Episode 12: Food glorious food

FACT: All Spanish meter
readers are grossly obese,
due to the extra portions
they get throughout the day

I have a theory that my mother-in-law is trying to kill me with kindness. Don't get me wrong, I'm not being paranoid here - well maybe a little, but they are my voices and I'm entitled to listen to them if I want to. I'm actually talking food. Everything in this country appears to be food related and nowhere more so than here in Galicia. The raison d'ê'tre (yes, I know that's French, but the Spanish lesson for this week is coming up later in the show) for Galician women is to feed everyone who walks through their front door. It's fine if you actually live in the house, but when you're just popping in to read the gas meter, it can prove to be a little too much by about 11.30am and your fifth call of the day. No wonder this country's utility companies are in such a state.


The very first time I came here, we landed around 10.30pm on a Saturday night and were met by about a million family and friends, all of whom had come to have a gawp at the new man in José's life. Those who weren't put off were treated to a meal that really shouldn't be eaten at 1am in the morning, but should be served for Sunday lunch with the promise of a post-prandial 4 hours on the sofa in front of mind-numbing TV and regular dribbly-mouthed dozes. As the new boy on the block, I was offered the first choice of everything and it was a little disconcerting. I knew what I was eating, but I didn't want to get the code wrong. What if I took two pieces of empanada when there was only enough for one each? What if I served myself some chorizo, only to find that it was the accompaniment to something that was coming later? What if I took a load of manchego cheese and rubbed it over my naked body whilst reciting the names of every British Prime Minister since 1876........but then it wasn't my night to go to the Young Conservatives club, so my worry over the last one was reduced considerably. Still, I was a little panicked at the thought of what to do. Thankfully, no-one there spoke English, so I was able to talk to José without raising alarm.
"What's that funny looking red smelly thing?"
Actually that was his dipsomaniac Great Aunt Berta, but we'll gloss over that little chapter!

The alcoholic Great Aunt Berta, formerly known as The Alcoholic Great Uncle Bert until a drunken incident with a milk churn in 1987

Dinner passed and I have never been as full as that in my life before or since. I felt that I should eat to show my appreciation of the food that had been cooked and the effort that had been put into it, but in essence, a Kit-Kat and a coffee would have done me as I was knackered. Having eaten, it was time to go out and at 2am, we headed into town. 2am!!!! This is a time I am unfamiliar with outside of a mental hospital (working night duty if you're wondering!) so I had to keep checking that it was still night and I hadn't missed 12 hours somewhere. 

GIN! Or as I
call it, breakfast!!

My new friends drove us to a pub in the centre of town where we proceeded to get as tiddly as possible in as short a time as possible. For me this wasn't easy. The size of Spanish drinks means that one G&T usually does for me, but I had so much food sloshing about inside me, it soaked up every bit of alcohol I threw at it.......and boy did I throw some at it that night! The thing is, it gained me such respect from my new friends because they thought I could really hold my liquor, so each time I see them now, they buy about 3 bottles of gin in order to ply me with as much as I had that night. I now have the reputation of being a hopeless drunk. Well, it's rude to refuse!


We got to bed around 5.30am and at midday, there was a knock on the door of the bedroom to tell us that lunch was ready. I'm not sure why, as María and Pepé don't normally eat Sunday lunch until around 2.30pm. I can only surmise that they had been up all night preparing food in order to welcome me once more. They wanted to make a good impression. They certainly made one that lunchtime! Hungover and feeling as rough as a badger's bum, I splashed some water on my face, hastily dressed and half asleep, sat at the dining table. We started with an apéritif (I don't know why we're more French today?!) and some cheese and chorizo. Then the main course came through. I took one small piece of meat from the side of the plate and was alarmed to see a little face looking back at me............here comes the Spanish for this week.........the meat was conejo (rabbit) and isn't something I'm used to eating. The thing is, here in Spain they are not as squeamish as we are in the UK and they cook everything. I mean everything. For there, staring back at me from behind the piece of meat I had taken, was a roasted rabbit head. All I could hear in my head was Arthur Askey singing "Run rabbit run", which was a rather surreal moment. I picked at the meat on my plate, but kept looking at this thing, which stared defiantly back at me. I kept worrying he was going to make a lunge for me and when María offered me more meat, I had to politely decline. When I looked at the serving plate, the head had gone and I swiftly looked around the room, half expecting it to be on the dresser behind me, ready to pounce. Finally, I realised his dad was tucking into it and I looked at the view out of the dining room window until it was all over. Still, it served the bloody thing right for staring me out.

♪ ♪ ♫ Run rabbit run rabbit, ♫♫ run, run run.......♫♪

Since that initial visit, I've learned to say "Estoy lleno, gracias" ('I am full, thank you' - you see, the lessons are coming thick and fast now!). The only thing is, there is a little dance that goes with that statement and it goes like this..............I'll do it in English as it's easier, but you'd be so impressed with my Spanish skills.......


María: Would you like some more?
Me: No, I've had an adequate sufficiency, thank you
María: Don't you like it?
Me: Yes, it's delicious, thank you
Maria: Then if you like it, have some more


The subtext of this little exchange is 'I've been slaving away for hours to feed you, you fat northern English bastard, so eat the damn food'. Again, I've learned to play the game and now I take less than I normally would the first time round. When it comes to this verbal tango, I cave in and 'reluctantly' have a second helping, even though I'm very full. I'm then totally entitled on the next round of the dance - yes, it will keep going on and on - to tell María that I've had two portions already and I don't want any more, please and thank you, but it was delicious and we'll fricasée the rest later. It pleases my mother-in-law and it pleases me, now I've learned the rules of the game.

Enough food left for a party
of 10 anorexics

There is one more little thing I've failed to mention about the eating here and it's something called 'La Cortesía del Gallego', or 'The Courtesy of the Galician'. Basically, the first time I was in Spain, I was encouraged to eat every bit of food placed in front of me. Now being a gentleman and someone who is eager to please, I did as I was told, but the silence when I ate the last piece of cheese or the last slice of chorizo from the communal plate in the middle of the table was deafening. The Courtesy of the Galician (from hereon in known as 'the courtesy') is when guests leave one last piece of food on communal plates to show the host that there was sufficient food and that everyone there had enough. José loves to toy with me and chose not to share this little gobbit of information, so lardarse here scoffed the lot, thinking it was what I had to do. Well, they kept insisting I eat more and I wanted to show my approval of their food. Apparently, I could have let out a fart at the dinner table that registered 6.2 on the Richter Scale and it would have been less rude than eating 'the courtesy'. Another game I've learned to play the hard way!


Finally, it's worth pointing out that Galicians - and Spanish in general - eat everything. I've already mentioned the rabbit head and it's well documented that bulls testicles (criadillas), lamb tonsils (mollejas) and other such delights can be found on menu's up and down the country, with each area providing it's own culinary loveliness. They look at me strangely when I ask for boneless chicken breast, as if I've asked for a scabby donkey. No-one here eats boneless chicken breasts. They're all men in this country, even the women. You get a chicken you've raised, kill it, pluck it, wipe it's arse and hack it into 4 or 6 pieces with a knife then bung it in the oven with some herbs and garlic to roast. You want breast??? Then hack the ribs off it first and butch up you wimp!!


The manky bits from the winemaking grapes, once the wine is made, go into a particularly lethal fire water, known as aguardiente which I've grown quite fond of. The family watched me with sheer delight when I first tasted it and were so disappointed when I liked it. They thought that this chicken-breast-loving Brit would loathe it, but not so - if there's one thing I can take it's my drink; even this stuff, which incidentally brought out the colours on cousin Assumpta's soft furnishings a treat!


We brought some wine back the village the other weekend when we went visiting family there. Was it daintily put in bottles and corked up? No, it was in a bloody great bucket thing and tasted rank. I think the lady of the house had used the bucket for soaking her feet in some time before as there was a definite whiff of corn plaster in the vintage.

1. Remove foot salve and fish out corn plasters
2. Pour in wine
3. Give to unsuspecting relative
4. Pour wine down loo and fill with fruit from another relative

The other night, I was sat sitting at the kitchen table minding my own business whilst fiddling with a couple of meatballs (albóndigas), when I casually looked over at the jar of red stuff that we'd also brought back from the village. I thought it was strawberry jam and was about to take the lid off to smell it when José warned me not to. It was blood! Well, I told you they ate everything! Why would they want blood you may ask - well, it's a good question and one I didn't dare ask at the time as Pepé was sharpening the carving knife by running it backwards and forwards over his steel toe-capped slippers. Apparently, they add blood to crêpes (French, again??) and they are delicious. Whoever it was that once made a crêpe and decided it was missing that certain something, needs to be sectioned under the Spanish Mental Health Act. I've decided not to try that particular Galician delicacy, although should I ever decide to re-enact The Texas Chainsaw Massacre here, I know where I can get some bloody authentic props. We're off back to the village sometime soon as the lady of the house has some particularly sore bunions and while my Spanish isn't that brilliant yet, I'm sure I heard her mention something about needing her bucket back!

Episode 11: Minding my language

This blog has several naughty words in it. If you're of a nervous disposition, please switch off and do something a little less exciting instead. Why not repot those plants you've been meaning to do for several months, or perhaps try having a shower. There's a reason you've not had sex since 1983 and everyone knows it but you!


Still here? Good, then on with the show.............Having lived with a Spaniard for 20 of my 47 years (not the same Spaniard I hasten to add for those of you attempting to count the years the lovely José and I have been together), I certainly don't take language for granted. For nearly half my lifetime, I've struggled to make myself understood by those dearest to me and I have to tell you, I'm bloody knackered!! It's hard work, all this having to listen closely to what other people say. So now I'm living in Spain and regular readers of this little online almanac will know that I'm learning the language. I will soon be fluent in Spinach. 

My mother-in-law likes to ask me each and every day what I've learned in college and takes great pride in hearing all the verbs I conjugated and the diphthongs I strangled. She then talks to me in the local dialect (Gallego). When I look at her quizzically, she does her best 'I don't understand this strange lumpy English person' look before saying to José, "you see, he still doesn't understand me". He has to explain that I'm learning Castillian Spanish, which is effectively the same language equivalent as BBC English. She then talks to me in Castillian to which my response is usually "despacio por favor" (slowly please) as she spits it out like machine gun fire. One more quizzical look to José, which conveys the 'why couldn't you have found yourself a nice Spanish boy that understands me' emotion and then she repeats it to me s-l-o-w-l-y, like I'm in the backwards class at school. There's no guarantee I'll understand even that, but when I do, she smiles at me and then gets on with what she's doing. Presumably rinsing out her girdles is far more exciting than talking to her son-in-law, but bless her, she is 82 years old. Poor love needs a rest; she's got better things to do than teach me the rudiments of Spanish. There's a pile of ironing that won't do itself for a start!

Because I couldn't find a
picture of octopus testicles

The Spanish do like to rattle their sentences off at a great rate of knots and for those of us learning the language, it's no picnic. I sometimes watch the news with the subtitles on to see how many words I can pick out. I'm getting a little better; the other night I managed to do half of the main news item about the general election, but that was only because the newsreader was using words like votar (to vote) and elección (!!). Normally, I've only just managed to translate "Good evening and here is the news in a foreign language" when the weather forecast comes on. The trouble with rattling words off so quickly is that everything sounds like that Pepsi advert in the 1970´s. You remember the one........ lipsmackin'thirstquenching'acetastin'motivatin'goodbuzzin'cooltalkin'highwalkin'fastlivin'evergivin'coolfizzin'PEPSIIIIIIIIII!! Well that's what I have to deal with on a daily basis. To me, it sounds like the equivalent of that noise people make to newborn babies - the one where they stick out both lips and run their finger up and down whilst going blurblurblurblurblurblurblur. So sure was I that this is what the language sounded like, I tried that out once in our local supermarket and ended up ordering a box of tampons and two octopus testicles.

Apparently, when translated into Spanish, it means "excuse me, can you tell me where I can buy some Pepsi"

The other problem with language is that it can get you into all sorts of trouble. I went into a shop a couple of years ago where the assistant was talking to me about some shoes I was buying. Instead of saying that I really liked them, I told him I loved him a lot. He still writes at Christmas, although he's moved on from Harrods and now runs a little tea-room in Ashton-Under-Lyme.

NOT the one I had
in the freezer!

Here in Spain, there are so many words in Spanish that if said wrong, can get you into hot water. The one I first learned about several years ago has been the one that has haunted me ever since. I still can't say the word without first checking myself to make sure that the correct vowel will come out. I was asked by my ex-mother-in-law if I would like chicken for dinner that night. Trying out my newly gained Spanish (I was going to night school at the time) and with every intention of impressing her, I replied "Sí, me gusta mucho. Tengo un polla enormé en el congelador". Those of you that speak Spanish will be laughing yourselves stupid now. What I meant to say was "Yes, I love chicken. I have a huge chicken in the freezer", but I actually told her I had a huge cock in the freezer.
Pollo = chicken
Polla = cock
Still it did the trick. I think she was certainly impressed!!!


There´s more!


One of my favourite words in Spanish is the word for cough........"tos". I quite like having a cough here so that I can ask everyone to excuse my tossing. Childish maybe. Wearing?? Never!


José recounts the tale of an ex-student of his who came to England on holiday and caught a stinking cold. The Spanish for being totally bunged up nasally is "constipado", so when his host asked him how he was feeling, he just translated it into English and told her he was constipated. She bought him some 'opening medicine' as it's known in the nursing profession and he spent the next few days being unbunged, but from the wrong end. It cured his blocked nose though, he was too scared to sneeze for about 5 days!

Flauber's father, apparently!!

While we're talking about students, I need to mention something that happened in class the other day. It's more to do with not hearing something correctly, but it still makes me laugh. I sit with two lovely ladies, Sanna (Scottish) and Belinda (Australian). We have a Brazilian guy in the class called Flauber (pronounced like flower but with a 'b' instead of a 'w'). We were talking about our families and had to go round the class telling the others the names of family members and introducing them. When it got to Flauber, he told us his father's name was Clauber. Flauber and Clauber! Well, Sanna and I could see the funny side of this and started to giggle like little schoolkids. Belinda hadn't completely heard and whispered in her fab Australian accent, "What did he say? Cowbell???" By this time, Sanna and I were wiping tears from our eyes while Belinda looked on in blissful ignorance, which made us laugh even more. How we didn't get thrown out that day is still a mystery to me.


Incidentally, I have the auto-translator on when I look at Spanish websites and there are some chairs in IKEA called Sarna, which translates as Scabies in English. Nice!


One other time in the class, we had to translate "un par de veces al año". I didn't know at the time how to put the ñ into my iPhone, so I wrote "un par de veces al ano" and asked my auto-translator what that meant. It´s "a pair of times to the anus" if you want to know. Jeez, nothing gets easier in this country. Thank goodness the wine is so damn cheap!


And so onto the grand finale of embarrassing mistakes what I have made here in Spain. One of my issues  here is that I try to speak in Spanish where I can but people hear an English accent and reply to me in English, trying hard to test out their language skills. This spreads to the most unlikely of sources when, last weekend we went to a garden store in the local town. In a large cage was a parrot, so I took the opportunity to say "Hola" to it. I repeated me hello's several times in an attempt to coax this bird to reply to me. My patience was rewarded when it said in a loud voice......"Hello". Can you believe that? Not even the bloody parrot will answer me in Spanish!

Wanker!

So, the day after, we were having Sunday lunch and were listening to the bird in the flat opposite that was chirping rather vociferously. José told his parents about the parrot the day before and they went on to recount the story of another bird in Argentina they'd once looked after for a friend. Bird in Spanish is 'pajaro'. Unfortunately, I have another word in my head. One of my bestest friends has a Pajero 4 x 4 in the UK and I have that word in my head, so I proudly told my in-laws, "mis abuelos tenían un pajero", which means, "my grandparents had a wanker". Straight up! My grandparents had a wanker! I thought I was going to have to do the Heimlich manoeuvre on my father-in-law who was laughing so much, I think he ruptured something. The thing is, When Gail bought her car, José laughed, but none of us knew why. He told us the translation of Pajero and ever since, the joke has been that Gail was coming to pick us up in the wanker. It was so automatic to use that word at the dinner table that I never gave it another thought. It now ranks as highly as the pollo/polla issue and is something I am petrified of repeating. I can never go to the neighbours and comment on their bird now for fear of being beaten forcibly.


What I don't get is why the mistakes in this country are all dirty/rude words, where the mistakes in English are nowhere near as bad. As an example, Spaniards get kitchen and chicken mixed up. Well I'd rather be laughed at for saying I had an enormous kitchen in my freezer; it's nowhere near as embarrassing. 


I'm sure that there are lots more scatalogical mistakes to be made with my language skills and you can be sure that you lovely people out there in the dark will be the first to hear them. In the meanwhile, mine's a gin and tonic served with a very large slice of memory loss!


Incidentally, although I've lived with a person of Spanish origin for over 20 years, José takes great delight in telling everyone that he has lasted longer than the other one, coming in at 10 years and 6 months......as well as the fact that our union is 'legal'. And why shouldn't he. Knowing what he does about my grandparents makes me just that little bit more special.

Episode 10: Back to (the other) school

As you may have guessed, I did make it to the language school after all that and the result is that I no longer have any problems when speaking to Spanish people. I just ignore them as I find life is much easier that way. 


Following on from the tales of derring-do in the last blog, José and I went back to the Escuela Oficiál de Idiomas (EOI.........I´m still not writing it out in full time after time!) the following week and registered for my Spanish course and this time we were successful. The thing is, we weren´t actually allowed to register until the Monday morning after the last visit I previously mentioned, but that was the day the course started. Consequently, we were there at 10am for the registration just as the very first class was starting upstairs. Only in Spain!! Unbeaten, we took another ticket from the ex-patisserie machine, but this time we had it totally sussed. We took books, iPads and a sleeping bag - well you can never be too sure - and settled down in the cafeteria. That said, I think the secretariat had finally got the hang of this registration lark, because they were much quicker and we were seen within the hour. I was a little disappointed as I only got 10 rows into knitting a fairisle cardigan for the winter months when I had to move, but so be it. I may freeze to death in the unforgiving cold weather here, but at least I'll be able to repent in Spanish to the local Catholic priest on my deathbed......although he may have to take a couple of days out to get through it all!

Forgive me Father for I have sinned. A lot. Possibly even more than you!!!

The next day I went to the lesson and met my fellow classmates. They seemed nice enough and were a real mixed bag of nationalities. With the monumental cock-up on the registration front, it meant that people were straggling into the lesson every 10 minutes or so as more and more people were processed. Still, I learned everyone's names, because each time someone new came in, we went around the room and introduced ourselves in Spanish. By the tenth time it was becoming a little wearing, but I didn't think that "Oh for f**ks sake my name is Bernard" was quite appropriate from the (now departed) French guy in the room. I think the teacher was impressed he could say all that in Spanish and moved him up to the Intermediate group.

Sparks flew when I met Graciela

On the first day of the class, I was informed that there were only 4 people in the lesson. By the end of play on the second day there were about 10 of us. The third day saw more, then more on the fourth and by the end of week 2, we were up to 27 people in the class. Something tells me that this school needs to get its act together. Most of you know my OCD traits and won´t be surprised to know that I tried to break into the secretariat´s office one night in order to sort out their filing system and web registration system, but was thwarted by a guard. Well I say guard, she was a rather fierce looking welder from Barcelona who was brought in to look after the place out of hours, as they suspected someone would try this. There was a small scuffle and she gave me a nasty bite, but was immediately sorry about it and is coming to fix the iron railings on the outside of the flat for free as compensation.

Ángel, as I believe he
would have looked in 1971, if
he were related to the
Yorkshire Ripper

Our teacher is called Ángel and appears to be an old hippy from the 70´s. He has long shoulder length wavy hair, which makes it difficult for me to concentrate. At times, I find myself drifting off into a L'Oreál daydream, wondering if he's worth it and what it must be like to wash that much hair. When we talked hobbies and he shared that he went swimming most afternoons, I worried for days about how he would keep it conditioned.


There is one Commonwealth corner of the classroom (or Aula - nearly forgot this weeks lesson!!) with English, Scottish and Australian members. We have planted a small flag and naturally believe ourselves to be the most important members of the room. We once had an Empire, what-ho! We don't let Ángel ask us questions unless he submits them to us first in writing several days before the lesson.


We´ve lost one person in the class though and, as they've now gone, I feel able to share a little something with you, dear listeners. I don´t want to be rude about them, so let´s just call them dum-dum. The phrase "thicker than Katie Price's breast implants" comes to mind. I don't want to talk badly of someone, I really don't, but you know me; I'm going to. To give you an example, the questions would be like this.........

Ángel: ¿Person 1, De dónde eres? (Where are you from?) ..........By way of explanation, Spaniards  put these upside down question marks in front of a question and then a proper one at the end. I don´t know whether I will ever truly respect these people for that!! Anyway, on with the answer to the question.....
Person 1: Soy de Irlanda (I am from Ireland)
Ángel: ¿Person 2, De dónde eres? 
Person 2: Soy de Brasil (I am from Brazil)
Ángel: ¿Person 3, De dónde eres? 
Person 3: Soy de Portugal (I am from, well, you get it!)
Ángel: ¿Dum-Dum, De dónde eres? 
DumDum: (turning to the person next to them) What's he asking???


Sometimes he would go all round the room and ask 15 - 20 other people before them, but the response would always be the same...........(turning to the person next to them) What's he asking??? Last week, they came to a lesson and said they didn´t think they would be coming back as they were learning more at home. You couldn´t make this stuff up!!


Classes always thin out and we´re down to about 24, although this number fluctuates day by day. I can´t get over how free and easy it is, being an adult learner. My last experience of a classroom was when I did my degree in 1995/6 and it was very similar to being at high school. Ask permission for this. Request time out for that. Shut up, sit down and listen at all times. Here, as an adult learner, things are much more relaxed. The Germans talk all the bloody time, the Chinese swap recipes for crispy fried octopus and the eastern europeans have started a card school. I sit with four lovely girls though, Beckie, Alice, Belinda and Sanna, although Sanna is leaving in December to continue her travels and I´m going to miss her. (Now there was a tender moment you weren´t expecting). Despite myself though, I am learning.


And then there´s the other school. Our school. The New School of English. Catchy title huh?? We couldn´t think of what to call it and considered several options:

• The English School
• English the easy way
• The Mark Fell Academy for speaking English Proper

In the end, I think we made the right choice!

Posh, huh??

We took a little time to find the right premises but in the end we struck lucky with a place on Juan Flórez, which is a rather posh street in town and is surrounded by people with money. I like being surrounded by people with money, although I would rather they give it to me outright without me actually having to work for it. There's a considerable flaw in that process somewhere. Before we found this place, we saw some dives and I was going to attach a picture of the bathroom in one of the places we saw which was filthy, but it still makes me dry heave. It had also been a language school before we looked at it, but I think several of the students held a dirty process just before it closed. I was so appalled, that I took one of the hundreds of school books they had lying around by way of compensation. Shocked???!?! You shouldn't be. I was having severe withdrawals from the NHS stationery cupboard, so I needed to fulfil my thieving desires somewhere.

Here in Spain, the meatballs come with something
called patatas fritas, but they taste the
same as chips, so that's okay

We needed to put some furniture in the school and try as we might, we attempted to avoid Ikea, but it was impossible. Don't get me wrong, I like Ikea, but so much stuff these days is self assembly and I wanted something a little more elaborate. The problem with elaborate is that it costs loads of money, so Ikea it was. I've never eaten so many bloody meatballs in my life! Just for the uninitiated amongst you, it is the law that when one goes to Ikea, one has the meatballs. I once made the statement to someone here that if I went to Ikea any more times that week, I would soon look like a meatball! The response? What do you mean soon?

So, the school got kitted out, our own stationery was ordered and we opened for business on 24th October. The first day was a little quiet and so on the second day, we decided to advertise it as an English language school with paddling pool. It had rained heavily during the night and the newly painted ceiling had leaked an entire bucket of water through the light fitting. It's still leaking and as I sit in reception, the soundtrack to my day is the constant dripping of water into a plastic Ikea waste paper basket.

Hands up, who sniggered when I said I was on reception? The school consists of two members of staff. The lovely José and me. Seeing as I barely speak English correctly, he does the teaching and I sit on reception. I've had to learn so many new skills, but now I can confidently say that I can now file my nails and read emails at the same time; I've taken to going out for coffee on the hour, every hour and I've learned how to say "bugger off I'm busy" in Spanish. It's no fun nicking out of my own stationery cupboard though; the frisson has gone.

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!!!!