little buggers

I rather question the wisdom of not starting the teenagers' party until midnight - really, if we wanted them to go to bed and stay there it would have been more sensible to have finished earlier than 2am. As, inevitably, several teens hooked up with a member of the opposite sex in the brand new disco at La Alberca, us counselors spent the majority of the night patrolling the grounds with torches and water-pistols trying to ensure the teens stayed in their own bungalows. Thankfully they didn't - I mean it would have been incredibly dull if they had all been good - with at least 7 teens being caught either climbing out of or into windows. Seeing as I busted all seven of them personally, requiring my water pistol to be repeatedly refilled, I wasn't too bothered by this; in fact I was quite enjoying it. Funnily enough the only thing I ever got in trouble for at boarding school was being out of my room at night, so I didn't really feel I was in any position to criticise. However, some of the other counselors took it very seriously, treating it almost as a personal insult, and when I finally caught the last 3 by staking out their bungalow as the other staff ran around searching the grounds, a rather intense Guantanamo Bay style interrogation began! Having been assured that none of the campers had any alcohol (or worse) and having nipped the after-hours party squarely in the bud, we finally made it to bed at 5.30am. The effect of this on my fellow counselors (seen below in white) was rather predictable.

return to La Alberca

Last October Kate and I started our sojourn in Spain with a week long English residential workshop at the beautiful country town of La Alberca, as unpaid volunteers working with adult learners. Now I´ve returned (sadly without Kate, who still has classes in Madrid) as a counselor on a teenage English camp to a world of one-to-one conversations, coloured tags for meals, and hilarious theatre improv.
The hotel is as beautiful as I remember, one-up-one-down chalets laid out in the grounds around a central meeting house and restaurant, with the added bonus of the pool being open; even though it´s a lot cooler here than in Madrid, I´ve still been glad of a daily dip. Us counselors sometimes play the role of English-speaking mentor for the Spanish - taking part in one-to-one conversations for example - and at other times referee, running group activities, workshops and making sure the teens mix it up at meal times. The level of comedy genius is also much lower than that of the adults, but there´s still been some quality moments (Breakfast of the Dead - our Zombie movie set at the camp - was a classic) and I´m sure there will be more as the teenagers start to come out of their shells. Mind you, as about 15 of them are on their second week here ("do their parents not like them?" you wonder) there´s quite a few who aren´t short of confidence.

on finding flamenco

Last weekend we were very fortunate to have our Bristolian friends Emma and Pete visiting. Aside from it being lovely to see them and catch up on their news, having people to visit is always great as it prompts us to get out and do things. If they hadn't visited we probably wouldn't have stirred much beyond the grassy area around our swimming pool (though obviously we did find time for a swim or two). As it was we found ourselves in tour guide mode, and in between Friday night's voyage around La Latina and Chocolateria San Gines and Sunday morning's trip to El Rastro we were presented with the challenge of finding some flamenco for our visitors.

Aside from a hilarious few minutes in our kitchen and some buskers, we had yet to see any flamenco since moving to Madrid. Indeed, the only flamenco show we had seen to date was in Sevilla back in May last year. Fortunately for us the local English-monthly In Madrid had just run an article suggesting the best places to go. After a bit of research on their recommendations it seemed clear that in Madrid there are basically two options.

Option 1: you pay between €25-€35 for a show.
Option 2: you go to a bar where flamenco aficionados and musicians are known to frequent and hope something happens.

Funnily enough Pete and Ems decided on option 2, and so after a wander through Huertas and a meal on a terraza just off Plaza Santa Anna, we headed back to La Latina to find one of the bars recommended, La Solea. Luckily I'd brought the newspaper article with me which included the address (34 Calle de Cava Baja) otherwise we'd never have found it, the entrance being a nearly unmarked and unremarkable door set back slightly from the street. Popping my head around into an almost deserted bar I was assured they were open and we took our seats on a wooden bench that ran all the way around the wall of a small salon lined with decorated tiles and photos of flamenco masters.
However, despite the lack of a crowd a guitar was in evidence among the huddle of Spaniards around another table. It was of course still early; only 11:15pm. Plenty of time. We ordered drinks, immediately decided to nurse them gently as they cost an arm and a leg. Still, it looked on!

And so it was. Gradually the place filled up, the guitar started, singers appeared and tocan las palmas began. By midnight the small room was full, every seat taken, with standing at the back. Another salon was opened up and the proprietor started funneling people through that one instead, although we only noticed this as we were leaving, so enthralled were we. It was no stunning spectacle - no dancers, so showboating, no huge band - just singers, clapping and a superb guitarist, but the intimacy and organic nature of the evening was absolutely mesmerising. Definitely the right option.

photos of form: the Annie Liebovitz exhibition

After an excellent lunch in Artemesia, possibly the only vegetarian and no-smoking restaurant in Madrid, we wandered over to Alcala 3 to see the Annie Liebovitz exhibition. The show included photos from both the public and private aspects of her life - so photos of celebrities and the siege of Sarajevo sat alongside intimate, informal portraits of her family and friends, most notably the writer Susan Sontag, whose death from cancer was movingly documented here. At times these small, unpolished, black and white photos seemed at odds with the huge, colour prints of various celebrities posing (or, in Jim Carrey's case, mugging) for the camera, but I guess that was kind of the point: how small, unglamorous events hold just as much significance for the photographer and their craft as the large commissions that mark their progression in the public eye.

However, as a member of the public, necessarily disconnected from Liebovitz's private life, I was naturally drawn more to the pictures of people and places that I recognised. Some portraits were merely technically excellent photographs, but with little by way of narrative. Others however, through superb use of form, provided more than just a proficient portrait but seemed to deliver an opinion from the artist herself. Two marvelous portraits of the Trumps and the White Stripes spoke volumes about their subjects. Our favourite though was probably the one above, which is even better at near-life size, the subjects projecting grace and control from the print. The exhibition is open until September 8th - if you're in Madrid we really advise going to see it.

Spanish IKEA...

... is exactly the same as everywhere else.

Globalisation 1; Regional Diversity 0

I wasn't expecting much difference to be fair, but maybe something distinctively Spanish in there - a paella dish perhaps, or some morisco inspired lattice work. But no. Identical to all the rest. Even the books on the shelves were in Swedish. Which made me think that perhaps, in say 300 years, when we all speak English (or Mandarin) perhaps IKEA will be the only place where the Swedish language is preserved.

Anyway, I bought a new bed to replace the one Kate broke and got it assembled (a few fiddly bits but otherwise no probs). Kate immediately decided to take it for a test drive.

By which I mean a siesta! Of course! Why, what were you thinking? Huh?

Pre-teen purgatory

As we have repeatedly acknowledged, here in Spain things are done a little differently. Never was this more apparent than last week when I found myself working as a camp counselor for 45 pre-teens in Aldeaduero, right on the border with Portugal (which we could see across the river).

Summer camps for kids - presumably an import from America - are highly popular and well established here in Spain, unlike in the UK where they are something of a rarity. As such you would expect their legislation and institutional organization to be ahead of ours. Not so. While in the UK if you want to do any kind of work with young people (let alone children) you are subjected to relatively stringent background checks and are required to do some kind of child protection training - something I whole-heartedly support - nothing like that exists here in Spain. They just take your word for it that you aren't a pervert. Not that they even bother to ask.

When I've done holiday schools and summer camps in the UK there have been plenty of preparatory meetings for those involved to work out the ins-and-outs of the timetable and what exactly your duties were. On this occasion we didn't get a schedule until Saturday evening; nearly 48 hours after the camp had started! Our training consisted of a very apologetic HR manager who "didn't usually do training" trying to show us a video on a laptop that kept crashing; what we did see was of questionable worth anyway. Turning up to the bus to the camp the next morning we discovered that our Program Director and MC were already on site and thus care of 45 children for the 5 hour journey was entrusted to 3 first-time counselors and a bus driver who didn't know the way. None of us had any contact phone numbers, either for parents or office staff - just a list of names and a bag of sugar-filled treats to try and keep the kids quiet. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Like I said they do things a little differently over here, though it's one of the few areas where I definitely prefer the British way of doing things. You know; safe, organised, prepared. My question as to where the fire assembly point was was met with blank stares, something which came back to haunt us a few days later when a bush fire broke out across the river. Suddenly as the sirens blared and the helicopters circled, dropping water it didn't seem like such a stupid idea to have a fire evacuation policy in place.

Aldeaduero is a rather pretty village next to a hydroelectric plant on the Duero river that has been almost entirely converted into a hotel (the village that is, not the plant). Accommodation was either in en suite rooms around a courtyard or in bungalows. Accommodation for myself and one of the other (male) counselors was to be a couch in one of the bungalows. In order to shower I had to walk through a bedroom being shared by two 10 year old boys. Needless to say I wasn't entirely comfortable with this arrangement, not least because the couch was too short and my feet stuck over the end!

The whole camp was held in English, despite the fact many participants were struggling with phrases such as "I don't know" and "how do you say...?", though I guess it was a sign of the camp's success that they had at least learned these by the end. The 7 counselors were put in charge of teams of 6 to 7 children of mixed ages, abilities and genders. Needless to say my team - the Orange Falcons - somehow managed to include the chief troublemakers in the camp; on one day they accrued 12 negative points for speaking Spanish, being in the wrong rooms and generally misbehaving, while the next highest total was 4. Still, at least they weren't dull!

Once we got our schedules and actually begun to understand what we were doing, things started to become a bit more enjoyable. The other staff were lovely, although we didn't have that much time for interaction as we were all focused on keeping our teams in line as we led them through various games, meals and activities. We planned performances, organised a fair and designed posters, planes, castles, newspapers, and boats (ours was awesome - a proper, functioning catamaran). We allowed kids to cover us with paper and paint for a fashion show. It took me a hour to get all the paint off - there's something to be said for the usual British policy of banning physical contact between kids and adults. However as far as the kids were concerned the highlight was the daily dunk in the pool. Dunk is right, as I usually managed 20 seconds in the pool before kids would start swarming all over me trying to submerge me or get me to throw them in the air. Removal of pool privileges became the ultimate sanction for persistent Spanish speakers.

It was a fun, if totally exhausting experience but I definitely think this is one area where the Spanish could learn a little something from the British way of doing things. I'm doing another camp in a fortnight's time, though that one will be with teenagers. I suspect a whole new range of challenges awaits!

The First Separation (by Kate)

Before now, the longest Theo and I had spent apart since we got together was two nights, so a seven-day separation was going to be an interesting experiment. Could I still remember how to cook for myself? Would I remember details like doing the laundry? How would I fare without the daily backgammon challenge?

Theo obviously shared some of my concerns, because before he departed he cooked extra portions of moussaka and vegetable korma to put in the freezer in case I went hungry. Believe me, there was never any danger of that - apart from an uncomfortable period when I was suffering with acute IBS (the most effective and unpleasant weight-loss plan I have ever experienced), I have always relished my nosh.

Of course, there are aspects of solo living which are wonderful - things like retiring to bed early with a book and not disturbing anyone else when you read it for hours; dining as and when you like without being barked at for procrastinating when food is ready; devoting yourself to nattery girly get-togethers without any guilt about neglecting your beloved and faffing around on the computer without someone else drumming their fingers while they wait for their turn.

But of course, I missed him very much. And not just his proven abilities in the domestic sphere (he really is a most excellent manslave). Telephone conversations, even with strict instructions not to forget to be loving and not to sound too impatient to end the call (Theo's telephone style with me in the past has been business-like to the point of being curt) just aren't the same.

Most of all, the week apart made me freshly appreciate the affectionate, devoted man I married. Absence may not make the heart grow fonder, but it definitely makes you wake up to what you've got.

One Of The Deadly Sins (by Kate)

Pride is one of the seven deadly sins and although it's the main one being paraded around the world this weekend, the other six also turned out in force, especially lust. All in all, one hell of a party. Gay Pride Madrid (Orgullo Gay) was celebrated if not in style, then at least with overwhelming vim and enthusiasm. Looking up and down Calle Alcala and Gran Via, I think there must have been close on a million people shaking their collective thang in the name of diverse sexuality.
I joined the party with my pal Florrie, both of us with past (if not current) form as faghags and we were as proud of our status as anyone else trumpeting their sexual preferences. We arranged to meet by the large Gula Gula restaurant at the top of Gran Via and despite the milling crowds of well-honed torsos, tight-fitting T-shirts and perfect hairstyles, we somehow managed to arrive at the appointed place within ten minutes of the appointed time. The only flaw was that we chose different sides of the building for our rendez-vous.

"Where are you?" I yelled down my mobile phone, while being caught in the cross-fire of an energetic shoot-out between two groups of water-rifle-wielding militia.
"I'm standing by the gigantic trannie," shouted Florrie, "You can't miss me."

In fact, the transvestites were undoubtedly the stars of the show, many of them towering over the crowd in killer six-inch heels and wearing all manner of flourescent, sequinned and be-feathered finery. I've never seen so many pairs of false eyelashes in my life. They were lapping up the attention, as were any number of wonderfully preening and pouting boys in their tight bright speedos and designer dark glasses. It all made for some great entertainment, like an on-street cabaret.

Mind you, if I'm honest, as processions go, the parade itself left a fair bit to be desired. Apart from the trannies, poseurs and rainbow clubbers, most of it was made up of large swathes of pretty ordinary looking people who could just have easily been members of the crowd. The Madrid Carnival back in February beat it hands down for sheer spectacle and general effort made with co-ordinating costumes and decorated floats.

That said, the real point of the march was not to give the onlookers something to marvel at, but to demonstrate public solidarity for sexual tolerance - to display with relish the styles of loving that can still get people killed in some parts of the word.

After two and a half hours, the parade still showed no signs of ending, but Florrie and I (plus Jon, who'd also joined us) were all gayed out for a bit and desperately needed a drink. After we'd repaired to a jolly Spanish bar nearby (lively camareros, loads of tapas piled up on the counters, very brightly lit, rubbish all over the floor...) we headed back to our former vantage point near the Banco de Espana metro on route to our various casas. Having started at around six thirty, the end of the parade was only just snaking its way up towards its Plaza Espana finishing point as the small hand headed for eleven. Bringing up the rear was a batallion of municipal cleaning vehicles. Show's over for another year, folks.

Headline News: It's bloomin' hot here... (by Kate)

There was me thinking it was only the English who are obsessed with the weather. How wrong can you be? I am rapidly reaching the conclusion that Spaniards are even more fascinated about the atmospheric situation outside their windows than we are. Never a day goes by without the TV news running a story along the lines of "Hace Mucho Calor!!" (Ain't It Hot?!) with pictures of crowded beaches, people eating ice-creams and vox pops saying things like "It is so hot today I have to wear short sleeves!" and other similarly penetrating comments.
Of course it is very hot, but that's to be expected in Spain during July, where temperatures hitting the forties aren't uncommon in some parts of the peninsula. It happens in a reasonably predictable fashion every year, so why it's such a source of obsession for the broadcasters I really don't know.
The good part about the summer heat is it's an excellent excuse to brandish that most Spanish of accessories, the fan, or abanico as it's called here. It's entirely commonplace to see women of all ages creating themselves a bit of breeze like this and unlike the UK, where fans are regarded as part of a fancy dress costume, nobody bats an eyelid if you pull one out and start wafting away. It takes a bit of practice to perfect the wrist action so you can open your fan with one smooth action and even more practice to be able to close it again, but boy is it satisfying! It took a lesson from my gay friend, Jose before I got the hang of it and now I spend more time opening and closing my fan (purple, with flowers) than actually fanning myself. The "man fan" is also available in shops here, but most chaps prefer not to compromise their macho image by using one (in public, anyway). Most of them make do with a newspaper, meeting agenda or flyer provided by the many street publicists who leaflet the metro entrances in Madrid.
As for how we're coping with the summer heat, well, not bad, so far. Of course it helps to have air conditioning in the flat and a swimming pool available for complete body submersion, admittedly. But even when we're out and about, the simple expedient of staying in the shade and drinking lots of fluids (of the ice-cold variety) keeps us reasonably cool. Plus, Madrid heat being very dry, you don't tend to sweat much (unless you're foolish enough to run around in it) and the quality of feeling hot is somehow less draining. And of course, there's always the fan.

Limbo

This week has been a kind of limbo for me - I finished work last friday and have had very little to do. Not that this has stopped me from busying myself. I've been writing, cooking (I've really got into baking cakes), cleaning, going to Spanish lessons, socialising and trying to spend as much thime as possible in the swimming pool without turning into a human prune. But I haven't been able to feel entirely 'on holiday' as the prospect of having to work again has been looming large on the horizon. Tomorrow I start work again, this time on a Holiday Camp for 8 to 12 year olds at a Hotel near to Portuguese border.

This is daunting for three reasons. One) the holiday camp is in English but the children are all Spanish. Having experienced this year just how hard it is to get 8 to 12 year olds to speak English for an hour and a half, I'm dreading the prospect of trying to get them to speak English for the whole week! Two) a week will be the longest time Kate and I have spent apart. Ever! Right from when we first got together I don't think we've ever spent more than a couple of nights apart, let alone since we've been married. I'm going to miss her a lot. And Three) there's no internet at the Hotel!

I'm not sure my facebook/e mail/guardian online/wife addicted psyche will stand it.