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.

Swimming and so longs Part 1 - by Theo

The first of our three bathing and bidding farewell dates saw us gatecrashing a lunch party at Kirsty's down in Rivas. Kirsty had invited round some friends and their children from the Sticky Fingers playgroup, some of whom we knew, for a roast chicken lunch (hence, why we hadn't originally been invited). I was pretty impressed with Kirsty pulling this off seeing as she's 6 months pregnant, the mother of a toddler and her husband was away in Almeria! Kudos! So, with 5 babies and toddlers napping, and a newborn mewing in her mum's arms (Kate kindly took over so the mum could eat) we added ourselves to the merry chaos. Well we had to - we had to return her play ring that we'd borrowed, as we'd forgotten it last time we'd visited.

We forgot it this time too, so I spe... drove in a sensible fashion back home to get it while Rosie had her afternoon nap. Doh!Kate and I both enjoyed a swim in Kirsty's pool, though Rosie was not keen in either the main pool nor the paddling pool, preferring instead to attempt to build the world's largest ball collection (her current obsession) and hang around in the sitting room.

It was a lovely day and we're really going to miss Kirsty and Juanmi when we get back; it's a real shame we won't be around to greet their second child or see Emily Grace grow up, nor the general relaxed, laid-back attitude towards children that seems to prevail here in Spain.

Not that the hispanic love of children rubs off on everyone. As we lazed in the pool one of the other mothers present mused wistfully about how great it would be to have a swimming pool. "Well" I said, "most of the new build apartment blocks have a communal one and they aren't that pricey." "Oh god no!" replied the mum of two "then I'd have to share it with other people's children! Horrible!"

Background check - by Theo

As has often been observed, Spain is different, and as I have previously observed, nowhere more so than in their attitudes towards Child Protection.

In the UK if you want to work, or even volunteer, in any capacity that will bring you into contact with children or vulnerable adults, you need to pass a Criminal Records Background (CRB) check and in all likelihood have some kind of Child Protection training. Since coming to Spain I've worked in two different schools teaching classes of children and two residential summer camps for children and I've not once received any kind of specialist training nor been asked about my eligibility to work with children. Whenever I've brought up the point, such as at the first summer camp or with my boss at school, I've been told there is no equivalent to the CRB check in Spain.

Except there is. As I'm going to do a PGCE in September I have obviously had to complete a CRB check but of course this is not valid for the time I have been in Spain. Thus I was asked to provide a 'Certificate of Good Conduct', without any kind of instruction as to how to get it or what form it might come in. The CRB themselves were no help (Them: "Have you tried calling the Spanish Embassy?" Me: "I'm in Spain now." Them: "Oh.") and the University couldn't be specific as to what they required. I had a vague notion of a confusing conversation at a police station trying to get a bemused duty officer to sign a letter saying I'd committed no crime. However when I asked my lawyer friend Juan about it he said "Oh, I need one of those to. It's called a Certificado de Antecedentes Penales. You really don't need to speak Spanish to work out what that means. All of which begs the question as to why I'd never been asked for one before (to be fair to my boss he immediately showed an interest once I informed him that they do in fact exist).

So I braced myself for what I imagined would be another battle with Spanish bureaucracy, but actually it turned out to be a hell of a lot easier than in the UK. For starters the form was only one page long, with no endless lists of prior addresses that give serial movers like me writer's cramp. Secondly, there's no pre-ordering of an assigned form (that you have to re-order if you mess up); you can just download it and print it from the internet. Thirdly you can do the form yourself; no need to run it through another organisation and have an approved person counter sign it. Finally, it's a hell of a lot cheaper. As with many forms here in Spain you have to take the form to a bank and pay the taza, or administrative charge, before you hand the form in. After one false start (neither I nor the cashier knew how much I had to pay) this was easily achieved for the measly sum of €3.54; compare that to £44 for an enhanced disclosure in the UK.

Having done this I toddled off to the Ministerio de Justicia in Plaza San Jacinto, just round the corner from Plaza de Sol (meaning I finally got to check out the protest camp - or what's left of it) to file the form. With book and ipod in hand I went through security, grabbed a number and settled down for what I assumed would be a long wait. 15 minutes later I was out the door, somewhat surprised, with a signed and stamped certificate proclaiming my innocence. (Again, compare that to the four week wait in the UK).

So on balance I'd say, like the U21 football, England 1:1 Spain. If only the Spanish efficiency could somehow infiltrate the English thoroughness, and vice versa, we'd be onto a winner.

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.

The Invisible Baby By Kate

I've mentioned before that one of the really endearing things about Spain and the people who live here is how ready they are to lavish admiration on children. Babies especially get a lot of attention and Rosie, with her intensely blue eyes and tied-to-Mummy-or-Daddy mode of transport, is already a big favourite in our barrio. All the staff in the local supermarket and at least one of the neighbourhood cafes know her by name. Shopkeepers wave at her through their windows as we pass by. People continually stop me and ask after her or do the Spanish version of "coochie coochie coo" to her directly. I continually hear people saying "Que cosita!" ("What a tiny thing!") to each other when they catch sight of her.

To be honest, it's like being out and about with a diminutive celebrity. Rosie, of course, accepts all this adoration with equanimity - most of the time she doesn't even deign to so much as notice her many fans. A more persistent admirer might be rewarded with a smile, but mostly Rosie retains her air of blissful ignorance at the sensation she causes as she and I walk down the street.

As a Stay At Home Mum, this attention, although occasionally a little disconcerting (well, I am British, after all) is mostly very welcome, as days could otherwise pass without me exchanging words with anyone apart from Theo (or coos and gurgles with Rosie). Humans are naturally social animals and anyway, it's always good to have an opportunity to try out my bad Spanish.

So when we were back in the UK last weekend for Theo's sister's wedding, the change couldn't be more pronounced. Oh yes, the state visits to Mrs Berry's Nursery and the HRH wedding caused a definite stir among the friends and relatives assembled, to be sure. No, it was the stroll around Cirencester where the difference between Brits and Hispanics was most conspicuous.

It took me a moment or two to work out why it felt so strange walking down Cirencester's main street compared with our barrio in Madrid (it was even hot and sunny that day). Then I realised. It was as if the purple-wrapped bump tied to my chest with the little curious face sticking out simply didn't exist. It wasn't that people glanced at her then glanced away without comment. They just didn't see her at all.
I was starting to wonder if I was imagining Rosie's presence myself - of perhaps we had inadvertently crossed over into a parallel dimension. But no, eventually a mother of a toddler did say: "Look at the baby." I smiled at her in relief. My maternal vanity doesn't require copious amounts of adoration for Rosie, but I thought the motto in England was "Children Are Seen And Not Heard" - but Rosie might have been invisible, for all the passers-by noticed. I bet if I'd had a dog on a lead we would have invited more attention. Rosie, on the other hand, didn't seem overly bothered - although she got a bit fussy towards the end of the walk. I wonder if she's as impervious to all the adoration as she makes out.

Cute baby - now tell me about your breasts... By Kate

Open appreciation of the tiny cuteness of our little daughter from total strangers - who even stop you in the street to marvel at her - is something we're rapidly getting used to here. It's very touching. And at times a tad embarrassing. The only time I've ever seen Theo experiencing acute discomfort at being the centre of attention was when we were in the supermarket with Rosie cuddled up to her daddy's chest in the sling. Suddenly he was surrounded by rapturous women and children all fascinated by Rosie's sleeping face peeking out at them. Momentarily, we were a phenomenon.

There are also certain questions that I am now well primed to answer. After the cries of "Que chicatita!" etc. this is how it goes:
1. How old is she?
2. What is her name?
3. Are you breast feeding?

Numbers 1. and 2. are probably fairly universal and I would expect to be asked the same thing by people I had only just met in the UK. Number 3, probably not. But here it seems to be a perfectly legit follow up to the first two. On our way back from a medical appointment the other day, Theo (with Rosie in the sling) and myself found ourselves flanked on the metro by (in his case) an old gentleman and (in my case) and genial middle-aged black woman. Both asked the breast feeding question and both then launched into a lively examination of the subject, including their own experiences relating to it and questions about how we were doing.

In fact breast feeding seems to have become the number one parenting issue when it comes to babies nowadays. This is the current trend - back in the seventies it was all about potty training. Not surprising really, seeing that in the last thirty years bottle feeding had virtually become the norm until a determined campaign that "breast is best" raised awareness of the eminent suitability of mother's milk to give an infant the best start in life. Well, I agree that it's the best thing, but there's no doubt, the zealousness of the campaign can lead to unbearable pressure on new mothers, especially those who don't find breast-feeding easy, for any one of a number of reasons.

My own experiences of breastfeeding have given me first hand realisation of how emotionally draining and exhausting it can be. I noted the ease by which my sister breastfed all four of her children and while I didn't assume breastfeeding would be problem-free for me, I didn't actually prepare myself for that possibility. So when my baby wasn't interested in taking my milk direct from me I was distraught. It felt like a personal rejection. Exhausted and hormonal, I cried my eyes out when my repeated efforts to put Rosie to the breast (without the intermediary of silicone nipple shields) were in vain.

In the end, that cheapest and most convenient of infant feeding modes proved to be anything but for us. We spent hundreds of euros on equipment, including bottles, steriliser, pumps and lactation aids. My initial feeding regime involved patient attempts to coax Rosie onto the breast (which would take more than an hour and a half sometimes) in order to get some milk from me, plus supplementation from bottles and (later) a tube feeder, then another half hour or so spent expressing to keep up my supply and to provide breast milk for the top-ups. This was part of a 24-hour two-and-a-half hourly feeding regime - so very little time for me to do anything in between. Thankfully, Theo took care of everything else we needed, so I could devote myself 100 per cent to feeding Rosie.

Well, after a few weeks of this, I am pleased to report that it worked. One by one, the various pieces of equipment have been stashed away and now Rosie breastfeeds as if she had never done anything else. I am relieved and pleased that we have got to this point, but I wonder how I would manage if I had this situation with a second child, for example. The luxury of a "babymoon" - taking to bed with the baby and doing almost nothing except feed - would no longer be possible, for example. No wonder so many women give up and start giving their babies bottles of formula. It's definitely the easier option. If I have ever passed judgement on mothers giving their babies bottles of formula, then I publically apologise. Breastfeeding - if you are unlucky - can be fraught with complications and that's the last thing you need when recovering from giving birth and doing your level best to nurture your newborn. But I am chuffed that I can answer "yes" when people in Spain I have never met before ask me the question.

La Matrona by Kate

I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive about meeting a Spanish midwife for the first time, having heard and read mixed reports about them. The rest of the medical profession I've encountered since lowering myself into uncertain waters of the pre-natal system in Madrid have tended to be brisk, brusque and professional and not exactly brimming over with what you might describe as bedside manner.

So Maite was a pleasant surprise. Brisk and professional, yes. And undeniably, a tad brusque at times (she castigated Theo and me for not being better at speaking and understanding Spanish by now - everyone else we meet has been highly complementary on our emerging linguistic abilities). But - and it's an important but - she has a sense of humour. Plus she wasn't afraid to speak a bit of English to us, which was very endearing as we floundered about trying to find the right words to ask for information on the hitherto more obscure aspects of giving birth in Madrid.

Best of all, she made it clear she was very much in favour of natural, active birth - she told me sternly it would require a lot of preparation and isn't for the faint-hearted, but seemed satisfied when I assured her I was already doing the yoga and relaxation practice to get ready. When we asked about ante natal classes (called pre-natal classes here) she shrugged and said she wasn't sure how useful I would find them as she would be speaking Spanish very quickly and I probably wouldn't understand anything. But she seemed willing to let me give them a try, although Theo was disappointed to learn that most of the classes aren't open to husbands and partners.

The other thing she told us, which was also reassuring, was that Hospital La Paz - our assigned hospital - has a policy of minimal medical intervention during the birth process and suggested that all being well, I should be able to try my hand at doing it naturally without major unwanted interference from the obstetrics team. A far cry from the days when Giles Tremlett's wife gave birth in the same hospital, as recounted in his excellent book, Ghosts of Spain. That book was responsible for grave doubts on my part about the business of having a child in a Spanish public hospital. Still, assuming that Maite is right, we'll go ahead and take the La Paz option, keeping fingers crossed that all will be as she says it should.