The best drive-in show in town

There are some abbreviations that are simply lovely. M&Ms, for example. or BYOB and DKNY. Then there are those that fill us with dread: OHMS, BMI (Body Mass Index, not the airline, and it always makes me depressed) and now there’s ITV.

That’s right - ITV. No . . . not the television channel that brings us Corrie and Ant and Dec. It’s the Inspección Técnica de Vehículos - or to put it simply, your MOT.

Yup, Ferdie the Fiesta and I had successfully made it through our first year together and it was time for his fitness to be assessed. Actually, it had been time for a couple of months but when your beloved car is in his late teens, it doesn’t do to rush these things. You never know how expensive it could be.
Unlike in Britain, where you drive off to your local garage for an MOT, you have to attend a special centre in Spain and there’s no need for an appointment. “Just drive in,” Paul informed us - although he changes his car more times than a matador changes his pants so how he knew I have no idea. “Just drive in and hey presto - no problem.”

Well problem right there, actually Señor New Car. It’s a bit much to assume that just because I can navigate my way to the supermarket every week - yes, even by myself - that I can find my way around the impossible road system of Madrid. So we decided to head further out of town to get our ITV, to a place called Tres Cantos where I had worked and knew quite well. And really, what’s a 40 minute drive these days? Or 60 minutes, by the time we’d got lost.

“A family car?” said the guy in the ITV information centre. “Numbers three or four.”

“And then?”

“Then drive through the test,” he replied, with one of those “bah, guiri” looks.

Drive through the test? Ged and I looked at numbers three and four, at the cars politely queuing (and there’s a phrase I never thought I’d hear myself say when talking about Spanish drivers) to drive through the test.

“What do you do in Britain?” asked my non-driving, haven’t-a-clue-about-cars husband.

“Hand the keys over, have a coffee, go back.”

“That’s not what’s going to happen here, then.”

We joined the queue. I mean, it couldn’t be that hard, could it? All these people in front were doing it with no problem.

First up, a guy checked the lights. Or rather, he stood in front of Ferdie and shouted: “Enciende los faros.” I started wishing I’d brought a dictionary. He shouted again. I looked blank again. Ged just looked like he wasn’t with me. The guy came over, leaned through my window and switched on the headlights.

Then: “La intermitente para la izquierda.”

“He said ‘izquierda’ - left,” piped up Ged. “Something for the left.”

Indicatators! I flipped it on, only to hear: “No, la izquierquirda! La izquierda!” Now that wasn’t my fault. I get my left and right mixed up in English, never mind in such stressful situations as this. My examiner had had enough and leant into my car to flick on the indicator and test everything else I needed, saying each word to me. It was one of the best vocabulary lessons I’ve ever had.

Eventually he grinned and left, directing me on a couple of metres to have my exhaust examined. Thankfully, all I had to do was sit there, Ged and I both giggling at the whole thing.

A few minutes later, the giggles turned to hysterical laughter. Cleared from the exhaust man, we faced our final hurdle: manoeuvring over a great hole in the floor from which a man shouted instructions through a megaphone at the driver before me.

“I hope he can climb the stairs out of that hole damned quick because I have no idea what he’s saying,” I told Ged.

I’m not sure what alerted the man to the fact that I wasn’t entirely confident about the whole thing, although it could have been my almost driving straight into the hole, but he decided to take the safe option and explain the procedure to me Janet and John style.

“First,” he said, holding up an index finger, “take the steering wheel (he mimed holding the wheel) and turn it quickly (which he did, rather like a child pretending to be driving) then two, (two fingers up in the way that gets you a black eye in Britain but means nothing over here) press the brakes up and down (foot slamming into the floor) until I say stop. And nothing more.”

By this time I fully expected Jeremy Beadle to appear but no, we went through the procedure and - looking relieved - the man waved me on with a sheet to take to the main office.

The laughter stopped. This was the moment of truth. The man looked at the document, pulled open my ITV record, and stamped . . . “Aprobado”. We’d passed!

Now the ITV can join the list of nice abbreviations. And next year, I’m going to sell tickets for the funniest show in town.

A guiri abroad

It wasn’t until a recent visit to the UK that I realised just how Spanish I have become. No, I haven’t started wearing red trousers or grown my hair into a mullet (a crime worthy of instant execution). I mean in my everyday behaviour - I now act in a completely different way and didn’t even realise it until I suddenly couldn’t do it anymore.

First, I had to remember to apologise if I accidentally bumped into someone in the street. In Spain, nobody bothers because they’d be doing it all the time. Walking along the narrow pavements of Madrid is like a duel: they’re coming towards you, taking up all the room; you’re heading in their direction, your bags hanging at your side like a gunslinger’s holster; the pavement is only wide enough for one person to walk on and you’re both deter mined - who will win the Gunfight at the Calle Mayor? OK, it’s always me that loses, sliding to the side to allow the other person space and then scowling to myself as I’m invariable nudged by a bag (or a large Latin bum). I’m British; we deem this behaviour to be polite and even apologise to the offending bag (or her bum). Just don’t expect the Spanish to return the sentiment. You have to have been forcibly manhandled out of the way and thrown into the path of an oncoming bus before you’ll get an apology out of them.

Then I had to relearn not to say: “Hello, good morning” whenever I entered a shop. It wasn’t so bad in my mum’s corner shop, but the security guard in John Lewis looked a bit disturbed and watched me during my entire visit (somethings never change). I won’t even mention the faces of the people in the lift when I left them with a cheery: “See you later”. You see, in Spain we have to do that when we see a shop assistant, and we always have to say goodbye when we leave a lift. Not to do so is considered maleducado (uneducated). I have to admit that the lift one got us at first. It just didn’t seem right that these strangers were saying “hasta luego (see you later)” when we’d never even been introduced, but now we do it all the time - we’d be the talk of our apartments if we didn’t.

Finally there was the bus - and the bus queue. There are very few words with the letter “q” in them in Spanish and now I know why - queueing is an alien concept. At the supermarket tickets force them into orderly lines to get their fruit, fish or jamon, but in the bus queue there is no such numerical dictatorship. Anarchy rules and it’s survival of the pushiest. Long gone are the days of standing idly by as I watched the entire population of Ciudad Lineal barge past me and into the best seats. Now I’m there elbowing my way in with the best of them, usually pulling Ged behind me. (It’s not his fault he’s always behind. I get over my inhibitions by imagining there’s a cut-price pair of Manolo Blahniks on the bus waiting for me. Somehow Ged just can’t share this image.)

Not that it ends there. Once on the bus nobody moves from their seat. If they are sitting by the aisle and the window seat becomes empty, they stay put and you have to squeeze past to get to the only empty place left (because, of course, you weren’t quick enough in the - ahem - queue). It’s the same when you then have to leave that seat. “Move? You’re joking? Can’t you limbo dance your way out without disturbing me?” Even after all these months I’m still glad I live near the end of the line and the seat next to me is always empty. There are some formalities a Briton can never abandon.

This is not to say the Spanish are not polite. After all, this is a country with two ways of saying “you”, depending on how formal you wish to be. As I learnt on my journey back from Barajas airport. The lady in the bus seat next to me was very indignant at the young air steward on her flight addressing her as “tu” (the more familiar form) when she should have been “usted”. In fact, she was so indignant about it that she discussed this “maleducación” for the entire journey. And then she got off - pushing her Latin bum in my face as she clambered out of the seat next to me before I had time to move.

It was good to be home.

What's in a name?

After our embarrassing first visit to see Rayo Vallecano in action (we won 4-1, by the way, and so are now known as the Mighty Rayo - or at least in my household. Danny the Boogie Barman at La Terraza, an Atletico Madrid bar through and through, seems to dissolve into giggles whenever we mention their name), Ged and I decided we had to show our true alliance in future. And so, new scarf proudly keeping my neck warm, I headed off to the stadium to buy season tickets (yes, a bit late, but never mind).

Anything official sends shivers down my spine and it’s even worse in Spain. Here, they have red tape off to such a fine art that I end up so tangled up I need a lie down and a cup of tea. With a dash of whisky, preferably. But after three and a bit years, I have a rough idea of what’s needed and now go armed with so many forms, documents and photocopies that you’d think it was first day back at school. Yet there are still problems . . .

My first attempt to explain what I was after at the stadium was met with the uncomprehending “huh?” which I know so well. It’s the shorthand way of saying: “Sorry, I was so busy trying not to laugh at your accent and your attempt to roll your ‘r’ which sounded more like a combine harvester in pain than a recognisable word that I didn’t listen to what you said.” It’s a familiar pattern: I then repeat what I said; he then repeats what he thinks I said; I then say it again . . . Eventually, we get there, although at times it can be like a game of “Give Us a Clue”.

Next came the forms. Oh yes, nothing is official in Spain unless it’s signed, dated and stamped. In triplicate is even better. But as I said, I was armed with all the numbers and names I needed and went to it with an official air. Now in the early days, I always relied upon the fact that even if they couldn’t understand what I said, I could write it down and bingo, instant communication. Oh yeah? I’ve had to learn to add a stroke through my Zs and change my qs (no little flick at the bottom but a cross) to avoid bureaucrats thinking I’m illiterate and talking slowly to me (which takes us back to the first problem of accents).

So I was fairly confident when I handed over the forms for Ged - full name Gerrard Ellis - and myself - Elizabeth Ellis.

The man in the ticket office picked up the forms, looked at them, pulled them in for a closer look, then frowned. “Where is your second name?” Ha ha! That old chestnut. Think he was going to get me with that one? I grew wise to that after . . . oooh, at least two years of being asked. Nope, it’s not my “middle” name, it’s my second surname, my mother’s maiden name. I told him I only had one surname. “Aaaah, so you are buying tickets for you and your brother!” Hee hee - he couldn’t even get me with that. I know the answer by heart, now, having explained the “quaint” British habit of usually taking your husband’s surname when you marry so many times I’ve started to think about having it on my iPod to save my breath.

(A friend of mine who’s been here many years admitted to me that she still gets flustered by the explanation. A recent run-in with the local government saw her getting official documents addressed to Señora Johnson Notienes from where the official wrote “no tienes – she doesn’t have one” on the space for the second surname on the form.)

Then the man hit me with a new question: “Your husband’s name is…” Now Gerrard doesn’t usually thrown them. Ged, yes, and we come up with lots of goodies for how to pronounce or spell that one, but never his full name.

He mouthed the name to himself, first, then louder to me, with an inquisitive air: “Gerrar…” The rs were rolling as if they’d been plunged headfirst down a mountain.

“Gerrard,” I annunciated carefully, realising my Geordie accent made me sound like Elmer Fudd saying it. So I spelled it – in Spanish – and explained how it was of Irish descent. He nodded blankly. “Like Gerrardo, in Spanish,” I finished off.

Oh, well, that was okay then. Lots of smiles and laughter and repetition of “Gerrardo”.

Eventually – and without need of the two passport-sized photos I’d taken just in case – he handed over the season tickets. One for Elizabeth Ellis and the other for her husband . . . Gerraro. He’d read my D for an O.

I thought of taking the card back, but then realised it was easier just to change Ged’s name. After all, in the fight with bureaucracy, it was practically a win. Just like the Mighty Vallecano – I hope.

A road to nowhere

When I was younger, my friends and I used to dream about doing a road trip, just heading off somewhere, stopping when we wanted, the freedom. But things got in the way (okay, then, boys got in the way. Damn them) and it never happened.

However, one of the good things about upping sticks and moving to a new country is suddenly everything and anything seems possible. Dancing till six in the morning when you’ve got work the next day? No problem. Sneaking through the open gates of a football stadium to see what it looks like? Piece of cake. Running from the security guard who’s just spotted you? A little more difficult with the passing of years, I grant you, but do-able.

So getting in your car and heading off who knows where for a weekend? Easy-peasy.

Leaving the cats in the capable hands of friends - honestly, I think finding babysitters is easier - we packed up the car and headed off for Valencia. The route, thanks to our trusty mapreading internet site, looked simple enough: go to the roudabout on Plaza de Alsacia and then turn left. Except when we did this, we ended up at the Carrefour supermarket we always go to. Still, it gave me the chance to stock the car up with all-important sweeties for the journey and then we retraced our steps.

Carrefour again.

Obviously, Ged was reading the instructions wrong. So we stopped, shouted at each other, then headed off in the opposite direction which at least took us to a motorway. A toll motorway, and the guy wasn’t too happy when we handed over a 100 euro note to pay the 1.75 fee (we’d spent all our change on the jellies we were now happilly chewing. Perhaps I should have offered him one?)

Still, we were back on the open road, fulfilling my dream of years, even if we were now heading to Andalucía and not the Valencian coast.

Aware that the furthest I’ve ever driven in a day was Edinburgh to Inverness, I decided frequent stops for coffee were called for. So, when we hit Jaen, we called into a service station.

I should have realised something was up when even the cockroaches were walking out the front door, but I was tired and needed coffee - NOW - and something to take away from the sugar rush of all those sweeties.

The menu was large and it took a few minutes to decide: bocadillo de lomo for Ged and one of calamares for me. “They’re sold out,” said the surly girl behind the counter. Okay then, jamon and tortilla. “They’re sold out.” We tried a third time. “We’ve only got bacon and cheese.”

“Well, one bacon and one cheese, please.”

“No. Bacon and cheese.”

“Aha?”

“Together.”

“Ah. We can’t have a bacon and a cheese?”

“No.”

As Ged hates all cheese except parmesan, we left. So far, my road trip wasn’t really thrilling me. But never mind, we went to get petrol and decided to stop at the next cafe for something to eat.

I struggled with the security-first safety catch of the petrol cap and popped the nozzle into the hole. Nothing. I put the nozzle back in place and tried again. Nothing. I looked around for help. Nothing. Eventually, a voice crackled over an intercom telling me I had to pay for the petrol before filling up. “But I've never filled it full before so I don’t know how much petrol it will take,” I objected. Answer - nothing. I struggled with the security-first safety catch again and drove off, cursing with every gear change.

Four hours and one successful pitstop later, we pulled into a little town in the mountains of Granada. There was a mirador - somewhere - where we were going to spend the night. But Ged was map-reading again and “somehow” we’d ended up a narrow lane, on a gradiant of God-knows-what, with nowhere to go. “I’ll have to reverse,” I said through gritted and very tired teeth. Ged hid behind the map as I tried to make my way down the windy road, aware of a local watching me with keen eyes.

Yup, the scraping sound told me something wasn’t right. “You’ve hit something,” said the helpful local who’d watched every movement without saying anything. “I know,” I answered. “And you’re leaking,” he went on, pointing to a trail of liquid following us up and then back down the hill.

I jumped out and looked under the car. Yup, there were two distinct drips coming from underneath. Thankfully, the small bollard I’d dunched had been all sound and no action - it left no mark on the car.

But that was it. I lay my head on the top of the car. Not even Easy Rider Peter Fonda had this much hassle on a road trip.

“Hey,” said Ged, who had used my breakdown to have a chat with a group of guys nearby. “They say the leak is just the water from the air-conditioning. Look, it’s already dried up. We’ve had it on all the way from Madrid so they say it’s natural for it to drip. And, we’re twenty minutes from the sea - how about we spend a nice night down there, then head back to Madrid tomorrow?”

It was the best thing I’d heard all day. And so, we joined the old fogies enjoying the late autumn sun on the beach - and you young things can keep your road trips.

Own goal

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…

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.

The biggest day of a new guiri's life

The night before my wedding I was safely in my mum’s house, slowly sipping one glass of champagne before an early night. The night before María and Seve’s wedding, however, the bride was in the bar. “Why would I be home with my family when my friends are all here?” she asked, her beautiful face suddenly frowning. I know, us guiris and our way of doing things. In the end, Ged and I left before María did - “I won’t be much longer,” she said as we left - because, well, it was my big day on Saturday and I didn’t want to look bad. My first Spanish wedding is something important, after all.

The following morning, we woke at nine - an hour after I’d arranged to meet Laura in the hairdressers to start all the beauty preparations that guests seem to need to do here. It was a beautiful morning and the sun glinted off Bilbao’s river. The perfect day for a wedding - and far too nice a morning to sit in the hairdressers. Anyway, wouldn’t Laura be finished by now?

It seemed not. I found Laura still in the hairdressers, having what seemed like the millionth hairclip put into her long, blonde tresses. “I have one more hour,” she said.

“An HOUR?”

“Sí, we have to look beautiful.”

My hair was currently hidden under a hat while my face shone from recently applied moisturiser. “Perhaps you’re right,” I said, starting to pull off my coat. In response, Ged pulled me to the door. “You’ll look beautiful,” he said. Funny how quick the compliments come when I’m holding him back from breakfast . . .

My careful preparations were all in vain anyway. As soon as I saw María arrive, even more gorgeous in her white dress, tears flooded down my face. In fact, it was so bad that I didn’t notice until halfway through the ceremony that Seve’s best man was a woman. “How modern,” I whispered to my friends (although why I whispered I do not know. Those who hadn’t taken the opportunity to skip the actual service and head straight to the bar - “Sí, everyone does it in Spain. The misa can take so long” - were posing happily for photographs in their pews and giggling away). Unsurprisingly, my pals looked blank. Turns out there are no best men in Spain, only madrinas, mothers of the groom, who sit with their son, the bride and the bride’s father (phew, thank goodness somethings are done properly) on special seats on the raised altar, in full view of everyone. No bridesmaids either, only flowergirls - and very cute they were too.

It was only a short walk from the church to the hotel, where we tried to look sophisticated as we stood on the terraza, the Guggenheim as our background, and enjoyed cava and nibbles on the terrace. And more cava and more nibbles, and more, and more.“Don't eat them all! These are just aperitivos,” Jorge, the bride’s brother, informed us. “There are nine courses waiting for us for lunch. With the proper wine, of course.” NINE? “I’ll only have half of each,” I whispered to Ged. “I can’t possibly eat nine courses or drink all that wine.”

Four hours later, as I licked the last of the chocolate cake off my plate and ordered a post-lunch brandy to go with my coffee, I was as Spanish as the rest of them, happily taking over the shouts of joy that had punctuated the pause between each course.

“Viva los novios!” I called. “Viva!” came the response.

“Viva los padres de los novios.” “Viva!”

“Viva los amigos . . .” “Enough vivas,” cautioned Ged. I did a quiet one of my own, just to make sure. After all, we didn’t want the friends of the bride and groom being missed out on long life, did we?

By this time, my head was spinning - and it had nothing to do with drink. Somehow, I had become the chronicle of wedding etiquette in Britain and all day, I had been asked “Elli, in your country, do you . . .?” The idea of speeches was abhorrent. What, no role for the mother of the groom? And which friend would really think it was an honour to be dressed in a lilac meringue for the day? “Let’s disappear for a little bit,” I whispered to Ged. “My feet are killing me. We’ll come back later.”

But just as we were about to leave, a group of red-clad men with instruments burst through and, overcoming the cheers, began serenading the bride - who showed a big white frock is no impediment to bopping. “It is a tuna,” said Jorge. “They are traditional here in Bilbao.” Well, we couldn’t leave just then. After clapping and dancing along to the men, it was then the disco, and Ged and I were bundled up by our new friends - all so reticent to speak English earlier in the day - and dragged onto the floor to join the arm-waving uncles dancing to I Will Survive (I know, a strange choice for a wedding song but it was popular).

Arm-waving dancing uncles, beautiful bride, handsome groom and a room full of happiness. As we settled in for a very long night, I realised that Spanish and British weddings weren’t so different after all. Viva los novios!

Medical mayhem

Being British, I was born to queue. Nice and polite, one behind the other, waiting quietly until the person in front has had their turn. Yet all it took was a visit to the doctor’s waiting room for me to turn into the queuing equivalent of Paris Hilton at a meeting of Nobel prize-winning scientists - completely out of my depth.

Just getting to the queue was a hurdle in itself. In almost three years, neither Ged nor I have been ill enough to need medical assistance (the power of positive thought - three years of thinking: “I’m positively petrified of going to a doctor in Spain”) but I could not put it off any longer. Spain is very strong on preventative medicine and after the hundredth student told me off for not going to any sort of well woman clinic (“after all, you are in your 40s” - muchas gracias for that, Pilar) I decided the time had come to take the bull by the horns and pop into our local medical centre to register - taking a book with me: I have by now, after all, had lots of experience in Spanish red tape and how long you have to wait.

Five minutes later I was out. Organised? Efficient? ¡Claro que no! Turned out that the medical centre only ten minutes walk from my house wasn’t the one for my area. No, the one I needed was a ten minute bus ride away. Course, that makes perfect sense. After waiting for the bus and then waiting in the queue, I was sent home to queue at the town hall for a certificate, after which I was back waiting in line at the medical centre. After registering, I asked for an appointment. “Sorry,” said the woman behind the desk, “I don’t do appointments. You need to queue up at the window next to me.”

With all this practice, by the time I actually got my date and time - Thursday, 11.15, number 27 - I was an old hand at queuing in Spain.

Yet it all went horribly wrong. The place was packed, the patients waiting outside their specified doctor’s room rather than in one general waiting area. Ged and I sat down and I checked my number again. It was then I realised there was a fatal flaw in my queuing procedure - I had a number, but there was nothing displaying numbers in the whole building . “The doctor must call it out,” surmised Ged.

A few minutes later, the doctor’s door opened. A woman came out. Another woman went in. Then it happened again. And again. A steady, silent stream of patients moved in and out of the consultation room, all in perfect sequence as if taking part in a silent dance. How did they know when to go in?

I was starting to get desperate. Then I had an idea. Some of my fellow waitees were holding their appointment slips. “Try and see the numbers on their papers,” I ordered. Surreptitiously, squirming around on my seat, screwing up my eyes and contorting my body, I tried in vain to make out the tiny writing. After a couple of twists and turns, I realised a few people were looking at me. Others were looking at Ged in sympathy. The woman next to me was edging away so nobody would think we knew each other.

“Stop it,” Ged whispered out the side of his mouth. “They all think you’ve got a marble loose. Or piles.”

Suddenly, the door opened and a kindly looking woman in a white coat appeared, clipboard in hand. She read out a list of names and I watched anxiously (listening is no good - have you ever heard a Spaniard pronounce Carr-Ellis?). These were the next group of patients but it wasn’t until after she’d finished that I realised I’d been expected to see who was before me so I would know my place in the dance. I’d failed the audition miserably.

But I wasn’t the only imbécil. An old man turned to me and asked: “Was I before or after you, young woman?”

“No, no, no,” said another woman. “She was after that woman in the red trousers over there...” she pointed to the woman I was to follow in a manner my mum used to tell me off for “... then it’s you.”

He nodded thoughtfully, and then decided he had time to go home and have a coffee (it was 12.15 by now). Ten minutes later, he was back. “I’m after you, true?” he asked. I nodded, ecstatic that someone else was worse in the Dance of the Doctor’s Queue than me.

Eventually, the woman in red trousers - the only time I’ve ever been glad to see red trousers - finished her turn. I stood up - just in time to see my original old man come through the front door, smiling broadly that he wasn’t too late to lose his place. The place I had now told another poor waitee was his.

I scurried in. Then scurried out five minutes later, turning my ears away from the argument growing behind me: “But the English girl told me I was after her.” “No, estúpido, she told me I was after her.”

Not having had the foresight to ask the doctor for some tranquillisers after my thoroughly stressful morning, I popped into La Terraza for a beer and checked the hospital appointment the doctor had given me. Three weeks later at 13.10, queue number - 72. Another day of it.

But this time I have just what the doctor ordered - I’m taking a bottle of gin in my handbag.

Drink to me only

Well, that's the end of the holiday season. Not ours, you understand, that ended long ago, no, this is everybody else's holiday season – the season where having relatives in Spain is suddenly fabulous. Somehow they don't seem so keen during the bleak mid-Madrid-winter.

Don't get me wrong. I love seeing family and appreciate the efforts they make to come here (BA please note – get a direct route from the north please). But after three months of constant visitors we are left wondering why we don't just go the whole hog and open a B&B.

It has been fun, though, although a lot of that was unintentional from our guests. And mainly the guests from my side of the family. Two in particular - my sister, Marion, and her son, David.

Marion and David are an easy couple to please so long as the sight-seeing ends with some form of liquid refreshment (visitors after our own hearts. After all this time living here and countless visits to the city beforehand, we've still never quite managed to actually enter the Prado and see the art that has made countless tourists speechless. You see, there's a really nice bar close by and people-watching always appeals).

Luckily, Madrid has more bars per head of population than any city in the world. So, we did the Puerta del Sol (a pick-and-mix of bars), the old, deeply atmospheric La Latina quarter (bars with scrummy huevos rotos to nibble on), the Santiago Bernabeu (come on, it's a football stadium. You've got to have a drink there) and then El Retiro park (no bars. They're called terrazas here).

And that was just in the first two days.

By day three, Ged and I left them to their own devices. David could remember enough of his schoolboy Spanish to get round and they were confident that they could map-read sufficiently between the two of them not to get lost. Still, I spent the day worrying that at some point a friendly member of the Guardia Civil would roll up at our door asking if we knew these two people who'd tried to have a go at bullfighting in the Plaza del Toros, or something similar.

So when we spotted them making their way along our street at 6pm, we were pleasantly surprised. Although David was walking a little funny.

When he entered the flat, we realised why. His jeans were soaking wet.

“Oh my God,” I screamed, “You didn't climb into the Cibeles fountain, did you?”

“No,” he grunted, giving a sidelong, malevolent glance at his mum. “We were in a bar, having a drink, when the waiter brought our glasses. Except mine wasn't a glass, it was one of those white, earthenware jugs they use for keeping the beer cold.”

“It was an honest mistake,” butted in Marion. “The froth at the top was white and it was full to the brim and I thought the glass was upside down...”

“And so she turned it the right way up!” finished David. “The beer went all over me.”

“I told you to get another one.”

“I couldn’t - I don't know the Spanish for ‘another’,” he pouted back.

By this time, the giggles Ged and I had been struggling to keep in erupted into laughter. Marion was also biting her lips to stop herself joining in while David sulked into the bathroom to shower and change.

I’d never noticed just how silly our family can be until I moved away which is why I thought it best to give a few pointers for next year.

First, and I know this is a bit of a surprise, this is Spain, not Bognor Regis, so when sitting out in the height of the midday sun please don’t say, “By but it’s hot, isn’t it?” I can no longer be held responsible for Ged’s actions.

Two: don’t explain to the waiters the perfect way to make “a nice cup of tea” as you’ll still just end up with a cup of dishwater - only this time it will be delivered with a scowl.

Three: do remember to pay for your drinks when you leave the bar and not when the waiter shouts at you when you’re halfway down the street.

Oh, and last but most definitely not least, please don’t go on and on and on about Real Madrid when we’re in a bar surrounded by Atlético de Madrid scarves. I don’t yet know the Spanish for “the big man knocked out half of my teeth”.

Yes, it’s lovely to have family to stay - they make me look not quite so bad.

Come on Murray!

Baby, you can drive my car

It is with a heavy heart that I write that the streets of Madrid are no longer safe.

Especially when I have to admit it’s my fault that the streets of Madrid are no longer safe.

You see, I have joined the ranks of drivers. I know, I know, after my last paint-scraping escapade I vowed never to darken the driver’s door again but needs must when a regular journey takes one and a half hours in the bus and only thirty minutes by car.

And so, one 5.45am start too many, I scoured the pages looking for a bargain. Except that I forgot bargains only happen twice a year in Spain and I’d obviously missed the car season. Old vehicles are hot property - with hot prices to match - but eventually I found a Ford Fiesta that sounded good. I drove it, managed not to hit anyone, and told Santiago the owner I’d take it, proffering the money at the same time.

“Ah! No. You cannot pay me yet - first you have to pay a tax.”

“Pay a tax for buying a car?”

“Si.”

“And then I get the car.”

“No.”

Doh, of course not. How could I have been so stupid? After all, this is Spain and if bureaucracy is worth doing at all, it’s worth doing in triplicate. Turns out, after going to the tax office to pay a transfer tax, I then had to go to the jefatura de trafico (the central car agency) with Santiago to pay another tax, of course, to transfer the ownership, as well as pay for all the forms that we needed to use. What did I say about a bargain?

After leaving me, Santiago had pointed at some strange handle, muttered something about “frio” (cold) and I had nodded like the dumb guiri I am. Five minutes later, after sitting in a car that wasn’t doing anything, I realised it was the choke. Yup, my car is so old it has a manual choke.

The next day I decided to take my maiden voyage on the motorway. Route planner in hand (or rather on the passenger seat), I turned the ignition key. Nothing. I tried again, and a faint chug-chug-splutter came from the engine. Pulling the choke out turned the chug-chug-splutter into a healthier sound and I pulled out gingerly.

Five minutes later and Ferdie was moving beautifully. We’d never left the slow lane and I had no plans of ever doing so . . . until a bus pulled to a halt in front of me and, with that wonderful way they have of doing so, just stopped.

I checked my mirror and indicated. And checked again. And one more time. It doesn’t do to rush these things. When even the dog in the distance had safely left my field of vision, I pulled out to the central lane and glided to a halt at the traffic lights.

And I had done all this with the choke left on.

The lights changed to green. My engine changed to stop. There was nothing. No matter how many times I tried, the engine refused to give anything and the only noise I could hear was the “beep beep” from the drivers behind me.

Close to tears, I tried to move the damn car myself, when suddenly I was rescued by a knight in shining armour (or rather, a white van). He quickly realised I was a female guiri in distress, commandeered another driver to help, and pushed Ferdie to a turning spot so the rest of the traffic could move on.

“This,” he said, pointing to the bonnet, “Kaput?” I nodded. “Please, open it.”

What? Open the bonnet? How? Where? With what?

I began scrabbling about the normal points for the bonnet release key but it was all in vain. There was nothing there. Wiping the tears away, I tried the key one more time.

Success. Ferdie sprung to life and my knight sprung into his van, smiling broadly as I blew kisses of thanks, using both hands to show my intense gratitude.

His big, wide, happy smile as he left kept me glowing all the way to my destination.

At my office, I stepped into the ladies’ for a quick touch up of my make-up. Hmmm, my hands were dirty too - must have been from scrabbling on the floor looking for the bonnet. The same hands that I had buried my face into. The same hands from which energetic kisses of thanks had been blown.

The same hands that had, the mirror now showed me, covered my face in large smudges of tearstained black dirt. So that explained the white van driver’s smile.

Since then, my confidence has grown, and now I toot horns, switch lanes, forget about indicating - all like a true Spanish driver.

And who knows, perhaps someday I can do it when there are other cars on the road.

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.

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.

We wuz robbed!

Elvis is alive and turned into a speccy Spaniard whose chin bears more than a passing resemblance to Jimmy Hill. What's more - he's a star over here and beat the British choice in Eurovision.

For the past . . . oh God, feels like years, we've been subjected to the Chiki Chiki (pronounced Cheeky Cheeky) every five minutes. Its singer, Rodolfo Chikilicuatre, started life as a spoof on the popular Buenafuente show - a rip-off of those US late night programmes like David Letterman etc. Somehow, he managed to make it to Belgrade.

We, meanwhile, managed to make it all the way to the German entry before being forced to take solace in La Terraza. We knew with Danny being the Boogie Barman that we'd not escape, but it would seem a little easier on the ears with a caña or five inside us.

And that's when the cultural differences came in. In the bar, we had British (us), Romanian (Danny, who for some reason gets called Ricky by everyone else) and Spanish (the others) with an average age of Noah (and no, I'm nowhere near that). Songs we giggled into the foam at, they loved; those that we (well, I) gave thumbs-up to (come on, Latvia's pirates were fabulous) got a stunning silence from them.

Then came the Chiki Chiki. Ged and I stood waiting for the joke to hit . . . and then the song ended. Like the audience, we were stunned into silence at just how bad it was (although it's on non-stop, even appearing on bloody ringtones, I'd never had the - ahem - pleasure of hearing it all the way through), the locals were picking themselves up from the floor laughing.

France got a bum-wiggling vote of confidence from us (the beards went down well with our drinking companions) while Ukraine and Greece caused an amazing amount of slavering on the part of Danny (he's only 26). Meanwhile, Ue (yup, that's his name) started telling everyone how much he missed Cliff Richard and how Franco "had a problem with the English". And several others.

But Eurovision was the perfect opportunity for the Spanish to do what they do best - talk very loudly about absolute rubbish. Everyone had an opinion, even the old men enjoying a late meal ("ha, they couldn't change the colour of their shoes," muttered one as Georgia's costumes changed from black to white). This was a tertulia at its absolute best. And Ged and I laughed through every minute of it.

As we left, Danny decided to explain the Spanish entry to us.

"You see," he said. "We are laughing all the time in Spain. This is a joke. We know it is a joke. We want people to enjoy themselves. To see that we are laughing all the time here in Spain."

"We?" I queried.

"Did you hear the Romanian song? I'm Spanish."

Who'd have thought Eurovision could turn La Terraza into such a melting pot.

PS. We wuz robbed!

And here he is, Lucifer himself in Retiro Park! Looking suitably fallen, it has to be said. The artist, Richardo Bellver, took his inspiration from Milton's Paradise Lost apparently. Pic from www.lacomunidad.elpais.com/

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 something 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!)

El Greco's Toledo

About an hour away lies the mystical city of Toledo, a wonderful daytrip for Madrileños. It's here that the Greek painter El Greco made his home - and no wonder. My favourite view - which I sadly missed getting a shot of - was a mobile knife-sharpener polishing up blades with the aide of a converted bicycle. He turned the wheel with one hand and then polished the blade against it.

To market, to market . . .

Contrary to popular belief, women do not, in fact, like shopping. Oh yeah, we grin and bear it and drag our heels to the shops when we have to go out for the essentials - handbags, shoes, earrings etc - but believe it or not, going to the local supermarket fills us with as much dread as it does you men.

But then, you move to Spain and a visit to the supermercado takes on a whole new meaning.

Some things are annoyingly similar to shopping in the UK. No matter which trolley I choose, for example, it’s always the one with that sixth sense of knowing exactly the direction you wish to go in and then choosing to turn its wheels in the opposite. And no matter what time you go, it’s always full - unless, of course, you go on a Sunday, when the shops are closed. Oh yes. Only on the first Sunday of every month can you go to the supermarket. The remaining Sundays, you’re left facing shuttered grills and forced to go to the bar for Sunday lunch. Our first few months of shopping here were fun until we gathered that one out, I can tell you.

But the real excitement comes once you’re inside (having run the gamut of the security people who want to check all your bags to make sure you’re not smuggling in any dangerous items). Give Spaniards any set of wheels and suddenly they undergo a personality transplant, all miraculously becoming Fernando Alonso - and I mean any wheels, shopping trolleys included. While I’m struggling to get mine to move in a straight line, these baby F1s are all under starter’s orders and determined to get best track time around the aisles. Until they see something they want, then the trolley is abandoned in the middle of a busy lane and you find yourself stuck in that most ugly of situations - the supermarket traffic jam. Without horns to blow, these guys are lost as to how they should behave and resort to barging their trolleys past the offending obstacle (metal or human) or pulling their handy little shopping baskets on wheels over whatever gets in its way. And an amazing lack of foresight on behalf of the supermarket planners means the parafarmacia (drugs department) is upstairs, leaving the lamed and crippled forced to hobble their way onto escalators to buy bandages, antisceptic cream and brandy (purely medicinal, of course).

Having suffered the trolley rage, there’s only one place to go to chill out – the fish counter, and not just because it’s covered in ice. Grab a good book, pull up a basket to sit on and get settled because you’re going to be here for a while. Spanish love fish and Madrid has one of the best reputations for fresh fish, even though it’s in the middle of the country and miles from the nearest port. As a result, your ticket number may say you only have five people ahead of you, but these five people obviously never learned from Jesus and instead buy enough fish to really feed the five thousand. And each fish has to be descaled, de-headed, de-backboned, de-everthing (the removed parts are, of course, placed into another bag for when you’ve got the ten hours necessary to make fish stock from them. Amazingly, many of my co-shoppers seem to have this time free - no surprise after the long wait at the fish queue. I, meanwhile, am left to mutter “no, gracias,” head down to avoid the disapproving looks as these tasty morsals are thrown away. An hour later, after you have your fish (“no only two pieces, please. Yes, that’s all”), it’s time to head for the shellfish counter and another long wait - this time enlivened by trying to avoid the escape attempts of the crabs and lobsters which, still alive, start to move towards you. Still, at least the wait gives you time to dash to the meat counter, where a tantalising array of heads, feet, brains and ears have the amazing affect of making you instantly decide on a veggie stir fry for that night’s dinner.

But there is always one source of satisfaction: the foreign food section. Every week, we stop and drool at all the exotic produce on offer - Homepride Cook-in Sauces, Oxo cubes, Chivers orange marmalade and Weetabix. (What, you thought I meant authentic Chinese, Indian or Italian food?) They all cost an arm and a leg to buy (hmmm, perhaps I could get these joints at the meat counter too) and we walk away with heavy hearts and protesting stomachs.

Until last week, when a sudden madness brought on by the wonderful reappearance of the creme de la creme of British food made us throw our Spanish style of life out of the window. That lunchtime, after tussling with the trolleys, freezing at the fish counter, shunning the shellfish and forgoing the feet, we sat down to a real feast: Heinz Baked Beans on toast washed down with Robinson's Orange Barley Water followed by ice cream in proper wafer cones, all eaten out on the terrace, of course. With the sun beaming down and our favourite comfort food inside us, it was just the thing to turn that supermarket weep into a supermarket sweep.

Wheel gone kid

No matter how late at night I’ve walked home (OK, staggered on some occasions), I’ve never felt scared on the streets of Madrid.

Step out onto the road, however, and it’s a different matter.

Madrileños are some of the nicest people I know (not counting the waiters, of course, who pride themselves on being so grumpy they make Oscar the Grouch look like Mickey Mouse), but put them behind the wheel of a car and you discover just where Robert Louis Stephenson got his inspiration for Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. They become monsters who forget all rules of the road.

For a start, there’s lanes. Or rather the lack of them. Getting into the right lane is an interesting concept to Madrileños - and one that must be ignored at all costs. Want to turn left? Then just cut in to the five other lanes that are blocking your way (and yes, there are only supposed to be two lanes on most roads, as in Britain, but then there’s the vast number of cars straddling the white lines - where they exist - as well as the mopeds and the taxi drivers who are making up a whole new road system). Bus lane? What bus lane? That’s just a really, really good way to get through the rush-hour traffic (which happens four times a day, thanks to long lunches) and avoid the other cars - if only those cars in the five other lanes weren’t blocking your way and what on earth are those large red vehicles full of people doing trying to get past?

Meanwhile, if the SAS ever need a new way to test the toughness of their new recruits, Madrid pedestrian crossings are the way to go. There are two types - the ones with green man and the ones where you cross and pray to God that the car hurtling towards you will stop (usually they just swerve round you). With the other type you’re halfway over the damn crossing, the green man proudly lighting the way, when you notice the cars coming round the corner are still coming round the corner and hurtling over the crossing. That’s not strictly fair - some will slow to a speed of “not excruciatingly painful if I hit you” as they ignore every rule Tufty the squirrel taught you about the Green Cross Code (look left, look right - dammit just run for your life).

Then there’s the double-parking, the constant tooting of the horn, the speeding . . .

None of this criticism has anything to do with my recent expedition into the driving seat, of course.

I love driving and have missed it terribly in Madrid. I’ve driven in Spain before, several years ago during a trip from Nerja to Huercal Overa, in Almeria. It was all motorway, until we got to the small villages and then our guide offered to take over. I was out of the driving position so quickly you’d think the hire company had installed an ejector seat a la James Bond. Driving on the wrong side on straight roads is easy; on windy, bendy, too-narrow-for-a-burro roads it’s impossible and I was glad to leave the responsibility to someone else.

In Madrid, the traffic is so busy, no matter what time of day or night, that I’d never dared get into a car. Besides, there’s no need - public transport is amazing and we’ve never missed having a car. But I have missed the sensation of being behind the wheel, with the world at my feet (or pedals) and that’s why I took my friend Fernando’s offer of a try behind the wheel of his company car.

We were in a quiet part of the city, with barely another vehicle in sight, and the insurance covered everyone. No problem, I thought, easing the car into first gear and moving off. It was plain sailing - apart from Fernando screaming: “Look left. Left! The other left!” at every junction. In fact, I felt so confident I had no qualms as I maneouvred into the parking lot.

Which is probably why I didn’t see the workmen’s railings on the right-hand-side of the car until I heard a sickening sound similar to fingernails being scratched down a blackboard. I had scraped the side of the car.

I apologised profusely, offering time and time again to pay for the damage, but Fernando merely shrugged it off. “It’s the company’s car, not mine,” he said, displaying a very Spanish attitude.

For the next couple of weeks I could barely look at him, I felt so ashamed. But then he invited me for a drink. “Remember when you drove the car?” he asked over a caña. I groaned and begged him not to talk about it. “No,” he continued, “I was laughing about it with my father - when I did exactly the same thing on exactly the same railings.”

I hid a smile as he muttered something about “at least I know which left to look at”. But who cares about left and right? For me, it was full speed ahead moral superiority.

And so long as I never get behind the wheel again, that’s a road I’ll never have to leave.

A hole lot of trouble

There’s so much building work going on in Madrid at the moment that I barely batted an eyelid when my friend Fernando told me his neighbour was having a Metro station built in his back garden.

But then I realised that Fernando lives in Alcala de Henares, a small city to the north of Madrid famous for being Cervantes’ birthplace. A small city that is half-an-hour’s drive away from the nearest Metro station. Thinking I must’ve misunderstood, I gave Fernando my bewildered nod of agreement (if you nod slowly, while looking thoughtful, the speaker thinks you’ve understood what they’ve said and doesn’t know that your brain is desperately trying to work out how something that sounds like one word with fifty consonents - and most of them the letter “r” - could possibly be the answer to “A kilo of tomatoes, please”), but then had to admit defeat.

“A Metro station?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“I came home yesterday and saw half his garden had gone and now there’s a huge hole. He must be making a new Metro station - it’s the only explanation.”

He then laughed at my stunned face (Fernando and I tend to talk Spanglish, neither of us having sufficient confidence in speaking the other’s language fluently, and consequently conversations can become very surreal at times) and explained. Turned out his neighbour had decided to extend his house and so was digging out a new garage/basement in his garden. He also planned a new bedroom on top of the garage/basement – something that would completely destroy both the view and the light into Fernando’s house while knocking several thousands of euros off the price.

“How did he ever get planning permission for that?” I asked.

“Planning permission?” said Fernando, with an “oh you British” look. “He doesn’t have planning permission. He’s just digging.”

He went on to explain that although the council knew about the work, and although it was highly illegal, nothing could be done until somebody made a denuncia - a complaint. Until that happened, the neighbour could dig his way to Australia and no-one would stop him. I explained what would happen in Britain. Fernando just grunted. “Spain is different,” he said.

Over the next few weeks, the tale of the neighbour’s garden grew as much as the foundations he was laying. Fernando made the denucia, but nothing happened. Then he received news that an official was going to call. “Want to come and see my neighbour have to fill in his Metro hole?” asked Fernando, a smug grin on his face. He didn’t need to ask twice.

We waited at Fernando’s house - number 24, Calle XXX – with bated breath. And waited. And waited.

After a while, we heard a disturbance outside, And then saw the flashing light of a police car. Fernando went to investigate and came running back in.

“The man from the council is down the road, and the police are talking to him.”

True enough, a smartly-suited man from the council was stood inbetween two policemen and an old woman, who didn’t look happy. She was furious.

We joined the group of neighbours who’d also come out to see what was happening in this normally quiet street.

“Someone made a denuncia about the work in your house,” the man from the council was saying. “I have to investigate.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my house,” the woman was answering. “Who made the denuncia? Who of my neighbours would complain when I’ve done nothing wrong? Who would do this?”

Fernando gave a small groan.

“What is it?” I asked.

“This woman, she lives at 34. The man from the council went to the wrong house,” he answered.

He was right. When we got to talk to the council man, he’d been told to go to number 34, not 24, and, as fate would have it, the old woman who lived there was also having work done to her home. Work which had permission. And she didn’t like having some bureaucrat suddenly turning up and demanding that she stop. Which was why she had called the police.

I slunked away to the back of the crowd, leaving Fernando to sort things out. After a while, he motioned for us to go back to his house, alone.

“What about the council man?” I asked.

“He won’t come. He said they were told 34, not 24, and he won’t move without the right paperwork. I have to make the denuncia again.”

My jaw hit the ground.

“Do not worry, Liz,” continued Fernando. “My neighbour can do all the work he wants. He will just have to undo it all when it gets sorted. These things happen. Remember, Spain is different.”