their mobiles or even to themselves (!), the bubble of talk fills the air as much as the mopeds and car horns. You cannot come to Madrid and not get caught up in the atmosphere.From where I'm sitting now, I can just see a plane in the distance taking off from Barajas. I always wonder where they're going. The convent sits opposite, quiet until the bells at mid-day or just before mass. Nuns and priests are a common sight in Madrid. A Spanish flag is valiantly trying to show itself in full glory but there's very little breeze now that Spring has arrived so it moves slightly and then the effort is too much and it relaxes. It's going to be a hot day, so I know how it feels. Far, far away I can just see the tops of the still snow-covered mountains, so small that I know they must be gigantic close up. And then, in between them and us, lies a range of greens, a montage of mosses and sages and olives, jades and kellys and limes from the many trees and parks and gardens that fill the north-east of the city. The sky is a pale-blue softly flecked with high cloud and the birds appear as silhouettes as they start their day. It's still and peaceful, but I know that in an hour my barrio will be buzzing with activity, people going to buy their bread and newspapers, calling into La Terraza for coffee, enjoying a lovely Spring day.
No, my city doesn't have the beauty of Barcelona. It has more.
Photographs @ www.turismomadrid.es (some great images here!)
domingo, 25 de febrero de 2007
Shopping!
Mad dogs and Englishmen may go out in the midday sun but they’re wasting their time if they’re going out shopping. The reality of the Spanish long lunch break – like who’s minding the store when the shopkeeper’s snoozing – had never really seemed real to me. Until now.
Even in a major city like Madrid, life here centres around the barrio, and in the barrio are all the little shops that have more or less died out in the UK – the butcher, the baker, even the religious artefact maker – each offering traditional service. Customers are called by their first names and everyone stops for a bit of a gossip. If the shopkeeper doesn’t know you, you’ll be called “guapa” (beautiful) or “joven” (youngster) – in my case usually followed by a “yes, you” as I look around for this mysterious beautiful, young person. However, traditional service comes with a price, and in our case that price was getting out of bed early enough.
Our first few months living here have been a wonderful indulgence of late nights and even later mornings. Bliss after the hectic life we lived in the UK but hell when it comes to buying such essentials as bread! You see, while the supermarket may stay open all day, it can’t compare with our barrio’s baker – who doesn’t. Off I would go, gaily swinging my bag in the glorious midday sun like a true mad Englishwoman, only to pass La Terraza and see the baker tucking into his menu del dia as he started his two-hour lunch break. Back I would go, bag dejectedly slung under the arm, wondering how to make an exciting lunch from two potatoes, a carrot and a tin of tuna - and the cats would be getting the tune.
Eventually the baker took pity. “Guapa, you just can’t get here early enough,” he told me, “Shall I save you a loaf every day?” And now, after he finishes his lunch, I have mine – with the best bread in the barrio.
However, all that is about to change as we embark on a full working life. We’ve just been for our first interview. It was my first in five years and Ged’s first in 12, so you can imagine how nervous we were. Off I trotted, in my beloved Manolo Blahnik shoes, an expensive but wonderful reminder of my former life, pulling my skirt down over my hips and regretting having spent the summer enjoying every Spanish pastry I could find. I love high heels and overlooked the fact that my Manolos were so high they made me walk like Tina Turner. But then, disaster. The pavements here are very similar to cobbles, making walking in high heels the Spanish equivalent of doing an army assault course - and my Manolos certainly weren’t army-issue. Five minutes to the Metro station, and twenty-five minutes away from our first interview, I stepped down and the heel didn’t stop. It kept going down and down, snapping to the metal bar underneath. I tried to fix them, but nothing could be done. Besides, there wasn’t time. I needed smart shoes and I needed them fast.
Luckily the Spanish love shoes almost as much as I do, and I dashed into a nearby shoe shop to find a pair with low heels. The shop was empty except for an elderly sales assistant and a young salesman, who were checking over figures. I grabbed a shoe, tried it on, and staggered across to the two men.
“Excuse me,” I began, in my very British way of over-apologising for wanting to buy something in a shop, “I’m sorry to disturb you but I’m in a hurry. I’m on my way to an interview and my heel has snapped. Can I try on the other one to this, please?”
The assistant looked at me, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead, and peered at the shoes. Then he wandered off, leaving the salesman checking the figures at a much quicker rate than he had previously been doing. I watched the assistant wander into the back room, where thousands of shoes sat in boxes like the shoe shop that time forgot, and disappear. What seemed like an age later, he returned with my shoe’s partner and I slammed my foot into it.
“I’ll take it.”
He nodded, slowly. “Si, joven, of course. Because they are very pretty shoes and make you look very pretty too.”
The salesman nodded and was about to join in the discussion before I reminded them of the interview. I left amid calls of “Buena suerte (good luck)” and ran across the Manolo-murdering pavement and into the Metro station, cursing everything.
When we returned, the sales assistant was shutting up shop. “How was your interview?” he asked. I told him it had gone well. “Of course, because in those shoes you are ‘muy guapa’.” And then he went off for lunch, leaving me grinning.
It might be old-fashioned, it might be slow, but when you’ve just lost your Manolos, there’s a lot to be said for shopping in Spain.
Even in a major city like Madrid, life here centres around the barrio, and in the barrio are all the little shops that have more or less died out in the UK – the butcher, the baker, even the religious artefact maker – each offering traditional service. Customers are called by their first names and everyone stops for a bit of a gossip. If the shopkeeper doesn’t know you, you’ll be called “guapa” (beautiful) or “joven” (youngster) – in my case usually followed by a “yes, you” as I look around for this mysterious beautiful, young person. However, traditional service comes with a price, and in our case that price was getting out of bed early enough.
Our first few months living here have been a wonderful indulgence of late nights and even later mornings. Bliss after the hectic life we lived in the UK but hell when it comes to buying such essentials as bread! You see, while the supermarket may stay open all day, it can’t compare with our barrio’s baker – who doesn’t. Off I would go, gaily swinging my bag in the glorious midday sun like a true mad Englishwoman, only to pass La Terraza and see the baker tucking into his menu del dia as he started his two-hour lunch break. Back I would go, bag dejectedly slung under the arm, wondering how to make an exciting lunch from two potatoes, a carrot and a tin of tuna - and the cats would be getting the tune.
Eventually the baker took pity. “Guapa, you just can’t get here early enough,” he told me, “Shall I save you a loaf every day?” And now, after he finishes his lunch, I have mine – with the best bread in the barrio.
However, all that is about to change as we embark on a full working life. We’ve just been for our first interview. It was my first in five years and Ged’s first in 12, so you can imagine how nervous we were. Off I trotted, in my beloved Manolo Blahnik shoes, an expensive but wonderful reminder of my former life, pulling my skirt down over my hips and regretting having spent the summer enjoying every Spanish pastry I could find. I love high heels and overlooked the fact that my Manolos were so high they made me walk like Tina Turner. But then, disaster. The pavements here are very similar to cobbles, making walking in high heels the Spanish equivalent of doing an army assault course - and my Manolos certainly weren’t army-issue. Five minutes to the Metro station, and twenty-five minutes away from our first interview, I stepped down and the heel didn’t stop. It kept going down and down, snapping to the metal bar underneath. I tried to fix them, but nothing could be done. Besides, there wasn’t time. I needed smart shoes and I needed them fast.
Luckily the Spanish love shoes almost as much as I do, and I dashed into a nearby shoe shop to find a pair with low heels. The shop was empty except for an elderly sales assistant and a young salesman, who were checking over figures. I grabbed a shoe, tried it on, and staggered across to the two men.
“Excuse me,” I began, in my very British way of over-apologising for wanting to buy something in a shop, “I’m sorry to disturb you but I’m in a hurry. I’m on my way to an interview and my heel has snapped. Can I try on the other one to this, please?”
The assistant looked at me, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead, and peered at the shoes. Then he wandered off, leaving the salesman checking the figures at a much quicker rate than he had previously been doing. I watched the assistant wander into the back room, where thousands of shoes sat in boxes like the shoe shop that time forgot, and disappear. What seemed like an age later, he returned with my shoe’s partner and I slammed my foot into it.
“I’ll take it.”
He nodded, slowly. “Si, joven, of course. Because they are very pretty shoes and make you look very pretty too.”
The salesman nodded and was about to join in the discussion before I reminded them of the interview. I left amid calls of “Buena suerte (good luck)” and ran across the Manolo-murdering pavement and into the Metro station, cursing everything.
When we returned, the sales assistant was shutting up shop. “How was your interview?” he asked. I told him it had gone well. “Of course, because in those shoes you are ‘muy guapa’.” And then he went off for lunch, leaving me grinning.
It might be old-fashioned, it might be slow, but when you’ve just lost your Manolos, there’s a lot to be said for shopping in Spain.
Moving in
Looking back on our first month in Madrid, as I sit on our terrace, glass of wine in one hand, nibbles on the table, cats rolling around in the sunshine, it’s hard to believe that neither of us has actually killed each other yet.
Moving is one of the most stressful things going. Move to a new countryand you can multiply that stress level by every single one of the thousands of miles you’ve just travelled, and sometimes the level gets so high that you can see smoke billowing from your ears and heaven protect whoever is standing next to you.
When we first arrived, we knew we had to stay in a hotel for a few days while we opened a bank account and filled in all the necessary paperwork for the flat. What we didn’t know was that the bank would take that particular time to install new software, which meant our “aval bancario” (bank guarantee) disappeared into the ether longer than it should. A couple of nights in a hotel turned into a week, despite the fact that Gema, the rental agent, had actually gone with us to open the account. “Can’t we just move in?” we pleaded. By the look she gave us in answer, you’d think we’d just asked her to take a one-hour lunch break. Frustration forced us to the bar, silently accusing each other: “You wanted to move here . . .” over glasses of cold rioja. Several glasses later, making our way back to the hotel through crowds of families enjoying the end of a hot, summer’s day in a way we’d envied so much as visitors, the accusations died away. If this was the worst that happened, we could cope.
Except it wasn’t. I had to return to the UK to pick up my babies – Harrie and Hattie, two mangy cats who cost me £2.50 to buy 12 years ago and several hundreds of pounds to transport now. Thanks to pet passports, getting them prepared for the journey was easy. Much easier than physically carting them around two airports while a certain airline’s staff looked on in bemusement. I tried to be inconspicous, but the girls wouldn’t stop stop shouting. (Not that I could blame them; I had already knocked Harrie’s case off the luggage trolley and it had gone rolling across the floor - with her inside. If miaows could be translated, none of hers would have had more than four letters.)
Then, at Heathrow, after I had snaked my way round the check-in queue, I had to take them out of their cases – right in the middle of terminal two – while a lovely man named Mo drilled extra holes into their boxes for them to be able to travel. After her topsy-turvy entrance into the world of airports, I could see Harrie eyeing the runway with interest and I had visions of her becoming one of the “bongs” on that night’s Ten O’Clock News: “And finally, a runaway cat has halted all air traffic in and out of Heathrow. Her owner, who has since been given enough valium to knock-out a horse, was last seen gibbering dementedly in a corner clutching a half-empty bottle of Spanish brandy”.
But their ultimate humiliation came at Barajas. They were given their own private escort to the terminal. I, meanwhile, had to go fleeing around like a madwoman and was just heading for the excess baggage area (where I had been told I would pick them up) when I heard a howling from the carousel. There were their boxes, going round and round and round, with Harrie and Hattie inside, scowling as several planeloads of Spaniards ooohed and aaahed at them. It took another hour for my suitcases to arrive, by which point I just wanted to plonk myself at the airport bar and forget about everything.
But at least we were home and it would be plain sailing from now on. You bet? Ged, my husband, greeted me with the news: “We have to meet Don Carlos, the landlord – now.” So, on our first day in our new home, nervous, scared, and with two very angry cats in tow, we met Don Carlos. Think of Sean Connery in the film Medicine Man – old man, beard, ponytail – and add a moped and a helmet and you’ve got the idea. He went to a Jesuit school in Brighton as a child and had all the manners and formality you would imagine of a Spaniard who gets called “Don”. Well, Don Carlos took one glance at the Bedlam reject standing in front of him and decided to just talk to Ged, while I followed them around like a lapdog – still clutching a catbox in either hand.
When he’d gone, Ged turned to me. “You wouldn’t believe how stressful today’s been,” he said. I glared at him. There was nothing for it – he had to die. “How stressful your day’s been?” I shouted. “Here,” he answered, before the rant could begin, “Have a glass of rioja.” And suddenly, it didn’t seem so bad . . .
Moving is one of the most stressful things going. Move to a new countryand you can multiply that stress level by every single one of the thousands of miles you’ve just travelled, and sometimes the level gets so high that you can see smoke billowing from your ears and heaven protect whoever is standing next to you.
When we first arrived, we knew we had to stay in a hotel for a few days while we opened a bank account and filled in all the necessary paperwork for the flat. What we didn’t know was that the bank would take that particular time to install new software, which meant our “aval bancario” (bank guarantee) disappeared into the ether longer than it should. A couple of nights in a hotel turned into a week, despite the fact that Gema, the rental agent, had actually gone with us to open the account. “Can’t we just move in?” we pleaded. By the look she gave us in answer, you’d think we’d just asked her to take a one-hour lunch break. Frustration forced us to the bar, silently accusing each other: “You wanted to move here . . .” over glasses of cold rioja. Several glasses later, making our way back to the hotel through crowds of families enjoying the end of a hot, summer’s day in a way we’d envied so much as visitors, the accusations died away. If this was the worst that happened, we could cope.
Except it wasn’t. I had to return to the UK to pick up my babies – Harrie and Hattie, two mangy cats who cost me £2.50 to buy 12 years ago and several hundreds of pounds to transport now. Thanks to pet passports, getting them prepared for the journey was easy. Much easier than physically carting them around two airports while a certain airline’s staff looked on in bemusement. I tried to be inconspicous, but the girls wouldn’t stop stop shouting. (Not that I could blame them; I had already knocked Harrie’s case off the luggage trolley and it had gone rolling across the floor - with her inside. If miaows could be translated, none of hers would have had more than four letters.)
Then, at Heathrow, after I had snaked my way round the check-in queue, I had to take them out of their cases – right in the middle of terminal two – while a lovely man named Mo drilled extra holes into their boxes for them to be able to travel. After her topsy-turvy entrance into the world of airports, I could see Harrie eyeing the runway with interest and I had visions of her becoming one of the “bongs” on that night’s Ten O’Clock News: “And finally, a runaway cat has halted all air traffic in and out of Heathrow. Her owner, who has since been given enough valium to knock-out a horse, was last seen gibbering dementedly in a corner clutching a half-empty bottle of Spanish brandy”.
But their ultimate humiliation came at Barajas. They were given their own private escort to the terminal. I, meanwhile, had to go fleeing around like a madwoman and was just heading for the excess baggage area (where I had been told I would pick them up) when I heard a howling from the carousel. There were their boxes, going round and round and round, with Harrie and Hattie inside, scowling as several planeloads of Spaniards ooohed and aaahed at them. It took another hour for my suitcases to arrive, by which point I just wanted to plonk myself at the airport bar and forget about everything.
But at least we were home and it would be plain sailing from now on. You bet? Ged, my husband, greeted me with the news: “We have to meet Don Carlos, the landlord – now.” So, on our first day in our new home, nervous, scared, and with two very angry cats in tow, we met Don Carlos. Think of Sean Connery in the film Medicine Man – old man, beard, ponytail – and add a moped and a helmet and you’ve got the idea. He went to a Jesuit school in Brighton as a child and had all the manners and formality you would imagine of a Spaniard who gets called “Don”. Well, Don Carlos took one glance at the Bedlam reject standing in front of him and decided to just talk to Ged, while I followed them around like a lapdog – still clutching a catbox in either hand.
When he’d gone, Ged turned to me. “You wouldn’t believe how stressful today’s been,” he said. I glared at him. There was nothing for it – he had to die. “How stressful your day’s been?” I shouted. “Here,” he answered, before the rant could begin, “Have a glass of rioja.” And suddenly, it didn’t seem so bad . . .
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