Nobody expects the Spanish revolution

It was a student who explained to me that Tirso de Molina, the little district where I live, is something of a hotspot of political activism. A large, open square bordered by a main road and a Lidls, its not particularly attractive. The stone benches are scribbled with graffiti and the corners are home to pungent aromas and empty Mahou bottles. However, on the other hand, the rush of water from the corner statue, the splash of colour from the flower vendors and the excited giggles of the children on the playground make it a nice place to sit. The two restaurant terraces, permanently buzzing with people, are perfect people-watching posts. Though I have never really noticed it, on reflection, there is a fair amount of evidence to suggest the left-wing, anarchist currents of Tirso. Every Sunday the flower stands are interspersed with fold-out tables, laden with political pamphlets, and there are always a few interesting characters loitering in the middle – most recently a mean-looking punk with a severe mohawk, plentiful piercings and a spotted red and white flamenco skirt worn over his leathers.

It was on Friday evening when walking home from the station that I passed a disparate looking procession ambling up a local side street. A demonstration rather lacking in numbers, I weaved easily through the well-spaced crowd to overtake, and continued stomping up the hill towards my flat. A quick glance of the motley gaggle and the felt-tip scrawl on their banners seemed to confirm that it was just a fringe group making a song and dance about very litte. However, two days later I found my doorway blocked by an enormous overturned rubbish cube. On squeezing past it and picking my way through the profusion of smashed bottles and crumpled cans, I was engulfed in billowing clouds of foul-smelling smoke – the recycling bins had been set on fire in an unexpected burst of activism.

Though I didn´t realise it at the time, the fringe demonstration of Friday and seemingly random anarchism of Sunday night were part of the build up to the mass demonstration that has paralysed Puerta del Sol for the past week. It began on Tuesday night. Immersed in back-to-back episodes of The New Adventures of Superman, I remained blissfully unaware that hordes of unhappy Spaniards were gathering in the centre of the city and planning to camp there overnight. In fact, I didn´t realise that the city had been gripped by protest until I picked up a freebie newspaper on the Metro the next morning. The following day, slightly more on the ball, I made a point of passing through Sol at about 10pm. It was an impressive sight. Under a dramatic sky - heavy storm clouds illuminated by the sunset – a sea of bodies milled around expectantly bubbling with fervent energy and jostling together as if waiting for something. Some gaggles of demonstrators had clambered onto the fish-shaped dome that marks the Metro entrance, while others had scaled the scaffolding of the main buildings, punching holes in the advertisments to a crescendoeing roar from the crowds. The atmosphere was electric.

Though it began spontaneously, the protest has now been resident in Sol for about a week. The unruly mob has morphed into some sort of makeshift village – with impressive infrastructure - at a startling pace. In fact, though Spaniards are infamous for their lack of organisation, the impromptu construction of a camp seems to have been conducted with military precision, and it hasn´t been done in half-measures. The face of Sol has been transformed. The statues are invisible beneath a wallpaper of slogans, an uneven canopy of blue tarpaulin shades the random array of stands and the flowerbeds that normally surround the fountains have been trampled into compact, brown earth. There are medical tents, one homeopathic and one conventional, categorised storerooms brimming with vegetarian food and toiletries, a press tent kitted out with laptops and microphones, cushion-laden rest zones and an excess of informative signs stipulating the food timetable, the program of speakers and procedures to be followed in the case of police violence. Stewards marshall pedestrian traffic aong the road, journalists interview self-annointed spokesmen, resident protesters stretch across sofas to catch up on sleep and musicians strum relaxing tunes...

On Saturday night I spent the evening sitting in the square with a friend, sipping a drink and soaking up the atmosphere. Though I did feel twinges of guilt for buying a litre of sangria when there were a plethora of posters encouraging abstinence, we weren´t alone: the surrounding streets were like a local bar on a Saturday night. However, the atmosphere was notably calm and relaxed. In fact, generally speaking there is an overwhelming spirit of co-operation and solidarity. My housemate, who last featured in this blog as the full-grown man wearing a babygrow and sipping a cocktail on a Sunday morning, bounced home on Wednesday flushed and excited after donating 10 pints of milk to the resident protesters. He´s not alone – a variety of restaurants are donating food and drinks. It seems that the entire Spanish pueblo - from jobless students to retired grandparents – is contributing in some way to this spur-of-the-moment display.

Cynics may argue that it is a meaningless charade with no demands and no answers - a theatre conducted by the unemployed with nothing better to do. Indeed, I do wonder what the government could possibly do to appease protesters. However, it is also refreshing to see a society finally shaken into action. Though criticised for being directionless with no political slant or concrete list of demands, this characteristic of the demonstration seems to have been a purposeful decision – a protest against the whole system, wanting sweeping changes and not simply more excuses and finger pointing.

Only time will tell whether it is merely a hippie-haven and a pointless theatre or a defining moment in history. Either way, it´s exciting to be living in the middle!

The Ringmaster

Sunken in a comfy, dreamy slumber, the shrill and persistant bleep of my alarm clock seemed somehow more offensive than usual last Monday. Unsuprisingly, contemplating the unappealing prospect of a full day of teaching when snugly wrapped in a cosy duvet didn´t little to animate my enthusiasm. Pressing the snooze button repeatedly was similarly ineffective, merely resulting in a fuzzy head and a groggy start to the morning...

 I have attributed this exaggerated bout of Monday gloom to a “holiday hangover”, triggered by the unwelcome return to reality after the lazy May Day holidays, known in Spain as "San Isidro". Madrid´s equivalent of England´s Spring bank holiday, San Isidro - in true Spanish style - is spun out to last a full week. As such, with the majority of my classes cancelled and a refreshingly empty timetable, I felt like I was on holiday. The long, free afternoons soaking up the atmosphere were definitely worth being a few euros down next month. Whether strolling around the city centre, reading on a park bench or sipping a tinto de verano on a terrace, the city was heaving with people and buzzing with freebie concerts and displays. As businesses closed at lunchtime and offices emptied, the parks and plazas swelled. It felt like the population of Madrid had doubled within the space of a few days.

In Plaza Mayor, people gave up table-stalking the restaurant terraces or hovering hopefully by the stone benches and simply flopped onto the cobbles, picnicking in circles on the stones or leaning against the pillars to bask in the sun. The circus of street performers also seemed to grow, the glut of tourists tempting a handful of new hopefuls to the square. A series of novel fancy dress outfits appeared: a dumpy, oval-shaped fruit bowl, spinning on her finger a sombrero laden with plastic bananas, a "headless" sailor, the necktie of his faded suit swollen in a tell-tale bulge, a theatrical Charlie Chaplin, his curly, black wig lightly dusted with the white powder that coated his face. Some exuberant, young travellers also made brief appearances, attacking the swollen plaza energetically - loudly rallying a crowd of curious onlookers, setting up an array of props and mounting a noisy spectacle.

Amidst the carnival, Spiderman remained a stoic presence throughout the week, quietly confident with his sun-bleached suit and sagging stomach. Distinctive but unobtrusive. Incongrous but effective. An expert at work, he effortlessly attracted a steady flow of snap-happy tourists, conducting a roaring trade – even administering change when necessary. Perhaps in honour of San Isidro, he had added to his trademark repertoire of photo poses, debuting a new posture: the Beer-Belly-Rub. Any unsuspecting passerby with an ample gut was liable to be coaxed into position (legs hips-width apart in a wide stance, pelvis pushed forwards and hands behind back) to partake in a belly-bump with Spiderman. Admittedly, it was a move with varying degrees of success, some of the more bashful targets blushing red and hastily retreating. Even so, the colourful array of extravagant costumes and dramatic spectacles couldn´t detract from Spiderman´s success.

Recently, when passing through Puerta Del Sol, the official centrepoint of Madrid situated a five minute walk from Plaza Mayor, I happened across another "spiderman". However, though sporting the trademark suit (his a shiny, bright red and blue with padded shoulders) he had a rather shrunken, pathetic aspect. Wandering listlessly around the main statue he appeared poignantly uncomfortable instead of easily self-assured. Jostled by the passing crowds, he was a pale imitation of the booming character in Plaza Mayor. In contrast, the Spiderman of the Plaza, the undisputed ringmaster of the circus, seems to be slowly cementing his status as an official emblem of Madrid. Most recently, he has acquired a miniature statue of himself. Though only a foot high, the glazed waxwork is in perfect proportion to his figure: globular, with peachy protruding buttocks and a proudly round stomach.

I´m just waiting until he appears on the Top 10 Must-See´s in the Lonely Planet!

Boredom breakers

Just to prove that I don´t spend all of my free time snoozing on park benches and going for walks, here are some links to articles that I have written recently: The Spanish Taberna and The Bolevan Plateau (p. 40). For if you ever find yourself aimlessly perusing the internet or twiddling your thumbs at work...

Every cloud...

Despite the lengthy precautionary paragraph in the Lonely Planet and the wealth of warnings from helpful locals, most of my valuable possessions have been nicked since my arrival in Madrid. Camera, mobile, jacket and wallet (stuffed full of wages, ID and bank cards) have been successively lost to the sticky-fingered experts that stalk the metro and prime Plazas of the city - all sneakily swiped by well-practiced hands and scurried away before I had even noticed their absence. I imagine that within the hour they were padding out the stock of the illegal mobile markets that circulate the city.

I shouldn´t be suprised really. Often tottering about amongst a gaggle of tipsy Brits, or noticeably flicking through an English textbook, I´m probably the perfect profile for a pickpocket. To make matters worse, I don´t think I´m particularly aware of my surroundings when out on the streets. Probably as a result of the herby-smelling wave of smoke that greets me every time I enter my flat, I seem to be passively stoned and slightly spaced out most of the time. I may as well be wearing a post-it on my forehead reading “Rob me please, I won´t notice.”

In an effort to see the silver lining on every cloud, I have tried to convince myself that succesive sacrifices to the street thieves of Spain has at least taught me to place less value on material possessions and to embrace carefree detachment. In some respects, I suppose it has worked: surviving for a few days with no recognisable ID and a strictly limited supply of money could, at a push, be described as liberating in some ways. Similarly, since the loss of the mobile phone I have resorted to a prehistoric Nokia handset on a Pay As You Go contract, which certainly has its benefits: the constant lack of credit provides a good excuse never to reply to messages. In fact, combined with the recent mysterious disappearance of our letter box, for the past few months I have been temporarily unreachable – at least when I want to be.

However, despite best efforts, my attempts to adopt the hippie mindset have only taken me so far. Although I generally only react with weary resignation when something inexplicably disappears from my handbag, I can´t help but bristle with frutation and annoyance inside. Even if initially ´liberating´, after just a few days of coping with a fast diminishing cash supply and no bank cards, the novelty had worn thin. Similarly, a recent three-day stretch without internet has confirmed that being unreachable is only enjoyable when it is optional. In fact, being internet-less left me feeling isolated, melancholy and homesick, merely emphasising my reliance on daily contact with friends and family back home. Indeed, at times I find myself hovering on Facebook or Skype longing for a friendly voice to log in for a chat. So much for carefree hippie detachment.

Perhaps the cloud doesn´t have a silver lining after all...

The wheels on the bus go round and round... and round

Although my work schedule can heardly be described as arduous, when I finished teaching on Wednesday I felt like a child who has just broken up for the summer holidays and I practically skipped home, happily anticipating satisfying my beach-side cravings and enjoying a week of much-missed home comforts - understandable enthusiasm given that I had gone four months without returning to the Big Smoke. My inexplicable excitement about the eight hour bus journey to Cadiz however is perhaps harder to explain; yet for some reason I had high hopes of a productive trip, taking with me reams of unfamiliar spanish vocab and an empty notebook, ready to be filled with the fully-formed plot of my first short story and a vague plan for the future.

Unfortunately, I did little more than stare vacantly out of the window. Sat directly behind the bus driver, enjoying panoramic views, it was all too easy to simply gaze idly at the scenary. There was certainly no shortage of things to look at. As well as the rocky valleys, sloping rolls of farmland, wind turbines and solar panels, the countryside was dotted with enormous metal cutouts. Every now and then a pair of black horns would appear on the horizon, growing into the hulking outline of a bull as we approached. Not only bull-shaped, occasionally the looming silhouette was that of a donkey... or even a hat-wearing cucumber. Needless to say, the short-story remained non-existant, as did the life plan.

In fact, eight hours day-dreaming - largely about holidays - has merely confirmed that I'm not ready to get a real career yet. Though I never thought I'd admit to enjoying teaching, the perks are plenty. As well as weekend hurrahs in and around Spain, the midweek timetable isn't exactly taxing when compared to the rat race. Take last week for example, when I spent a grumpy Tuesday evening wearily contemplating a hectic Wednesday. To allow for my four-day-weekend I had squashed all of thursday's classes into one day. However, relatively speaking, it was hardly a manic day. None of my students turned up to one class - time for an ice-cream and a bench-side snooze - and I spent most of my final class busily planning with students the fancy dress costume to be worn for a forthcoming fiesta in their village.

Though I do teach a few brokers and traders, who often arrive at class somewhat harrassed and full of sighs, it seems that Spain walks at its own pace work-wise. I know at least half a dozen spaniards who only work four hours a day, lots finish work at 3pm and one has a midday beer and tapas with his boss every day. I suppose the price of such a style is lower wages and a weaker economy... either way, I know which I prefer!

Solitude, squats and spliffs

As most of my friends will verify, I am a naturally early riser. At the end of long evenings and late nights my eyes, lids swollen with sleep, become narrow slits and I involuntarily fade into incommunicative absent-mindedess. On the other hand, I naturally wake up relatively early and, incapable of lazy morning snoozes, am usually impatient to get going. Life as an early riser is a lot more difficult in a land where everyone else seems to run to a different time; it has made impromptu catnaps and general drowsiness a fact of life. On a recent weekend in Granada my particularly stubborn body clock and dubious sleeping arrangments ensured that, despite two boozy nights, I was able to explore the city in the tranquil solitude of the early morning (relatively speaking).

Albeit dry-mouthed and heavy-headed, ambling alone around the streets of Granada as they were slowly waking up was the ideal way to see the city. It showed me a completely different side to the city. A few people were out for a leisurely stroll, newspaper under arm or bag of groceries in hand, waitors weaved idly between the neatly laid tables of empty restaurants, waiting for the lunchtime influx, and shopkeepers shuffled around in their doorways chatting to eachother. The plazas, that a few hours previously had been throbbing with the boisterous activity of late-night drinking, were serene and calm, now occupied by the older generation (the abuelos, as they are known in Spain). All well-turned out in suit trousers and shirt, perhaps puffing a cigar or pipe, they had congregated on the benches to resume the casual chit-chat from the morning before.

There were, however, a few tell-tale signs of the lurid revels of the night before. As I passed one plaza a slightly dishevelled looking Italian caught my eye: a lone survivor from the night-time fesitivites. Swaying uneasily, he was engaged in animated conversation with the abuelos, who, wary to keep their distance from his enthusiastic gesticulations, were either nodding patiently or tutting between their teeth disapprovingly.

I have long since realised that forsaking sleep in favour of the fiesta is a a feature of Spanish nightlife. In Granada in particular, days and nights seem to blur into one long spliff-a-licious, booze-heavy continuum. On the Friday night I stumbled into one such neverending party. Judging by the laundry hung on the roof terrace and the assorted heaps of bedding, the tumbledown building also served as a squat. The three floors were heaving with the fervent buzz and slightly disorientated confusion of people who have been enjoying a non-stop party. Energetic gaggles bounced in sync to a clapped rhythm, singing spontaneously to the strum of a guitar, famished drinkers devoured slices of free pizza dished out from the makeshift kitchen (unfortunately located alonside the only toilet) and those woozy from days of endless indulgence draped themselves over motheaten sofas, spilling over the collapsed arm rests. Add into the mileu a plethora of abandoned dogs that, gladly adopted by the resident party goers, weaved easily through the forest of wobbly legs, tails thumping enthusiastically.

During the night one particular character stood out from the chaos. His face was framed by a thick mat of dreadlocks, accentuating the high-arched curve of his cheekbones, and a patchy beard revealed an elongated jawline. Wearing a simple threadbare shirt and brown hareem pants, it was his eyes that set him apart from the crowd. He had painted elaborate decorations around the sockets: when you looked at him the glimmer of his eyes was lost amongst the vibrant streaks of blues, reds and greens. That night, he seemed to occupy every corner of the squat at once. Rather than shuffling awkwardly through the multitudes, mumbling muffled ´perdonas´, he crouched down low and darted nimbly through the crowd, expertly traversing the squat. At one moment he was perched on the arm of a sofa, spliff in one hand, can of Alhambra in the other, and a few minutes later he was frantically strumming a makeshift bass in the midst of an impromptu jam session. Despite such relentless activity, he showed no sign whatsoever of tiring. As I prepared to leave, resigned to the fact that I lack the Spanish staying-power, he was smiling giddily amongst a gabbling huddle of rastas, half-submerged by clouds of cigarette smoke.

On route to the exit, my eyes slid over an apparently empty corner of sofa, occupied only by the faded black case of a guitar. It wasn´t until I tripped over a pair of legs protuding from beneath it that I realised there was a body sunk deep into the sofa. Half swallowed by the well-worn sofa, with his arms stretched around the neck of the guitar in an affectionate embrace, a man was sleeping soundly, almost invisible behind the guitar.

His figure was some consolation that even Spaniards succumb to sleep eventually.

An update on the Plaza

I´m sad to admit that over the past few weeks my visits to Plaza Mayor have become more widely-spaced. Uncharacteristically cloudy skies and sporadic dribbles of rain have made window-seats in cafés a more appealing prospect than bottom-numbing stone benches and, as a consequence, long afternoons of people-watching in the Plaza have been replaced by a brief stroll across the cobbles on my way home.

I certainly regret that the hours spent whiled away soaking up the ambience of the city´s centrepiece have been curtailed. The everchanging face of the square meant that every afternoon spent bench-side had a different vibe, each day defined by the assorted gaggles of tourists, the random rotation of street performers and the distinct mood imposed by the weather.

The last time I lingered there, about a fortnight ago, the square was buzzing with the jaunty swing of a jazz band. Normally afloat with the melodious tunes of accordion players, the plaza was alive with a relentlessly strummed, rythmic riff and the lively counterpoint of two saxes. Rare visiters to the square, the group injected an energetic, foot-tapping bounce. Of the street performers, some of the regulars looked distinctly put-out: a broad-bellied, heavily moustached violinist retreated morosely from the square, his violin resting over his shoulder, and a sullen-looking Spongebob Squarepants retired wearily to a bench, lighting a cigarette. Even Spiderman, normally the commanding, central figure of the square, had been relegated to a shaded corner, temporarily defunct.

On subsequent visits, when I hurriedly skirted the Plaza en route to class, I did not see the jazz band. However, neither did I see Spiderman. His habitual corner remained empty, his hulking figure nowhere to be seen. Usually such a reliable presence in the square, the absence of his distinct, rotund silhouette was poignant. Given that the last time I saw him he had been uncharacterically unanimated, I started to worry.

Granted, there were an abundance of logical explanations for his temporary absence - perhaps he had wondered off to get a sandwich as I had passed, or had simply taken a day or two off with a bout of flu. However, I struggled to imagine Spiderman tucked up in bed with a snotty nose and a temperature. In fact, it was difficult to imagine the-man-beneath-the-suit at, making it all too easy to dismiss any rational reasoning. I began to fear that he had finally tired of Plaza Mayor and so taken his unique business elsewhere. At first glance he may appear to be something of a peculiarity, out-of-place alongside the majesty of the square. However, his unwavering occupation of the square has cemented his position as an essential resident. For me, he is an essential personality in the Plaza, a defining idiosyncracy of the square. It seems to lack something when he´s not there.

However, my fears were extinguished last Saturday when, with a free afternoon and a forecast of “sunny spells”, I gratefully returned to my favoured bench. Even before I had passed under the arched entrance to the Plaza I could hear the welcomingly familiar bellows of, “Now, scaaaary... now, seeexy!”. Spiderman had returned, and was in his element. As I watched that afternoon, he never paused from his personna. A day of non-stop business, he worked through his trademark repertoire of postures without pause for breath. Contesting a relentless flow of business, on one occasion he didn´t even bother to roll down his mask and stub out his fag before coraling an unsuspecting tourist into position - I am sure that a weathered, overweight Spiderman miming flight with a fag hanging from the corner of his mouth made an illustrative picture of the streets of Madrid.

When I had been seated for about half an hour a group of 16 American señoritas meandered into the square, each sporting a red, silk sash declaring that they were on “Sarah´s Hen Weekend”. Spiderman made a beeline for the group. He ambled slowly towards them in broad, easy steps, and paused a few metres away. Rolling back on his heels, his back slightly arched, belly potruding round and proud before him, he spread his arms wide, palms open, in a welcome gesture. Though a giggly and somewhat apprehensive group at first, being an expert at his trade he had soon coaxed them into semi-circle around him. With his audience in place, he lowered himself awkwardly to his knees in theatrical mock worship of the bride, his heavy belly grazing the cobbles. After, having won over the sceptics in the group, he struggled laboriously to his feet and began authoritatively herding the group into collective poses.

As I walked away, his booming bellow fading into a distant rumble, I smiled to myself. The ringmaster had returned!

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.