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.

Getting into a tight situation

With winter full upon us, a girl’s thoughts turn to only one thing - tights.

For as long as I can remember I have worn thick, black tights every winter. However, when packing for sunny Spain, I didn’t imagine such things would figure highly in my new life and gaily threw them in the bin. With my permanently tanned legs, I’d never need such things again, I thought.

Que idiota!

I should have been prepared. I can remember, in those distant, permanently-blue days of September, sitting in La Terraza and asking Paul and Santi about the photograph hanging on the wall showing the bar covered in a thick layer of snow, the sunlight sparkling brightly. “That was just this year,” said Paul. “Middle of February, I think.” Santi agreed. I looked again at the photograph; it was very picturesque. They both laughed when I told them this. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d been here.” I pooh-poohed their words. Paul’s lived in Madrid for more than ten years, while Santi is Spanish. What did they know about cold, pampered by sunshine all year round?

Fast forward three months to our first Madrid winter and I’m beginning to think I didn’t have it quite so hard in the UK. It’s cold. If I could say the words “brass monkeys” in Spanish, then you’d get my drift just how cold it is. Yes, the sun shines, but it gives out very little heat and my mum is sending across the long johns as we talk. Cold rioja has been replaced by hot chocolate (oh all right, perhaps that’s no big hardship), the jumpers are out of mothballs and the search for the thick tights is on.

But how hard can that be, I hear you ask, after all, tights are hardly the most taxing thing to buy. Well, welcome to the weird and wonderful world of Spanish tights.

I first ventured into this world with my Spanish friends Conchi and Pilar, two willowy, elegant women who would make Gwyneth Paltrow feel like Giant Haystacks. However, being a nice person I’ve learned to forgive them such perfection and they’ve become good friends, bucking me out of my British ways of dress towards a more feminine look (aka taking the effort to wash my hair before I go to the supermarket rather than jamming on Ged’s baseball cap). So it was a surprise when one night, over a drink, Conchi crossed her legs to reveal a glimpse of brown and yellow tights underneath her trousers. At first I thought I was imagining it, I mean, brown and yellow striped tights? But no, a second look confirmed they were definitely there. What’s more, now I had noticed them, I began to see brightly-coloured tights every where: red tights, blue tights, red and blue tights, checked ones, lacy ones, mauve, orange and pink stripey ones – you name it, someone somewhere had thought it was a good idea and turned it into a fantasy in nylon.

But not everyone is as subtle as Conchi. Instead of hiding these shocking stockings, some display them with pride. Women in business suits will accessorise with bright orange handbags and matching tights, while those who are “dressing down” will team lime green tights with electric-pink shoes. Sitting on the metro one morning, amongst a sea of sleepy faces and traffic-light legs, I found myself regretting pouring so much scorn on my mum’s penchant for wearing 30-denier, American Tan pop socks. Where are Trinny and Susannah when you really need them?

Things came to a head the other week, when I went shopping with my friends. I was looking for a new outfit for work and, after standing firm against some lime-green monstrosity, bought a very smart black jumper, black skirt and - hidden away in a corner - a supply of thick, black tights. (It’s not that I don’t like colour, it’s just that I’m British. We don’t do colour until July.) I paid for my purchases with joy, ignoring the looks being exchanged between Conchi and Pilar.

Two days later they sprung their surprise. Sitting over coffee, they produced a gift-wrapped package. A long, rectangular gift-wrapped package. In fact, the sort of long, rectangular gift-wrapped package you used to give Great-Aunt Aggy for her birthday - that’s right, the sort of package that hides a pair of tights.

I opened it up gingerly, looking nervously at Pilar’s red fishnet-clothed legs, and pulled out . . . a lilac scarf. “To go with your new outfit,” said Conchi. “Sí,” agreed Pilar. “We thought it would look nice and make you look more Spanish.” I stammered my thanks and was about to offer to pay for all the coffees - and order cakes - when Pilar added: “And now people won’t think we’re friends with someone who goes to funerals all the time.”

“OK, you can get me some colour, but I’ll never wear coloured tights,” I laughed. They joined in my laughter - but then gave each other a knowing look . . .

A night on the tiles - ahem!

Hattie shows exactly what a flower box should be used for!












Okay . . . back to the lighter stuff!

There are many firsts to overcome when you move abroad - first home, first day at work, first security guard following you round the supermarket (how was I to know you’re supposed to check your backpacks in at the entrance?). However, this had to be the biggest - first date.

No, I haven’t ditched the husband in favour of some Latin lovely; it was a date with a new friend called Laura, who knows my old Spanish tutor. We’d met celebrating his birthday and a couple of weeks later, she phoned out of the blue to ask if I’d like to go for a drink. After I’d arranged to meet her in the city centre the following Friday, I jumped around like a teenager. My first Spanish friend.

Sitting in the bar that night with our friend Paul, a fellow Geordie ex-pat, I realised how important this date was. Apparently, the Spanish aren’t prone to handing out invites for drinks willy-nilly.

“In ten years,” said Paul, with a trace of huffiness in his voice, “I’ve never been invited out by a Spaniard.”

He looked even more offended when Santi, the bar owner, pointed out that that was probably because all his Spanish friends knew he would be in the La Terraza every night. But Paul had a point. Talking to the Brits we’d met, I realised what a privilege being asked out was. The Spanish are incredibly sociable; they’re just not that great at actually inviting people out. Friendships, especially among women, seemed to have been born many, many years ago - and certainly not with guiris. The pressure was mounting.

Come the Friday, I was a nervous wreck. We’d arranged to meet in the Plaza Mayor, next to the statue of Felipe II. And that’s when I realised everyone arranged to meet there. For ten minutes I furiously bopped up and down trying to see around the waves of people that came, met their friends, and left. No sign of Laura. Then came the text message: Running late. See you in 30 minutes.

I phoned Ged. “Typical Spanish,” he replied, then hung up so he could watch PasaPalabra.

For the next 20 minutes I waited at the statue, watching the pitying stares from those came and went and thought I’d been stood up. Eventually I saw Laura, looking every inch the perfect Spanish woman in her long, flowing skirt and long, flowing hair. I preened my recently shorn locks (who can be bothered with all that styling every morning?) and smoothed down my jeans. After a typical Spanish greeting - kissing both cheeks (“Don’t forget,” said Ged, “left cheek first, otherwise you smash noses.”) - we wandered out of the square and I prepared myself for an authentic Spanish night out. What delights would I discover? What new bars would I be taken to, far from the madding crowd of tourists? The excitement was killing me.

After about half an hour, it wasn’t the excitement killing me but my feet. We had done nothing but walk. At first I thought that perhaps we were going to look in some fashion shops, still open late on a Friday night, but no, we were just walking.

“Aren’t we going for a drink?” I asked.

Laura looked surprised: “Well, yes, but first we paseo. You want to go for a drink now?” Her tone sounded like I should be in the Betty Ford clinic. I shook my head and explained that in Britain, a drink meant a drink, not a five-mile hike up and down the Gran Via. “No, here in Spain we paseo and talk. Then we’ll go for a drink. I know a nice shop that sells fruit juices, mixed fruit juices with yoghurt - how do you call them in English?”

“Smoothies,” I replied.

Laura smiled: “Sí, eh-smoothies," she replied, with her Spanish version of the "s" sound. "They are very nice.”

By this time I felt like a complete fish out of water - and a dry fish at that.

But after we’d walked and then chatted in a crowded smoothie bar, I started to feel better. The fresh air was much nicer than any crowded bar, and Laura was wonderful company, helping me with my Spanish as I helped her with her English. But, I found myself thinking, she’d be no good in Newcastle on a Friday night, not drinking smoothies all night.

The hours flew by and soon it was time for me to get my last Metro home. Laura’s jaw hit the ground. “Go?” she spluttered. “OK . . . but I am not going yet. My friends are meeting in a bar in La Latina. I’m going to meet with them. Are you sure you do not want to come with us?”

I looked at my watch. It was 1am - and they were just going to the bar now? I’d been out for four hours and was exhausted. Laura looked as fresh as when we’d met. I shook my head and made my apologies. She just grinned and kissed me goodbye: “You English. No eh-stamina.”

What was that about Newcastle on a Friday night? As I left, I found myself wondering if it wasn’t so much that the Spanish were not forthcoming with their invitations as that we just didn’t have the eh-stamina to keep up.