Episode 9: Back to school

The answer is Thora Hird

At the tender age of 47, I have finally gone back to school; not once, but twice. Some may say that its about time, but I would like to take this opportunity to point out that I do have skills that are not transferable in the classroom, although most of which are unable to be mentioned here. Being relatively thick is not something that has ever bothered me in my lifetime, but it appears that living in a country where the language spoken is different to one's own is something of a handicap. Oh I've tried the usual.......When I've not been understood [and why have these people never bothered to learn English??] I've tried talking s-l-o-w-l-y to the person as if they were simple and I've done the trick of repeating of the phrase I'm trying to impart but slightly louder each time, until effectively I'm left shouting at them and we're having a full blown argument right there in the street, with neither of us understanding the other. In fact, the last time I did that, I swear that the shop assistant called me a fat ugly grunt, but my language skills aren't as polished as I would like them to be yet, so I may have mistranslated somewhere along the line.


When we arrived here at the beginning of July, one of the first things I did was to enrol at the official language school (Escuela Oficial de Idiomas or EOI - I'm not damn well typing that great long title each time I mention them). The first thing I had to do was register my interest on the website along with whichever course I wanted to do. I actually liked the sound of the English lessons, as it's a language I've never totally mastered, but José insisted that I learn Spanish. Anyway, I registered for the course and that was that. I needed to come home very soon after completing this task as my sister had the terrible car accident I mentioned previously and then we were away in Florida for a while. When we finally got back to Spain, it was early August and we realised we'd heard nothing from the EOI, so we checked the website. Whilst our backs were turned (towards the sun in Florida. incidentally!), the EOI had simultaneously opened registration and closed it down, apparently within a five minute window. We stared at the screen and it told us that registration was no longer possible as the date to do this had passed.

Papel higiénico,
as they say in these parts

Spanish bureaucracy, being as it is, meant that we should have been sitting in front of our computer 24/7, checking the EOI website every 5 minutes for possible changes to their courses or registration process. It seems that registering an interest on the internet for the Spanish course was totally irrelevant. Some cleaning lady gets those emails for her own enjoyment and  uses the information to work out how many toilet rolls she's going to need for next years student intake. So we called the school to find out what our options were and a little man answered.


"Hello?"
"Hello! Is that the Escuala Oficial de Idiomas?"
"Yes" (we could tell he was using hair dye by the sound of his voice)
"We have a problem with the registration for the Spanish lessons. It says we can no longer register and get on the course"
"Oh", said the little man with the hair dye (and bad styling as it later turned out) "don't worry about that. You can still register, just come along and speak with the secretariat and they will register you. Adios"
"Adios"
José started at me, bewildered and told me that just because it said registration was closed on the internet, it apparently didn't mean that it was closed in the flesh. We had to go to the school that day and register in person; so we did. 

An artists impression of the little man's head, magnified 1 billion times

The man's hair dye and hair do were as bad as they sounded on the telephone. He looked like a walking 'mini-me' oil slick and the temptation to hose him down with washing up liquid was quite strong for me, but he was very pleasant and directed us to the secretariat. One woman came to help us and basically told us that the oil slick was wrong. The internet was correct and registration was complete, but then she wavered and told us she wasn´t 100% on this and we should talk to her friend, who was on the phone arranging a bikini wax. I now know the Spanish word for clunge! The other lady came to us after an age and told us that the internet was indeed correct and we were no longer able to register for the Spanish course as the closing date had passed. José protested that we had been away and about my sister's accident, trying hard to wrestle with her conscience, but she was having none of it. She'd apparently been overcharged for her last wax and was also given the trainee, so she was in no mood for negotiation. No, registration was closed and that was that.


José asked about other courses as I needed to get on a Spanish course this year. She then told him that he need not worry as I would be able to get on this one.
WHAT????
Oh yes, she said, there are always places available, so to look out for the registration dates and come along to the EOI on those dates and I could be registered then. That would be around the beginning of September.

Milk, in 1972. It's now illegal to sell
it in glass bottles on a Tuesday

HELLOOOOO??? 


What was the point of the internet registration we wondered, if they could close it down and then just let people walk in off the street 2 weeks later and register as they wished. It transpires that the people in the cafeteria there like this information to know how many pints they need to order each day. They are apparently locked in a battle with the secretariat as the open registration in September buggers up their millk order big time, believing as they do that the numbers that come from the internet are definitive. Well, you can see their point!


So, we went home and sat around until the beginning of September, which I quite enjoyed. I was built for doing little or nothing. Soon enough though, the fateful day came. The EOI internet site told us that registration was happening that following week, so on Monday morning, we set off. Once there, we saw no signs directing us where to go, so we joined the queue for the reception, which was enormous. It turns out that 4 out of every 5 people in the queue were also asking the same thing. Some time later that week, the reception lady went off sick with repetetive strain injury from constantly pointing people left down the corrider to - you´ve guessed it - the secretariat. 

The latest instrument of torture in my life

Once there, we saw around 50 people milling about outside and a machine dispensing numbers from the wall outside the office. We duly took our number, which was 316. The number outside the office that they were currently serving was.......76! I could have invaded a small country whilst waiting to be seen, but we decided to stay and tough it out. Well I say we, it was José who insisted that I stay. We found the cafeteria and the poor little man who had only ordered in 6 pints that day and was running about as if the end of the world was imminent. Thankfully the electronic numbering system was also above the café counter, so we could keep tabs on where we were in the queue. Two coffees later and they were only up to 87. We contemplated the lunch menu, but when I saw the man scratching himself with the fish slice, I decided we would be better off in a Burger King. (Other crappy fast food restaurants are available).


Then something magical happened. The numbers started to whizz past with a little more speed. Now, hold that thought if you will, as I want to divert your attention elsewhere just for a moment as I have another story about these number machines. We will be back to the school in a moment.


Whilst the kitchen was being done, we needed to buy loads of electrical sockets and were directed by our electrician to a big trade warehouse. Once there, we were pointed to a desk at the end of the very long counter, where a little man stood reading something or other. (El Beano?) Anyway, we went and said hello, but he gestured that we should take a number from the machine, as we had done with the secretariat. I hasten to add that he was serving no-one and there was also no-one around us. Still, we did as we were told and took a number. We were number 78 and the number on the display about his head read 73. We looked around for the four other people in front of us, but unless they were wearing an invisibility cloak, they were nowhere to be found. We went back to the desk, where he asked us to wait. He then pushed his little button and the display went to 74. He called out............

Miserable Spanish sod

"Setenta y cuatro?" (74) 
He looked around. No-one came.
"Setenta y cinco?" (75 - you´re getting the gist of this Spanish lesson now I guess?) 
"Setenta y seis?" (I don't think that translation is necessary any longer, is it?) Surprisingly, still no-one came forward.
"Setenta y siete?" The anticipation was too much to bear and I thought I was going to need oxygen. Finally it happened..................
"Setenta y ocho?" 
We waved our number 78 around and he beckoned us forward as if surprised to see us. I kid you not!!! 
Incidentally, when we told him what we wanted, he moaned that it was 1pm and that they were closing for lunch in thirty minutes so didn´t have much time. We made him open loads of boxes and show us loads of stuff and then we told him that we would go away and think about it, making him late for his lunch as he had to put it all back. Serves the miserable sod right! Anyway, back to the school.

Artists impression of the doughnut
scandal of 2007, just before they
were eaten

You may remember that I left it at the gripping moment where we were in the canteen and the numbers were starting to move faster. By this time, we were at number 96 and we thought that there was an actual chance of being seen by the secretariat sometime that week. Then something else magical happened. When the numbers got to 99, they reset to 00. It seems that the first number of the three on our ticket was to panic you and for no other reason. The ticket machine was one the EOI bought cheap, as it was left over from the patisserie counter in a local supermarket that had closed in 2007, having never recovered from a rather salubrious doughnut scandal. Whilst the EOI maintained the first number, they didn't actually use it, as the number monitor they bought was from another source and the two didn't match, which is Spanish bureaucracy in a nutshell actually. Suddenly, we were only 15 away from being served and our sense of nervousness heightened as every number flew by. 04........07........12.......we went upstairs and joined the millling throng outside the secretariat.......14.........15...........16. BINGO!! We pushed and shoved our way past the scruffy student types in a flurry of dreadlocks and patchouli oil (no stereotyping for me!!) and made sure we were in that office before number 17 was called. I may have been round the block a few times, but I damn well wasn't going round that one any more.


We went in and confidently announced that we were there to register for the Spanish classes. The woman looked bemused, checked her schedule and then told us that registration for the spanish classes was next week and we would have to come back then. I considered fainting, just so that they would take pity on me and let me register then and there but in the end I just took the path of least resistance and said nothing. Mind you, I only knew the Spanish word for lady parts and I didn't think this as the time to practice that particular vocabulary, although it did cross my mind!!!!