Sod it, I´ll sort it out later

Living la vida loca here in Madrid, the good times come in swings and roundabouts. Facing my first visitor-free weekend in six weeks – for which I had carefully organised two days of blank space – I was looking forward to being blissfully lazy and unsociable. However, probably due to a combination of overtiredness and drowsiness (caused by antibiotics taken for a piercing that went badly wrong) I found myself at the wrong end of a trough. Rather than revelling in a weekend of guilt-free nothingness, I was friendsick and craving a night giggling in front of a mindless English gameshow - Take Me Out or Total Wipeout to be precise.

However, by now accustomed to pangs of homesickness, rather than throw myself hopelessly on my bed after work on Saturday, I somewhat reluctantly put on my trainers and went for a run. Although afterwards my body was grumbling with uncomfortable twinges, it had the desired effect. After twenty minutes of puffing my way around Retiro Park I stopped yearning for a night of Total Wipeout and began chewing over a basic blueprint of what to do with myself until 2012. I returned mentally revitalised with a vague plan. Although my hazy ideas will undoubtedly be redrafted several times over, one feature that I am fairly confident will remain constant is travel - albeit as yet I don´t know who I´ll go with, where I´ll go or when.

With travel on my brain, I am now in quandary. Is time to quit my weekend job and start exploring Spain: living right in the middle, I´m ideally placed to explore the four corners. However, it is just as tempting to continue using the welcome wodge of Saturday school cash to pad out my backpacking piggy bank. Just how much should you skrimp and save for a rainy day? When is it okay to think “Sod it, I´ll work as little as possible, live cheap, enjoy myself as much as possible for as long as possible and deal with the problems later”?

Living an adventure is certainly an appealing prospect. I recently found myself sharing a bench with a familiar-looking guitarrist: as I pass the hours between classes rotating between different benches in the city, he strums his way around the tourist hotspots. Curious about his story, I started a conversation. After the obligatory polite chit-chat about the weather, he started to tell me that travelling as a living is easily doable: all you need is a skill that is universal and can be employed wherever you are. For example, he had previously worked as a chef, and many of his friends now scrape a living as clowns or performers. Floating from place to place unburdened by responsibility is indeed a romantic notion, and I´m certainly not against living without luxuries: when travelling I relished the simplicity of living out of a backpack. Similarly, considering that since arriving in Spain I´ve had my wallet, coat, phone and camera nicked, I´m learning (albeit the hard way) to attach less value to material things.

However, a quick glance around at the sorry collection of human statutes attempting to squeeze a euro out of sceptical tourists in Plaza Mayor is enough to expose the rough reality of what is just a romantic idea. When my wallet was swiped and I lost a good chunk of my months wages, not only was I lucky enough to have generous friends, but I also had enough cash in the bank to pay them back. As much as I don´t mind swapping flights for overnight buses and restaurants for market stalls, I don´t think I could forgo the emergency cushion of cash in the bank. When returning from Barcelona recently, I somehow found myself on the verge of missing my flight home with no credit on my phone, no bank cards and less than a fiver in my purse. To say it was a stressful morning is something of an understatement. As such, the thought of being stranded in a foreign country without the emergency option of plastic money is enough to squash any urges to take to the road. I suppose the “I´ll live for the moment and sort it out later” physche is just one step too far for me.

So, it looks like the Saturday job will continue for now... at least until I get dreadlocks, shop exclusively in hemp shops and become a real hippie!

A step beyond slap-stick comedy

More a fan of action movies and comedies than films with any sort of artistic standing, it is fair to say that until a month ago I was almost wholly ignorant of Spanish cinema. Aside from Amenábar´s much-coveted ´Abre Los Ojos´ , my movie repertoire was dominated by flicks featuring Bruce Willis, Hugh Jackman or superheroes. However, surrounded by friends who live opposite a Spanish arts cinema, I felt slightly bashful at my inability to contribute to any cinematic discussions that went beyond X-men or Terminator. My subsequent initiation into Spanish cinema, ´The Spirit of the Beehive´ (El Espíritu de la Colmena), didn´t exactly inspire confidence. Although described by critics as ´profound and affecting´, to me the film was simply two long hours of little dialogue, minimal action, even less camera movement and no obvious plot. More used to the crudely obvious, I think I simply failed to capture the deeper subtleties of the film.

As such, for my second foray into Spanish cinema, I went for something completely different: Airbag. I was warned it was an off-the-wall absurdity, but even so, I wasn´t prepared for such an outrageous, non-stop romp of bawdy sex and clumsy seduction, drugs and alcohol, high speed car chases, random violence and yet more bawdy sex and clumsy seduction. With only a limited command of Spanish it was nigh-on impossible to follow such a vibrantly ludicrous film. Even if I had understood every word, I doubt I would have grasped the plot of this hair-brained rollercoaster of debauchery. England and the United States are by no means short of slap-stick comedies, but the Spanish equivalent explodes the genre onto new levels.

Perhaps this is because the Spanish themselves are that little bit more outrageous.. The film certainly seems to have parallels with my flatmates. Take last Sunday, when I woke up groggily to a thumping electronic bassline coming from the lounge, as an example. Initially, head heavy with sleep, I thought I must still be in the midst of a drunken dream. However, on venturing warily out of my room, I was engulfed in a foggy haze of cigarette smoke and the smouldering blurry light of soft red lightbulbs. The lounge had been taken over an array of unknowns garbling rapid, incomprehensible Spanish, some dancing suggestively, others draped over the sofa, sprawled across the floor or on perched on various pieces of furniture.

Confronted with such a scene at midday on a Sunday, I seriously considered the possibility that someone had slipped something into my glass of wine the previous night and I was having some sort of delayed trip. However, reality was soon confirmed when my housemate, who was wearing a giant, white babygrow (he had obviously pyjama-ed up in anticipation of going to bed), bounded over anxious to check I wasn´t irritated by the impromptu Sunday morning booze-up. Slightly dazed and confused about time-of-day and day-of-week, I mumbled some sort of reassurance in Spanglish and bid a hasty retreat to the nearest café for a hot chocolate and a croissant.

Two drinks and three hours later, I was still somewhat apprehensive about returning to the boudoir: I whiled away most of day in the city and finally returned home at about 7.30pm. I was greeted by the ankle-nips of a scarily hyperactive dog (who I imagine had been making the most of the party´s fuel) and a lounge still bathed a brothel-esk red and abuzz with lively chatter. It wasn´t until about 10pm that the party died down to a manageable rumble and only four were left still standing.

No-one knows how to party quite like the Spanish: clubs don´t fill up until 3am, arriving home at 4am is considered to be a quiet night and it is not unsual for a wild friday night to blur into Saturday – possibly even Sunday as well. In this respect, I suppose that Airbag, for all of its absuridites and hedonism, is simply proportional to life in Spain.

If this is the case, interpreting ´Spirit of the Beehive´ is completely beyond me.

Brits Abroad

In recent pre-match rugby banter, French coach Marc Lievremont claimed that England was the most hated team in the Six Nations, emphasising the common understanding between the French team and “their Italian cousins”. Though he was admittedly just stoking the fire in the build up to a deciding match (a tactic that had little success), Lievremont had a point: the latinate links between French, Italian and Spanish and the resultant cultural ties are undeniable. In comparison, the English seem to inspire hostility across all of Europe. In particular, English tourists have a notoriously bad reputation, commonly viewed as sunburnt, rowdy lager louts, the likes of whom spawned phenomenons such as ´balconing´ (what must undoubtedly the epitome of stupidity). Considered to lack modesty, restraint and respect, ´Brits Abroad´ are infamous for causing general havoc and offence wherever they land.

I can empathise with this: I have never been a fan of intimidating groups of boisterous, boozed-up ´lads on tour´. However, having just returned from a short break in Barcelona, I have found myself coming out in defence of the English. The weekend was a shamelessly Brits Abroad holiday: on landing in Barcelona I was greeted by a friend who, despite the winter temperatures, was proudly sporting light pastel boardies and flip flops (“I´m on holiday!”). He took me directly to an English-heavy international bar just off Las Ramblas to introduce me to his friends - polite handshakes and awkward waves rather than the european double kiss. I soon was glugging the first of several pints of Heineken, from which the weekend drifted by in a tipsy haze of Irish pubs, sing-alongs to English pop songs and McDonalds (one of my friends managing to eat an impressive four cheeseburgers in one day).

However, although we undoubtedly indulged in stereotypical English pastimes, we were still a relatively polite, respectful rabble and as far as I know, we didn´t cause undue offence to anyone: valid proof that not all rowdy British tourists wear matching Magaluf 2011 T-shirts and cause a raucous. After spending five months intensively immersing myself in tapas, siestas and all-things-spanish, I have to confess that I relished this weekend of wholesome britishness. Whereas I usually jump at the opportunity to practice Spanish, when in Barcelona I eagerly retreated to an English bubble, reluctant to exchange even basic Spanish with barstaff. On reflection, although it sounds somewhat paradoxical, living on the continent has strengthened my English idiosyncracies. Granted, I have always been slightly obsessed by a good cup of tea, but now, living in a land commanded by the coffee culture, regular imports of English brews have become essential. Similarly, being a rugby fan in a country completely indifferent has not dampened my enthusiasm, but amplified it.

Living the European lifestyle, as much as I´m enjoying it, has magnified my attachment to the English. Replace national pride with a self-deprecating sense of humour, european argy-bargy with a staunch grin-and-bear-it attitude and over-the-top friendliness with reserved propriety... Even if beer-guzzling-Brits-on-tour didn´t have such notoriety, with so many character quirks is it any wonder that our European “cousin´s” don´t relate well to us?

 

On another note, I have written another article for Letango Tours. Ironically, it describes one of the biggest benefits of living on the continent: The Countdown to Spring.

There´s just not enough time in the day

Despite having resolved that working full-time is not for me, I have taken the paradoxical decision to considerably up my teaching hours and for the past two weeks I have been contesting an unfortunately busy timetable of early starts and late finishes.

I won´t deny that bleary-eyed mornings and weary evenings have been a shock to the system: my efforts to keep pace with the Spanish night life frequently leave me disorientated when my alarm clock sounds at some unseeming hour in the morning. To make things worse, on more than one occasion I have stumbled out of bed to make a cup of tea and bumped into my housemate (equally disorientated) on his return from a night out. Needless to say, pre-dawn chats over glasses of rum, spliffs and teapots only serve to increase early morning confusion.

It´s also been a struggle to adjust to an inconvenient, widely-spaced timetable and I am now spending a disproportionate amount of time on the Metro commuting to the North of the city and back three times a day. Over three hours a day just evaporates into tightly squashed tube journeys and the shuffling up and down of endless escalators.

However, I have been trying to make the most of hours on the metro and early mornings starts to scribble down my thoughts - even if they are somewhat fuzzy. The fact that my last blog for Best Spain Travel was only on the homepage for a measley two days has given me more inccentive to try and write more regularly. Here is the latest: The Mountains Surrounding Madrid.

Its a minefield out there...

It didn´t take many weeks of unanswered applications and curt rejection letters last year before I decided to abandon any hopes of securing a career in London and leave the country: a logical solution when faced with the unappealing reality of unemployment in one of the world´s most expensive cities. However, on reflection, choosing Madrid as the destination seems anything but a logical choice: not only does it have one of the highest rates of unemployment in Europe, I hadn´t so much as glanced at anything Spanish since my last A level exam in 2006.

Even so, however irrational my decision at the time, I – touchwood – seem to have landed on my feet: job, flat, interesting people and lovely weather. Granted, dreams of becoming bilingual within three months were somewhat optimistic: I have been here for just over four months, and only have a basic level of fluency in Spanish - comprehension can still be hazardous and sentences are short, stacatto and restricted by a limited range of vocabulary. However, coping with a modest command of spanish has opened doors to an imaginative range of communication outside of speech: scribbling drawings on napkins, using random props from the street, facial expressions, extravagant gestures, over-the-top intonation... It seems that anyone willing and armed with a smile can converse, be it a dialogue of Italian and Spanish or double dutch and gobbledygook

Luckily, I am surrounded by patient spaniards keen to jot down phrases in my notebook, which is now full of spiky doodles and illustrative diagrams. I have realised that however long spent studying connectors, conditionals and the subjunctive in the classroom, easy fluency will only come after theatrical conversations and frequent misunderstandings, and will more than likely remain elusive until I have been living here for several years or more. Even then, I imagine that keeping track of the forever-changing multitude of expressions will be a challenge. Even as my confidence grows, using these native colloquialisms remains a potential minefield for any non-native speaker. There are phrases that become nonsensical if you miss out a seemingly inconsequential pronoun, words with opposite meanings in different contexts, a surplus of idioms - some vulgar, some cheesy, some snobbish, the confusion of double meanings. On top of that, there´s regional accents, local dialects, slang that means one thing in one city and something different somewhere else... I have visions of proudly delivering a recently-learnt phrase to my boss only to find out it´s actually the spanish equivalent of abusive cockney slang. You never can be too sure what your friends are teaching you after a few beers!

As much as I hate to refer to my A level English text Translations, the quote ´you can learn the language of the tribe, but the password will always allude you´ seems relevant, if a little dramatic: although shaking off clumsy literal translations from English to Spanish is simply a matter of time, learning the subtleties of the language is something else altogether.

Justifying keeping hours empty

As much as I am all for keeping my idle hours empty, I can´t help but feel twinges of guilt when I turn down the offer of a new class. When recently offered a one-hour-a-week conversation class with a beginner, situated only a short metro ride away from my flat, I spent a whole day agonising over whether I should accept it.

Though I may well regret my decision to turn it down when March arrives and I have to pay my rent, I can at least take comfort in the fact that I am making the most my spare hours. I recently stumbled across a spanish tour operator who lives next door, and being a resident tourist myself, have started writing articles for their blog: Best Spain Travel.

I have used my first article, The Timetable of the Madrileño, to rationalize why I rejected that conversation class. I suppose now to justify keeping my comfortable timetable of classes, I will just have to keep on writing...

Keeping idle hours empty

Its February. Everyone has weathered the post Christmas slump and survived the slog through the first month of the year. Society has relaxed back into monotonous routine and holidays are now either a distant memory or a vague future plan. Like everyone else suffering from January Blues, I was dreading the return to normality – groggy early starts, the squash of rush hour on public transport, lengthy to-do lists that eat into already restricted free time...

However, contrary to expectation, I have found myself welcoming the humdrum ryhthm of normality - regular company classes, teaching plans and spanish lessons. In fact, easing myself into the routine of work was suprisingly painless. On reflection, this may have something to do with the fact that I have carefully crafted a comfortable, well-spaced timetable: one that leaves plenty of time for reading, writing, people-watching and yoga. As a result, I am significantly more flexible and well-read that I was at the end of December.

Recently, I have been making the most of my empty hours to revisit my trip to Asia. When travelling, the continual change of situ left little time to digest the adventure, let alone organise it into coherent prose. Now, snuggled under blankets in my flat - teapot on-hand and laptop balanced precariously on my knee - I have time to relive the moments.

As such, although my timetable is somewhat lacking in classes, and I should invest energy in finding more work, I am finding it all to easy to justify keeping my “empty” hours empty. Thankfully, my efforts have not been entirely fruitless and I do have something to show for my idle hours: so far I have had one article published, “Bokor Hill Station, The Forgotten Cambodia” (p.42).

Fingers crossed its the first of many...

The peculiar resident of the plaza

My first trip to Madrid fell on a swelteringly hot weekend in mid-August and the capital, normally bustling with activity, had retreated into a lazy summer reverie. The labyrinth of narrow streets that spiral from the centre of the city was markedly quiet: metal gates guarded the darkened windows of shops shut-up for summer and the hours of siesta were eeked out to last until 6pm.

A stranger in the city, with little idea of its geography, I frequently found myself drawn to the Plaza Mayor over that first weekend. As the centrepiece of the capital, the expansive, pedestrianised square is a welcome breath of open-space. Neatly symmetrical, it is bordered by three grand buildings, each decorated by uniform rows of neat balconies with matching white shutters and lined by clusters of chairs and tables, carefully arranged by the overpriced cafés. A picture-perfect scene, the imposing central statue, that of a portly horse and a proud rider, is framed by two clocktowers standing tall either side of the main building, which is elaborately painted in yellows and golds. It is only on closer inspection do you notice that each clock keeps a different time, and that the subtle colours of the building´s artwork disguise curiously lurid paintings of naked women.

When I arrived back in August, and scalded my legs on the stone of what is now my customary bench, the unforgiving sun was thrust high in a fantastic blue sky and radiated wobbly heatwaves that blurred my vision. A far cry from the carnival of winter months, the plaza was sleepy and lethargic: the street artists had retreated to the shady pavements of the main roads, a handful of tourists sheltered under the broad, white parasols erected by cafés and gaggles of locals clustered around whichever bench offered an oasis of shade. Few braved the scorching heat of the direct sunshine... except for one: a curiously out-of-place, out-of-shape Spiderman.

Initially his distinctive outline seemed glaringly incongrous with the grandeur of the square. Now however, Spiderman has become something of a fitting peculiarity. Dressed from head to toe in a trademark red and blue suit, which has long since lost its elasticity, he strides confidently around the square, hands clasped loosely behind his back and belly thrust forward, pausing periodically in different locations to survey the scene. The faded tunic stretches easily over the large, rotund curve of his belly, the neckline pulled low to reveal a fleshy ring of skin between suit and mask and the slack fabric gathering loosely in folds under his distended belly. The trouser legs fall just short of his ankles grazing his calf, revealing long, well-worn trainers, a sun-bleached black and imprinted with the characteristic red web.

In quieter moments, he might pause from his duties and lean wearily against the clocktower, one leg resting on the pillar. With his mask folded up to nose level, his leathery skin creased under his nose in a slight snear, he puffs idly on a cigarette, occasionally raising a hand in a casual salute to other performers, or grunting a greeting to a nearby waitor. However, always on the pulse of the square, he is quick to jump back into action should he glimpse a prospective customer. Hastily stubbing out a cigarette, he unrolls his mask and slips easily into his rehearsed theatrics: affecting a booming voice he barks select words and pulls choice poses alongside tourists who shuffle awkwardly at his side, smiling sheepishly at the flashes and snaps of their camera amidst the bellows of “...and now scaaary...and “...seeexy...!”

I am now a regular visitor to the square, taking half an hour most days to sit on one of the circular stone benches that mark the four corners of the cobbled square and watch the world go by. As the incessant heat of summer has abated, the clear blue skies of August first becoming heavy with autumnal clouds and then sharp with the biting freshness of winter, the square has become a hive of activity. Now, a steady stream of people filter through the lofty arched entrances at each corner and a motley assortment of street performers mingle with the crowd to ply their trade.

Spiderman is no longer an out-of-place comical caricature, standing solitarily in the sun-bleached square, but is often accompanied by a sullen Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse duo, or surrounded by the melodious Ave Maria´s of saxophone players. Yet while other buskers come and go, Spiderman´s occupation the plaza never wavers. Day-in-day-out he is there: when the plaza is like a parched desert burning under the unforgiving sunshine; when heavy clouds are sitting oppressively on the rooftops; when the cobbles are slippery and wet and rain splashes into the small pools between them. Loyally present, come rain or shine, he is the ringmaster of the street circus, an idiosyncracy of the square, and as much a part of the furniture as the majestic central statue.

Only a beach will do...

I have just spent a cushty two weeks cocooned in the comfy bubble that is living back at home. Being welcomed into a clean and cosy house, full of family, with well-stocked cupboards and warm radiators is always a treat; even more so at Christmas when friends and family from the four corners return and the house oozes christmas cheer. After a few months of pushing my comfort zones in Madrid, relaxing into the easy fold of familiarity had never been so sweet.

The upshot of this of course, is that it amplified the annual bout of January Blues ten fold. In fact, it so magnified my reluctance to return to Madrid that I inadvertently found myself scanning recruitment websites for jobs in London. Far from bouncing back to Madrid refreshed and eager, it was a struggle to heave my weary self to the airport.

When I initially moved to Spain in September, the sky-high temperatures, bohemian lifestyle and buzz of arriving somewhere new made it difficult to miss the daily grind of a 9 to 5 in London. Now, when Madrid´s cloudy grey skies are identical to London´s, a forever-changing timetable and no set income is less appealing.

However, despite my grumbles, I am under no delusions that returning to a job in London would be any less unpleasant, and am well aware that January melancholy is a common affliction suffered by all. It seems that after two weeks of over-indulgence and excess, almost everyone is battling a stubborn hangover that has been lingering since New Year´s Day. Relatively speaking, returning to a part-time teaching post in a cultural capital is nothing to complain about. Even so, I am still dragging my feet...

I´ve come to the conclusion that the best solution is to don the backpack again and head off in search of a sandy shore for a few months. Not only a tried and tested remedy for solving back to work blues, it is also an effective, if drastic, way to comfortably push aside the reality of finding a career and making a living. What´s more, the constant barrage of new experiences when travelling waylays any longings for home. A win-win situation whichever way you look at it!

Christmas in Madrid

Its mid December and Christmas has finally settled in Madrid. The un-hurried, leisurely constuction of temporary markets and festive displays has been completed. Plazas are now congested with an unbelievable array of tatty christmas decorations and kitsch toys, and the christmas lights, flicked on unceremoniously last week, twinkle brightly for an energy-efficient, budget-friendly six hours every evening.

Despite the deceptively laid-back build-up, there is nothing quite like the crazy carnival that is Christmas in Madrid - albeit the city´s festivities are more fitting for Halloween or April Fools Day than for Father Christmas. Santa Claus hats have been replaced by ridiculous wigs more suitable for 60s rockers than St. Nick, mince pies have been swapped for blocks of turrón and steaming cups of mulled wine are nowhere to be seen. Similarly, the christmas jingles lovingly recycled annually on British radio, though often a trigger of weary grumbles about premature christmas cheer at home, are poignantly absent here. For me, the old adage ´There´s no place like home´ has never been truer.

However, strange as it is, the inevitable pangs of pre-Christmas homesickness have been accompanied by a new-found appreciation for the spanish perspective. For example, in sharp contrast to the furious Christmas marketing drive of shops in England, it is refreshing that in Spain, amidst the frenzied, pre-Christmas spending, not even the leading department stores, primely located in shopping hotspots, will consider opening their doors before 10am.

There is clearly reason behind the shops opening hours. Madrid stays up late and wakes up slowly. When you stroll through the centre at night, be it Sunday or Friday, 9pm or 5am, the city is always a hive of activity. In contrast, in the morning the centre is like a ghost town, sparsely scattered with a few newspaper vendors and jaded party-goers from the night before. In fact, when walking to work last Saturday morning, I was accosted by a persistent morrocan intent on selling me marijuana. He had clearly mistaken me for someone on their return from a night on the town rather than a professional on route to work (a sad testament to my appearance early in the morning).

By the afternoon the city has risen from slumber and the central plazas throng with crowds. Locals wait in a long, winding line to buy lottery tickets from kiosks, keen shoppers jostle through the streets laden with bags, and lengthy queues outside gather the main museums. Parque del Retiro, the city´s treasured green space, is also humming with activity by the afternoon. Market vendors, street performers and palm readers line the main promenade, roller-bladers and skaters make loops around the roundabouts, runners puff their way around the perimeter and police horses patrol the main monuments.

Blessed with weather where rain is an outside possibility and sunshine is expected, spaniards of all ages make the most of being outside, be it crisp and cold or warm and summery.This weekend, when running through the rustic reds and golds of Retiro beneath crisp blue skies, I passed an assembly of well-dressed pensioners playing bowls with a slab of slate and a crumpled can of Pepsi. Although unable to understand their gruff, incomprehensible spanish, I occasionally heard a trademark ´¡Ole!´ after a successful shot.

It is promising that, despite longing for christmas festivities with family and friends, mince pies and mulled wine, I am still being charmed by spanish foibles. One can´t help but raise a smile when, for the price of a lemonade, you are dished out a plate of tapas big enough to serve as dinner! Although weary now, I hope that, following two weeks of home comforts and long, easy chats with old friends, I will be fresh faced and enthusiastic when I return to Madrid in January.