It's been one of those weeks. My mind has been somewhere else all week - or rather, it's been in various different places. Unfortunately, those places have rarely coincided with the location of my body.
So far this week, I have:
- missed my stop on the Metro. Twice.
- got on the Circular (Madrid's equivalent of the Circle Line) going the wrong way.
- gone to pay money into the cashpoint machine without taking my card.
- gone to a lesson with the lesson plan for a different student
- completely lost a bright yellow tea-towel! It's nowhere to be found (though I'm blaming the workmen who were on the balcony on Monday for a very bizarre theft)
I dread to think what's next! There are clearly too many things floating about in my head at the moment.
Friday, 21 May 2010
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
Pet pets
I was thinking about the prospect of having to rehome my beautiful cat :-( and it got me thinking about the various animals that have shared my life over the years. I hadn't realised quite how many there had been, but here's a little potted history:
1) When we first moved to Brighton when I was about 3, we got 2 guinea pigs called (for reasons that are lost in the mists of time) Telephone and Fred Egg (yes, Fred, not Fried!) I don't really remember much about them other than the smell of sawdust in the cage. There was also a tortoise in the back garden when we moved in, if I remember rightly, which had been left there by the previous occupants. I have absolutely no idea what happened to that!
2) Next came our first cat, Sparky, when I was about 7. My aunt was working at a vet's surgery and Sparky was brought in with a dislocated back hip. For some reason, I think the owner didn't want him back, or couldn't pay for surgery, or something, so my aunt rang my mum and asked if there was any chance we'd like a cat. Oh yes, we would! So shortly afterwards, a rather startled black and white cat joined the household. When we got him, his back leg was still healing and he wasn't meant to climb so we had to take him out in the back garden on a little lead. He was a temperamental little sod, prone to hiding under my parents' bed, where I would lie down on the floor and try to coax him out, usually receiving a swift swipe for my efforts (the scar from one of which can still faintly be seen between my eyebrows). He had a great fight with a starling once and, needless to say, the starling won - by getting into an overturned dustbin in the back yard and fighting Sparky off with fiercely flapping wings and a very sharp beak. I think he learnt his lesson. I remember him out in the back garden in deep snow once, doing that gorgeous thing cats do where they pick their paws up really high over the top of the snow, before plunging them down again and looking completely baffled! He stayed with us for about 10 years until sadly he had to be put down one day. I still can't think about the day I came home from college and found he was gone without a tear or two.
3) Next, when I was about 10, came the mice! The school mouse had had babies and the teacher was looking for people to take them home. Being the rebellious little brat that I was, I told the teacher that my parents had said it was fine and I sauntered off home with 2 of them in a shoe-box. I came very close to having to take them back to school but I won out in the end and Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent (guess what was on TV at the time) moved into the spare room where their frantic wheel-spinning wouldn't keep everyone awake! All was well until the day we all left the house, unaware of the fact that Sparky had slunk into the spare room and was now shut in there with them. When my mum came home from work she found mouse massacre! Sparky had pulled the cage off the table, it had flown open and Ford Prefect was very dead. Arthur Dent had miraculously survived but not for long. I think he pined away within a couple of weeks.
4) When my mum and I moved into her new place when I was 18, we adopted a ridiculously cute black kitten from a very strange mad cat woman in a flat above a taxi despatcher's office (strange the things you remember). She must have had about 20 cats in there and needless to say I wanted to take them all home, but sanity prevailed and the tiny ball of black fluff joined the household. We took a while coming up with a name for this one, but my (then) boyfriend and I were reading a fantasy trilogy at the time, so the poor little thing got saddled with Tasselhoff Burrfoot (Tass for short). Tass was the sole witness to a burglary at the house and I recall being absolutely terrified when I heard that we'd been burgled, that they might have hurt the cat. Fortunately, no! When the boyfriend and I bought a place of our own 6 years later, Tass came with us. He was king of the castle, until.....
7) ......we did what couples who don't want to have a kid do - we got a dog! Smudger was a fruit-the-loop crazy whippet/ cross, who we rescued from the National Canine Defence League. He was absolutely gorgeous, very bouncy and liked nothing better than jumping up on the kitchen worktops, once knocking an entire dinner service onto the floor in the process. I think it was that that gave us a clue that he'd been mistreated because when we went into the kitchen having heard the noise, he was cowering in a corner. I went over to him and reached my arm up to turn on the light, but when my arm raised, he shrunk back even further and whimpered as if he was expecting to be hit. With hindsight, he really wasn't best suited to our lifestyle. We were out at work from 7.30 every morning, til about 6 at night, which left him home alone and, being not much more than a year old, he was very boisterous and bored easily. We had to put locks on the outside of all the doors so during the day he could only get into the kitchen and the hallways. Not that that stopped him causing chaos. He managed to get hold of a bottle of black shoe-polish once, sank his teeth into it and then carried it round the house shaking his head from side to side. When we got in from work, there was black polish everywhere! All over the beige carpets, up the cream walls, you name it! We couldn't help but laugh. When the relationship ended and I moved out, things became unworkable and my ex rang me one day to say that he was going to have to take Smudger back to the rescue centre, and wanted me to go too. I swear I have never felt so bad in my life as I did on the drive over there, with Smudger in the back of the car, no doubt thinking he was going for an exciting walk. Taking him back into the reception area, explaining the situation, signing the paperwork and leaving him there was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But I'm quite certain that the rescue people will have found him a new home very quickly, with people who were home during the day and give him the attention he deserved.
8 - 13) In 1997, while I was sharing a flat with Sid, we decided that the place was missing something! Sid really wanted house rabbits but that plan just didn't work out. So we went off to Foal Farm, a rescue centre near Biggin Hill, and found ourselves in the "rodent caravan" where a volunteer lived 24/7 with dozens of mice, rats, gerbils etc. I may have got this lot in the wrong order, but over the next 3 years we had: a hamster called Feck (again with the TV show theme!) who, as hamsters do, succumbed about 2 years later and was buried on our allotment; a gerbil whose name totally escapes me (I'm sure Sid will remember); and 4 rats called Lewis, Kellerman, Pembleton and Bayliss (yes, characters from Homicide: Life on the Street, our favourite show at the time). The rats were a revelation! Incredibly intelligent, they learnt their names, were capable of tricks though we never taught them any as that seemed a bit exploitative. We let them out of their cage as often as possible and they happily had the run of the flat, though their favourite position was sitting on our shoulders with their whiskers tickling our ears and their very strong tails curled round our necks. A few of our friends remained unconvinced and we had to put them out of sight when some people visited! My overriding memory of all those rodents is when Feck managed to escape once. About 3 days went by and we just couldn't catch the little git though at night he would come out of wherever he was hiding and eat the food we left out for him. We found a potential trick for catching him on the internet, so one night we laid a trail of tin foil on the hall carpet, with a stash of food near the door to our bedrooms. The idea was that his little claws would be heard on the tinfoil alerting us to his presence. At about 3am, we heard the telltale noise and we emerged from our respective bedrooms, clutching a sieve each. There he was, on the tin foil, looking damn annoyed that he appeared to have been rumbled and, like American football players diving for a touchdown, Sid and I descended on him, trapping him under one of the sieves. Hah! Gotcha! He was very unimpressed at going back in his cage but he never escaped again.
14) And now to the present day. Having been in my flat for 5 years, in 2005 I was really missing the company of a pet so I started the long and it appeared fruitless, search for a housecat. My flat in Brighton is right on a main road and doesn't have a garden so I needed a cat that would be happy living indoors. I didn't want to adopt a cat that had previously been used to going out so I need to find one that actually needed to be kept in. Finally, the lovely guy at City Cat Shelter told me he thought he had the perfect candidate. I went to his house where he had a rescue facility in the back garden, and was introduced to a sorry-looking mass of chocolate and white long fur. Missy (as she was then called) had been abandoned on his front doorstep with a note that said the owner was moving to a new property where she wasn't allowed to have cats. It gave little information other than the name, the fact that she was about 3 years old and had been bought from a pedigree breeder. However, it turned out that she had some medical problems which the breeder hadn't mentioned (what a surprise) so in all likelihood the owner probably just didn't want her any more. She'd caught cat flu and had been at the vet's for the last 2 weeks with a high probability that she wouldn't survive. She had various areas of fur missing where she'd been on IV drips and antibiotics, and she generally looked pathetic. She was terrified of other cats and just hid at the back of her little cage. On my first visit, she wouldn't let me pick her up so I sat on the floor of the shed and just talked to her. I was smitten, but was advised to go back again a week later for another go, to make sure I hadn't changed my mind. This time, she was looking better and I even got a brief cuddle. My mind was made up and a week later, the guy from the rescue centre brought her to the flat. He told me that one of her medical conditions was a strange weakness in her spine that meant her back legs didn't work properly, that she would be a "floor cat" as she couldn't jump and she might randomly fall over. Imagine his surprise when, half an hour later while he was still there chatting, she hopped up onto the sofa next to me, curled up in a huge ball of fluff and fell asleep. I didn't really like the name Missy, but as with a lot of rescue animals, the only thing she had was her name and I didn't want to change it too much. Given the state of her when I first met her, I decided that Messy was very appropriate. As she's technically a pedigree (she's a cross ragdoll/chocolate point), and pedigree animals always seem to have those ridiculous names on their pedigree certificates, I also unofficially named her "Mesopotamia Disco Ball von Fire Station (don't ask), but she is only known as Messy, thankfully! She is, without a doubt, the most gorgeous, lovable, perfect cat in the world (I'm not biased, really!) and it was a real wrench leaving her when I moved to Spain. At least I knew I was leaving her in good hands with my (now) ex, and all my friends coming round to feed/play with her when he's away, for which I thank them all profusely. But - things change, my ex is moving out and I need to rent my flat out privately so I can come back to Madrid for another year. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to rent the flat out with a resident cat, and to be honest, I wouldn't want to leave her there with someone I don't know. So the time has come (or it will, in about August) to find a new home for her. Ideally, I want her to go to someone I know, or at least someone one of my friends knows (and I will be demanding access rights!) So if anyone knows a likely candidate for her new owner, please let me know. She has to stay indoors all the time (absolutely imperative due to her non-existent immune system) and she can't mix with other cats in case she catches something. Another bout of flu or anything similar could kill her! But other than that, she is perfect (or should that be purr-fect?)
So there you have it - my life history as seen through my pets.
1) When we first moved to Brighton when I was about 3, we got 2 guinea pigs called (for reasons that are lost in the mists of time) Telephone and Fred Egg (yes, Fred, not Fried!) I don't really remember much about them other than the smell of sawdust in the cage. There was also a tortoise in the back garden when we moved in, if I remember rightly, which had been left there by the previous occupants. I have absolutely no idea what happened to that!
2) Next came our first cat, Sparky, when I was about 7. My aunt was working at a vet's surgery and Sparky was brought in with a dislocated back hip. For some reason, I think the owner didn't want him back, or couldn't pay for surgery, or something, so my aunt rang my mum and asked if there was any chance we'd like a cat. Oh yes, we would! So shortly afterwards, a rather startled black and white cat joined the household. When we got him, his back leg was still healing and he wasn't meant to climb so we had to take him out in the back garden on a little lead. He was a temperamental little sod, prone to hiding under my parents' bed, where I would lie down on the floor and try to coax him out, usually receiving a swift swipe for my efforts (the scar from one of which can still faintly be seen between my eyebrows). He had a great fight with a starling once and, needless to say, the starling won - by getting into an overturned dustbin in the back yard and fighting Sparky off with fiercely flapping wings and a very sharp beak. I think he learnt his lesson. I remember him out in the back garden in deep snow once, doing that gorgeous thing cats do where they pick their paws up really high over the top of the snow, before plunging them down again and looking completely baffled! He stayed with us for about 10 years until sadly he had to be put down one day. I still can't think about the day I came home from college and found he was gone without a tear or two.
3) Next, when I was about 10, came the mice! The school mouse had had babies and the teacher was looking for people to take them home. Being the rebellious little brat that I was, I told the teacher that my parents had said it was fine and I sauntered off home with 2 of them in a shoe-box. I came very close to having to take them back to school but I won out in the end and Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent (guess what was on TV at the time) moved into the spare room where their frantic wheel-spinning wouldn't keep everyone awake! All was well until the day we all left the house, unaware of the fact that Sparky had slunk into the spare room and was now shut in there with them. When my mum came home from work she found mouse massacre! Sparky had pulled the cage off the table, it had flown open and Ford Prefect was very dead. Arthur Dent had miraculously survived but not for long. I think he pined away within a couple of weeks.
4) When my mum and I moved into her new place when I was 18, we adopted a ridiculously cute black kitten from a very strange mad cat woman in a flat above a taxi despatcher's office (strange the things you remember). She must have had about 20 cats in there and needless to say I wanted to take them all home, but sanity prevailed and the tiny ball of black fluff joined the household. We took a while coming up with a name for this one, but my (then) boyfriend and I were reading a fantasy trilogy at the time, so the poor little thing got saddled with Tasselhoff Burrfoot (Tass for short). Tass was the sole witness to a burglary at the house and I recall being absolutely terrified when I heard that we'd been burgled, that they might have hurt the cat. Fortunately, no! When the boyfriend and I bought a place of our own 6 years later, Tass came with us. He was king of the castle, until.....
7) ......we did what couples who don't want to have a kid do - we got a dog! Smudger was a fruit-the-loop crazy whippet/ cross, who we rescued from the National Canine Defence League. He was absolutely gorgeous, very bouncy and liked nothing better than jumping up on the kitchen worktops, once knocking an entire dinner service onto the floor in the process. I think it was that that gave us a clue that he'd been mistreated because when we went into the kitchen having heard the noise, he was cowering in a corner. I went over to him and reached my arm up to turn on the light, but when my arm raised, he shrunk back even further and whimpered as if he was expecting to be hit. With hindsight, he really wasn't best suited to our lifestyle. We were out at work from 7.30 every morning, til about 6 at night, which left him home alone and, being not much more than a year old, he was very boisterous and bored easily. We had to put locks on the outside of all the doors so during the day he could only get into the kitchen and the hallways. Not that that stopped him causing chaos. He managed to get hold of a bottle of black shoe-polish once, sank his teeth into it and then carried it round the house shaking his head from side to side. When we got in from work, there was black polish everywhere! All over the beige carpets, up the cream walls, you name it! We couldn't help but laugh. When the relationship ended and I moved out, things became unworkable and my ex rang me one day to say that he was going to have to take Smudger back to the rescue centre, and wanted me to go too. I swear I have never felt so bad in my life as I did on the drive over there, with Smudger in the back of the car, no doubt thinking he was going for an exciting walk. Taking him back into the reception area, explaining the situation, signing the paperwork and leaving him there was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But I'm quite certain that the rescue people will have found him a new home very quickly, with people who were home during the day and give him the attention he deserved.
8 - 13) In 1997, while I was sharing a flat with Sid, we decided that the place was missing something! Sid really wanted house rabbits but that plan just didn't work out. So we went off to Foal Farm, a rescue centre near Biggin Hill, and found ourselves in the "rodent caravan" where a volunteer lived 24/7 with dozens of mice, rats, gerbils etc. I may have got this lot in the wrong order, but over the next 3 years we had: a hamster called Feck (again with the TV show theme!) who, as hamsters do, succumbed about 2 years later and was buried on our allotment; a gerbil whose name totally escapes me (I'm sure Sid will remember); and 4 rats called Lewis, Kellerman, Pembleton and Bayliss (yes, characters from Homicide: Life on the Street, our favourite show at the time). The rats were a revelation! Incredibly intelligent, they learnt their names, were capable of tricks though we never taught them any as that seemed a bit exploitative. We let them out of their cage as often as possible and they happily had the run of the flat, though their favourite position was sitting on our shoulders with their whiskers tickling our ears and their very strong tails curled round our necks. A few of our friends remained unconvinced and we had to put them out of sight when some people visited! My overriding memory of all those rodents is when Feck managed to escape once. About 3 days went by and we just couldn't catch the little git though at night he would come out of wherever he was hiding and eat the food we left out for him. We found a potential trick for catching him on the internet, so one night we laid a trail of tin foil on the hall carpet, with a stash of food near the door to our bedrooms. The idea was that his little claws would be heard on the tinfoil alerting us to his presence. At about 3am, we heard the telltale noise and we emerged from our respective bedrooms, clutching a sieve each. There he was, on the tin foil, looking damn annoyed that he appeared to have been rumbled and, like American football players diving for a touchdown, Sid and I descended on him, trapping him under one of the sieves. Hah! Gotcha! He was very unimpressed at going back in his cage but he never escaped again.
14) And now to the present day. Having been in my flat for 5 years, in 2005 I was really missing the company of a pet so I started the long and it appeared fruitless, search for a housecat. My flat in Brighton is right on a main road and doesn't have a garden so I needed a cat that would be happy living indoors. I didn't want to adopt a cat that had previously been used to going out so I need to find one that actually needed to be kept in. Finally, the lovely guy at City Cat Shelter told me he thought he had the perfect candidate. I went to his house where he had a rescue facility in the back garden, and was introduced to a sorry-looking mass of chocolate and white long fur. Missy (as she was then called) had been abandoned on his front doorstep with a note that said the owner was moving to a new property where she wasn't allowed to have cats. It gave little information other than the name, the fact that she was about 3 years old and had been bought from a pedigree breeder. However, it turned out that she had some medical problems which the breeder hadn't mentioned (what a surprise) so in all likelihood the owner probably just didn't want her any more. She'd caught cat flu and had been at the vet's for the last 2 weeks with a high probability that she wouldn't survive. She had various areas of fur missing where she'd been on IV drips and antibiotics, and she generally looked pathetic. She was terrified of other cats and just hid at the back of her little cage. On my first visit, she wouldn't let me pick her up so I sat on the floor of the shed and just talked to her. I was smitten, but was advised to go back again a week later for another go, to make sure I hadn't changed my mind. This time, she was looking better and I even got a brief cuddle. My mind was made up and a week later, the guy from the rescue centre brought her to the flat. He told me that one of her medical conditions was a strange weakness in her spine that meant her back legs didn't work properly, that she would be a "floor cat" as she couldn't jump and she might randomly fall over. Imagine his surprise when, half an hour later while he was still there chatting, she hopped up onto the sofa next to me, curled up in a huge ball of fluff and fell asleep. I didn't really like the name Missy, but as with a lot of rescue animals, the only thing she had was her name and I didn't want to change it too much. Given the state of her when I first met her, I decided that Messy was very appropriate. As she's technically a pedigree (she's a cross ragdoll/chocolate point), and pedigree animals always seem to have those ridiculous names on their pedigree certificates, I also unofficially named her "Mesopotamia Disco Ball von Fire Station (don't ask), but she is only known as Messy, thankfully! She is, without a doubt, the most gorgeous, lovable, perfect cat in the world (I'm not biased, really!) and it was a real wrench leaving her when I moved to Spain. At least I knew I was leaving her in good hands with my (now) ex, and all my friends coming round to feed/play with her when he's away, for which I thank them all profusely. But - things change, my ex is moving out and I need to rent my flat out privately so I can come back to Madrid for another year. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be able to rent the flat out with a resident cat, and to be honest, I wouldn't want to leave her there with someone I don't know. So the time has come (or it will, in about August) to find a new home for her. Ideally, I want her to go to someone I know, or at least someone one of my friends knows (and I will be demanding access rights!) So if anyone knows a likely candidate for her new owner, please let me know. She has to stay indoors all the time (absolutely imperative due to her non-existent immune system) and she can't mix with other cats in case she catches something. Another bout of flu or anything similar could kill her! But other than that, she is perfect (or should that be purr-fect?)
So there you have it - my life history as seen through my pets.
Students giveth, and students taketh away
I knew it was too good to be true! Things really started to pick up in the last couple of weeks with two (nearly three) new students and my projected income was actually looking pretty healthy.
True to form, no sooner had I started to get all smug about it, two of them cancelled for the next fortnight!
The universal balance is restored once more.
Am undaunted and refuse to be brought down, however.
True to form, no sooner had I started to get all smug about it, two of them cancelled for the next fortnight!
The universal balance is restored once more.
Am undaunted and refuse to be brought down, however.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
Cathy dodged the volcanic ash!
Since my birthday weekend, I had my first visitor of the year last weekend. Cathy somehow managed to catch the only flight from Gatwick to Madrid that actually took off on Saturday and by 12 she and her dinky suitcase made it to Plaza de Castilla and the short walk to the flat. A quick lunch and a well-deserved beer and we headed out.
First stop was the cheap shoe heaven that is Calle Montera (otherwise known as Prostitute Street!). Baseball boots, sandals and the world's cheapest work shoes (they were for me) were purchased, by which time we were ready for tea and cake at La Mallorquina - great cakes and pastries to take away downstairs, and upstairs a tea "salon" that appears to be stuck in time. A couple of Napolitanas de Chocolate (pain au chocolat to the rest of us, though I have no idea why there doesn't appear to be an English word for these), proper tea with cold milk and a coffee set us up nicely for a trip to El Capricho.
Recommended by Debbie , El Capricho Garden of Enlightenment is a very peaceful little park hidden away almost at the end of Metro Line 5. It once belonged to the Duke and Duchess of Osuna and consists of 14 hectares of land, containing a folly, a hermitage, a Temple to Bacchus, a lake, a mini fort, a palace and, thankfully, very few people! A lovely way to spend the late afternoon/early evening. We left but decided it was too early to head back into town so found a little bar, full of locals (and showing bullfighting on TV which we had to try to avoid seeing). One beer turned into two, then inexplicably into four and we finally wended our way to the Metro at about 10pm. Still, it was Saturday night so it would have been rude not to stop at the square near the flat for a couple more beers and a plate of very good patatas bravas.
Sunday morning still threatened rain so our planned boating trip on the lake at the Retiro could wait. We headed to the Chocolateria San Gines for an artery-clogging breakfast of hot chocolate and churros (though we actually got porras). Then it was off to El Mercado de San Miguel , where we strolled around the many deli stands, admiring the sheer variety and quantity of delicious food and drink. Despite our filling breakfast, we couldn't resist a couple of mozzarella and veg kebabs, artichoke hearts, a tiny bean-filled pastry and a stuffed vine leaf, washed down with a glass of wine. We bought rustic bread and some interesting-looking cheese, ready to make a packed lunch for the tennis on Monday. A short walk took us down to La Caixa Forum , an art/exhibition centre near the Prado. There was an exhibition of works by Miquel Barcelo , including a very bizarre video of his live show from 2009 (I think) where he covered an assistant in blocks of wet clay and moulded them on him, before the assistant collapsed against a wall presumably to set! Hmm. Art, eh?! The second floor was more to our taste with a photography exhibition (FotoPrensa) - a random collection including civil unrest in Rwanda, graphic pictures of Pakistani women who had suffered "honour" attacks by having acid thrown in their faces, a weird 1970s themed nightclub and much more. Needless to say, there is a cafeteria upstairs so we stopped for refreshment, before heading over to Lavapies where there was a festival to celebrate Spain's Presidency of the EU this year.
We wondered if we'd got the day wrong when we arrived as it was all due to kick off at 4pm with street theatre etc, but we couldn't find anything! However, after wandering for a bit we stumbled across a square where there was some kind of dance going on, performed by a mixture of disabled and able-bodied teens. We spotted Debbie, Moira and Raul so we joined them, shortly followed by Krisztina, just in time to be entertained by a trio of Polish acrobatic breakdancers (one with abs, and a face, to die for), then a rather odd Finnish slow-motion dancer/contortionist and finally a group of 7 French freestyle breakdancers. Feeling entirely worn out by their exertions (!), we repaired to Baobab, a Senegalese bar up the road for more beer! A very stoned waiter with dreadlocks and particularly lovely eyes brought us beer, then another beer, then crisps, then another beer before we decided we really should go and find food. Being in Lavapies, the obvious thing to do was get curry - and very delicious it was too. A €7.95 set menu got us samosas and pakoras for starters, rice with veggie coftas for main, a beer each and tea or dessert. Bargain!
Monday rolled around and with it our long-awaited trip to La Caja Magica for the Madrid tennis tournament.
All went well initially, we picked up the pre-booked tickets easily but were a little too early as the gates weren't yet open so we headed into a tiny local bar for a quick drink (non-alcoholic I hasten to add, it was only 10.15am!) Once the gates were open, we clutched our tickets and marched happily towards the security staff on the gates. They asked us to open our bags and that was where the trouble started! No food or drink allowed! Nothing, not even a bottle of water! Outrageous. We vainly argued that we hadn't known etc, but to no avail. We had to scoff our tasty cheese and houmous bocadillos, as many crisps as we could and most of a can of Diet Coke outside the gates. We weren't alone, there were several people caught out by the ridiculous rule. We both decided to flout the rules and managed to smuggle our empty water bottles in by hiding them in amongst other things in our bags. I understand the economics of it - they want you to spend money on food and drink at their concession stands (and there are a lot of them!) - but it's not well-advertised, and not everyone can afford to buy everything they might need for around 9 hours there. Well, their cunning plan failed with us. We topped our water bottles up from the bathroom taps and made a point of buying absolutely nothing to eat all day! Little victories!
We'd been a little surprised by the order of the play for the day. It's a men's and women's tournament, we knew that, but we assumed that the play would be split about 50/50. Not at all. Play started at 11am on most courts, yet there wasn't a men's match on until 2pm and the women accounted for about 75% of the day's play. I'm not averse to a bit of women's tennis when there's no choice, but I'm afraid it doesn't hold any great fascination. Still, Court 4 found us watching Petrova win pretty convincingly. We wandered wondering what to watch while waiting for the first men's match on the main court, when we noticed that the current match on that court was looking more interesting than expected. Serena Williams had lost the first set so we decided to head over there and cheer on Dushevina. It was a surprisingly good match, lasting over 3 hours, but in the end (disappointingly) Williams won. And finally it was time for some real tennis (!) - Gael Monfils beat Stephane Robert pretty convincingly, then my second fave player, Feliciano Lopez was up against Lucasz Kubot. Amid many calls of "Vamos, Feli!" he won, to the delight of course of the Spanish crowd. And that was that. By the time that match was over, play on all the outside courts had finished and they were starting to let people in for the evening session. We headed off, stopping for dinner at the splendidly-named "Bosphorus Grill" Greek place near my flat. Can't beat houmous, tzatziki, stuffed vine leaves and beer after a day watching people chase a small ball round a rectangle of red clay.
Tuesday brought Cathy's last day so we managed to get up at a vaguely reasonable time and headed to the local square for another chocolate and churros brekkie, then down to the ghost Metro station at Chamberi (Anden Cero) - I'd been there before but it's a nice, quick and interesting thing to take visitors to. Our timing wasn't best as we found ourselves following a big school group around, but they were fairly well-behaved teens.
Quick lunch at the flat and it was time for Cathy to head back to the airport and for me to get ready for my first class of the week. It wasn't at all certain that Cathy was going to make it back, as the other two Gatwick Easyjet flights of the day had been cancelled due to the volcanic ash. Off she went though and, as with Saturday, turned out to be on the only flight of the day that actually got off the ground.
It was a very lovely weekend and it was great to see Cathy for the first time since Christmas. A lot of catching up was done! My (few) pics can be found HERE
(Note - as always, if you'd like to leave a comment, please go to the original blog at http://emsr2d2.blogspot.com to do so. Thanks.)
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Memories of Hotel Gellert Spa, Budapest
A random comment by my friend Diana sent my mind whizzing back to my trip to Budapest several years ago. I was there with a friend (some of you know her, but for the sake of propriety I'll keep her name out of it!) We were at the end of a great trip, first to Bratislava, then Vienna, and finally Budapest.
Our trusty Time Out/Rough Guide insisted that a trip to the thermal baths at the Hotel Gellert was an absolute must. We could see the gorgeous building just on the other side of the bridge across the river, so we trundled off with our swimming costumes, towels etc.
The price list at the reception desk was fairly baffling and only in Hungarian so we opted for the cheapest one that appeared to include the baths and a massage. We were given a ticket and a small, triangular piece of white cloth, and no explanation. We made our way out of the huge, domed reception area and headed to the ladies' changing rooms. These looked more like what you would expect from an Eastern Bloc building - in the basement and just some very basic cubicles. We quickly changed into our swimming costumes, emerged clutching our towels and still unexplained triangles of cotton, and locked our worldly goods in our cubicles. We had gone no more than 2 or 3 steps when a terrifying sight appeared. A sturdy, flip-flop-wearing Hungarian woman, who may well have more than her fair share of shot-putt gold medals, advanced on us across the room, wagging her finger, shaking her head and saying "No, no, no". Baffled, we looked around to see if we had used the wrong cubicles or were somehow in the men's changing rooms. No. She bore down on us like a train, finally stopped, pinged the shoulder straps of my swimming costume and uttered the unforgettable words......... "Nudie bath. Nudie bath."
Gulp. Er, what? My mate and I looked at each other in terribly British, prudish disbelief, nodded at the woman and ran back inside one of the cubicles for a conflab! What to do? We'd paid (though clearly not for quite what we thought), and had been really looking forward to it. So do we get dressed and run away? Or do we bite the bullet and stay? Well, my motto is meant to be Carpe Diem so we went for the "What the hell? We're only here once and no-one knows us" option.
So after promising never to mention it again (so much for that promise, eh?), off came the swimming costumes, and the towels, and we crept back out into the shot-putter's lair. This time, something she may have thought of as a smile crossed her face and she directed us up a flight of stairs at the back of the room. To this day, I still feel bad about making my mate go first, not least because it meant I ascended the stairs mere inches from her bare arse!!!! We emerged into the thermal baths to be met with the sight of scores of naked women of all shapes and sizes, immersed in the steaming waters or wandering about. We finally discovered the purpose of the tiny triangles of material with a neck strap that we'd been given. They were intended to preserve a modicum of modesty. Which would have worked if we'd been about 3 feet tall, 6 inches around and had no adult body parts! I'll say no more about that.
To be honest, after a shorter time than you might think, we got quite used to the idea and spent a lovely couple of hours wallowing in baths of varying temperatures, and boiling ourselves in the string of sauna rooms which increased in temperature as you went through each connecting door until we reached the one of about 113 degrees at which point we both had admit defeat. We even gave up on any pretence of using the little cotton aprons. My abiding memories of that part of the day are the (we think) Dutch girl who sat in one of sauna rooms, on a chair, facing the rest of the room, with her knees under her chin and her feet up on the chair, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, and the 2 American girls who had heard us speaking English and sidled up to us saying "Oh my god, did you REALISE......?" We admitted it had been something of a surprise to us too, but that we recommended just getting on with it!
Finally, the time came for our massage. Any ideas we'd had of a lovely, relaxing 15 minutes of aromatherapy oils and soft music were swiftly despatched! The massage room was a large, glass-brick-walled affair, containing 2 metal slabs and a couple of women who clearly came from the same stock as the assistant in the changing rooms. We clambered, inelegantly, onto a slab each, face down. I, for one, was desperately trying not to think about the fact that it was more like the dissection room in a morgue, or the display trays in a fish market! Having liberally lathered me up from neck to toes with a gigantic bar of soap and a little lukewarm water, the masseuse set to work. Pain is an understatement. I don't know what she did, how she did it or what parts of her anatomy she was using, but she found ways of causing pain, without leaving any marks, that a KGB interrogation team would have been proud of. After a few minutes, she forcibly flipped me over onto my back, leaving me slithering around on the table while she did her thing again to my front! I didn't dare glance over to the other table. Having decided that either she'd caused enough agony, or that she was disappointed I hadn't screamed, she shoved me off the table and yelled "Stand". She was not a woman to be argued with so I stood stock-still with my back to her, wondering what on earth could be coming next. Had I actually considered the possibility that it might be a huge, wooden bucket full of ice-cold water thrown over me at point-blank range, I might have taken the opportunity to leg it while I could! Too late.
And that was that. We were done. An old, tatty white sheet that passed for a towel was thrown at us and we were pointed in the direction of the changing rooms.
When we finally re-emerged into the Budapest sunshine, I'm not sure we were even capable of speech though I recall something like "Did that just really happen?" being uttered. True to our original promise, neither of us mentioned it for a while though the intervening years have at least turned the experience from a traumatic, never-to-be-repeated debacle, into something much more memorable and appreciated for what it was.
So - if you're in Budapest, you know where (not) to go!
Our trusty Time Out/Rough Guide insisted that a trip to the thermal baths at the Hotel Gellert was an absolute must. We could see the gorgeous building just on the other side of the bridge across the river, so we trundled off with our swimming costumes, towels etc.
The price list at the reception desk was fairly baffling and only in Hungarian so we opted for the cheapest one that appeared to include the baths and a massage. We were given a ticket and a small, triangular piece of white cloth, and no explanation. We made our way out of the huge, domed reception area and headed to the ladies' changing rooms. These looked more like what you would expect from an Eastern Bloc building - in the basement and just some very basic cubicles. We quickly changed into our swimming costumes, emerged clutching our towels and still unexplained triangles of cotton, and locked our worldly goods in our cubicles. We had gone no more than 2 or 3 steps when a terrifying sight appeared. A sturdy, flip-flop-wearing Hungarian woman, who may well have more than her fair share of shot-putt gold medals, advanced on us across the room, wagging her finger, shaking her head and saying "No, no, no". Baffled, we looked around to see if we had used the wrong cubicles or were somehow in the men's changing rooms. No. She bore down on us like a train, finally stopped, pinged the shoulder straps of my swimming costume and uttered the unforgettable words......... "Nudie bath. Nudie bath."
Gulp. Er, what? My mate and I looked at each other in terribly British, prudish disbelief, nodded at the woman and ran back inside one of the cubicles for a conflab! What to do? We'd paid (though clearly not for quite what we thought), and had been really looking forward to it. So do we get dressed and run away? Or do we bite the bullet and stay? Well, my motto is meant to be Carpe Diem so we went for the "What the hell? We're only here once and no-one knows us" option.
So after promising never to mention it again (so much for that promise, eh?), off came the swimming costumes, and the towels, and we crept back out into the shot-putter's lair. This time, something she may have thought of as a smile crossed her face and she directed us up a flight of stairs at the back of the room. To this day, I still feel bad about making my mate go first, not least because it meant I ascended the stairs mere inches from her bare arse!!!! We emerged into the thermal baths to be met with the sight of scores of naked women of all shapes and sizes, immersed in the steaming waters or wandering about. We finally discovered the purpose of the tiny triangles of material with a neck strap that we'd been given. They were intended to preserve a modicum of modesty. Which would have worked if we'd been about 3 feet tall, 6 inches around and had no adult body parts! I'll say no more about that.
To be honest, after a shorter time than you might think, we got quite used to the idea and spent a lovely couple of hours wallowing in baths of varying temperatures, and boiling ourselves in the string of sauna rooms which increased in temperature as you went through each connecting door until we reached the one of about 113 degrees at which point we both had admit defeat. We even gave up on any pretence of using the little cotton aprons. My abiding memories of that part of the day are the (we think) Dutch girl who sat in one of sauna rooms, on a chair, facing the rest of the room, with her knees under her chin and her feet up on the chair, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, and the 2 American girls who had heard us speaking English and sidled up to us saying "Oh my god, did you REALISE......?" We admitted it had been something of a surprise to us too, but that we recommended just getting on with it!
Finally, the time came for our massage. Any ideas we'd had of a lovely, relaxing 15 minutes of aromatherapy oils and soft music were swiftly despatched! The massage room was a large, glass-brick-walled affair, containing 2 metal slabs and a couple of women who clearly came from the same stock as the assistant in the changing rooms. We clambered, inelegantly, onto a slab each, face down. I, for one, was desperately trying not to think about the fact that it was more like the dissection room in a morgue, or the display trays in a fish market! Having liberally lathered me up from neck to toes with a gigantic bar of soap and a little lukewarm water, the masseuse set to work. Pain is an understatement. I don't know what she did, how she did it or what parts of her anatomy she was using, but she found ways of causing pain, without leaving any marks, that a KGB interrogation team would have been proud of. After a few minutes, she forcibly flipped me over onto my back, leaving me slithering around on the table while she did her thing again to my front! I didn't dare glance over to the other table. Having decided that either she'd caused enough agony, or that she was disappointed I hadn't screamed, she shoved me off the table and yelled "Stand". She was not a woman to be argued with so I stood stock-still with my back to her, wondering what on earth could be coming next. Had I actually considered the possibility that it might be a huge, wooden bucket full of ice-cold water thrown over me at point-blank range, I might have taken the opportunity to leg it while I could! Too late.
And that was that. We were done. An old, tatty white sheet that passed for a towel was thrown at us and we were pointed in the direction of the changing rooms.
When we finally re-emerged into the Budapest sunshine, I'm not sure we were even capable of speech though I recall something like "Did that just really happen?" being uttered. True to our original promise, neither of us mentioned it for a while though the intervening years have at least turned the experience from a traumatic, never-to-be-repeated debacle, into something much more memorable and appreciated for what it was.
So - if you're in Budapest, you know where (not) to go!
Saturday, 10 April 2010
10 April 1954 was a good day
Carey, my mum's younger sister, was born that day and today would have been her 56th birthday.
She was the youngest of 3 girls, a pretty, quiet child and a keen ice-skater and tennis player.
She was 15 when I was born, though I really only remember her from when she finished her teacher training and went off to her first couple of teaching jobs in Manchester and Brixton. Talk about being thrown in at the deep end! She married an eccentric Liverpudlian guitarist and they produced my lovely cousin Joe.
She soon landed herself a plum job as the Head of Drama at the very prestigious girls' boarding school, Cobham Hall, where she taught very happily for years. She was the shyest drama teacher ever though, hated speaking in public and blushed at even the mildest rude joke.
She later divorced and married a local man. They lived happily in her beautiful, very old house in Kent.
She was successful, happy, gorgeous and very content with life. She fell in love with Greece, especially Crete and spent many a summer week sunning herself and enjoying the relaxed lifestyle. She was looking at houses in France with a view to retiring there.
In mid-2002 she developed a severe, debilitating headache and nausea, lasting several days. A migraine was initially blamed but soon other possibilities had to be investigated. And then came the news - multiple brain tumours, secondary to lymph cancer. It was less of a diagnosis than a prognosis - one which initially was shockingly short - maybe 5 weeks with no effective treatment possible. Private healthcare disagreed and various bouts of chemotherapy and radiotherapy ensued, over the next 21 months.
She returned to Crete a year after her diagnosis for a long holiday, during which most members of the family joined her for a week or so each. It was weird but great, and a trip which would remain etched in our memories. She saw her baby boy take his driving test, and go off to university, events which she had been determined to stick around for.
Those of you who have watched cancer ravage a person will know what followed. Those who haven't, consider yourselves very lucky and I hope you never do. Over those months, I saw more of her than I had in the previous 30-odd years. We shopped, watched films, sang, talked, laughed and cried.
On the 1st of February, 2004, at 1.26am, 11 weeks short of her 50th birthday, with almost all her family members in the house with her, she finally succumbed, dying, as she had lived, peacefully.
I know she would have been involved, intrigued and proud of everything her family has done since.
And I miss her every single day.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Has spring sprung?
Yesterday afternoon in the park, the swallows (or are they swifts? I never know) were zooming around merrily, 2 magpies had rather rampant sex near me, there's now a butterfly flitting around outside the window and it's 26 degrees on my balcony.
It's been warm and sunny since our impromptu picnic in the Retiro on Sunday and it's showing no sign of letting up.
I'm inclined to officially announce that it's spring, hide my jacket at the back of my wardrobe and start wandering around in slightly more summery clothing.
However, as Richard M is forever reminding us - "Hasta el cuarenta de mayo no te quites el sayo" - "Until the 40th of May, don't give up your tunic" (how quaint). Or for the English idiom: "Ne'er cast a clout til May be out". So apparently I shouldn't take the risk until either June 1st or June 10th, depending on which idiom you want to believe.
Still, since I own neither a tunic nor a piece of clothing that resembles only a "fragment of cloth" (clout), maybe I'll just say "F*ck it", hide my coat and keep my fingers crossed. If it rains in the next few days, you'll know who to blame.
It's been warm and sunny since our impromptu picnic in the Retiro on Sunday and it's showing no sign of letting up.
I'm inclined to officially announce that it's spring, hide my jacket at the back of my wardrobe and start wandering around in slightly more summery clothing.
However, as Richard M is forever reminding us - "Hasta el cuarenta de mayo no te quites el sayo" - "Until the 40th of May, don't give up your tunic" (how quaint). Or for the English idiom: "Ne'er cast a clout til May be out". So apparently I shouldn't take the risk until either June 1st or June 10th, depending on which idiom you want to believe.
Still, since I own neither a tunic nor a piece of clothing that resembles only a "fragment of cloth" (clout), maybe I'll just say "F*ck it", hide my coat and keep my fingers crossed. If it rains in the next few days, you'll know who to blame.
Friday, 2 April 2010
I really can't get my head around this one
A story caught my eye earlier, while I was passing another fruitless hour trawling the internet (and recovering from my hangover).
You may have seen a story a few weeks ago about a school in Mississippi which decided to cancel its annual prom because one of the students who planned to attend is a lesbian, and wanted to wear a tuxedo and bring her girlfriend. She petitioned the school board to be allowed to do so, but her requests were denied and a memo was circulated advising everyone that same-sex dates were not permitted. She challenged this decision with the help of the Mississippi ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union) who agreed that the decision was a clear violation of her constitutional rights and urged the board to reverse its decision. Instead of doing so, the school decided it would be preferable to cancel the prom completely, due to the "distractions caused by recent events". They also stated that it hoped that the local community would organise a private prom as a replacement (note: apparently a private prom would be perfectly within its rights to prevent gay couples attending, if it so wished).
Needless to say, the young lady involved was upset a) by the school's decision not to allow her to bring her girlfriend and b) at the idea that she now felt responsible for the prom being cancelled and that many other students would feel badly towards her about it.
Now this story alone is enough to have me shaking my head in disbelief, but it gets stranger.
The Mississippi Safe Schools Coalition decided to organise the aforementioned "private" prom and asked the Mississippi ACLU to help with the fundraising. A couple of days ago, the American Humanist Association offered a $20,000 contribution to the fund, a substantial sum. However, the donation was rejected by the ACLU with this explanation:
"Although we support and understand organizations like yours, the majority of Mississippians tremble in terror at the word 'atheist'........... Our staff has been talking a lot about your donation offer and have found ourselves in a bit of a conflict. We have fears that your organization sponsoring the prom could stir up even more controversy."
Wait. WHAT?! So a civil liberties group, whose own website states "The right to practice religion, or no religion at all, is among the most fundamental of the freedoms guaranteed by the Bill of Rights" decided that atheists are so controversial and terrifying that accepting money from them to assist in repairing another case of discrimination is simply impossible? Yes, apparently that is exactly what happened.
In a world where religion is still responsible for the vast majority of wars and terrorist attacks, and where the Catholic church is being brought to its knees (stop making up your own jokes) by the paedophilia exposés, is it really feasible that us atheists/humanists can be seen as subversive dangers to society? Quite honestly, it simply shows what a terrible stranglehold religion has on society as a whole, where the mere presence of people who think for themselves and have chosen not to believe, actually frightens them.
I have just found a recent update on this story which shows a potential light at the end of the tunnel. Apparently the Safe Schools Coalition has the final say on who to accept donations from, and they say no decision has yet been reached on the one from the AHU. They also said that the Mississippi ACLU "made an error in judgment (sic)" in sending the email to the Humanist Association, and that the ACLU has apologised. I'll be interested to see whether the donation is finally accepted.
Monday, 29 March 2010
Vim, verve, vigour and vocab at Valdelavilla
Now there's a tongue twister for the Spaniards!
So Sunday 21st March saw me back on another long bus journey, this time to Soria, for Vaughan Town. The venue was Valdelavilla, a previously abandoned village in the mountains. It's beautiful, remote and perfect for an immersion English program. I'd been there before, last August, but with Pueblo Inglés. Sadly for them, the contract was up at the end of 2009 and it reverted to Vaughan who used to go there when the two companies were one and the same. It would perhaps have been nice if they'd sent a bus driver who either knew the way, or who had a map or GPS, which would have saved the extra hour on the already interminable journey!
I'd half-expected to spend the week tucked up inside away from freezing temperatures and potential snow. But the weather was kind to us and, apart from a couple of afternoons of rain, it was clear and bright. Seemingly my reputation as a "hard" girl continues, given that I didn't wear a coat or jacket pretty much all week, yet others were wrapped up in coats and scarves. What can I say?
This was the smallest group I'd been part of - 12 Spaniards and (yet again!) only 10 Anglos. 2 Anglos who had been scheduled to attend simply didn't show up - they weren't at tapas on the Saturday night which gave a clue, but they could still have made it to the bus. No. So, as in January, both Dade and Marisa had to be Anglos as well as doing their actual jobs, which is totally unfair. I think I said last time that it baffles me why a program would be set up with only the exact number of Anglos booked, leaving absolutely no margin for error.
As always, the Spaniards were a varied group, from all walks of life, a mixture of ages and levels of English. I knew 2 of the 10 Anglos from previous programs, and the rest were all great fun too. As is always the case, it's a shame that the Anglos don't get as much time to get to know eachother as we would like, though mealtimes, house-sharing and time at the bar help!
The program itself ran as it always does - one-to-ones in the mornings, then group activities, more one-to-ones, entertainment hour in the evenings, with phone sessions and conference calls dotted around. The only fly in the ointment really was that Valdelavilla really does have very limited facilities - no music system, no projector, no flipchart paper (this week, at least!), no printer available, (not to mention the complete lack of mobile coverage and the very sporadic WiFi). This means that a lot of the usual entertainment activities - karaoke, the last-night party plus many of the sketches and presentations just aren't possible. Yes, that means that people are encouraged to help out more, by bringing presentations, telling jokes etc, but with no advance warning, most didn't know to do that. Having said that, the 2 nights of entertainment were fantastic, as always, with both Anglos and Spaniards throwing themselves into the weird and wonderful collection of sketches, readings and general silliness. Marisa's ballroom dancing lesson may well have been the highlight of the week, mainly because it meant a rare glimpse of Dade looking remarkably self-conscious (sorry!) and an opportunity to prove yet again that the Spanish do seem to have an inbuilt sense of rhythm and dancing ability that's distinctly lacking in the rest of us!
The food at Valdelavilla is fantastic. I'd hoped that things hadn't changed since last summer because the meals were something I was really looking forward to. After the disaster that is the food at Gredos, I was excited to get back somewhere where they a) understand vegetarianism b) give you a choice of dishes for each course and c) serve it with a smile!
Given the amount I ate (and drank) it's just as well that the place also lends itself to lots of exercise. With the exception of 2 hours on Thursday morning, I walked with my various Spaniards for the entirety of every one-to-one for the whole week. That equated to at least 5 hours' walking every day. On top of that, 2 impromptu excursions to nearby abandoned villages, both taking around 2 hours and with the entire return journey being uphill, mean that I think I actually lost weight during the week, and may have rediscovered my leg muscles. I could have lived without my face becoming absolutely beetroot-red on the uphill marches, but I should be used to it by now. I blame my capillaries, not my complete lack of fitness.
Quei Mada was fun, though the rather low ceiling in the dining room where it was held made it excitingly dangerous. Just for once, I think everybody had at least one cup of the lethal Oruja concoction which may have explained the unexpected joke-telling that came after. Blame the drink, but the only thing I can remember is that all the Spaniards jokes seemed to revolve around the Guardia Civil!
As always, I laughed, cried (sometimes with laughter, sometimes not!), and learnt a lot. The Spaniards almost without exception, were enthusiastic, keen, interested (and interesting) and determined to get everything they could out of their week. It's always the case that the people who have paid for themselves are perhaps a little more enthusiastic than those who have been sent by their company, but even if "forced" to be there, they generally try to see it as a positive thing.
As ever, Thursday evening rolled around far too quickly and, despite there being no "official" party, the group certainly made the most of their final evening and the oh-so-generous one extra hour of the bar being open and an impromptu party ensued. I hope Vaughan realise that the last-night "letting your hair down" part of the programs has always been very popular, both with the Spaniards and also with Anglos, whether veterans or not. Everyone has worked so hard over the course of the week that they deserve to relax and have a blast. Valdelavilla's meeting room is perfect for the party - plenty of room to dance, a bar can be set up in the room, meaning people don't have to keep leaving the party to negotiate the death-trap stairs in the dark to get to the other bar, and certainly last year there was a perfectly good music system up there (I can only assume it belonged to Pueblo Inglés who quite reasonably took it away).
Special mention should go to Elena for making it through her presentation despite being absolutely terrified, to Miguel for his hilarious performance in the 3 husbands sketch, to Monica for constantly "inventing" English words when she was stuck, only to find them in the dictionary and to Maica for creating a whole new business venture based around exploding kangaroos in Australia (don't ask).
It was also Dade's last week ever as an MC, after 3 years of bringing fun and laughter to an amazing number of people. Everyone in the group wishes him every happiness for his new life back in the UK as a photographer.
And so it was over! The journey back to Madrid was long and uneventful, fortunately and the usual sad goodbyes were said before we went our separate ways. But not for long. Fernando very kindly organised a get-together for those that could make it on Sunday. A group of us met at the Mercado San Miguel for cava, wine, beer, oysters (well, spinach croquettas for me), snacks, bread and chat. We moved on to various different locations, the group gradually dwindling until, at the end, only 3 of us remained, having completed 10 hours of non-stop drinking and eating! Diana and Anthony - you're a very bad influence on my liver!!!
Thank you to everyone for a great week.
As always, I was too busy having fun to remember to take many pictures, but what I have are HERE.
So Sunday 21st March saw me back on another long bus journey, this time to Soria, for Vaughan Town. The venue was Valdelavilla, a previously abandoned village in the mountains. It's beautiful, remote and perfect for an immersion English program. I'd been there before, last August, but with Pueblo Inglés. Sadly for them, the contract was up at the end of 2009 and it reverted to Vaughan who used to go there when the two companies were one and the same. It would perhaps have been nice if they'd sent a bus driver who either knew the way, or who had a map or GPS, which would have saved the extra hour on the already interminable journey!
I'd half-expected to spend the week tucked up inside away from freezing temperatures and potential snow. But the weather was kind to us and, apart from a couple of afternoons of rain, it was clear and bright. Seemingly my reputation as a "hard" girl continues, given that I didn't wear a coat or jacket pretty much all week, yet others were wrapped up in coats and scarves. What can I say?
This was the smallest group I'd been part of - 12 Spaniards and (yet again!) only 10 Anglos. 2 Anglos who had been scheduled to attend simply didn't show up - they weren't at tapas on the Saturday night which gave a clue, but they could still have made it to the bus. No. So, as in January, both Dade and Marisa had to be Anglos as well as doing their actual jobs, which is totally unfair. I think I said last time that it baffles me why a program would be set up with only the exact number of Anglos booked, leaving absolutely no margin for error.
As always, the Spaniards were a varied group, from all walks of life, a mixture of ages and levels of English. I knew 2 of the 10 Anglos from previous programs, and the rest were all great fun too. As is always the case, it's a shame that the Anglos don't get as much time to get to know eachother as we would like, though mealtimes, house-sharing and time at the bar help!
The program itself ran as it always does - one-to-ones in the mornings, then group activities, more one-to-ones, entertainment hour in the evenings, with phone sessions and conference calls dotted around. The only fly in the ointment really was that Valdelavilla really does have very limited facilities - no music system, no projector, no flipchart paper (this week, at least!), no printer available, (not to mention the complete lack of mobile coverage and the very sporadic WiFi). This means that a lot of the usual entertainment activities - karaoke, the last-night party plus many of the sketches and presentations just aren't possible. Yes, that means that people are encouraged to help out more, by bringing presentations, telling jokes etc, but with no advance warning, most didn't know to do that. Having said that, the 2 nights of entertainment were fantastic, as always, with both Anglos and Spaniards throwing themselves into the weird and wonderful collection of sketches, readings and general silliness. Marisa's ballroom dancing lesson may well have been the highlight of the week, mainly because it meant a rare glimpse of Dade looking remarkably self-conscious (sorry!) and an opportunity to prove yet again that the Spanish do seem to have an inbuilt sense of rhythm and dancing ability that's distinctly lacking in the rest of us!
The food at Valdelavilla is fantastic. I'd hoped that things hadn't changed since last summer because the meals were something I was really looking forward to. After the disaster that is the food at Gredos, I was excited to get back somewhere where they a) understand vegetarianism b) give you a choice of dishes for each course and c) serve it with a smile!
Given the amount I ate (and drank) it's just as well that the place also lends itself to lots of exercise. With the exception of 2 hours on Thursday morning, I walked with my various Spaniards for the entirety of every one-to-one for the whole week. That equated to at least 5 hours' walking every day. On top of that, 2 impromptu excursions to nearby abandoned villages, both taking around 2 hours and with the entire return journey being uphill, mean that I think I actually lost weight during the week, and may have rediscovered my leg muscles. I could have lived without my face becoming absolutely beetroot-red on the uphill marches, but I should be used to it by now. I blame my capillaries, not my complete lack of fitness.
Quei Mada was fun, though the rather low ceiling in the dining room where it was held made it excitingly dangerous. Just for once, I think everybody had at least one cup of the lethal Oruja concoction which may have explained the unexpected joke-telling that came after. Blame the drink, but the only thing I can remember is that all the Spaniards jokes seemed to revolve around the Guardia Civil!
As always, I laughed, cried (sometimes with laughter, sometimes not!), and learnt a lot. The Spaniards almost without exception, were enthusiastic, keen, interested (and interesting) and determined to get everything they could out of their week. It's always the case that the people who have paid for themselves are perhaps a little more enthusiastic than those who have been sent by their company, but even if "forced" to be there, they generally try to see it as a positive thing.
As ever, Thursday evening rolled around far too quickly and, despite there being no "official" party, the group certainly made the most of their final evening and the oh-so-generous one extra hour of the bar being open and an impromptu party ensued. I hope Vaughan realise that the last-night "letting your hair down" part of the programs has always been very popular, both with the Spaniards and also with Anglos, whether veterans or not. Everyone has worked so hard over the course of the week that they deserve to relax and have a blast. Valdelavilla's meeting room is perfect for the party - plenty of room to dance, a bar can be set up in the room, meaning people don't have to keep leaving the party to negotiate the death-trap stairs in the dark to get to the other bar, and certainly last year there was a perfectly good music system up there (I can only assume it belonged to Pueblo Inglés who quite reasonably took it away).
Special mention should go to Elena for making it through her presentation despite being absolutely terrified, to Miguel for his hilarious performance in the 3 husbands sketch, to Monica for constantly "inventing" English words when she was stuck, only to find them in the dictionary and to Maica for creating a whole new business venture based around exploding kangaroos in Australia (don't ask).
It was also Dade's last week ever as an MC, after 3 years of bringing fun and laughter to an amazing number of people. Everyone in the group wishes him every happiness for his new life back in the UK as a photographer.
And so it was over! The journey back to Madrid was long and uneventful, fortunately and the usual sad goodbyes were said before we went our separate ways. But not for long. Fernando very kindly organised a get-together for those that could make it on Sunday. A group of us met at the Mercado San Miguel for cava, wine, beer, oysters (well, spinach croquettas for me), snacks, bread and chat. We moved on to various different locations, the group gradually dwindling until, at the end, only 3 of us remained, having completed 10 hours of non-stop drinking and eating! Diana and Anthony - you're a very bad influence on my liver!!!
Thank you to everyone for a great week.
As always, I was too busy having fun to remember to take many pictures, but what I have are HERE.
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
What are they reading?
Having forgotten to take my book on the Metro this morning, and then discovering that the battery in my MP3 player was dead, I spent 20 minutes investigating what my fellow travellers were reading! Yes, I was bored.
Top place went to the variety of free newspapers that can be picked up outside various shops, or are handed out on the streets (20 Minutos, Que and ADN). I normally get a copy of 20 Minutos at the top of the Metro stairs on the way to my early class at the Ministry of the Environment. It's handed to me by a man whose face I have never seen. Come rain or shine, he's bundled up in a waterproof jacket, gloves, hat and a scarf that's wrapped around his face only leaving his eyes exposed. Still, his eyes appear to be smiling and there's usually a muffled "Hola". Maybe once summer comes, I'll actually find out what he looks like!
One very geeky, terribly small, thin man who looked about as far removed from a football fan as anyone I've ever seen was dissecting his copy of Marca, the Real Madrid official paper.
No less than 3 people were reading whatever that damn red and black book is by the author that died before publication of the final part (someone please tell me what it is!).
2 people (and 2 yesterday) were reading the same book by H P Lovecraft - not something I've noticed before, and all their copies looked very shiny and new, so I'm guessing somewhere there's a new edition out or they're all on sale.
The man next to me was reading a very dull-looking document he clearly had to revise either for work or for a test. I'm not sure how all his markings will have helped as he had highlighted and underlined in red every single word of every sentence!
A guy standing up was trying valiantly to read the biggest hardback book I've ever seen. It looked like it weighed a ton and required both his hands to hold it which consequently meant that every time the train lurched, so did he. Hope it was worth the risk of injury!
And the girl next to me was reading the instruction book for her new mobile phone. I certainly wish she'd gone straight to the section on how to turn off that irritating beeping noise that the keys make when you first get a phone!
And that was that. My journey of nosiness was over. Really must remember my book in future otherwise you might be subjected to this kind of blog again. Bet you really hope not!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)