The moment you shake hands with someone, and immediately after, wish to bathe in pure alcohol.
Once again I am back in 'sunny' Spain. Its always a bit disconcerting when you arrive in Madrid to bright blue skies and enough sun to allow a Scots man's holiday to last a day, immediately fly home, and have a skin red enough to rival a lobster's. Then to step onto another flight and two hours later arrive in a climate much similar to the one you left in England. I.e. Rain, grey skies and enough fog to not allow you to see 10 metres in front of you. Please remind me who came up with this sun, sand and sea stereotype so that I can take them to Galicia; because it really, really isn't true.
Anyway, Mamma has decided that I should broaden my social life from my laptop, a bottle of Galician Baileys and my fan heater and that I should go out and mix with the youth of Spain. This would be a lovely concept if I actually wanted friends out here. Don't get me wrong, I'm very sociable, but the thought that by the time I've been able to stabilise enough friendships I'd have to fly home again doesn't really appeal to me. On the other hand I'm also a pushover, so a man date was arranged for Sunday between me and a Brazilian that potentially spoke English. Normally I would accept this meeting with arms wide open and a smile from ear to ear. Unfortunately this Brazilian was male and 16. If the fact that he was the same sex as me was enough to put me off, the fact that after shaking his hand I wished to bathe in pure alcohol was. It's not every person you meet, that you ask yourself. If you have that wierd yellow stain down one half of your hand should I really be touching it?
So here I am, Baileys on one side, fan heater on the other and laptop on my lap. Bliss.
Showing posts with label galicia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label galicia. Show all posts
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Sunday, 5 December 2010
I’m sure I put sun, sand and sea on the Job spec
“Shiiiit, I think it’s raining.”
This phrase is almost becoming a day to day event as we once again sit inside, sip coffee and stare at what can only be described as tropical rain batter Boa’s coastline. Normally this would be okay, if anything, it makes Spain feel more like home. Unfortunately I’m sure that I put sun, sand and sea on the job spec and not 100 days of rain. It turns out that Galicia has the second highest rainfall in all of Europe, and during winter its customary to hear “el tiempo es una mierda” wherever you go.
In Galicia rain is so compulsory, that during the winter last year when the climate decided to be a little reasonable and not rain for a few days the front page of the regional newspaper read ‘Drought hits Galicia.’
Galicia is basically trying its best to destroy the few stereotypes I had envisaged about Spain. I did not imagine, that whilst typing this, to keep myself warm, I would have to be wrapped in a duvet, wearing thermal socks, have the portable heater on full blast and to be looking very favourably at the skiing trousers I had just purchased.
This phrase is almost becoming a day to day event as we once again sit inside, sip coffee and stare at what can only be described as tropical rain batter Boa’s coastline. Normally this would be okay, if anything, it makes Spain feel more like home. Unfortunately I’m sure that I put sun, sand and sea on the job spec and not 100 days of rain. It turns out that Galicia has the second highest rainfall in all of Europe, and during winter its customary to hear “el tiempo es una mierda” wherever you go.
In Galicia rain is so compulsory, that during the winter last year when the climate decided to be a little reasonable and not rain for a few days the front page of the regional newspaper read ‘Drought hits Galicia.’
Galicia is basically trying its best to destroy the few stereotypes I had envisaged about Spain. I did not imagine, that whilst typing this, to keep myself warm, I would have to be wrapped in a duvet, wearing thermal socks, have the portable heater on full blast and to be looking very favourably at the skiing trousers I had just purchased.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Sport is like sex . . . .
"Sport is like sex, when you stop doing it, you start watching it on television" - Danielle, last night. He said i could quote him.
This morning i made the choice to skip my usual fry up; consisting of bacon, eggs and toast and to brave breakfast on my own in the local town of Noya. In forethought this seems like a good idea, grab a bit of culture whilst being able to practice my Spanish a bit more. In practice its a very different story. I arrived at the restaurant around 11, a good British brunch time. It turns out that this Spanish restaurant apparently doesn't have a proper menu on weekends, and doesn't actually serve food before 1, but in my case, i think because all i was managing to repeat over and over again was "no hablo español" they would make something specially.
This then leads to another problem. The region of Spain im in is called Galicia, its basically what Scotland is to England. Scotland is in UK, the Scottish speak English with subtle differences, but hate to be associated with England. With this in mind, Galicia, has decided to develop its own twist on Spanish. Instead of writing ham as jamon, they like to write it as xamon. You know, just to be difficult. Therefore reading a menu that looked like it had been dragged out of Lord of the Rings becomes a little tricky. After a prolonged hand gesture conversation and a lot of shaking of heads between me the and the waitress, an elderly man walks through the door and announces that he doesnt speak English but he does speak French. To which i reply: "AH! oui bien je parle francais" to which he then replies with the most unintelligible French i have heard and the three of us decide to resort back to a three way frenglish hand gesture conversation. 5 minutes later i gave up and decided to take my chances with the safest looking thing on the 'menu'. I.E. the dish with the least amount of words on the same line. Thankfully it turned out to be a ham sandwich. Never has eating been so difficult.
It also turns out that getting the bus can be just as difficult. I dont know why everything suddenly became so difficult! You get on the bus, you say the town, you pay the money, you sit down.
In Spain no. I get on the bus:
"Boa, por favour"
Blank look
"Boa?, por favour"
Blank look
"English?"
Angry Blank look
This scene continued until i managed to remember the spanish for pen and scribbled the word Boa on a piece of paper, which suddenly reminded the bus driver that Boa was in fact the first town on his route and he knew where it was. Unfortunately he failed to remember that there were in fact two bus stops in Boa, one twenty metres from my apartment, and one a 10 minute walk from my apartment. This leads to Josh being dropped off in torrential rain half a mile from shelter. Its fair to say my cold wont be getting any better soon.
This morning i made the choice to skip my usual fry up; consisting of bacon, eggs and toast and to brave breakfast on my own in the local town of Noya. In forethought this seems like a good idea, grab a bit of culture whilst being able to practice my Spanish a bit more. In practice its a very different story. I arrived at the restaurant around 11, a good British brunch time. It turns out that this Spanish restaurant apparently doesn't have a proper menu on weekends, and doesn't actually serve food before 1, but in my case, i think because all i was managing to repeat over and over again was "no hablo español" they would make something specially.
This then leads to another problem. The region of Spain im in is called Galicia, its basically what Scotland is to England. Scotland is in UK, the Scottish speak English with subtle differences, but hate to be associated with England. With this in mind, Galicia, has decided to develop its own twist on Spanish. Instead of writing ham as jamon, they like to write it as xamon. You know, just to be difficult. Therefore reading a menu that looked like it had been dragged out of Lord of the Rings becomes a little tricky. After a prolonged hand gesture conversation and a lot of shaking of heads between me the and the waitress, an elderly man walks through the door and announces that he doesnt speak English but he does speak French. To which i reply: "AH! oui bien je parle francais" to which he then replies with the most unintelligible French i have heard and the three of us decide to resort back to a three way frenglish hand gesture conversation. 5 minutes later i gave up and decided to take my chances with the safest looking thing on the 'menu'. I.E. the dish with the least amount of words on the same line. Thankfully it turned out to be a ham sandwich. Never has eating been so difficult.
It also turns out that getting the bus can be just as difficult. I dont know why everything suddenly became so difficult! You get on the bus, you say the town, you pay the money, you sit down.
In Spain no. I get on the bus:
"Boa, por favour"
Blank look
"Boa?, por favour"
Blank look
"English?"
Angry Blank look
This scene continued until i managed to remember the spanish for pen and scribbled the word Boa on a piece of paper, which suddenly reminded the bus driver that Boa was in fact the first town on his route and he knew where it was. Unfortunately he failed to remember that there were in fact two bus stops in Boa, one twenty metres from my apartment, and one a 10 minute walk from my apartment. This leads to Josh being dropped off in torrential rain half a mile from shelter. Its fair to say my cold wont be getting any better soon.
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