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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Knives out - by Theo

Every week or so, this strange whistle rings out around the streets. It's a simple scale, descending and ascending, with a metallic tone. The other week we witnessed both the source and the rationale - a man on moped with a knife-sharpening wheels fixed on the back, the whistle intended to summon, Pied Piper-like, wives with their knives from the surrounding buildings.


It's a wonderfully idiosyncratic niche that he fills in the barrio's social and economic life and, while we've got a perfectly good knife-sharpener in our kitchen, it always brings a smile to our faces to know little trades and traditions still continue in this otherwise ultra-modern capital.

and so it goes...

When we first moved in to our new barrio, back in October, the council were carrying out extensive road works on nearby Jose del Hierro. Well, pavement works would be more accurate. The seemed to be re-jigging the parking spaces, putting in ramps for prams and a cycle path. Anyway, having spent about two months avoiding bollards, JCBs and the dust from stone cutters we were pretty pleased when the works finally came to an end and we could walk the streets more or less unimpeded. The results looked good too.

Then on Tuesday another bunch of council workers moved in and ripped up the newly laid pavement, just a week old, in order to re-lay some pipework underneath.

a post about the weather

Madrid´s weather is consistently consistent. It´s not that it´s always perfect - though it usually is - but rather the great thing about the weather here is that it lasts all day. So if you wake up and it´s bright sunshine and clear skies, you know it´s going to stay that way and you can leave the house in just shirt sleeves without risking a drenching later. Similar, if it starts off windy and rainy, it´s going to stay that way - you wont end up sweating as you lug a jacket and jumper around when the sun comes out. When it rains, it rains all day.

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!

Fashionably misspelt

It's pretty popular here in Spain to use English in fashion and advertising; I guess the marketteers think it adds a certain je ne sais quoi to their brands. However the copywriters regularly get it wrong; the other day on the Metro I was amused by a trendy T-shirt which posed the question "Optimist or Pessimist: is the glass hall-full or half-vacuum?"

At least with that one you knew what they meant. However there's a new bus stop advert near our flat for sunglasses with the tag-line "A Point of You". I've no idea whether they wanted to say 'a part of you' or 'a point of view'. Either way, they are both pretty crap tag-lines.

On Spaniards

Why do so many Brits come and settle in Spain? The main reasons appear to be the glorious weather and the relative cheapness of property and a lowish cost of living - at least, most retirees, who've chosen to live out their days on the Costa del Sol, would probably acknowledge those factors as high on their priority list.

But I feel many of the ex-pat Brits living on the costas often miss out on one of the best things about Spain. With their famous reluctance to learn the language beyond the ability to order lunch and tendency to to prefer all (or mostly) British enclaves when it comes to socialising, they're missing the opportunity to have fun with the Spaniards.

For, based on the Spaniards we've got to know, Spaniards LOVE to have fun and are very good at it. Spanish people are not as smiley and instantaneously friendly as people from, say, Slovenia or parts of Italy. But even the smallest effort at a friendly overture will usually pay high dividends. We've found Spanish people to be warm and inclusive and very generous in their friendship.

In our experience - confirmed by other extranjeros - Spanish people are enthusiastic socialisers and communicators and that's what makes them such fun students when it comes to teaching them English. Despite their well-publicised "sentido de ridiculo" (stupid feeling), which can make them reluctant to try out their English for fear of sounding silly (not something I've particularly noticed, I have to say), they are generally a delight to teach. Their warm sense of humour and exuberant nature turns many an English lesson into a good old chin-wag with loads of laughs thrown in. Whether any English is actually learned is another matter.

It's the little differences (part 2)

No es solo en los cines de Paris que se puede poner una cerveza - en Madrid tambien. I don't think Vincent Vega made it South of the Pyrennes though, so we never knew until this evening when we went to watch the excellent Slumdog Millionaire with our lovely friend Jero. Otherwise Spanish cinemas seem to be much the same as English ones, except they still have allocated seating and the excellent innovation of toilets at the back of the theatres - so you don't have to stagger out into the foyer if you need to pee and then realise you've left your ticket stub in your jacket pocket (which is under your seat). Also the Spanish audience didn't explode from their seats the moment the credits started rolling but actually stayed to watch a good section of them before making a move. Whether this was because this is the way Spanish audiences behave or because the credits for Slumdog where quite entertaining I'm not sure.

The film itself was excellent - none of us were expecting it to be quite so tragic and gritty - I don't know why but I'd imagined it was going to be a comedy. Perhaps I'd been misled by all the "feel good" labels. We watched it in V.O. - version original - so no dodgy dubbing, though we had to read the Spanish subtitles for those moments when they were speaking in was I assume was Urdu (well the main characters were Muslim) but could well have been Hindi or some other language. It's a excellent film - one minor quibble is it would have been nice if Latika's character had been more developed rather than just being the Holy Grail of Jamal's quest - and, as if it needed further recommendation after its Oscar success, we suggest you try to see it.

A word from our sponsors....

Ad breaks on Spanish TV are weird.

Having a film or sports match interrupted by advertisements is annoying enough in the UK, but at least the channels there try to wait for a lull in the action or storyline before cutting to commercials, while many made-for-TV programmes actually build in the edit points with an ad break in mind. In Spain, however, not only are the ad breaks seemingly interminable (at least 10 minutes long) but they just interrupt at the most random points. Last night we were watching a film only for a key emotional moment to be interrupted by adverts. When the (at least twice as loud as the film) ad break finally finished it turned out there was only about 30 seconds of the film left to run - I was in the kitchen doing the washing up so missed it entirely. What was the point of an ad break then? On other occasions, the built in credits and re-caps designed to fit around a commercial break on imported American series are ignored, only for ads for cold sore creams to interrupt a key car chase.

I can only assume that it's all a ploy by the Spanish government to encourage people to leave their homes and spend money by completely frustrating their every effort to watch Television. Or, in a more mundane explanation, ad breaks are simply pre-programmed to come on at a specific time, regardless of what is happening in the programme. I prefer the first explanation myself.

The Customer Is Never Right

After hearing of our experience in the Movistar shop trying to recharge our phone, our friend Cesar said, "One thing you will learn in Spain - when it comes to shopping, the customer is never right."

I wouldn't describe Spanish retail assistants as rude exactly - indeed, compared with, say, Russian retail assistants, they're sweetness and light. But you do get the distinct impression with most that their attitude towards customers is at best, tolerant and at worst, disinterested.

The sales assistant Jorge flagged down when I was trying to buy my A-Z was a case in point. She made no attempt to disguise the fact that she had much better things to do than serve us and could scarcely contain her disgust when she realised the sale that required so much effort on her part only came to six Euros. Jorge and I both saw the funny side.

Theo, however, is more easily traumatised by unhelpful shop assistants and baffling retail systems. Shopping is a necessary evil, as far as he's concerned and large department stores can give him noticeable allergic reactions. This morning we had all the fun of returning a faulty item to just such a store - and boy, does it add to the fun when you can't speak or understand the language!

In my experience of large stores in the UK (M&S, Ikea, TK Maxx) if you want to return something, you take it up to their customer services counter, queue for a bit then have the exchange or refund dealt with then and there.

Part one of that process is the same at Hipercor in Madrid - Theo explained that the new computer speakers we'd bought the day before weren't working and the assistant dutifully fillled out a piece of paper and gave it to him.

At that point it all got rather hazy. Now what? If the assistant had indeed explained to Theo what he had to do next, he hadn't understood and when I found him (I'd gone to a different department to buy some contact lens solution) he was wandering around, gingerly holding the piece of paper between finger and thumb and looking bemused.

The paper itself contained no obvious clues, so we went down to another customer services desk and brandished it at the woman there, wearing pleading expressions. As it happened, we had found one of those rare creatures in Spanish retail, a kind assistant and when it was clear that her patient explanations had left us none the wiser, she actually smiled and told us to follow her.

Our customer services lady took us back up the ramp to the electronics department, all the time telling us reassuringly how difficult it was for people without much Spanish to understand the way things worked (ironically, both Theo and I understood perfectly what she was saying at that point). She then led us to another sales assistant, explained our situation and making sure we had finally got the hang of things, bid us farewell and left us to it. The rest was a breeze. The money was refunded to our credit card and we were free to go and find a replacement set of speakers.

As we walked back to the flat, Theo confessed that he felt rather dispirited by the whole episode. "But at least we managed it in the end!" I said, encouragingly.

I know what he means though. The frustration of not even having the simplest language at your fingertips to deal with a largely straightforward situation does make you realise what a long way there is to go with your linguistic prowess. But let's be realistic, we've only actually been here for four days. Meanwhile, we are more motivated than ever to learn the language and more thankful than ever that we moved to Spain and not Japan. At least we've got an alphabet in common.

observations of Portugal (and Spain)

The Spanish label their railways, so when you drive over a railway line it says which line it is, much in the same way that rivers in the UK (and elsewhere) are labeled. Whether this is for the benefit of lost travelers or train spotters isn't clear. But it´s probably comforting to know that the train passing beneath you is the 10.45 to Madrid. If you're a train spotter, well that knowledge is clearly invaluable.

The Portuguese have lots of rocks. They are everywhere. You wouldn't think they'd need to bother quarrying for stone seeing as it seems to be pretty much the only crop in some of the fields, but there are loads of quarries anyway.

Whoever decides where to put road signs in Portugal seems to take great delight in misleading would be picnickers, as there were a plethora of "picnic-table-under-shady-tree" signs on the way to Porto that lead instead to baking hot service station car parks.

After a schlepp of a drive yesterday, powering (ahem) Sheena up the highest mountain range in Portugal, we are now in the lovely city of Porto. Portugal's second city reminds me equally of Newcastle and Zanzibar, in the way that high, beautiful bridges span the Douro river between castles and cathedrals, while the old town is full of cramped, tiled, slightly decrepid, but nonetheless attractive buildings. There's a heat haze over the city, but with the breeze from the Atlantic it's cool and pleasant. The lower bank - a separate city called Gaia (more parallels with Tyneside) - is full of Port distillers and wholesalers, their signs dominating the bank. We'll probably head there after we've finished rinsing the various wireless networks we've managed to find while Kate samples the best coffee in Europe.

Later note from Kate:



We certainly did sample the the local tipple shortly afterwards. We deliberately chose the Ferreira tour and degustation because of its strong Portugese connections and spent an enjoyable hour in the company of a couple (Argentinian and Brazilian respectively, but currently resident in the UK so with very good English) being taught all about Port wine by the guide, then an even more enjoyable time sampling the different types and vintages, with the conversation becoming more convivial and extravagent with every sip. By the end of it all, we were firm friends with Cecile and Guillermo, so went and enjoyed some "pingos" together (glorious shots of wonderfully smooth-roasted espresso coffee with a drop of milk...Theo had hot chocolate) at a cafe back in Porto itself before parting company with fond regards all round. We then came upon an uproarous student graduation parade, which put the English graduation tradition of hats in the air to shame. Ah, this is indeed a fine city. And that's not just the Port talking.