My Spanish Life.

A conversation with a friend, Mike, left me pondering a number of questions. Not particularly profound or deep, but then again, they never are. But anyway, to the point.

Music.

He mentioned music as a soundtrack to one’s life and indeed, I have to agree with him. Music has been and always will be, I expect, a constant in my life. Not that the sounds will stay the same, but as friends here in Madrid constantly comment – I am never without headphones (even at 2am in a club). Music is what gets me out of bed most mornings. It allows me to disappear into my thoughts and permits me to disappear from them too. Whether it be hip hop, metal, punk, pop, rock, house or whatever, I can be assured that something will strike a chord with me.

But that leads one to wonder… is your music taste dictated by the moods and attitudes of your life? Or are your moods and attitudes dictated by your music? I’m proposing those questions not in order to answer them because I do not have the time or the patience to churn out JSTOR article after JSTOR article to discover the psychological reasons behind liking certain types of music. All I know is that the core music at various points in my life have all been reflective (or vice versa) of my mind state at the time.

With some leeway and boundary stretching, I can point to four major musical periods of my life since age 12 and trap them into bands that I was obsessed with at the time. For the sake of brevity, I will leave it at just four bands but be assured that there were more things being listened to at this time.

So 12 years old – 15 years old:

Nirvana. OK, you may not like them but for a twelve or thirteen year old new to the world of music, they set me up for life. I received In Utero from a friend of mine on cassette, and didn’t return it for a very, very long time. Every day, In Utero was thrashed through my slowly destroying, grandfather’s old stereo. It pushed me into grunge. Into punk. Into metal. Into alternative. Into independent. Into everything. If it hadn’t been for Nirvana, I don’t think I would have ever found my way into ideas that have shaped me now. Now that’s a big call. Kurt Cobain, nor Nirvana, ever espoused all the ideas which I consider important now. But by hell, they opened the floodgates to them. They made me feel different; they made my heart pound (and still do). They made me angry, sad, happy. And I couldn’t get them out of my ears.

Maybe they inflicted negativity on me, but maybe also a love for independence. Maybe. Or maybe I was drawn to them.

15-19 years old:

Tool. I remember owning the Hottest 100 cd from 1997, where TOOL came in second place with the song Stinkfist. I also remember seeing their CD in Dillon’s music on Norwood Parade and being astonished by the cover’s 3D effect. I purchased it. I took it home. Put headphones on. And was sold. Maynard’s voice rang out, echoing feelings that I am not sure if I felt at all. I still can’t listen to Aenima without wanting to curl up in the dark and let it drown me in sound. My music taste was heavier then. I was never a full blown metal head. I can say I own Slayer, and have heard Cannibal Corpse. But I was always drawn to industrial abrasion like Nine Inch Nails, Manson, Ministry. But it was the beauty of Tool which held me steadfast.

Lyrics have always held me. They don’t have to be the most delicate poetry, but they have to convey emotion. And a perfect emotion. Tool, from the age of 15-19 did this for me. I wouldn’t have travelled 10 hours to see them, because I never thought they’d come back again. Tool made me feel like someone else thought the way I did. Maybe I just thought the way they did, or they just influenced me. But they challenged me. I paid for that in some ways. I hung for five years to Aenima. It was my soul, my heart and my thoughts. So did it shape me?

19-23

Impossible to find a video for this band. They never made one. Godspeed You! Black Emperor. My friend, Lucy, gave me this at, I think, my 19th or 20th birthday. She came with three burnt CD’s – Sigur Ros, Mum and Godspeed. Being that I already owned Sigur Ros, I took the other two. That night, at some ungodly hour, I played Lift Yr. Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven and barely took it out of my stereo for the next four years. It was a different shift for me. It moved me away from anger. Or towards it but in a different form. It took me into a new realm of music. It opened the door to bands like Slint, Mogwai, A Silver Mt. Zion, and a world of new-folk. But it also reenforced my politics.

Maybe I embraced them as a band because they showed me that people could live a life outside the system and succeed. Maybe they don’t even live that life. I had never heard anything like it before. How could a – essentially – punk band write 20 minute opuses without words? How could this still reveal their politics in more ways than a band like Rage Against the Machine or System of A Down ever do? How could they make me feel more emotion than anyone that existed in my life at that time? I was obsessed. And in those years, if you saw me with headphones, that was what I was listening to. Godspeed! will always be punk rock to me. Not the Sex Pistols. Not Minor Threat. Not Bad Brains. Although I will accept them as punk bands. Godspeed! didn’t care what you thought and they had a message. They didn’t need words to convey it. They wanted revolution in some form and they appeared to live their lives in that form. Listening to Godspeed! alienated me from the hippies; it alienated me from the punks; from the Goths; from the Indie kids. I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted to walk the streets surrounded by their sonic embrace.

23-26 years of age:

Two videos for this guy. As I said before, I always have headphones on. And for the last four years, it’s a safe guess that I’ve listened to Aesop Rock sometime in the last 24 hours. It took me a long time to move towards hip hop. I have to give credit for this to a guy that I have difficult time thinking of. (Long other story). I was caught into hip hop at first through Atmosphere and Sole from Anticon, but Aesop wormed his way through. Lyrically, I consider him the greatest thing in music. Not only obtuse, but a storyteller, he manages to rhyme tales, emotion and psychological confusion into everything he does. And I am very partial to these aspects.

I chose Daylight first and foremost because I am addicted to it. The amount of times I utter in boredom or conversation pauses ‘Put one up to shackle me, not clean logic procreation. I did not invent the wheel I was the crooked spoke adjacent.’ is absurd. Aesop makes me walk down the street with a bounce. It makes me view the world with cynicism. It makes me want to sneer and bob my head in acknowledgement at the same time – whether that be the chaoticism of BazookaTooth or the more traditional Appleseed.

Aesop makes me want to open my mind to a vast array of poetry, of hip hop, and of literature, only in order to stretch my own ability in smithing words. Aesop makes me question the world. He makes me disappear into a Labyrinth of rhyme. He can make me calm and cool when I want to be calm or alienate me when I feel alienation.

I was told by said friend that he’d give me six months before I was obsessed with hip hop. It was six months to the day. One morning I woke up and it’s all I could listen to. Be it indie, old skool, gangsta, grime, whatever… I would rather here TuPac, Nas, or JayZ than some shitty rock band. Dizzee Rascal than some new English indie group. Keep bling away from me but Hip Hop is my punk rock right now. And it’s far more punk than most punk rock out there.

I am not a head. Never will be. I will forever love music – in all its forms.

And so far, these are the soundtracks of my life.

I want to post about Australia. But I am in no way patriotic enough to do that. I care more about the outcome of the Hottest 100 than anything else. And yes, the Aboriginal flag should be on our flag. And no, Kevin Rudd is not that much better than Howard, but perhaps at the very least he pretends.

Maybe I should deal with it.

Or maybe not.

Well. The idea of blogging my life in Spain seemed like such a good idea at the time. However, being the master procrastinator that I am – right now, I am procrastinating the preparation of classes for the morning, going shopping for food, sleeping and all manner of other things – this blog has fallen by the wayside. So far by the wayside that I can’t even remember what I wrote last. Pathetic, huh? Yes.

Well, let’s assume that I haven’t written anything since before Christmas. And we will begin there.

It’s been an up-and-down few months. Highs, lows, sadness, happiness, frustrations have been amplified by a number of things. But I don’t want to moan. For Christmas, Heidi and I travelled to a small village in Germany, Ellingen. Situated between Augsburg and Nürnberg, it was a quiet peaceful village of a few thousand, complete with its own king. We stayed there for ten days, vainly hoping that snow would fall and bless these Australians with a white Christmas. Alas, it was not to be. Instead for ten days, we braved cold weather, ate so much wurst that I don’t think I could ever face another one, sampled the delight that is glühwein, explored Nürnberg, gave our very own rally in the same spot as he-who-shall-not-be-named did. (Not Voldemort, Hitler.) We spent a day and a half in München (Munich), exploring the city with the help of a free tour guide from a great tour company which I will not plug.

It was a nervous affair, travelling across borders. Heidi was sans papers and there was always the risk that some airline would call her up on it. It was not to be, and seemed to prove the point that Europe does not pay much attention to its internal borders.

We came back to Spain and Madrid on New Years Eve. New Years Eve, everywhere, I have come to realise, is generally a disappointment, but Spain puts on a great party. We began our evening in the hotel of a friend of mine, drinking wine and beer on his tenth floor terrace. Yes, you did read that right. My friend’s hotel. Then somewhere near 11.30pm, we decided to brave Puerta del Sol and the raging sea of millions. We reached Callao with ease and then were greeted by a vast crowd stretching all the way down Calle Carmen. The whole of Madrid seemed to be loitering here, waiting for the bells to chime so they could eat their much-desired 12 grapes and hope for luck for this year. 12 grapes, you say, what?

Spain has this strange tradition, from whence it came I do not know, of eating grapes on New Years. The art to it is that you must devour one grape everytime the clock chimes twelve. Now this sounds relatively easy but apparently  not. Not only is 12 grapes quite hard to swallow in 12 seconds but its also extremely difficult to do whilst avoiding the celebratory hurled bottles and champagne rain. I don’t know if I managed to get my luck for this year. So far it hasn’t appeared to be particularly good or bad.

Heidi left on the 5th January to return to Australia, leaving me homeless and at a loss for what to do. I spent the next week intermittently moping and looking for houses, sometimes both at once. The problem with the housing search in Spain is not that there aren’t any, but that there aren’t any good ones. For an Australian, raised with houses and gardens and ample space to raise a family of 15, a Spanish piso can be daunting to say the least. I saw grand old rooms with furniture that appeared to be left from when the rooms had been grand, young rooms, rooms which were smaller than 8m2 for 300€, rooms that came with children or freaks or just bad vibes. And then I happened upon a room that was bigger than anything I’ve seen, with two balconies, a study, a TV and a DVD player.. essentially self-contained, all for the ridiculously low price of 400€ a month. Needless to say, I’ve taken it.

What else can I say in this random post?

I have a number of goals in the next 6 months, but giving my warrant for procrastination, I do not know if I will achieve them. I should think hopefully though. Until I next update.

I’m back in Spain now. The weather is typically Spanish, not a cloud to be seen, hot days, hot nights and so far it has been like I never left.
H is here now and we’ve found an apartment that we move into on Sunday or Monday (whichever takes our fancy). It’s situated in Malasaña, party central and has a lovely terraza and two bedrooms. Anyone heading my way take note of this… we do have a spare bedroom (which could be leased out for a small fee or beer).

I’m refusing work at the moment, although I’m discovering that I prefer work to holidays. As much as I moan and groan about working, breaks from work tend to drag. It’s hard to continuously fill the day with inexpensive things to do.

I’ve decided to start work again around the 8th September, which will hopefully guarantee enough dinero for October. Spanish classes are going to start back up next week and I aim to improve more this year. More focus. More focus. More focus.

Right now, we’re staying at a friends on the outskirts of Madrid. It’s hugely generous for her to tolerate our (or more precisely, my) presence for this long. It’s been a good way to ease H into Spanish life. Her Spanish is worse than mine, although I am sure that she will quickly be better at it than me. My aptitude for languages that I thought once existed seems to have buried, been sunk or just plain disappeared. Or maybe I just don’t work hard enough anymore.
I’m going to send my resumé around tomorrow. I’ve already got two companies I could work for (be exploited by) but I think it’s more in my interest to look around again. Just to see what’s out there. Sometimes I wish I’d taken a small town last year, but then I doubt that I would have met the people I know here already.

That’s all I’ve got for now.

Wow. How time flies. It’s been almost six weeks or thereabouts since I wrote anything.

London. The City. Of Great Expense. Of Overpriced everything. Of underpriced nothing. Of estate houses next to council flats. Of multiculturalism. Of possibly the busiest job I’ve ever had.

I’ve been living here for what seems an age. In reality, it’s less than 40 days but who believes in the fixed reality of time anyway. I’ve met so many different faces, learnt so many names, spent so much money, and felt like I’ve never stopped working. I’ve taught the Croatian Pop Idol, a future Formula One driver, and various other punks and pijos. It’s a constant flux of getting to know students then letting them go, and it seems like an age since the first lot left.

But enough of work, what have I discovered of London. Well, it’s well overpriced. £12.50 for Westminster Abbey?! You gotta be joking. £16.50 for the Tower of London. That’s like AUD$35. Do you know how much that is in the Zambian Kwacha? Didn’t think so. 109,927.29ZBK. I mean, how is any reasonable, (sure, impoverished) English teacher going to afford this city? Needless to say, I paid my way to support Queen and Country. But only to support Queen and Country. No other reason!!! It’s not like I really wanted to see them. I did however refuse to pay the £15 for St. Pauls Cathedral. That was just too much.

The Tower of London was probably actually worth the EXORBITANT prices, as I spent a good 5 hours in there, exploring graffitied walls, hidden passage ways and even managing to get some of the Crown Jewels. (I figure we’ll give them back if England win the Ashes). On the other hand, Westminster Abbey, whilst fascinating, was perhaps a little pricey. I did, however, have a giggle when I noted that Charles Darwin’s grave does not even mention what he did or who he was. Just a bland, plain Charles Darwin ???? – ???? (think I can remember the dates, think again).

Where else have I been? Museums, galleries, Cambridge, etc… all of these are vibrant in their own way. But what have I discovered about London? It’s a grand city, but one that I don’t think, no matter how much I like it, I could ever live in. Too many people, too much bustle, too much pretense and shamdangling. (Yep, new word creation here). It’s great for a visit and I want to come back, but give me a smaller city anyday!

What’s this? A post? Surely not! But anyways, ahoy from Londontown. I arrived here yesterday in the fantastic (ahem, sarcasm) little airport that is Luton to be greeted with possibly the biggest line into a country I’ve ever seen, and that was for the EU Nationals. Surely, the rules are such that all they need to do is look at the passport and say “Welcome to England” and with a flourish of the hand wave you through. But apparently not. I thought about entering on my Australian passport due to the grand total of zero in that line, but then thought better of it.

Next stop was find the job. Boarding a train which set me back 15£ for a 30min journey, I headed into London City, and soon discovered that the place I’m working at is less than 10mins walk from the London eye, 15 from Westminster Abbey and 20 from Buckingham Palace. It shouldn’t be too hard to get a meeting with the Queen and Gordon Brown, then.
So I went for a wander and a drink last night up to Leicester Square… not quite a Plaza Mayor but not bad, and today I’ve been weighing up going to the Tate Modern or the British Museum. The Museum is winning at this point, if I could just find the Tube station.

I start work tomorrow, and it might be full on. There’s six teachers, 8 or 9 activity leaders and next week 200 odd Spanish, or French, or whatever, students between the ages of 16 and 30. But if they’re Spanish, at least I’ll have someone to watch the Spain v Germany Cup final tomorrow night.

Until next.

I returned last week from my second road trip through Spain. It was filled with ups and downs, inside outs, and round and rounds. And what’s more, also with every possible concoction under the sun – gloriously beautiful weather followed by snow, excitement followed by disappointment, flavoursome followed by flavorful… if you were there, you might understand.

But anyways, I digress. The week before last was Semana Santa, more commonly known as Holy Week to the English speaking world. At roughly 2, I set out with my bag from my apartment in Francos Rodriguez to the unknown terrain of Hortaleza to find a car rental place which a friend had hired our car from. An hour later I’m there with Adrian and Susana but alas, no car – due to the, at times, highly annoying but at others, highly pleasant, concept of siesta. Not to worry – canas and tapas later – we headed back to the car hire place to find them open and ready to give us our car.

We go through the formalities of paperwork and are constantly informed “Gasolina, gasolina, no diesel.” In my mind, this was normal anyway. How often are tiny plastic boxes fuelled with diesel? Oh well. 10 minutes down the road, we begin to worry about the huge scraping noise we’re hearing. Not willing to risk the money or a dodgy car, we return it. In its place, we receive our very own racing car.. that is a car with racing stripes. Yellow and Blue to be exact. And splashed artistically (which I use in its most liberal sense) the phrase Alkilame.com. If this didn’t shout GUIRIMOBIL, I don’t know what would.

Not to worry, it was a car – basically the same as the other, and the car rental guy didn’t tell us otherwise. So off we trot – slightly annoyed but ready to hit the road again. Fifty minutes later, Susana behind the wheel, there is a glance at the petrol tank and the comment – “er… guys… how much petrol was supposed to be in the car?” The first one had 7/8, this one 1/8.

Fine. All good. Pull into a petrol station. Fill it up. Get on the road. Not so fast.

All good. Pulled into a petrol station. Filled it up. Paid. Adrian goes to close the fuel cap and notes in small print…. DIESEL… Ok. No get on road. Do not pass go. We call the car company and they tell us “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Drive down the road a bit further and find a place that can help you.” Luckily, we didn’t follow their advice. But why would you when you have the nous of a Spanish-Virginian, a Wisconsonian, and two Aussies. Knowing that letting the petrol reach the carburettor could result in explosions – these will come later, trust me – we decided to attempt to syphon the fuel. Armed only with hoses and mouths, Adrian begins to blow the hose. I convince him that you need to suck it, and then promptly get lumped with doing the sucking.

And I sucked. And I got a mouth full of petrol, but little more than that. Then Adrian sucked. And he got a mouthful of petrol but little more than that. The damn car has a lock protection against petrol stealing. Three hours later, Juan Vicente – a very nice mechanic from Siguienza – as unfuelled our car, received a whole lot of free petrol and we’ve lightened our pockets of more limited cash.

But back on the road, burping gas and fearing for our lives every time someone uses a lighter.

After this setback, we ended in Soria, instead of Calahorra for the night. Not much to say about Soria except that it lived up to its signs. Soria Fria. Cold Soria. Exactly. And it had great bread.

The next morning, we journeyed on to Calahorra to drop Susana off and check out the procession (Note: I should mention that at this point we discovered that the boot of the car would not open anymore). We arrived there to the sounds of drums and almost fell right into it. I’d never seen anything like it before (except, of course, in pictures). Masked men and women parading the streets – most with drums, some with methods of castigation, others in humble silence, walked slowly up the street. Some of the drummers hitting their drums so forcefully that they’d broken skin and were dripping blood. Pools of blood. I will attach a video of that soon. Others walked in bare feet, while carrying huge barges bearing Mary and Christ.

I don’t really understand what drives people to inflict this kind of suffering? I suppose it wasn’t as dramatic as it could be – there were no crucifixions, whips or knee-walking. But I think the intensity of the parade shocked all of us. I still don’t think I have the words to describe it.

Moving on, though. After an extended lunch, it was time to move on – our next stop being Santander, having not being able to find rooms in Leon. First, we decided to fix the boot – but after managing to open it, we found that the lock was busted and would not shut. Needless to say, our car had received hundreds of nicknames, most of which you would not say in polite company. Cable ties saved the day.

To Santander through Pais Vasco would have been a beautiful drive except for the fact it was predominantly dark… however, I must say that the standard of roads in Pais Vasco is exceptional.

Santander was home to some of the biggest houses I have ever seen. Loved by Franco, it was easy to see that there was substantial wealth in this town. I was, however, more interested in the ocean. Oh, glorious ocean! How astonished I was to realise how much I’d missed you! I could have sat and watched you for hours. Indeed, we sort of did. With a fantastic morning stroll, out across a bluff. We moved on. To Gijon. To meet Leah. Who had hired the car.

Gijon, what can I say about you? Not a lot. I didn’t like you. I never will. I’m not particularly willing to give you a second chance. And damn, there were a lot of fat people there. But I digress. Firstly, we drove the scenic route, along the Northern Spanish coast line and the Camino de Santiago. Stunningly green landscapes greeted us. Mountainous on one side and cliffs on the other, or hidden beaches and forests. Small picturesque towns and the magnificent San Vicente de La Barquera. A town surrounded entirely by water, accessible only by a bridge and right slap bang in the middle of our route. Here is a town that I must go back to at some point.

Continuing to Gijon, Hellhole, City of no signs… We entered in good spirits, having not had a problem with the car for a while. And then we discover that what signs there are in Gijon do not normally point in the right direction. We drove in circles, over the same bridge, into the same streets, thousands, nay, millions of times. We asked countless residents “por favor, tu sabes donde esta la autobus estacion?” Ok I didn’t but those with better Spanish did. I just tried to look… well, you know.

We got countless directions, each time getting more lost. Finally, we were assisted by a woman who told us to park the car and she would walk us there. We found Leah 4 hours after we’d promised and told her to “Get in the car! We’re leaving!”

For Cangas de Onis. Nestled in the foothills of Los Picos de Europa, this was a superb location to stay for two nights. Whilst the weather was horrible for much of the next two days, the town was great. Saturday, we took the car on a journey as far as we could. Unable to get to the mountain lakes, which had had the access road blocked, we went west and found ourselves creeping up steadily steepening hills, through tiny ruined villages, and indeed tiny not so ruined villages. All acceptably ancient and tiny. Along rivers that gushed furiously next to us, we were forced to stop and gasp at our surroundings. This was, or at least should be, paradise. Eventually, we found this small shepherds hut on the edge of a riverbed, and it was here we stood for at least an hour taking in our surroundings. One day, I hope I can head back and hike some of the walking trails, when it’s a little less wet.

That night was spent eating fantastic food and drinking sidras – a form of apple cider which is served by pouring the bottle from above the head into a glass held below the knee in order to oxygenate the cider. Not quite sure if it’s my favourite beverage, but it’s interesting. It is perhaps funnier, however, to watch tourist, both Spanish and guiris, try and do it. Eyes fixed forward, just like a camarero.

Sunday, we headed back to Madrid, once again taking the scenic route. This time we headed south through the mountains, creeping up until we were perhaps about 1500 or more metres above sea level. Snow continued to thicken, although the roads were clear, until we were driving with at least two foot of snow either side of us. For Jules, this was nothing new, but for the Aussies and the Texan such a thing was unheard of.

Once again, we stopped the car numerous times to marvel at our landscape – wondering when we’d left the Shire and found Narnia. Indeed, when Aslan joined us for lunch, we did feel a little like King Peter, Prince Edward, Queen Susan and Princess Lucy. But then we burst through the mountains and hit the planes, down through Castilla y Leon (which I was surprised to discover also had separatists – and a lot of graffiti demanding the 3rd Spanish Republic).

 

I neglect. Leaving Calahorra when we did was a bonza idea. For the very next day, we discovered that ETA (the Basque separatists) had planted a 70kg bomb in the Guardia Civil building, which had managed to blow out the windows for three blocks. Luckily, no one as far as I know was hurt – especially considering this was the town where we’d dropped off Susana. For my first near-terrorist experience, I was left feeling relatively unshaken.

Finally, we arrived back in Madrid, work, life and everything else.

In other news, I’ve picked up more hours from a company called Future Training, S.L, and am now teaching one of the directors of BBVA (the bank which closed my bank account for no reason) and a class of auditors. This is an extra 9 hours a week – so hopefully, the last months financial crises may subside as of the end of April.

The title has nothing to do with this post.

Just putting that out there.

Ah, Spain. Ah, Madrid. Ah, Europe. Waves of homesickness seem to have settled now, and Madrid has felt quite refreshing of late. Well, as refreshing as one of the most polluted cities in the world can feel. I’ve journeyed around a little of recent; I’m getting into the swing of the new job – even though the hours are still horrible. And for the most  part embracing poverty with love and smiles.

Sunshine has hit Madrid, on and off, again. Last Saturday was spent sitting in the sunshine on the balcony of one of my favourite restaurants in Madrid. La Casa de Granada. Situated on the sixth floor above Plaza Tirso de Molina and only accessible by the ring of a doorbell, this restaurant holds views of the one building I want to enter but haven’t yet. The CNT headquarters in Madrid. In anticipation of the election the following day, the CNT were proudly campaigning for abstention. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately depending on your view, the abstention vote doesn’t hold the sway it once did and the PSOE (Socialists) successfully won again. Meanwhile, we maintained fort in our balcony corner until well into the evening.

Turning to the election – for all those who felt like abusing me for refusing to vote in the last Australian election – I’d like to point out that here in Spain, voting is as it should be – non-compulsory – and when told that Australia’s democracy is compulsory, and that citizens are fined for voting, they roll on the floor laughing and then politely explain that obligatory voting isn’t democracy… but anyway, I digress.

I journeyed up to Avila the weekend before last, after a horrendously big night… somehow, I survived the day and wandered the picturesque walls of this ancient city. It is one of the few cities remaining with complete walls, but unfortunately that’s about it. Oh, but it does have the finger of Santa Teresa, the patron saint of the area. I’m slowly discovering that monasteries look much of a muchness. Square halls opening onto square gardens opening onto square rooms onto square halls onto churches.  And I’m just about ready to head to another region…

Semana Santa (more commonly known as Easter) is coming up soon, and the plan is to roadtrip with a couple of people up to Pais Vasco (Basque Country) for some lovely greenery, amazing food, and oceans. God, how I miss the ocean. It’s amazing the things you miss. I hate not having a garden, an oven, an ocean, greenness in general. Even though when I did have these things, I rarely used them.

Last Sunday was el dia de futbal australien… I headed up to Alcorcon (about 20min out of Central Madrid) for FOOTY!!!! Now I’m hurting… alot… but it was fantastic. There were only 13 people there for it, which makes it hard to have a real game, but of those 13 only 4 were Aussie, 1 was British and the rest were Spanish. And they weren’t too bad at the World’s Greatest Game either. Bouncing the ball was pretty dismal, but kicking, tackling, handballing, they had down pat. And they’re damn fast. Unfortunately, the rest of us aren’t particularly fit at the moment and, by that I mean me, and I quickly dropped dead after about half an hour. But I’m definitely heading out there again.

As for everything else, I’m trying to find teaching jobs in the UK for Summer (the pay is significantly better) and just survive week-to-week with the general stress of class travel class travel class travel class travel lifestyle that I’ve got going for me.

So the world of being a hot english teacher is much the same as being a teacher in general… but I’m thinking that it’s still better than my old job. Right now, I know that I still have an hour left of work today, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m more rested. I’m more organised (though my bedroom isn’t) and I think I’m enjoying classes more. This may be because of better preparation.

I teach at a range of places – an import/export overseeing body called Inspeccorate, an international advertising company Ogilvy, filled to the brim with funky, stylish looking young people. Not quite like any office I’d been into before. And way out in the ‘burbs of Madrid at a BUSINESS PARK. Seriously, a purpose built office park, with god knows how many companies within it. It’s office hell with it’s own banks, restaurants, travel agencies. Every building is named after a country and I teach in Canada. Plus I have a private class with two kids, Carmen and Cristina… and whilst I hated, with a passion, teaching 9-10 yr olds before. I like these two. They laugh, they’re energetic and they make the class pretty easy for me. Plus its 25€ straight in the pocket.

What else be going on here? I’ve managed to coerce a friend into taking me for private Spanish classes at a much reduced price. She, like me, would normally charge 25€ but I explained the concept of mate’s rates and I think she understands now. Plus hopefully, I’ll get it together enough to start academy classes by the start of next month.

Nights here take on a party atmosphere generally. If its not a birthday, it’s a trip down to Mojito or Aguardiamente madness. Not necessarily for the faint hearted, especially when the camarrera/o says “you want what?” (Not that it’s always like that, Mum.) I’ve discovered, by way of others, some secrets of Madrid, like the 6.30 in the morning breakfast bar which isn’t open but if you’re very quiet and you tap on the door, they’ll let you in… and for the next hour, it steadily fills up with goths and punks until you’re swimming in a sea of blackness. Seriously, we were the only ones in colour when we went there. I don’t know where these goth and punk clubs are. Definitely hidden in the underbelly of Madrid.

I’ve seen off my first farewell as world-famous Chris Wooding, writer extraordinaire headed back to the sunny English isles, to a world of phaeries, goblins and gloom, but a land where manana is ahora and people speaka his language. There is an abundance of people beginning to drift off, home, Egypt, somewhere else, which is a little sad at times but… oh well, I’ve forgotten who y’all are already anyway.

This weekend, the plan is Avila. It’s been the plan for the last three weekends but has not eventuated. We shall see. I am determined to get there this time.

Badabingbadaboom. I have dishes to do and class to prepare.