Missing Madrid - by Theo

For the first time since we moved back from Madrid at the very end of June I find myself missing the city itself. Our friends there and the free-time we had have long been missed, but as Christmas nears I'm missing some of the great things about winter in Spain's capital.

Some things I miss are quite boringly mundane - like the cheap, regular and heated buses that I used to take to work. There's nothing like getting caught in a storm of hail while cycling to make you yearn for the days when we had a decent and affordable public transport system on our doorstep. I also miss living in a flat and benefiting from the heating of the surrounding flats, especially now we're in an end of terrace house and seem to be fighting an endless battle against mould. Other things are more romantic.

I miss the mornings. Crisp and cold, with temperatures often well below freezing, but usually dry and sunny, they were times to enjoy a frosty stroll through the park with Rosie wrapped up in her pram. It did snow mind you the three winters we were there, but the city was kitted out for it - it functioned, rather than ground to a halt.


I miss the street-corner kiosks selling roasted chestnuts. I never bought any, but they smelt good and I liked the fact they were there!

I miss the Christmas lights, both the big bold ones along Gran Via and Calle Alcala, and the more parochial efforts on Jose del Hierro in our barrio. Oh sure, there's Christmas lights in the UK, but none near us it seems.

I miss the little markets that would spring up in random squares, selling tacky Christmas decorations, beautiful wooden toys and warm woolies.

I miss the Christmas sweets. Spaniards as a rule have a special pastry for every conceivable occasion and Navidad was no exception - roscon, polverones - with fabulous traditions surrounding their consummation.

Mostly though, I miss the fact that all though it was usually very cold in Madrid during winter, at least it was dry. Unlike this windy, soggy city we're in now. When I got to lectures on Tuesday I had to change my clothes completely and hang them up at the back of the lecture hall to dry.

Things to miss about Madrid - By Kate

After two and a half years of life as Madrileños, our flat is now empty of our possessions and we've said our goodbyes to the friends we've made here and we're en route to board a boat for Blighty.

Not surprisingly, I'm consumed with mixed feelings. I'm looking forward to living closer to our families and our old friends in England again. The ease of living in a country where I can speak and understand the language is definitely something to be appreciated. And having "the knowledge" of a place - all those little details that make life easier, which has to be learned from scratch in a new location - is something I now appreciate like never before.

But there are plenty of things I shall miss about living in Madrid and indeed Spain. Here are the main ones in no particular order:

The sunshine. There's a lot of it. Sometimes too much. But especially during Spring and late Autumn, it's wonderful.
The fresh fruit. It's great to be able to eat things like mangoes and Kiwi fruit, knowing they haven't been imported. And I shall really miss things like brevas (a large, early type of fig) and picotas (wonderfully sweet dark cherries).
The Hispanic love of babies and small children. Everywhere you go your little cherubs are routinely admired and welcomed by people of all ages and in all places. Where many in the UK tend to assume a slightly pained expression suggesting a bad smell under their nose when they catch sight of children, Latinos smile indulgently and affably chub their cheeks. Even tantrums are greeted with sympathy tinted with the knowing amusement.The breathtaking number of children's play parks. The generosity of spirit extended towards little nippers isn't confined to the general public, Spain's local authorities also make sure their younger citizens are amply provided with places to have fun and let off steam.
The easy give-and-take of high-density living. Take noise, for example. We've never once experienced any dubiousness towards the inevitable noise made by Rosie both as a baby and an energetic toddler. In fact, one set of neighbours came round specifically to tell us not to worry about it. When we've wanted an early night and the sound of loud TVs or music have penetrated our flat, a simple knock on a wall, ceiling or window or (in a couple of cases) a polite request to turn things down have yielded a generally good-natured and prompt response. Why do so many people in the UK take umbrage if requested to keep it down as a mark of consideration for those who live nearby?
Friendly neighbours. Related to the above. We hadn't been living here long before we knew the names of those also living on our floor and were on "que tal?" terms with many more. And although they don't know us well, many have expressed regret when we've told them we're leaving.
The drinking culture. Spaniards love to drink, especially en masse and for extended periods of time. But they don't usually drink to get drunk and it's very unusual for people to show aggression after they've had a few. I can walk through Madrid's busiest nightlife areas on a Friday or Saturday night, surrounded by people drinking and not feel the slightest fear that a fight may break out near me or I might get accosted by an inebriated arsehole who can't see straight. You can't say the same thing about many of the UK's towns and cities, unfortunately.
The public transport. Madrid's system of underground trains and bus routes is excellent. Generally clean, air-conditioned, inexpensive and very frequent. AND the bus drivers don't throw a hissy fit when you board their vehicle pushing a baby buggy.
Non-homogenous high streets. There are still large numbers of independent specialist retailers in Spain and each barrio has its own particular character.
The cafe/bar culture. With lots of outdoor seating and food served all day. Plus the free tapas, of course, meaning ordering food is often not necessary.The trees. Madrid is the most wooded capital city in the world - thankfully, the shade provided is desperately needed during the summer months. Mind you, it does make for an awful lot of municipal leaf-blowing during the winter...
Cheap but stylish women's hair-cuts. There are various things that cost less in Spain compared with the UK, but this is the one where the gap seems to be biggest. €12.50 for a cut and blow-dry....
The sense of satisfaction the comes from communicating in non-mother tongue. The flip side of struggling to understand and be understood. One source of regret is that we're leaving just as I was starting to get a handle on Spanish to the extent that I can at least have a basic conversation with someone.

Naturally, there are aspects of life in Madrid I definitely won't miss:

The summer heat. It quickly becomes unbearable and despite awnings, shutters and ceiling fans, sleep is a restless business when temperatures hit the high thirties. On the other hand, laundry is dry within a few hours of being hung out, so it's not all bad.
Language befuddlement. I've still got a distance to travel before I'm truly comfortable operating in Spanish. It's frustrating to be unable to express myself to someone or to not understand what they're telling me. I can "get by" in Spanish, but to my regret, that's my current limit.
Doggy do's. Urban Spanish dog-owners are somewhat behind their British counterparts when it comes to cleaning up after the family pet. Apparently, they're a lot better than they used to be - which makes me shudder to think what state the streets were in a few years ago.
Over-packaging. Especially fruit and veg. Shops are now beginning to be less generous when it comes to dispensing plastic bags, but there's a way to go yet.
The paucity of charity shops. We found one not far from our barrio, but they are few and far between. Second-hand shops do exist, but the time and energy needed to dig through the jumbled heaps of unsorted clothes to find a decent bargain is usually more than I'm willing to give.
Screeching washing lines. Aerial clothes lines tend to operate on a pulley system and unless you're an abseiler, its very hard to lubricate the metal wheels, which get steadily more oxidised as the years pass. Therefore an alarming series of banshee howls as someone hangs out their laundry is inevitable. And responsible for many a disrupted nap (in my case - Rosie seems to be able to sleep through them, thankfully).

One thing's for sure - as a first experience of living in a country other than the one where I was born it's been a fantastic adventure. I return with a wealth of experience I would never have otherwise had. Not to mention as mother of a daughter who was conceived and born in Madrid. That's an incredible thing in itself.

Will we come back to Spain to live? Perhaps. Certainly, our sojourn here has done nothing to put us off.

Meanwhile, we will do our best to keep our Spanish alive and encourage Rosie to grow up with a grasp of the language from the country of her birth.

Street life - by Theo

Madrid, being a big city, naturally has street life in all shapes, sizes and styles, from buskers and beggars to hookers and hawkers. Some areas are particularly known for a certain type of street worker - Plaza Mayor for its human statues, the area around Opera for Chinese ladies selling fans, a street near Gran Via metro for its working girls and so on. Even our local high street, Jose del Hierro has its share of street life.

Firstly, there are the lottery sellers. One of the main lottery companies in Spain is Once, a charity set up to provide blind people with employment. Thanks to the Spanish love of the lottery, it is now a huge company and has expanded its remit to employing anyone with a disability. As a result, not only do we have a kiosk for a blind female lottery seller, but there are also two other regular sellers on our street - a woman in a wheelchair who hangs around the supermarket and a chap with a very dodgy knee (it bends inwards) who stations himself outside the Caja Madrid and always has a smile for Rosie.

They aren't the only people selling things on Jose del Hierro, though I suspect they are the only ones doing so legally. Two sisters station themselves outside the bakery every day with their buckets of flowers, while an older couple (who I assume are gypsies) are across the way selling knock-off make-up, clothes and occasionally extremely cheap melons. Nobody seems to mind, even though there are several clothes shops and fruiterias on the street that they are presumably undercutting.

Finally, there are the beggars. These come and go, but the most regular, rain or shine, 7 days a week, is the African guy. He's probably in his mid-twenties, I remember first seeing him when we came to view the flat prior to moving in, so he's been around at least 2 years, maybe more. He stations himself outside the supermarket, ostensibly selling La Farola (the streetlight), the Spanish equivalent of The Big Issue, though I've never seen anyone buy a copy, let alone read one, from him or any other "seller" around Madrid. Neither does he make any effort to sell one. Rather, he greets people and makes himself useful, holding a dog lead or some shopping bags while the owner shops, and accepting the odd piece of change people (including ourselves) give him. The boredom factor must be huge, despite all the people that pass the time of day with him, and I'm sure when he made the risky and dangerous crossing to Spain this wasn't what he envisaged doing. Yet judging by his perseverance and the preponderance of other Africans doing the same thing at supermarkets all over Madrid, it must be living, and a better one than they could hope for 'back home'. I can't help but think it's a terrible waste of humanity and yet further evidence that western immigration policies based on restricting both numbers and permission to work is failing and wrong-headed.

Swimming and so longs Part 3 - by Theo

Rosie has a new book, Tommy, El Perro, about a dog who loves water except when it comes to bath time. Rosie is clearly his opposite. After a lovely al fresco lunch at Bianca's we formed a bucket chain to fill her paddling pool with warm water before her son, Ollie, happily climbed in. Rosie could not be tempted (or, indeed, forced) into the water. Kate tried, I tried, Bianca tried; Rosie is definitely not a water baby.

We didn't even bother trying her in the pool - she was more interested in the pool cover than the water - but the rest of us enjoyed a refreshing dip in relay. Bianca's very lucky to have such a facility on hand, and such an acquiescent son in Ollie, as she is 8 months pregnant and suffering a bit in the high temperatures - 38 degrees today. Yet another baby we sadly won't be around to welcome into the world.

Later on Belen and Cesar popped round for a quick drink and a promise to see each other soon. I'm glad because they couldn't make it to our Dia de Deportes and were away in Cordoba this weekend, but it would have felt wrong leaving without seeing them - they were of course the couple that put us up the first 3 times we came to Madrid. Our sojourn here would have been much poorer without them.

Hasta luego todos.

Farewells - by Theo

So an era has come to an end. We're on the cusp of leaving Madrid; today most of our belongings shipped out and we'll follow, also by ship, on Wednesday. I've already finished work - Wednesday was my last day, which is to be the subject of this blog.

Working in a language school is a strange dynamic. You have colleagues but you don't really work with them; after all there's only ever one of you in a classroom. Sure, we swap lesson ideas and banter during the brief breaks between classes, but unless you're highly sociable (and I, as a new father, haven't been) you don't really get to know each other. In fact I know my colleagues who shared Spanish classes with me, both of whom were new this year, perhaps better than those who joined with me, two years ago.

Still this is not to say I won't miss them, or the boss and his wife, who were both hugely supportive to Kate and myself during Kate's pregnancy and Rosie's first few weeks. So I was more than happy to join them for raciones and drinks in Goya after work on Wednesday and then again in the Retiro for a picnic the following day - I thought I had stayed out reasonably late, heading home at midnight, only to find most of my (now former) colleagues had stayed out until 6am! I guess I never quite got the hang of that aspect of the Spanish lifestyle.

However, I think it's inevitable that when teaching English, or possibly any subject, it's with your students that a real bond forms, especially in the short-term. After all, if they stay the course you'll end up spending a considerable amount of time with them over the months, much of which will hopefully be by turns enjoyable, frustrating, amusing, challenging and sometimes outright hilarious. Such shared experience usually helps form bonds and ties, though not always: Of the two classes of intermediate teenagers I had this year, the group that were all new students to me in October turned out in full to say goodbye, while the group that included students I'd been teaching for 2 years was a total no-show. Not quite sure what that proves, but I'm sure it proves something.

So it was somewhat gratifying that my favourite group (now I've left I think I'm allowed to admit I had favourites), an adult proficiency class, pretty much all turned out on their last day (Tuesday), despite the fact that they'd already had the exam results back and most other classes weren't even half full. We had a fun time imagining which celebrities might make good English teachers ("David Beckham... well, he didn't speak English very well at the start of his career, but he does now, so he's clearly been through the learning experience") and then, joined by a former classmate who had already passed the Proficiency exam, we grabbed a table in the Plaza de Felipe II and spent a very enjoyable couple of hours setting the world to rights in both English and Spanish.

What a shame I forgot to take my camera to all three farewells.

Heat and Teeth - by Theo

Well the summer has now well and truly arrived, bringing with it cloudless blue skies and temperatures that hit the 30s around 10am and stay there until well after midnight. This seems, as ever, to have come as a huge surprise to the Spanish who unfailing great you and each other with comments about the heat - "Que calor!" - as if the weather was somehow unusual!

The spike in temperatures, which began last Thursday coincided with both Cathy, Kate's mum coming to visit, and Rosie's canines making their entrance. The latter in particular, coupled with the sweaty night-times made for a general lack of sleep all round. Until now Rosie's teeth hadn't given her many problems, but the canines trying to squeeze between her incisors and pre-molars was clearly causing our dear one a lot of pain. It was heart-breaking watching her at meal-times as she enthusiastically stuffed an over-cooked (for softness) bit of pasta in her mouth only to erupt in tears at the first bite. For the first time in ages she suffered herself to be spoonfed purees!

It was lovely to see Cathy, although it wasn't a very exciting visit for her. With Rosie in such a grump due to lack of sleep we ditched plans for an expedition to the Mazanares and stuck instead to more local parks, the Retiro, el Calero and los Molinos. There's far more shade there anyway.

living the high life - by Theo

Go to any city in Spain and high-rise, high-density living abounds. Our current apartment block is quite small, having only five floors - our first flat in Madrid (in Mendez Alvaro) was on floor 6 of 9. Naturally, therefore, the Spanish have evolved several unique adaptations for this.

The first concerns furniture removal. As many, if not most, of the stairwells and lifts of Madrid's older buildings are too narrow to accommodate large items of furniture, those who don't want to get a flat-pack from IKEA have to employ a specialist removals company. These guys raise up the wardrobe or double bed on a massive lift that resembles a fireman's ladder outside the building and in through the windows. Whenever I see one I always wish I had my camera on me.

Not everyone uses ladders though. Often when a job is too small to really need scaffolding you see workmen abseiling down the sides of buildings rather than trying to prop up a ladder in among all the washing lines festooning the walls.

Meanwhile, indoors, the residents of these high-rises make adaptions and alterations just like their ground-floor living neighbours. Having no garden in which to build a conservatory hasn't stopped them - they just build one (of sorts) by covering over the ubiquitous terrazas. A range of styles is available, as can be seen from our bedroom window. Our flat used to have two terrazas, but the back one has been converted into a kind of utility room/storage space, while the front one has been covered over to add an extra 6m2 or so to our living room. Which is a bit of a shame as it would have been nice to have had a little terrace of our own to sit out on during hot summer evenings - oh well, I guess we'll just have to go to a bar. Que pena!

Zonas Infantiles - by Theo

One of the many reasons why Madrid is such a great place to have kids is the sheer number of Zonas Infantiles there are in the city. They crop up everywhere, often (especially in the older parts of the city) in the most unexpected places, squeezed in random spaces, while out in the suburbs they have clearly been built into the town plan. Some are extremely inventive, making great use of local features (swings hanging from the underside of bridges, rope bridges between trees), while others are your more standard "swing and slide" types, though often with modern adaptations - a gently sloping climbing wall rather than a ladder, for example.

We quite like taking Rosie 10 minutes down the road on her tricycle to the Zona in the nearby Parque de Calero, where there are often other children for her to point at. Her level of interaction currently doesn't go much further than that.

However, the past few mornings I've been taking Rosie round the corner to the small Zona near our block. It's very basic - a swing, a slide and two wobbly things - and there's not usually anyone else there at 8.30am, but it's a good time to go, while it's still cool and before the sun hits the metal slide and turns it into a burn hazard. One of Rosie's favourite tricks is to walk up the slide, with assistance, and then come back down. Repeat ad nauseum. The slide was off limits this morning though as the overnight rain had left a big puddle in the lip at the bottom - when is somebody going to design a slide where this doesn't happen?


Anyway, Rosie was quite content sitting in the wobbly car for a while, before asking to get off and putting all the little bits I'd brought on it. Then she did a bit of playing in the dirt - another of her favourite things, stirring it with her hands before grabbing handfuls and watching how it runs through her fingers.

She's getting more confident walking outside now and at one point walked up to the swing and asked to be lifted up. She's never been keen before but I guess when it's on her terms she's happier. Although nothing pleases her more than pointing and cooing at little dogs, many of which passed by.

still sightseeing - by Theo

It's always great having friends to stay. Aside from the chance to catch up, it means we generally make the effort to get out and take advantage of this wonderful capital city we're living in - we may have been here for over 2 years now, but there are still sights we've yet to see. So, with our friends Sam and Stu taking advantage of the long weekend in the UK by paying us a flying visit, we thought we'd head over to the newly opened Manzanares park area in the west of the city.
With rain and thunderstorms forecast we decided to drive to allow for a speedy getaway and a place to dump the coats and umbrellas. Parking with surprising ease just below the cathedral, we walked past the Royal Palace and Plaza de España to one of Madrid's more unexpected monuments, the Templo de Debod. This 4th century BC Egyptian temple was given to the Spanish state in recognition of the role Spanish engineers had played in the construction of the Aswan dam (which flooded the original location of the temple). It's a rather bizarre moment, arriving at the top of the hill in the Parc del Oeste to see an Egyptian temple perfectly laid out with commanding views over the Casa del Campo.

We got Rosie out of her buggy for a walk about (with assistance), but she was more interested in climbing and descending the steps outside the Temple than actually going inside. Oh well. Meanwhile Stu kindly took what he described as the best photo of us that we'll ever see - we're inclined to agree.


Navigating our way down through the park past a rose garden, the Teleferico terminal (cable car), the school of ceramics and the railway line out of Principe Pio, we found our way to the tiny Ermita de San Antonio de Florida. Rather unassuming from the outside, this tiny building, which is next to an equally tiny and unassuming church, is decorated inside with some stunning frescoes painted by the Spanish master, Goya. There was a Spanish school party inside, but it didn't spoil our enjoyment. Well worth the trip.

By now it was getting on for two o'clock and I had to go back and move the car. Leaving the others in a promising-looking restaurant I hot-footed it up to the cathedral through the lovely Campo de Moro park, then drove back to temporarily abandon the car in some dodgy unofficial car park being supervised by two beer-swilling Romanians. Kate, Stu, Sam and Rosie had relocated to the terrace of the neighbouring bar, which was much more reasonably priced and we promptly stuffed ourselves (Rosie included, which was gratifying).

It now being Rosie's nap-time and the rain still not having materialised, a post-lunch riverside stroll was proposed and duly executed. Not much is made of Madrid's river, the Manzanares, which is often barely more than a stream in summer. However, it being springtime, the river was fairly full and flowing swiftly through a much trumpeted new riverside park.

We discovered a rather excellent rope walk play area, which gave us all a chance to release the inner child. The lack of shade offered by the young trees, meanwhile, led us boys to swiftly regret our choice of clothing and footwear (well, we'd thought it was going to rain) but it was still very pleasant to stroll in Madrid's newest green area, with its gorgeous views back up the hill to the palace and cathedral.

After a coffee back on the terrace we all piled into the car, tired and hot but well satisfied. The trip back to our flat gave us the excuse to take a short tour of the sights along Gran Via and Calle del Alcala, which was then followed by an evening of wine and cards and no rain! Que bien lo paso!

Wave Mum's knickers in the air like you just don't care By Kate

At the tender age of fourteen months, Rosie has already started taking an interest in clothes. Not in the aesthetic sense, but more as an interesting practical conundrum.

She's definitely forming the right ideas about her own clothes and which part of the body they generally belong to. Shoes are pulled meaningfully against her feet (although more commonly they are pulled off her feet at about the time Mum is ready to take her on a shopping trip or some other excursion); tights and leggings are wrapped haphazardly around her legs and Rosie's arms and head are enthusiastically, if somewhat vaguely inserted into vests and bodies.

Mummy's clothes, however, present an altogether different challenge. Anything with tie chords, for example, are fair game for some serious suction with attendant salivary application. As much as I adore my daughter, I must confess that doing up tie-front cardigans after Rosie's slobbery attentions isn't my idea of a fun parenting moment.

But when she's not practising her architecture or taking in Madrid's high culture, Rosie's other favourite pastime at the moment is to wear my knickers - freshly laundered, I hasten to add - after raiding my conveniently low-down lingerie drawer.

Typically, Rosie doesn't take the orthodox approach when it comes to donning Mummy's bloomers. Nope. Rather than using them as a modesty garment for her nether regions, Rosie much prefers to wear them over her head, as demonstrated below.I don't think fashion is going to be Rosie's strong point, somehow. Or at least, I hope not. Using cast-off knickers as accessories could be a great, if rather quirky money-saving approach to dressing up. Madonna in her Desperately Seeking Susan phase would probably have approved.

The Late Pass By Kate

The time: 20.15. The place: Madrid. The situation: I was on my way to a gig. I was going on A Night Out. This deserves capital letters because it was the first time I had ventured into the realm of night time entertainment beyond my own front door since Rosie was born more than fourteen months ago.

It wasn't the first opportunity I'd had, but it was the first I had taken up. Because of Rosie's unpredictable sleep patterns and her previous resistance to resettling without a breastfeed, I had always been too reluctant to be out of reach. Also, if I'm honest, there was probably an element of PFB (Precious First Born) there. I think most parents become more blase about leaving their offspring in the care of someone else as they produce more children. But I'm still inexperienced in these matters. Oh, and did I mention generally feeling too knackered to go on nights out?

But Rosie sleeps through more than she doesn't nowadays and Theo has become more adept at resettling her if she wakes up and I've become less neurotic about letting him, so time to step over the threshold and launch myself into the grown-up world of night-time leisure activities.
Except in Spain, it isn't a grown-up world - not until after midnight, anyway. As I walked to catch the Metro I observed numerous wide-awake babies and toddlers out socialising with their parents. By this time, Rosie had been asleep for nearly an hour. Brits like to get their children to bed early, Latinos don't worry about that so much. Their children either sleep later in the morning, sleep more during the day or learn to live with less sleep.

So I watched Anika perform their set at La Casa Encendida, beer in one hand, camera in the other. My friend Rasha was doing some session work with Anika and had kindly added me to the guest list. She had also added Theo, but he had elected to remain at home in charge of Rosie so I could have the late pass.I enjoyed the gig, but being reunited with Rasha was even better. She was an appreciative consumer of some of Madrid's main sights as we walked through Sol and Plaza Mayor on our way to the legendary Chocolateria San Gines, where we continued the business of catching up with each other's news over cups of thick chocolate accompanied by a pile of churros.

By Madrid standards, the evening was over very early. Rasha had had a late night followed by an early start so was more than happy to get some sleep and my body clock is used to being out for the count by eleven, so we were home and tucked up into our respective beds before 01.00.

Many Madrilenos would have only just been heading out the door to meet their friends at that point, but I'm a Brit and a mother of an intermittently-sleeping one year-old so feel I can claim light weightedness with no attendant sense of shame.

It was fun, though.

sunday sombras - by Theo

Rosie is a fab baby to take out and about to exhibitions, provided we time it right. In the past we've had a great time with her at the Caixa Forum, where she became delightfully engrossed by the Press Photography Exhibition, a selection of contemporary Turkish paintings and the usher's mustache (to be fair it was practically a work of art in its own right). However on another occasion I found myself weaving an odd circle through Atocha train station while trying to both admire the photographs in a MSF sponsored show and keep a steady pace so that Rosie would continue sleeping in her buggy.

Sunday's timing was spot on. After Rosie's morning nap we swiftly headed out, meeting our friend Anne at the Museo de la Ciudad near Avenida de America to see a (free) exhibit of Spanish photography between 1944 and 1954, entitled Sombras (shadows). Not actually a thematic link between the photographs, but rather the title of a photography publication extant in that period.

[Rosie trying to explain the finer points of metaphor in composition while I babble on inanely about the ickle-doggy.]

Popping Rosie in the sling, we toured the exhibit, my attention somewhat distracted by my charge - especially when she persuaded me to let her crawl about the marble floor, something she did with great gusto. She did show some interest in the exhibits, particularly those of dogs and children (a recurring theme with Rosie) but I can forgive her for not being all that grabbed by them. Given that the period in question was such a politically volatile time in Spanish history - the civil war still a recent painful memory and Franco unsure whether the victorious allies of WWII would choose to liberate Spain from the fascist yoke or not - there was little reflection of that in the arrangement of the exhibit. There could easily have been. Some of the most engrossing photographs were social portraits - of monks, of fishermen, of peasant farmers, young children fetching water or dressed up for a fiesta. Very little information was offered about either the photographers or their subjects, which was a shame as it would have taken very little to have invested a bit more life in the exhibition.

After a drink on a sun-drenched terrace, we treated ourselves and Rosie to pizza, which she gobbled down with enthusiasm before - timed to perfection - she nodded off for 40 minutes as I walked back to Pueblo Nuevo in the warm March sunshine, waking up just 5 minutes from our door.

Won one, lost one By Kate

We got lucky first time with Rosie. She was the result of one of the four in five pregnancies that ends with a baby. Second time round that luck took a holiday.

Instead of expecting a brother or sister for Rosie early in October as we had thought, we discovered from our first scan that we weren't expecting a baby at all. Our embryo had stopped developing at just over eight weeks and no heartbeat could be detected. A missed or "silent" miscarriage. The radiologist's mouth tightened into a line of regret. "Es un aborto," she said, "Lo siento."

We were stung by disappointment and slightly stunned, but took the bad news calmly. "Ah well," I said to Theo as I climbed off the scanning table, "That's that, then." It would explain why I had been experiencing so few pregnancy symptoms, especially during the last fortnight or so. Everything had come to a full stop.

When we got home, the tears came. Although I was already counting my blessings (better to lose a pregnancy early on; I know I can carry a healthy baby; I know I can get pregnant fairly easily; maybe a slightly bigger gap between children would be better; at least this takes the pressure off our return to the UK etc. etc....) it was still a sad loss and some grief was inevitable. Theo comforted me, as best he could. For him, the initial disappointment had rapidly changed into concern for my well-being. Cuddling Rosie helped me too.

But now we had to turn to the practicalities of the situation. Our radiologist had told me to go to hospital either today or tomorrow...but was vague about the details. A bit of research online told me most of what I needed to know and a friend who'd been through the same thing a few years before told me the rest. I would need a medical procedure called ERPC (Evacuation of the Remaining Products of Conception), once known as D&C (Dilation and Curettage). A straightforward operation performed under general anaesthetic. Bearing that in mind, we elected to go the following morning in the hope that I would be home that same evening.

Accordingly, we arrived at Urgencias Maternidad, Hospital La Paz at nine o'clock the next morning. Theo had taken the day off work so he could look after Rosie and support me as much as possible. We signed in and I was taken off to be scanned again. The staff were kind and friendly (a couple of the younger medics even attempting some reasonable English) and although none of them offered sympathy, they put me at my ease.

I had done the right thing by not eating any breakfast, although the news that I had had a few mouthfuls of water was greeted with some consternation. Eventually they judged I hadn't had enough for it to be a big problem. I was told to remove my clothes and jewelery, then put in a wheelchair and taken to a small ward for two on the fourth floor. It all felt strangely familiar as the room was identical to the one I had stayed in for five days after having Rosie. Except this one couldn't come close to the view we had had on the eleventh floor and the circumstances couldn't be more depressingly different.

Theo and Rosie came to give me a hug and bid me a temporary farewell, then I was joined by an older woman who was given the other bed as she waited to have a bladder operation. I smiled politely and did my best to keep up with her Spanish, using my own imperfect command of the language to explain why I was at La Paz. She nodded sympathetically and told me (I think) that she had also had a miscarriage. But she now had three healthy adult sons to her name, so not to worry. Although she suspected the miscarried baby would have turned out to be a girl and that made her feel sad. I nodded sympathetically in my turn.

A couple of nurses came in, gave me some forms to sign, then popped a couple of pessaries inside me to "soften things up" for the coming procedure. I was then left to relax in my bed and read.

An hour and a half later, it was time to go. My bed, with me in it, was wheeled down to the operating theatre. Outside it, I was asked the same succession of questions by five different people (No, I hadn't eaten since last night, Yes I'd drunk a little water this morning, but not much etc. etc.) Bafflingly, one junior anaesthetist asked me in broken English about the importance of the decision I had made. Confused, I replied, "Es un gestation interrumpido. Es un aborto. Este operacion es necesario, no?" He agreed it was. I think he had been under the impression that I was aborting a live fetus, for some reason.

The operation itself went without a hitch. The most painful part was having two needles inserted into the back of my left hand for the various drips, but the rest was plain sailing. The medical team helped me onto the operating table, stuck my legs in stirrups, tested my blood pressure, sluiced my nether regions with shockingly cold antiseptic then inserted a nozzle in my mouth...and I promptly passed out.

The next moment (probably about twenty minutes or so later) I came round trying to push this strange foreign object out of my mouth with my tongue. When I opened my eyes and saw various medics gazing down at me I remembered where I was. I felt amazingly refreshed and realized this was probably the first time I had slept really deeply since I had had Rosie, more than thirteen months earlier.

"What luxury," I said in Spanish, "Can I have some of that stuff to help me sleep at night?" They smiled and I was wheeled back to the ward, still attached to the drips, and was left to snooze off the effects of the anaesthetic for the next couple of hours.

Rosie and Theo returned to find me well-rested and reaching the exciting climax of my novel. It was then a matter of hanging around until a doctor could be persuaded to check me over and discharge me. Eventually one bustled in after Theo used the simple expedient of waving Rosie meaningfully at the nurse receptionist and saying the baby would need to go home for supper and bed very soon.

I was told I could breastfeed Rosie that evening provided I expressed the first lot of milk to get rid of any lingering anaesthesia. Then I was given an information sheet telling me what to expect over the next few weeks and what symptoms to look out for in the event of an infection. After that I was free to change back into my clothes and go. Which I did.

It was the next day that we discovered I hadn't only left the remains of an embryo behind me at Hospital La Paz. Unfortunately my wedding ring had slipped from the plastic folder where I had thought it would be safe and was most probably well buried among the hospital refuse by now.

I am very hopeful that a new wedding ring and a new pregnancy will both be forthcoming before too long. After all, you've got to try and be philosophical about these things sometimes.

it pays to recycle - by Theo

Just around the corner from our flat is a recycling place, a Chatarreria, which buys paper and metals. I remember noticing it when we first moved in. As we're practically religious when it comes to observing recycling, I figured we might make a few cents selling our paper recycling to them, though to be honest I've never even been over to inquire what they pay. We haven't needed money that badly to make the effort, and neither, to begin with, did it seem the general public did either. Occasionally during our first year here I might see an old lady turn up with a few carefully tied bundles of old newspapers on her wheelie trolley, but otherwise they seemed to get little by way of walk-in trade.

However over the past 6 months there seems to have been a different shift. The first time I spotted it was a quiet Sunday morning, I was on nap duty and I watched with quiet amazement as a young chap, maybe 24, pushed a shopping trolley up to the paper recycling bank, push his arm in and grab out great wodges of magazines to fill up his trolley. Now I know that, thanks largely to Chinese demand for raw materials, the market value of scrap metal has shot up massively over the last few years (and indeed I have seen people rolling up to the Chatarreria with trolleys of metal pulled from skips) but I didn't realise there was much value in second hand paper. Clearly, however much they get for it, it's worth it. Whether it's just because I've been looking for it or people genuinely are on the paper hunt more than before, but I now see them everywhere. The paper hunters range from solo operators, pushing trolleys of various descriptions around the street, raiding the big, public recycling bins, to van loads, who drive around working in teams.

Well, in times of crisis I guess any bit of paper can serve for cash.

the birds and the.... er... - by Theo

One of my favourite walking routes for Rosie's morning nap is the park of Los Molinos, about 10/15 minutes stride away on the posher side of Arturo Soria. A lovely landscaped park that was once the property of a noted local architect, Rosie and I have become such a regular feature there that I'm now on "buenas dias" terms with several of the dog walkers there - one even apparently knows if he's running late if we're leaving as he arrives!
Over the past couple of weeks the park has become increasingly beautiful as the blossom has made an appearance, and with it the photographers. Several of the walks are completed surrounded by fruit and nut trees in full flower, and the scent is delightful.


So, as temperatures hovered in the early twenties last weekend I suggested to Kate that we head to the park before Rosie's naptime to give our now confidently crawling little girl a chance to try out her skills on grass. She was less than impressed - occasionally putting out a hand as if to test the water before quickly withdrawing it at the strange texture. She was quite taken by some falling blossom, stroking the petals gently, but generally she was, as ever, far more taken with her shoe.
Still, it was a lovely afternoon, fresh but warm in the sun with birdsong and the heavy smell of nectar all around. It was only as we left that I realised what was missing. In all my visits to Los Molinos I have yet to see a bee or, for that matter, a pollinator of any kind. Sad to think that all that beautiful blossom may never bear fruit.

2 years - by Theo

I didn't notice it at the time, but the second anniversary of our arrival in Madrid passed by recently, on January 5th. We only really intended to stay 6 months, as part of a more static continuation of our honeymoon travels; I was going to join the Diplomatic Corps and we were going to head back to the UK the following summer. This obviously never happened: I made it through to the last round but then fell at the final hurdle for not being diplomatic enough. Those that knew me well graciously pretended to be shocked.


It doesn't seem like we've been here two years ; in some ways it feels like we've been here hardly any time at all, in others like we've always lived here. After all it's the only home Rosie, fast approaching her 1st birthday, has known. Also, switching jobs and flats after 7 months was the equivalent of hitting F5/refresh and added a new sense of ...ummmm.... newness to our stay here. But a stay is all it is; as much as we like Madrid, and despite the good friends we've made here, it's not a permanent home for us. Without wanting to jinx anything, plans are afoot to move back to Bristol.
We'll have to change the blog's name.
Again.

old haunts and old friends - by Theo

One of the very first restaurants we went to when we arrived in Madrid was an excellent Indian restaurant on Calle de Echegaray, in central Madrid, when I met for the first time some old friends of Kate's, the Frosts. Now, nearly two years later, with both families being one more in number, we met up again for a delicious, if late, Sunday curry. We even sat at the same table!

Ian Frost, the patriarch of the clan, went to school with Kate's dad - that's how far back the connection goes, and his and Jill's daughter Kirsty lives here in Madrid, along with her husband Juanmi and, now, baby Emily, who is 6 months older than Rosie. Sadly Emily wasn't feeling too well, but we (Kate, Rosie and I) had a lovely time nonetheless, with Rosie delicately munching on a poppadom. Funny to think how much has changed for both families since we last met there, and how much better we all know each other.

The following day, Monday, we were back in the same area, although one street over, at the delicious Artimesa on Calle de Ventura de la Vega. One of the first veggie restaurants we'd found in Madrid, we hadn't been for ages but picked it as the spot to meet up with Clara Molden, an old University friend of mine, and her friend Nat, both former Madrid residents here for a long weekend. Clara was always an amazing photographer, with her pictures regularly featuring in various Magazines I was involved with back in Bristol, but I hadn't seen her for sometime - she now lives in London and works for a picture agency, her photos now gracing the front-covers of British broadsheets. It was lovely to see her again, reminisce and hear about her work; what she's achieved at such a young age, in a very competitive and male world is incredibly impressive. She's been on 4 week long hostile environment training, photographed numerous stars and occasionally taken the odd, mundane shoot as well! How ironic then that none of thought to take any photos!

The Pub Quiz Ringer - by Theo

Last Tuesday I got an email from my old student, Javi, inviting me to a pub quiz that Thursday night. I hadn't seen Javi for a while so I accepted; the last time we'd been to a pub quiz together it had been organised by the first school I worked at here in Madrid, Cambridge House, and we'd done rather well, coming second and winning €100 in the process. However, money wasn't the motivation; it would be nice to get out for a change. I also decided to invite my friend Jon (who knows Javi) along as well.

So Jon and I turned up at O'Neils in Calle Principe - as you might guess from the name, it's an Irish pub - to find that, as I suspected, it was yet again the Cambridge House pub quiz. I said hello to my former boss and some old colleagues, then found Javi. Most of the teams there seemed to consist of Cambridge House teachers and their students, with the odd boyfriend/girlfriend thrown in. Not Javi's. He was the only Cambridge House student in the team. The others, Paulo, Pablo and Angel, were Spanish friends of his, plus Pablo's American girlfriend Kasey and a German intern, Karl, who worked with Angel. We then co-opted a Cambridge House teacher, Alanna, as the rules stipulated we had to have a CH teacher on our team, and her US housemate Ryan, and christened ourselves "The Magicians".

It soon became apparent that our team existed for one reason only - Javi's desire to win! We were pretty much all ringers. I was there for the geography and history round (8 out of 8, I thank you) while Angel and Karl ruled the entertainment round, Jon contributed some humdingers to the general knowledge, with pretty much everyone else pitching in at least twice. By the time the final round, music, came we were five ahead of our nearest competitors, guaranteed a podium finish and needing only 6 out of ten to secure first. In the end we only managed 5 (there were some terrible and very modern choices) but it was more than enough - the €150 first prize was ours!

After we split it 10 ways it just about paid for my three pints of Guiness!

damn...forgot the camera! - by Theo

We keep forgetting the camera, which is unlike us, and rather annoying as there have been a fair few photos ops of worth lately.
First of all we had a lovely afternoon over at Bianca and Ollie's (Stephane was away) on Tuesday. It was yet another public holiday, and Kate had volunteered my chefing services to Rosie's pal Ollie's Mum. Ollie's got a nice big carpet to roll/sky dive on, as well as plenty of toys, and they were both quite chuffed to see each other, which was very sweet. Bianca grabbed a few shots, but we were sadly sans camera.
The next occasion was just pure forgetfulness on our part, as we were at home when one of Kate's former employers Brigid popped round for lunch. Originally from Liverpool Brigid is great company, but as she's such an international jet-setter, dividing her time between Madrid and Amsterdam, we rarely get to see her, which is why it was doubly a shame that we neglected to get a photo of her with Rosie.
Clearly we had not yet learned our lesson as we again forgot to take the camera with us yesterday when we ventured out for a walk in the old Royal hunting grounds and former civil war battlefield, the Casa del Campo. Our friends Rebecca and Fermin had invited us for a delicious veggie lunch at their posh new pad in Aluche and suggested a pre-lunch constitutional in the park beforehand. A marvelous idea and sadly one that will have to make do with with this blog by way of documentation.

Aranjuez - by Theo

A hour south of Madrid, surrounded by arid plains, lies the royal retreat of Aranjuez. It was here, among the fields of asparagus and strawberries on the banks of the river Tajo, that the Bourbon monarchs built their Spring residence in imitation of Versailles. So, while it wasn't the season to taste the produce Aranjuez is famous for, we decided to use the visit of my parents as a reason to take the car for a run and get out of the city for a day.After coffee and croissants on a cafe terraza (much to the surprise of the waitress "pero, que frio, no?") we strolled first in the beautiful and huge Jardines del Principe, the trees looking gorgeous in their autumn colours, admiring fountains and follies while Rosie snoozed in the pram. We chanced the menu in El Rana Verde (the green frog) where we managed to find enough veggie options for Kate and I. My parents weren't up for trying the house specialty - frog's legs - sticking with the relatively safe option of steak.Much fun was had during desert by offering Rosie, who had chowed down her puree and yoghurt, a slice of lemon. She masticated away enthusiastically, before pulling a priceless face, then going back for more. Learning takes a while.

More parks followed to walk off lunch, this time in the Jardin de la Isla, an artificial island behind the Royal palace, created by building a weir on the Tajo and diverting a channel. Rosie got a ride in the sling to enjoy a better view of the galleries, aviaries and fountains. A beautiful walk on what had become a warm and sunny autumn day.

Time was getting on and Rosie needed her next nap (in the car this time), so we never actually made it inside the palace. A good excuse for a second visit, then.