Showing posts with label Spain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Spain. Show all posts

Wednesday, 13 May 2020

Covid-19 Diaries - Phase 1 - Ten People Walk into a Bar (No Joke)


The Balearic Islands was promoted to phase one on Monday. Phase one of Spain's four step plan to return to normality, that is.  

What does it mean? What can we do?

Confusion reigned for a while as we tried to work it out.

I think I've got the main points sorted:

We can meet ten people at a bar at any time of day.

By bar, I mean bar TERRACE which can only be used at 50% capacity.

We can meet ten people at a bar but we can't sit on the beach.

We can meet ten people at a bar at any time of day but we can only exercise at certain hours of the day. (Adults 06.00 t0 10.00 and 20.00 to 23.00).

We can also meet these ten people in a house. Any house. (I think.)

In non-bar news: Shops under 400sqm can open and customers should make an appointment. 

Mask are compulsory on public transport.

Back to the bar news: Meeting ten people in a bar isn't compulsory but recommended to help kickstart the economy. 

Those who find themselves in a bar should celebrate having understood the regulations of phase one.

I'm embarrassed to say I have not met anyone at a bar yet and have yet to help the local economy.

Instead I did something I had been daydreaming about doing once lockdown relaxed: 

A PICNIC IN THE MOUNTAIN!



We were four adults and two toddlers. There was no one else about.

After being so excited about the prospect of going 'uppamantin' our toddler seemed grumpy. When we paused to set her down on the ground she tried to walk off the side of the mountain, pointing and shouting, 'Aguita!' at the sea view. Clearly she would have preferred the beach. To be fair, it was bloody hot.  

She cheered up later and the two little friends rekindled their friendship. They explored barefoot, showed each other snails and swung on hammocks rigged at different levels from two trees.

Meanwhile the adults caught up over wine - why only one bottle? - and ate shredded chicken and homemade bread and hummus and carrot sticks.

Oh, I felt pleased that the bars of Mallorca were making so many people happy that day, but at Phase One, the mountain was the only kind of bar for me.  

Don't worry. There's still time to help the local economy.  *Cheers!* 


___


Escape this brave new world with some brand new fiction.  My new novel Tipping Point is out now!











Tuesday, 8 November 2016

A City Break: Things to Do in Madrid...


A while ago my lucky husband won some travel vouchers. Last month, realizing they were about to expire, we booked a trip to Madrid.  I had been once before as a teenager but my memory of it was hazy. 

We stayed at the handy central location  of Principe Pio, in an ancient hotel with green walls and bathroom tiles so old fashioned they had gone full circle and become stylishly vintage. 

We didn't spend much time in our hotel room and were locked out of it completely on day three because the booking agency had made a mistake and only booked two nights! 

Some heavy rain was the only other setback but I solved the crisis of wet feet (I had holes in my shoes!) by buying some very sparkly trainers. We wore rain ponchos after that and waved maps around in case there was any one left who hadn't realized we were tourists. 

Madrid overflows with culture. We began with an essential visit to El Prado and opted for the €4 audio guide to educate us on the masterpieces by Goya, Velazquez, El Greco and a gazillion others. I hope to come out with something knowledgeable at a dinner party one day, although right now I can't think of one fun fact! 

Erm... did you know that Goya painted his nightmarish Black Paintings directly on the wall of his house? ... I hope the rest of his decor was more cheerful. Oh dear, that's all I've got. Never mind. 

Getting Cultured at El Prado

Drunk on Art, we hopped on a tourist bus to get a sense of the city. I love a tourist bus although I think the audio guide could have done with more of a story line. It was basically date of building, architect, date, architect, date, architect... the views were fantastic though and we feasted our eyes on the cityscape.  

I loved Calle Alcala and in the evening we went up to the Azotea (rooftop) at the Circulo de Bellas Artes nearby for a glass of wine. I would recommend heading up there in the day though to take more advantage of the panorama.
                
View from La Azotea de Bellas Artes 
Our Madrid pass made our trip extra enjoyable as we didn't have to queue up anywhere. Lovers of opulent chandeliers, ornate clocks, frescoes, overwhelming wallpaper and mismatching carpet will love the Royal Palace. 


I recommend popping into the Cathedral next door too because it has the best ceiling ever. It's bright and colourful and if I had a kitchen with old wooden beams I would want to paint something in between them just like it!
                
Colourful Ceiling at Almudena Cathedral
I also have to add El Museu del Traje (Fashion and Costume Museum) to my list of recommendations. Opened in 2004 it has a fascinating collection of clothes from the 17th century through to the 90s. You get to see just how uncomfortable women's clothing have been through the ages. I'm talking about all those horrible corsets and crinolines! After months of wearing comfy shorts I can't even bear to wear jeans at the moment. Maybe I'll just line my rain poncho with some fleece and wear that this winter! 
                
As for food?
                
We hid from the rain at famous San Gines chocolateria for chocolate and churros. At San Miguel market we tried everything from fresh anchovies, to spicy sausage, to octopus, sardines, eel and weird barnacles which resemble dinosaur feet (Percebes). 

Percebes - barnacle or dinosaur foot? 

At San Miguel we also drank lots of sherry in the sherry corner: amontillados, olorosos, finos... (I began my sherry love affair in Jerez and Sevilla last year and it's still going strong.) 



I may not be a city girl any more or have any inclination to move to one but I do wholeheartedly recommend a visit to this vibrant capital for all those after a city break!

Sunday, 5 July 2015

Spain vs England - 2 Months After the Big Move

My Spanish office has better views...

It has been nearly two months since I left London for Mallorca. 

To celebrate I'm going to compile an in depth, expertly researched list of the differences I've found so far. 

Brace yourselves. You'll want to take notes.  




1. SUMMER

Spain has one. 

2. GOING OUT

England: 
5 pm:  "So, what's the plan tonight?"

Spain: 
11.30 pm: "So, what's the plan tonight?"


3. DRINK MEASUREMENTS


















4. VIRTUAL LAUGHTER

England: Hahahahahahaha
Spain: Jajajajajajajaja

5. SIESTA

England: a cheeky nap
Spain: an essential recharge activity so you can stay awake until suppertime

6. SHOPPING

England: shops open all day, all weekend
Spain: shops close between 1-5, Sundays closed* (*unless in a tourist area!)

7. DRIVING

England: left
Spain: right

(MY DAD: middle)

Enough of that list, any more simplistic and I'll be writing that they speak Spanish in Spain and English in England! They also speak Mallorquin here of course.  

Top Tip:

Don't tell someone from Mallorca that Mallorquin and Catalan are basically the same.

They might get the hump, and rightly so. It's much more different than I previously thought and I have trouble eavesdropping when they're speaking quickly to each other. Luckily for me and my husband Spanish seems more common where we are and we're settling in happily. 

I'm sorry London, I'm not missing you yet. I have a supply of Yorkshire Tea in my cupboard and my parents are coming over to visit in 10 days. My plan is to spend the week trying to convince them to move over to the island. 

Failing that, I might have to chuck their passports in the sea.... ahem, I mean, recycling bin. I'll let you know how that goes down with them!


Wednesday, 25 March 2015

The Big Move: Selling It All


I currently have six people watching my cupboard. They're not actually sitting in my bedroom waiting to see if it moves or anything, I've just put it on ebay.  

With 6 weeks left until we move to Spain, the pressure is mounting. It's time to sell the hardcore, heavy stuff. The 'collection only' items. 

It wasn't long ago we started buying things to make our rented flat more homely - a more stylish bed frame, a quality mattress, a sofa bed for guests - now we've got to find a way of recuperating some of the money.  

Every time I open a cupboard I find something big and heavy. I just came across the raclette oven we bought in a spirit of 'let's be more sociable and have friends over!' It probably weighs three times easyJet's luggage allowance.

"It's putting me off going," said the husband, this morning.

When I hear him worry, that's when I panic. He's a cool cucumber. All those things I would get into a flap about - upgrading phone contracts, switching energy providers, doing tax returns - he does all those things without breaking a sweat.    

"I'll sort it!" I said, hurriedly. "Leave the selling to me!"

I don't know how I'm going to shift all this stuff but I'm not letting a portable stone oven stop me going on an adventure!

Are we getting cold feet?

Yes. That's why we're moving to hotter climes.

Of course these next 6 weeks are going to be challenging, but if it were easy, everyone would be doing it, wouldn't they?

In the next blog post, I'll be worrying about giving up my income and saying goodbye to friends! Until then, thank you for reading!

             
           

             

Thursday, 19 March 2015

Confession: The Real Reason I'm Selling My Furniture.

So I may not have been entirely straight with you about my reasons for having a Spring Clean. Don't get me wrong, I do clean when I need an idea for a novel, but I don't go as far as trying to sell my furniture on Twitter, which is what I've been doing lately. 


In my workshops. I preach that you shouldn't bombard people with sales pitches on social media, and here I am, trying to sell a 2000 pocket sprungmattress and a leather sofa (subtle or what?).


Do you know what my favourite daytime TV show is? It's A Place in the Sun. If you don't know it, it's a property show,  where a British Couple is shown around a sunny part of the world looking for the right house. Usually the couple is approaching retirement age or already retired. It always seemed a shame to me to wait so long until you could enjoy the sunshine and a life lived outdoors. I'd look longingly at the Spanish fincas; bougainvillea climbing up the walls, a sundrenched terrace inviting me in, making me imagine every meal enjoyed al fresco.  

Have you guessed where I'm going with this yet?
                
It just so happens my husband and I are part of trend of people in their 30s leaving London, hoping for a better quality of life and a flat that costs less than half a million pounds.The only difference is we're not moving North as so many are, we're leaving the country.  
                
We're going to Spain. Mallorca, specifically. We both speak Spanish, half my family live on the mainland... is it so crazy?
            
This is how a conversation went with a patient at the osteopath, (where I work,) on hearing I was moving:

Patient: Wow. Have you spent loads of time out there then and fallen in love with the place?
Me: Uh, no. I don't really know it at all. I only went once for a wedding. My husband didn't come though. He's only been there once for three days.
Patient: But you have friends out there? Family?
Me: No, we don't know anyone on the island at all. Not a soul.
Patient: So you've never really been and you don't know anyone there...  so, why are you moving?
Me: (shrugs) Why not? We don't own anything and we don't have kids. If it's a disaster, we can always come back.
                
So there you have it, dear readers. We are packing up shop and seeing what life on a Balearic island is like. It's only down the road really, isn't it? We'll be back all the time. In fact, I'm already booked to come back for a Self Publishing Conference and Winchester Writers' Festival, so please do keep offering me jobs!

Good, I'm glad I've got that off my chest. Now I can focus on plotting my next novel. You'll never guess where it's set... 

(If you do happen to know anyone who needs a very comfortable double bed, or a sofa, please share the info. Free delivery withing M25! Thanks a million.)

Wednesday, 31 December 2014

5 Essential Questions to Ask on New Year's Eve

1. What colour underpants are you wearing?

My Spanish family instilled in me the sensible belief that one must wear red knickers on New Year's Eve. My Colombian husband says the colour of my underpants should be yellow. After a little research, it would appear that it's predominantly Latin countries that seem obsessed with the colour of their new year skivvies, and that different colours are worn in the hope of specific outcomes. Red is for love, and yellow is for money, and both are entirely acceptable. Next problem, how to wear them? According to a Bolivian site I stumbled across, if you wear them backwards all night you're making a wish for a new wardrobe in the new year!

2. What are you going to burn?

I used to think you were supposed to burn your new year red knickers, but I think my Spanish family must have been teasing me, because we never actually did any ritualistic burning of undergarments. Not knickers, but Año Viejo (Old Year) is what I'll be burning with my Colombian family this year. He takes the form of a scarecrow, much like Guy Fawkes. A nice addition to the proceeding is to write down on a strip of paper what you don't want from the last year, and what you want for the new year, and burn that too. Therapeutic, I reckon.
  
3. Is your suitcase ready?

Just after midnight in Colombia people run around the block with an empty suitcase to ensure a year filled with travel. Tonight will be my first experience of this. The best bit about it is you don't actually have to pack!

4. Who is bringing the grapes?

My friends in London were baffled when I asked before one New Year's party who was bringing the grapes. It made me realise I must have spent most of my new year's in Spain or at home with my family. In Spain, people eat twelve grapes, one at each dong of the bell at midnight. The TV presenters televised from La Puerta del Sol in Madrid chatter away until that moment, always looking freezing cold in their glamorous outfits. Eating 12 grapes is a lot more fun when you're a little kid and you can't eat them fast enough and then you get the giggles. If you don't fancy grapes, then why not eat a spoonful of lentils as they do in Chile?

5. Have you scribbled down your New Year's Resolutions?

On 31st December in 1661, Samuel Pepys wrote down his New Year's Resolutions. I think they involved starting back at the gym and giving up drinking in January. Could this hint at New Year's Resolutions being a British tradition? I need at least one! Don't worry, I'm not going to write out a long list here, I'm still working on last year's New Year's Visualisations!


Whichever colour underpants you decide to wear, whether you choose to eat twelve grapes or drink twelve shots, whether your first meal on New Year's Day is lentils or alka seltzer - I wish you all the love, good health and prosperity for the New Year

Thursday, 28 November 2013

All I want for Christmas is an Rr

My nephew received a letter from Santa yesterday, reassuring him of his existence. He also received a certificate to prove he had made the NICE List.
 
"I am aware that you are now seven and other children might be telling you I'm not real..." Santa wrote. "But to keep the Christmas magic alive and help me get all the Christmas presents to everyone, YOU MUST BELIEVE... Christmas magic is like the wind, you can't see it, but it's real." At that moment, my nephew reported that a huge gust of wind had banged against the window, making the whole family jump. So there you are, proof that Santa exists.
 
My husband's nerd magazine (Focus) is a little more cynical. It says that to deliver presents to 200 million children in 800 million homes spread over 3x10¹³m² of land, Father Christmas would have to go at such a speed that the air resistance would vaporise him and all the presents with him.
 
Back to the magic! I say. Since magic is the only way I'm going to get what I want for Christmas. You'll never guess what it is, so I'll tell you. I want to be able to roll my Rs. Do you know how humiliating it is to be half Spanish and half Welsh, and be unable to roll one's Rs? I doubt it.
 
I want to be able to shout out: Rrrround the Rrrrugged Rrrrock a Rrragged Rrrascal Rrran! and Erre con erre cigarro, erre con erre barril, rapido ruedan los carros, por los rieles del ferrocarril!
 
All my life I've avoided talking about perros. DOGS. And burros. DONKEYS. It was hard because sometimes I really wanted to talk about these creatures. If I wanted yummy churros... well, I just pointed. It's not that people can't understand me, they can, but when I was little the other kids laughed at me. And they laughed into my teens too. "Say dog, Emily! Say dog, Emily!" I remember bursting into tears because I was SO frustrated. I tried, but I just couldn't roll them. Years later I watched a YouTube video with exercises for my tongue. But after my mother in law happened to talk to a therapist one day, who said that at my age it was unlikely I'd ever learn, I gave up.  
 
To be honest, I thought I'd stop caring, until a grown up laughed at me the other day. Then it brought it all up. I felt stupid. I also felt sure I sounded stupid to everyone too. Why else would they find it so funny? Was I destined to sound stupid all my life?
 
So that's what I want for Christmas please, Father Christmas. I'd like to roll my Rs so when your sleigh lifts off I can shout ARRRRRRRIBA! And if the magic bit isn't real and the nerd magazine is right, please can you slow down a bit so you don't get vaporised. Thank you!
 
 
 
 
 
Other posts you might enjoy:
 
 
 

Thursday, 28 February 2013

I Married a Foreigner


It began in Wales...

 

When my Mum was young she swore she'd 'never become a teacher' and 'never marry a foreigner'. Before you associate her with UKIP, let me explain. At the time my Mum was studying German. Not only are German words very long but they tend to resemble a line-up of letters in Scrabble when you've been particularly unlucky. The experience completely put her off learning languages and she knew if she married a Brit the chances of needing to learn a foreign tongue was very low.
 
My Mum went on to teach Art and marry my Spanish father. To make matters worse, he was from Catalonia, meaning that my Mum found herself having to learn not just one language, but two.
 
I've been thinking about this story because I've been eating a lot of avocadoes recently. This is the direct effect of being married to a Colombian who doesn't really see the purpose of lettuce.
 
Colombian fritanga - spot the salad!
 
This observation made me think how my diet has changed. I would never have bought plantain before, or cassava, and I love both. When I went travelling I hated arepas, the corn bread eaten so widely in South America, but now, even though I'd still prefer toast and butter any day, I have grown fond of them.
 
Nowadays we make special trips to a newsagent in Camden Town which supplies lots of Colombian goodies. We buy packs of chocolate slabs to melt into 'proper' hot chocolate, and then I turn my nose up as my husband puts a lump of cheese in his.
 
Diet isn't the only thing that has been influenced. As my Mum found when she married my Dad, marrying a foreigner comes with lots of new traditions. Take Christmas, the big day in Colombia is the 24th, in Britain it's the 25th and in Spain there are huge celebrations on 6th January when the King's come with all the presents.
 


Christmas Dinner in Spain

But I don't feel like I've simply adopted a few new traditions, I feel like I've adopted a whole country. When the Colombian BMX rider, Mariana Pajón, won gold in the Olympics I was ecstatic. How I see it, having another country to cheer for, can only be a great thing.
 

Now that people can comment on online newspapers, we can see how afraid of foreigners a lot of people are. Maybe it's the  fear of losing one's identity. Or just plain racism. Either way the prejudice and hate makes me shudder. If we identified with being 'human' before we identified with our nationality, wouldn't the world be a better place?
 
 
That said, I've often pondered what country my future children will identify with, and have even felt sad that my own Spanish/British heritage might be watered down. But that's only when I'm being small-minded, because it doesn't matter where they're from. What matters is that their life is enriched by our different cultures and their minds are opened to new ones. 'Never say never,' they say. Well I'm glad my Mum did.     

 
 
  
                                                                                                                                                        
           

Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Dodgy Diagnosis


It was my brother's 30th birthday and we were discussing aches and pains in a restaurant in Barcelona.
“I went to a chiropractor the other day and he said I’d need to see him for 6 months," my brother said. "When I said ‘no’ he messed my back up out of spite.”
“They don’t recognize it as a treatment here in Spain,” his girlfriend said.
“It hurts every morning now,” my brother said. “I was fine before, I only went because I thought it was good for you.”
The waitress came over and my brother’s vegetarian girlfriend asked if the rigatoni a la putanesca contained meat.
The waitress shook her head, “No…only bacon”
We exchanged baffled looks. Only in Spain, we all thought. His girlfriend chose a salad instead and the topic moved onto dentists.
On my last visit the dentist had said there was decay under my fillings and I’d need to replace them.
I had one nice white filling and one nasty grey filling. To spread the cost I decided to have one done now and one later.
By the time I realized he’d chosen to replace the nice white filling instead of the more obvious antique grey one, he was already poking metal instruments in my mouth and I couldn’t talk.
“When will I need to do the other one?” I’d asked, once he’d finished.
“Soon,” he’d said. “The other filling is worse than the one I’ve just done.”
The table shared my frustration and we all ‘grrrd’ in unison.
“Well when we went to the dentist he told us we had to sleep with special gum guards on,” my brother’s girlfriend said. “Apparently we grind our teeth in our sleep.”
“Can you imagine how sexy that’d be drooling everywhere when we said goodnight to eachother?” my brother said and he pretended he had the gum guards on as he leant over to his girlfriend, “Goo’ ni’ daaa’ ing”
“Goo’ niii’” she mock spluttered back.
My cousin then recounted the time when her dentist had recorded her oral problems into his dictorphone as she sat in the chair beside him.
“The teeth will return to their position after two years,” he’d said, “as the patient has a GINORMOUS tongue.”
To make it worse, an osteopath had then told her that her head was too big for her neck.
“But that’s ridiculous, what are you supposed to do about that?” I cried.
“Take steroids,” my husband said, “to get a body builder’s neck.”
My husband’s own dentist had told him when he was little, that he would need a chin implant when he got older.
“Not that I might need a chin plant, that I would have to have one.”
My husband’s chin is just as a chin should be.
“The problem is we don’t know any better!” I said. “We don’t know when they’re right or wrong.”
The rigatoni a la putanesca arrived.
At least in food we could make a correct diagnosis.
My husband looked at it with great disappointment.
The plate of pasta twirls was covered in pesto and grated Parmesan; there was no rigatoni, no putanesca and not a bit of bacon in sight.

Friday, 3 June 2011

The Dirty Side of Mr Puig's 'Clean Up'


"I only felt afraid after the moments captured in the photos, when thousands of supporters surrounded the square and booed at the police. I was afraid they would jump at them and that the police would respond and there would be a tragedy. Those were moments of great, great tension. They were moments from another era, one which I believed we had overcome long ago. " Sebastian Ledesma Moran (man in wheelchair - full account below)


I don’t feel like being cynical.
These demonstrations may die down eventually but I believe a significant seed has been sown.
It might just take a while to germinate.
Right now, all I want to do is raise awareness of the injustice that has been committed.
Felip Puig, the leader of the Catalan police, has shown no remorse after his brutal ‘clean up’ operation.
The memo he passed onto his loyal team on the morning of the 27th May must’ve read something like this:
1. Steal all their stuff
2. Beat them up (even if they are really old!)
3. Don’t give away your identity (even though the law says you have to!)
The police confiscated computers, microphones, speakers, cables and other personal possessions.
Owners who tried to retrieve their belongings were told they must present a receipt to prove ownership and if they didn’t the items would be destroyed.
Despite footage showing brutal beatings of individuals, attacks on passive youngsters and elderly, and police vans swerving dangerously into people, Mr Puig maintains that the police were protecting the population from a violent group.
Judges are unable to investigate complaints because police have been ignoring the law that requires them to wear an identity number.
Puig is currently trying to abolish this rule so that police can remain anonymous.
One image has become symbolic. It’s of a man in a wheelchair holding a flower.
In front of him a police man is lashing out with a club at the people behind.
When asked about this incident, Felip Puig said that the policeman was defending the man in from the violence behind him.
This man was so disgusted with the counsellor’s lie that he wrote to the newspapers.
And this is what he said:

(I have translated from Catalan to English) Click Here for the Original.

"I am the person in the wheelchair who appears in a number of photographs of the attempted eviction of Plaça Catalunya and I want to name the issues in this controversy. My name is Sebastian Ledesma Moran, I am 55 years old and I want to clarify three things:
1) That the images are a true reflection of what happened there.
2) That the Mosso d'Esquadra (Catalan police) was not defending me as Felip Puig and some of the media have claimed, but that he was attacking me, as the bumps and scratches on the left side of my wheelchair caused by a club can prove.
3) That I did not receive any blows to my body because the Mosso who was threatening me with his club (as seen in the photo) was stopped by another Mosso who said, ‘No, fuck, not that one, because they’ll take us to court.’
I also want to make it clear that I am neither a hero nor a victim, not a "yob" or, much less an idiot. I am just one more ‘indignant’. Every day I participate in the activities of Plaça Catalunya, especially in the functional diversity committee, which among others deals with issues of disability.
And you can rest assured that we will continue our protest and peaceful struggle until the situation changes.
I will have to take my chair to the workshop for repair, because if they don’t paint over the scratches they will begin to rust. I do not know or care about whether this cost will come from my account, mind you. What really worries me is that when I was young I had to run away from ‘los grises’ (national police) and that these policeman, who I believed were on my side, had made me run away from them. How will I explain to my daughters that this is the police we asked for?
During the police charge I heard several Mossos d'Esquadra saying: "What is this man doing here? Take him away! Take him away! " I am fed up of people questioning why I was there: I have every right and every duty to be as outraged as the next person. Why didn’t they want me to be there? Is it because it makes it difficult to dole out blows with pleasure? And I think it’s very serious that controversy was generated by the possibility that I was struck and that it doesn’t seem to matter that other people were harmed or suffered severe panic attacks. We are all equal before the law and have the same right to protest and defend ourselves, especially against the senseless aggression last Friday.
Those who were behind my chair, who the police were trying to hit, were there because Iold them to hide th tere, convinced that they wouldn’t do much to me. Nobody manipulated me or told me to protect my fellow ‘indignants’, as has been reported. It is only I who felt manipulated by the version given by Felip Puig about the police action.
We were carrying out peaceful resistance at the entrances of the square to prevent the trucks leaving with all our belongings. As you have seen, we were not able to recover anything that they took, not the signatures we collected nor our mobile phones, or anything at all. Added to that, they have now left our belongings in a type of dump.
I only felt afraid after the moments captured in the photos, when thousands of supporters surrounded the square and booed at the police. I was afraid they would jump at them and that the police would respond and there would be a tragedy. Those were moments of great, great tension. They were moments from another era, one which I believed we had overcome long ago. "