My Spanish Life.

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.