Location Location Location

I have now been back from Madrid on unofficial summer holidays for three weeks. Despite romantic visions of spending long summer days reading, the time has slipped by in a slightly blurry haze of gin and tonics, glasses of wine and mugs of tea. Preoccupied with dog walks, lie-ins and lengthy trips on London´s creaking public transport system, the pile of Spanish books lugged back from Madrid have remained undisturbed in a pile on my bedroom floor. Unfortunately, any spare time - potential reading time - has been swallowed by increasingly panicked investigations into what to do and where to go come September - a question that seems to have boiled down to a London versus Madrid conundrum.

Having spent the past few weeks commuting to town in reverse, spending evenings at friends´ houses and nights on their sofas, I can´t help but feel that if it came to sink or swim in London, I´d struggle to keep my head above the water. Even if you push aside the exorbitant prices and astronomic size of the city, London is stressful. For one, evenings out in London become a stressful test requiring military organisation. Though I was undoubtedly spoilt in Madrid, living on the same road as several laid-back, late-night terraced bars, I think that it is justified to feel indignant when turfed out of a bar pre-midnight. I was booted out of a pub last Friday. My glass of wine sloshed unceremoniously into a plastic pint cup and the door closed and locked abruptly behind me, I was left standing listlessly on the street outside. Unwilling to commit to a boozy night in a noisy nightclub, but equally reluctant to return home, I wandered around aimlessly for a while (plastic pint cup in hand) hoping somewhat optimistically to stumble across a pub with a late licence. It didn´t take long before I conceded defeat and made for the nearest bus stop. Unfortunately, although the night had been bought to a premature end, the wearying wait for an overcrowed night bus and the painfully convoluted route that it took meant that it wasn´t until the early hours that I flaked into bed.

For another, unless late evening or very early morning, strolling seems to be something of an impossibility in London. In Madrid, I came to love the custom of “dar una vuelta” or “taking a turn”. Though the English translation sounds distinctly 19th century aristocracy, I have come to love the practice of simply walking without purpose or direction. However, in London, the legions of people that invade every corner turn a leisurely ramble around the city into an exasperating challenge. Vision blocked by an unbroken sea of heads, seeing where you´re going is an impossibilty and the congestion is such that any attempts to sidestep the crowd are hopeless. All you can do is fall into step and shuffle along blindly behind the mass. By no means is Madrid free from crowds: the central semi-circle of Sol is always a crush after 7pm, the latin quarter heaves and swells on a Sunday and the park is rammed every weekend. However, not only are the crowds less dense, but they are confined to certain hotspots leaving nearby streets refreshingly clear to amble along. Of course, if you´re keen to stretch your legs in London, you can always make for a tubeline. Londoners are reknowned for their speedy gait and nowhere is it more apparent than when they are rushing to wait on a platform. On the Waterloo & City line in particular, shifting up a gear is essential if you want to avoid being jostled by suits jockeying for position on the escalator.

On the flip side, last weekend I remembered why I love the Big Smoke. London had its sun hat on: bathed in soft sunshine and enjoying balmy temperatures, the city was smiling. By actively avoiding the centre, targeting green spaces large enough for frisbee and the arty markets and second hand vintage shops of East London, I found the London where I could happily live. Spending a fuzzy-headed Sunday morning perusing the flower markets of Colombia Road proved to be the perfect antidote to the congestion of Piccadilly. Meandering between wide flower stalls, all crammed with leafy greenery and vibrant, multi-coloured blossoms, it was hard to believe I was in central London. Only the incessant hollers of “Come ooon gals, five roses fer five pound. Y´er not buyin´ today y´er stealin”, reminded me that I was in London. The market was sandwiched between two neat lines of small, two-storey terraces - a collection of tiny boutiques. Some sold customised homeware, others handmade clothing or antiques. A few had thrown open downstairs windows to sell cups of nibbles for a pound or had hung quirky advertisements for their shop from upstairs balconies - on one terrace I noticed a fox sitting on the windowsill sewing a tapestry. Lively trios serenaded the street with energetic, foot-tapping jigs, adding to the buzz. One such group – composed of an enthusiastic clarinettist in a tweed jacket, an accordion player with a flat cap and a barefoot double bassist - attracted a semi-circle of spectators, some perched on the kerb with a take away coffee or - the braver of the crowd - circling in the middle arm-in-arm in a bouncy two-step.

As you can tell, in the throes of a love-hate relationship with London, I am no further forward in solving my September quandary. However, given the growing pile of unanswered cover letters for jobs in London, I can´t help but feel that the decision will be taken out of my hands. The option of a bohemian lifestyle and easy employment as an English teacher certainly trumps months of rejected applications and failed interviews!

Gotham City

It was only after I had booked a four-day stint in Naples and bought the guide book that a friend forewarned me it was a city infamous for its filth and notoriously dangerous. Told that it was alive with rats, stagnant garbage and organised crime I was quickly made aware that, though the city is a World Heritage Site, I wouldn´t be sight-seeing my way around a series of polished and picturesque monuments. As such, I arrived with mild curiosity about what a Mafia stronghold looked like and fairly low expectations about the city´s urban facade. To be honest, I couldn´t think much beyond a Peroni and a plate of pasta.

Fortunately, my food and drink cravings were satisfied almost immediately - within an hour of landing from Madrid I found myself in a local trattoria that was brimming with rowdy rabbles of local Italians. In fact, though I had booked a full four days in Italy´s third city, the lure of spending a few days beach-side on an island meant that my Napolese experience was squashed into this one evening - a jam-packed night kicked off with generous servings of Peroni and red wine sloshed into plastic cups, a succession of antipasto and spaghetti and a family of big-bellied, broad-smiling waitors who sporadically cranked up the volume of the music and plucked girls from their table for a two minute salsa-style spin. It was the perfect introduction to the other half of Latino Europe (which also confirmed that shouting to the person next to you is a trait shared by Italians and Spaniards alike).

Perhaps fittingly, the bubbling trattoria where I ate was in the Spanish quarter of the city. A vast, chaotic jumble of criss-crossing streets that, unsurpisingly, echoed the old quarter of Madrid. However, compared to the sleepiness of Madrid´s narrow lanes, where cars are an infrequent occurrence, the ongoing assault of Vespas zipping along the streets of Naples was overwhelming. Luckily, the general rule seemed to be that if you walked, motorists waited – or at least swerved easily around you. Notably,when exploring this labyrinth of narrow lanes, it was actually quite difficult to find a bar. Instead of the array of small locals that are scattered across Madrid, the doors and windows of downstairs flats were simply thrown open, revealing families lounging in the kitchen, sipping bottles of beer or preparing the food, occasionally shouting across the street to their neighbours. Though probably the result of an over-active imagination fuelled by mafia stories, it was all too easy to imagine that the whole district was linked in some kind of Godfather-esque extended family.

Walking home that night provided a taster of the different districts in Naples, revealing just how big and sprawling the city is. On route, we stopped for a coffee (in a classy, late-night cafeteria) and a cocktail (on a bustling street overflowing with drinkers), passed through an enormously grand, indoor market and along streets awaft with the mouldy, sweet stench that emanates from decaying garbage. On the way to the bay, we passed several small mountains of said garbage. Apparently a hangover from a 15-year-old problem with the binmen, such mounds, which are slowly but surely devouring the pavements, are commonplace in the city. Interestingly, in some areas it seems to be randomly categorized – the bus station looked like a recycling depot for old shoes. The sheer size of the city became even more evident when, after following the distinctive curve of the Napolese coastlines for over half an hour, we still had to hitch a lift to the station to catch the once-hourly bus (albeit it was a 50 minute wait until an antique model rattled into the station).

As much as I´d like to contradict the fairly negative press about Naples, from first appearances, the city certainly fitted the briefing I´d been given- un undeniably dirty, sprawling mess. However, though a far cry from the picture-perfect elegance of Rome or Paris, Naples had an appealing charm. It was raw and gritty, and free from touristy pomp and pretension. It wasn´t necessary to visit one of the 448 historical and cultural monuments to appreciate Naples as a historical centre - it was so steeped in its past that it was literally crumbling into memory as I walked around it. Completely unsanitised by even the slightest efforts at conservation, it was a dilapidated muddle of crumbling buildings and rubbish-strewn passages.

As such, it was fertile ground for the imagination: throughout the evening I spent there I found myself repeatedly envisaging a shadowy, smokey underworld more reminiscent of Gotham City than one of Italy´s Big 3. Indeed, far from feeling disappointed that I hadn´t spent a weekend perusing the Southern equivalent of Florence, I left hungry for more.

Classy horses, feudal landlords and a Robin Hood wannabe

“In Spain we have well-behaved horses and badly-behaved children,” he said, glancing over his shoulder and smiling. My mind flitted back to the snotty-nosed ten-year-old I had had the misfortune to encounter on the metro the week before. Shouting “hija de puta” (“son of a bitch”) at the top of her voice, an entire carriageful of commuters had recoiled into their seats from her screams. As if to illustrate his point further, he popped his horse into a short, bouncy canter, travelling no more than 5m before halting abruptly and executing a neat pirouette to unlock the gate. His horse, a wispy black mare wearing an elaborately knotted coloured cloth on her forehead (the traditional answer to fly repellant spray), was obediently attentive to his every move. Delicately playing with the bit in her mouth, the long, metal shanks on either side clinking gently as she did so, she spun easily on her haunches as he swung open the gate and held it open for me to pass.

He was immaculately turned out, wearing a sharp, broad-brimmed hat and an elegant brown suit. Cut in the traditional style, the jacket was short-bodied and the trousers high-waisted, belted with a coloured scarf that had been fastened around his middle like a cumberbund. On his boots, recently shined and resting in large, bucket-style stirrups, he sported some fearsome looking metal spurs that bent unforgivingly towards his horses flanks. Sat easily in the deep curves of a Western saddle padded with thick sheepskins, he held the reins casually in one hand, the other hanging loosely at his side. In short, a picture of Spanish equitation. A sorry comparison, I was wearing stone-washed jeans and an unglamourously oversized Adidas waterproof: notably scruffy.

I had long since given up the hope of finding any affordable riding options in Spain, and as such could hardly believe my luck when I found myself astride a classy, Hanoverian gelding in the midst of the Sierra last Friday. The result of a curious series of chance encounters, I have now enjoyed three such horseback excursions. It began a few weeks ago when, somewhat optimistically, I gave my number to a man-on-a-horse in the hope of securing a stable-based summer job. To my surprise, a few days, later one of his acquaintances rang to invite me on a four hour trip through the outlying valleys of Madrid - an unforgettable outing that led to two further trips (and a long afternoon spent writing about it).

Though at first glance, the horses seem rather skinny and shrunken compared to the fleshy specimens I´m used to in England, there can be no doubt that the Spanish breed and raise a special class of horses. Versatile and suprisingly hardy, they climbed up steep, rocky inclines and slid down sharp drops laced with tree roots without once stumbling, crossed rivers and jumped ditches without batting an eyelid and slalomed through pine tree forests at a measured in-hand canter just as easily as they lengthened their stride to a ground-covering gallop in the clearings. As fresh and spirited after four hours as they were at the start, I felt like I was sitting on a very narrow, explosively energetic goldmine. I found myself alongside this exemplar of Spanish equitation when, following a horsebox malfunction, we had to abandon the planned mountain excursion and reroute to a closer location. It was only on being informed that the well-dressed horseman beside me was the owner of the estate on which we were riding that I realised that I was rubbing shoulders with the aristocracy - the Marquess  Patoso del Arco to be precise (otherwise known as Jaime).

When, after initial introductions, he justified his extravagant garb by explaining that he had been hunting wild pigs the day before and didn´t want to dirty two suits, I assumed he was joking. However, it soon became apparent that, bizarre as it seemed, Jaime was speaking in all seriousness. As we rode, he indicated the borders of his territory with casual sweeps of his arm that seemed to cover entire swathes of the mountainside (just one estate of many scattered throughout Spain of course) and regaled me with fantastical tales of his ancesters adventures in England in the 1500s. Occasionally he would draw to a sharp halt and swoop down easily from his saddle to snatch a handful of grasses and offer me a generous bunch of sweet-smelling lavendar or thyme. Needless to say, it was a surreal experience cantering behind such a character through his meadows of long grass flecked with white, purple and yellow flowers.

One such meadow was home to numerous horses running free across the valley - the yearlings he had bred last spring. Like a scene out of Black Beauty, we were rapidly surrounded by the young, inquisitive noses and excited snorts of three of four youngsters, all shooed away by Jaime with a firm “yah” and unconcerned flick of his stick when they came too close. In the valley beyond we passed the outer shell of a grand stable block pendant in mid-construction. Large enough to house 20 horses and equipped with two arenas, it was suitably stylish, decked with a fitting plaque that read: “Por Necessidad Batallo, Y Cuando Puesto en mi Silla, Voy Ensanchando mis Castillas, Encima de un Caballo" (For necessity I battle, and Once in my Throne, I will Widen my Castles on Horseback).

I have to say, I felt as if I had been teleported back to the fifteenth century. Jaime was the model of decorum and propriety, holding open gates (when on horseback) and doors (when on foot), helping me to put my jacket on and insisting on addressing me in English when possible. In exchange, I had to make a concerted effort to use the polite “you” form when speaking to him – an unexpected test for my spanish. Predictably he was also ultra-conservative, and more than once the conversation veered onto passionate rants about council restrictions and the interference of conservationalists on his land. Combined with a few toe-curling moments of political incorrectness, I spent a large part of the day biting my tongue or feigning incomprehension.

Naive as it sounds, I didn´t realise that such families still existed - the whole thing had a slightly feudal feel to it. In fact, I frequently found myself imagining Jaime to be the infamous Sheriff of Nottingham, insatiably greedy, ruthlessly squeezing every last penny from the commoners in the village and on occasions when I found myself cantering more or less on my own, it was all too easy to picture myself as the female equivalent of Robin Hood galloping through the territory of the enemy. All I needed was a bow and arrow... and perhaps a catapult.
 

Spinning it out...

It´s now June and it is apparent that the Spanish revolution that exploded on the 15th May (dubbed 15-M) has no inclination of pettering out gradually. On the contrary, the protesters´ camp in Puerta del Sol is showing all the signs of permanence and longevity: the motley conglomeration of tents has been slowly multiplying, an efficient rubbish collection system and street cleaning rotation has developed and the temporary rest zones have become increasingly well-furnished. Weaving through the paraphernalia that constitutes a resident makeshift village is now a daily normality.

One can´t help but admire its staying power. Two weeks on from the initial outburst and Sol still becomes a congested hotspot every evening, each night built around a structured program of talks. At different hours, various speakers are encircled by a mass of spaniards. Some sitting on the concrete listening avidly, others watching avidly from scaffolding erected on the roadside, they all periodically they raise their arms in the air, waving their fingers in a spirit-fingered-style salute or jingling a bunch of keys to show their appreciation or agreement (an unobtrusive tactic employed, somewhat ironically, to minimise disturbances and noise pollution).

However, though it is undoubtedly refreshing to see a society shaken out of indifference and roused to indignant action, I can´t help but think that the impact of 15-M, two weeks on, is starting to fade. Though developed as intentionally broad and non-political - an all-encompassing protest against a worn-out system - for being so directionless it seems to be losing its way. In fact, as far as I can tell, it has become a forum for anything remotely alternative. The signs bemoaning unemployment and political corruption are now interspersed with an array or irrelevancies – accusing exclamations unveiling the 11th Sept conspiracy, optimistic calls to repeal the anti-tobacco laws and, of course, the standard slaughter house horror stories from animal rights activists. Surely it would have packed more punch if it had been cleared up before it spiralled into a vague hippie protest about everything. Surely using the momentum of the initial demonstration to take steps towards achievable changes would have been much more constructive.

On reflection, spinning things out beyond a reasonable timeframe seems to be something of a Spanish characteristic. The prolonged parties of my housemates, for example, seem to follow an extended timetable that is beyond all reason: their return home at around 10am after an all-night party has become a common-place event about twice a week. Most recently, they have inaugurated “Sunday, the day of Fiesta”: a file of hard-core party-goers storm into the flat and Sunday morning is assaulted by repeats of Shakira and Rihanna played at full volume. Showing incredible staying power, the party often continues until gone midnight that night. In comparison, on the occasions when I roll home after sunrise, I usually just manage a slice of pizza and a pint of water before crashing out - Sunday lost to sporadic snoozes and general inactivity.

Their party-stamina is a physical feat that I could never hope to achieve – not that it is an ambition I particularly aspire to. Indeed, I imagine that the perpetual party is fairly reliant on a dirty white powder. Even so, what is perhaps most surprising about “The day of the Fiesta” is that, dubious choice of music aside, it seems a fairly civilised affair. No-one seems particularly drunk, rowdy or out-of-hand. Consisting largely of babbling chatter, music videos and periodic trips to the shops to stock up on cigarettes and drinks, it´s a far cry from the war zone that appears outside English chippies at 3am on a Saturday night.

I suppose that using my housemates´ party endurance (undeniably extreme in every sense of the word) to make sweeping generalisations about the Spanish as a nation is a slightly flawed technique. Similarly, considering the longevity of 15-M (an angry outburst triggered by an acute economic crisis) as a reflection of the Spanish character can hardly be described as accurate. Even so, I can´t imagine many English people losing more or less three days in a sleepless party-continuum. Neither can I imagine a makeshift revolutionary camp becoming an indefinite resident in Trafalgar Square.

Then again, given that I´m from Surrey and that most of my friends now live in Clapham, perhaps it is simply that I don´t move in the equivalent circles in England.

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.